Chasing Mona Lisa
Page 17
Colette rushed to his side. “You’re hurt!”
Bernard gulped for air, a wild look in his eyes. A small gasp followed, then another. Finally, Bernard shook his head. He still searched for air when Colette helped him scramble to his knees.
The attacker groaned but lay motionless as Eric turned him onto his back. A black handle was all that could be seen of the knife protruding from just below his armpit.
Bernard crawled toward the assailant and shook the wounded man’s shoulders. “Why were you trying to kill me? It wasn’t my fault!”
“You . . . Nazi traitor!” the attacker seethed through clenched teeth. Short gasps were punctuated with feeble coughs.
“When you stopped . . . the train . . . you killed . . . my . . . Philippe. He want . . . he wanted Göring.”
“But Göring wasn’t on the train!”
The wounded man looked momentarily confused. Then his eyes rolled upward as his head fell backward, smacking the pavement hard.
His quest for revenge was over.
18
The deadly attack shattered the fragile peace ushered in with Libération. Two days after the German Army pulled out of Paris was too early to let your guard down.
Despite the warm August night, Gabi shivered while she and the others patiently answered questions from a police detective following his arrival by bicycle. The inspecteur scribbled their statements into a notebook as he attempted to sort out what happened or what prompted the assassination attempt on Bernard.
The detective knew the attacker. Said his name was Antoine Celeste. Well-known member of the Free French. A hero of the Resistance, but also emotionally unstable following his brother’s brutal execution at the hands of the Nazis two years ago.
“Ça suffit.” That’s enough. The detective quietly shut his notebook. “Since there were no other eyewitnesses to the events at the Pantin rail yard, I chalk this up to Celeste’s inability to deal with his grief.”
Another tragedy of this war, Gabi thought.
She watched Eric pull Bernard aside as a horse-drawn team from the morgue carted off Celeste’s body.
“You doing okay?”
The tired Frenchman sighed. “It was him or me, and I didn’t want to be the one to go.”
Gabi watched Bernard’s eyes move to where Colette sat on a nearby stoop. Her arms were crossed, and she pulled them tight against her. With head lowered and shoulders slumped, she was clearly shaken. Colette’s reaction was understandable. She’d thought—momentarily—her boyfriend was dead.
What Gabi didn’t understand was Bernard’s reaction. As he looked at Colette, Gabi didn’t see worry or sadness. She saw regret on his face.
What does he regret? That he put her in danger? Gabi wondered.
Bernard pressed a hand to his forehead and then walked toward Colette with determination.
He cares, Gabi thought to herself. I can see he loves her. He never wanted to put the woman he loves in that type of situation.
With grim faces, the two couples stepped into the Maison Beaumont, where Irene Beaumont prepared a pot of tea upon learning of the attack. Eric and the others gathered around the dining room table and described their side of the story to the Beaumonts’ friends who had stopped by to visit.
The appropriate remarks of outrage were made, and one by one, Eric noticed that the Beaumont friends drifted away, leaving them alone.
Eric was thankful that neither Bernard nor Colette were hurt. He needed them. As much as he believed in Gabi—and his own resources—they couldn’t save the Mona Lisa by themselves.
The phone rang, and Madame Beaumont answered. She called Bernard over, who listened and didn’t say much until he thanked the caller and hung up. He turned silent for a moment, as if he was replaying the conversation in his mind, trying to believe what he’d just heard.
“Did you find some fuel?” Eric asked.
“More like the fuel found us,” Bernard replied with a confused look. “Looks like we can drive over to the 2nd Armored depot at the École Militaire first thing in the morning. A Colonel Tollet will be expecting us. Apparently, he received a message from London telling him to give us as much petrol as we need, no questions asked. But who . . . how . . . did they know to call here?”
He was completely flummoxed. “Who did you say you worked for?”
“I didn’t . . . so how early can we go? I’m worried about beating the Germans to Annecy.”
“I was told not before 7 a.m.”
“That’ll work. Once we get going, how long do you expect us to be on the road?”
“Let’s see.” Bernard unfolded a fraying road map of France and spread it across the table. “I’ve heard it’s nine or ten hours . . .” He measured the distance of one hundred kilometers on the scale bar with his thumb and forefinger and “walked” that measurement from Paris across France in a southeasterly direction.
“Et voilà. Right around five hundred kilometers. If we can average fifty or sixty kilometers an hour, we should get there between six and seven o’clock, provided we leave Paris by 9 a.m. How many jerry cans do you have?”
“Two,” Eric replied. “That was enough to get us here from Bern and should be more than enough to get us to Annecy.”
“Did you hear anything about the road conditions?” Gabi asked. “The Germans are in retreat . . .”
“They took off due east for the Fatherland”—Bernard nearly spit out the words—“but we’re going south. Still, we have to stay alert.”
“We can’t be delayed,” Colette said. “If those two German agents get there first, we’ll lose the Mona Lisa—perhaps forever.”
