Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

  The German colonel visibly relaxed, and a warm smile formed on his lips. “So you really have her?”

  “Yes, take a look in the back.”

  Kaufman opened the rear door where the wooden crate lay on the leather seat. Heller leaned in for a closer look when a thumping sound came from the trunk, gaining intensity with each pounding.

  “What’s that?” Heller pointed toward the trunk.

  Schaffner reached for the keys in his pocket and opened the trunk. A young girl, bound, blindfolded, and gagged, struggled against her restraints.

  Heller shrugged his shoulders. “The Countess’s daughter, I presume.”

  “She was our ticket out of the chateau. Let’s just say that the girl assured everyone’s cooperation.”

  “You can tell me about it later. Herr Wessner, would you bring the girl inside and give her some food and water? Make sure she remains blindfolded, however.” Heller clapped his hands. “Let’s get the Mona Lisa inside. I want to see her with my own eyes.”

  Gabi had been to Dulles’s apartment in Bern’s Old Town several times before, always in the company of her father.

  A sober-minded OSS director welcomed their group into his living room, and father and daughter hugged. For Dulles’s benefit, the language was English; Gabi translated the introductions into French for Bernard and identified Dulles as a liaison for the American Allied effort.

  Dulles cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that Schaffner and Kaufman slipped into the country with the painting.”

  “But wasn’t every BMW between here and Geneva stopped and inspected?” Gabi asked.

  “Their car was found and searched, all right—in France,” Dulles said. “We learned an hour ago that their BMW was abandoned not far from the La Louvière border crossing.”

  “Was Kristina with the car?” Gabi asked.

  Dulles remained grim. “No, which concerns me. She will complicate things when we make our move.”

  “So they must have had another car waiting for them across the border. It’s easy enough to walk across a field these days.”

  “The Nazis,” Eric said, “have put us in another tough spot—retrieving the Mona Lisa and saving Kristina. I believe we can accomplish both objectives.”

  “I share that sentiment, Eric.” Dulles played with his unlit pipe. “But we have a ‘good news, bad news’ situation on our hands. The bad news is that the Mona Lisa is apparently in Switzerland, but not in Zurich as we had anticipated. The good news is that we know where the painting is.”

  Gabi thought she didn’t hear right. “I thought their plan was to take the painting to Zurich—the Dolder Bank. So what happened?”

  “We’re playing catch-up,” Dulles said. “They must have figured we’d put two and two together with the relationship between Anton Wessner and Heller’s knucklehead agents. But there’s been a curveball—”

  Ernst Mueller interrupted. “The Swiss don’t play much baseball, Allen.”

  “Sorry, Ernst. What I mean is that Schaffner and Kaufman didn’t drive to Zurich, as we expected. We believe they’ve delivered the Mona Lisa to Wessner’s chalet above Lucerne . . . Chalet Rigi.”

  “This is all new information. How did you find out?” Gabi remained focused.

  “The code breakers at Bletchley Park picked up traffic late last night between Wessner and Heller. The first message, from Wessner, notified him that the painting was coming to Location RG. Heller replied that he was on his way and would be taking a Luftwaffe flight to Freiburg and then a train to Basel, where he wanted to be picked up.”

  “How did he pass through customs?”

  “On a German diplomatic passport. I informed my contacts in the Swiss intelligence community, so they knew he was coming. We let him through, knowing he would lead us to the Mona Lisa, since we weren’t absolutely sure where the alternate rendezvous was located. A driver picked him up on the Swiss side of the Badischer Bahnhof. Several tails followed him through Basel’s Altstadt, and then one by one they dropped off as they drove the highway between Basel and Lucerne. The last tail, however, had to let him go just as the car left Lucerne and started to ascend into the mountains.”

  “So how did you find Chalet Rigi?” Gabi asked.

  “Because I’ve been there.”

  The voice was new to the conversation, but one she recognized.

  From the library, Dieter Baumann strode into Dulles’s living room.

  “What are you doing here?” Disgust rose in Gabi’s voice. The last time she and Baumann had been in the same vicinity, she had barely escaped with her life.

  Before Baumann could answer, Gabi’s father spoke. “For the last few days, Herr