“We’ll get there as fast as we can.” Bernard leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Eric said he wants to be a race car driver after the war, so now’s his chance for some practice.”
Gabi looked at Eric in mock surprise, the first light moment of the evening.
Eric smiled. “Bernard’s kidding. But if the roads are in good shape, I’m flooring it. Of course, some roads could be torn up from bombs or blocked by disabled vehicles. We just don’t know.”
He scanned the map, thankful for Bernard’s expertise. “So show me . . . which route are we taking?”
“Certainly. We’ll leave Paris through the Porte d’Italie, and then take the Route de Fontainebleau in a southerly direction.”
Eric followed Bernard’s finger, which took them through Rozay-en-Brie. He didn’t say anything, and a quick glance at Gabi’s poker face meant that she wasn’t going to bring up the incident with the Ost soldiers again.
For the next ten minutes, Bernard carefully explained the entire route they would follow. Eric could tell that he was thorough in his approach, as well as his calculations.
“Colette, tell us what you know about the family,” Bernard said.
“A count and countess live at the chateau,” Colette answered. “I’ve corresponded frequently with Countess Ariane Valois. Up until last week, we spoke together by telephone every fortnight when service was available. But I’ve never met her or her husband.”
“It’s a shame you couldn’t reach them,” Gabi said.
“I tried several times. I’m worried about the safety of the Countess and La Joconde. All we can do is hope for the best.”
“Is the plan to drive back to Paris the following morning?” Eric asked.
“Depending on what we find there, the answer is yes.”
Gabi looked from the map to Colette. “If we’re spending the night, where are we going to stay?”
Colette grinned for the first time in hours. “Apparently, this ‘little’ chateau has fifteen bedrooms. I would imagine the Countess will extend hospitality, given the unusual circumstances.”
Bernard folded the map as everyone stood up to go off to bed.
Things were shaping up nicely, although the more he learned about Eric and Gabi, and their connections, the more his guard went up. They were not to be trifled with, especially if things got sticky with
the Mona Lisa.
He mentally reviewed some items he needed to pack in his satchel, such as a pistol, ammunition, knife, blackjack, and handcuffs.
Preparation was key. He would bide his time until the right moment, and then he would strike.
There was a knock on the bedroom door.
Colette sat up in bed. She knew it wasn’t Gabi since her friend was taking a bath. She pulled her blanket closer to her neck.
“Entrée,” Colette said.
Madame Beaumont stepped inside. “I know it’s terribly late, but there’s a monsieur on the phone who insists on speaking with you.”
“Who could be calling at eleven o’clock?” Colette’s tone was foreboding.
“I don’t know, but he said there was a pressing matter regarding the Louvre.”
Colette rose and slipped on a robe, her heart pounding. She rushed past Madame Beaumont and hurried downstairs. Knowing who it could be . . . but not wanting to believe it.
Cupping the black handset to her ear, she felt her pulse race and a queasy feeling sweep through her body.
“Oui?”
“Mademoiselle, you are a difficult one to reach these days.”
“How did you get this number?” she snapped.
“I still have a few reliable contacts in Paris. Our military may have departed your beloved city, but there are assets willing to help, for a price.”
“I am no longer one of your ‘assets.’ Now that Paris is free, there is no need for you to contact me again. I wish you a pleasant evening.” Colette started to hang up the phone, but something caused her to pause. If Heller knew how to reach her by phone, he no doubt could send his “reliable contacts” after her—and after them.
“I am concerned for Madame Beaumont’s safety,” Heller continued in a cool tone. “These are uncertain times.”
Fear stiffened Colette. She could hear the older woman humming as she cleaned the kitchen. If Heller had the ability to track her down in the middle of the night, he still had the clout to follow through on his threats.
“What do you want?”
“Just confirmation that the Mona Lisa has not been removed from the location that you gave me a month ago.”
Colette inhaled sharply and paused. She released the breath slowly, hoping her next words would sound convincing. “Actually, she is en route back to the Louvre as we speak.” Her voice rose in mock confidence.
“I see. That is most unfortunate. Well . . . c’est la vie. I would hope that you haven’t tried to mislead me, my dear Colette. It would be such a tragedy to make Madame Beaumont suffer needlessly, in addition to your brave boyfriend.” The line went dead.
Colette stood motionless. Her hands trembled as she pushed open the door into the dining room. Replaying the conversation, she hoped she was persuasive. The problem was, he’d caught her off guard, and she knew that had the roles been reversed, she would have seen through the attempted deception.
Even though fear from tonight still had her on edge, it would take more than a phone call to scare her off.
She would not let Heller win.
Not this time.
A thousand kilometers to the east, Colonel Heller had his answer. A broad, odious grin slowly emerged across his face. Colette’s breathing pattern and fractional pause had given away her bluff. The painting was still outside of Annecy; she was in Paris. Certainly, transporting such an important archive would have been supervised by the curator herself.
Heller, no stranger to torture and interrogation, prided himself on being a master at reading the emotions of others, especially when intimidated. He could detect a lie, and this had the classic markings of one. As he relived the moment, he became certain of his instincts. With a bit of luck, Schaffner and Kaufman would get to the chateau before Colette, but the race would be close.
Lifting the receiver again, he told the operator he needed to send an urgent message to Hans Schaffner.
19
Monday, August 28, 1944
Paris, France
“I see them.”
Bernard pointed toward the double doors leading out from the Sully Wing. Colette, clutching a file to her chest, walked their direction. Gabi was at her side.
He and Eric sat in the Red Cross vehicle, parked at the Louvre’s Cour Carrée shortly after eight in the morning. Three days after Libération, a dozen workers in blue overalls were scattered across the vast courtyard, cleaning up and performing odd jobs in preparation for reopening the grand museum. Workmen had waved their car into the plaza after recognizing one of their own—Bernard Rousseau.
The Frenchman stepped out of the vehicle, followed by Eric.
“Any luck?” Bernard asked as Colette approached.
She frowned. “I wasn’t able to speak with Countess Valois—or the authorities in Annecy. The phone lines are still down. Monsieur Rambouillet said he’d keep trying. I hoped I could tell her to call the local police and ask for protection.”
Gabi spoke up. “Too bad you couldn’t get through. We received a transmission this morning saying that he hadn’t heard anything regarding the whereabouts of the Germans, so no help there, either. All we can do is make good time.”
Colette nodded in silent agreement and took a deep breath, debating whether she should share the phone call from Heller last night.
She couldn’t.
From the backseat of the Red Cross Mercedes, Gabi looked back for one last glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, but the nineteenth-century ironwork that defined the Paris skyline had slipped beneath the horizon. A feeling of wistfulness fell over her as the awe-inspiring city gave way to pastoral farmlands outside the Porte d’Italie, the southern gateway of Paris.
A somber mood was pervasive following the harrowing attack on Bernard. Nonetheless, after forty-five minutes of near silence, Gabi asked the question everyone wanted to know. “Bernard, what exactly happened at the Pantin rail yard?”
“Although most would think I’m some sort of hero, what happened that day was a tragedy.” He shared the entire story, describing the crates of paintings being loaded on the train, the dash through Paris streets on his bike, and his split-second decision to stand in front of the Berlin Express.
Colette reached forward from the backseat and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It was a shame that a Frenchman died, but he was murdered by the Nazis, not you. Anyone who knows the facts would understand that you saved many innocent French lives. You also saved invaluable art. And for that, you are a hero!”
“The war is full of such unfortunate events.” Eric took his eyes off the road for a brief moment to meet Bernard’s. “Those in the Resistance knew they were putting their lives on the line every day.”
The others agreed, and Bernard nodded slightly.
Gabi let out a sigh. “Just as today . . . we know the price we could pay for saving the Mona Lisa. It’s for something bigger than ourselves, which is why I take comfort in knowing that ultimately we are in God’s hands.”
Colette echoed her agreement, then continued to stare at nothing in particular through the side window. The passing scenery became a blur as a contemplative mood enveloped them.
After several minutes, Gabi tapped Colette on the shoulder. “So tell me—why is the Mona Lisa the most famous painting in the world?”
Colette’s eyes brightened. “The first time I saw her, I was a schoolgirl. My parents took me to the Louvre during a holiday, and I begged them to let me see the Mona Lisa first. The moment I laid eyes on her, I couldn’t believe how beautiful the painting was. Her posture was perfect with straight shoulders and her hands folded across one another. She wore an unadorned dress, no jewelry, and not even a wedding ring. Her face was slightly pronounced at the cheekbones, high at the forehead, and pointed at the chin. Her nose was narrow, and her lips were turned up ever so slightly in that famous smile of hers.”
“That smile baffles me,” Gabi responded. “First, she is smiling, right? Then the smile fades, only to return. Why is that?”
Colette turned and met Gabi’s eyes. “During that first visit to the Louvre, I felt like the Mona Lisa’s warm and self-assured brown eyes were only for me, even though there were always dozens of people gazing at her.”
Gabi was moved by Colette’s description. “Da Vinci was an Italian painter, so how did the Mona Lisa end up in France?”
“Another interesting story. We’re fairly certain that da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa in Florence between 1503 and 1506, but he kept the portrait for himself because it was his favorite. Toward the end of his life, François I of France gave him a generous commission to come live at the Royal Chateau at Amboise, where the French king was often in residence.”
“Amboise? Where’s that?”
“The Charolais Brionnais area of central France. François I decided that the best way to glean the ideas of the Italian Renaissance was to import the greatest artist of his day to France, so for the last three years of his life, da Vinci puttered with his mechanical inventions and sipped tea with his royal patron. After da Vinci died in 1519 at the age of sixty-seven, François I purchased the painting from his heir for 4,000 gold florins—a ton of money back then—and hung it in his royal bath. From that moment on, the painting became part of the French monarchy’s art collection. For several centuries, she was a showpiece at various palaces around France—Fontainebleau, Versailles, and the Tuileries.”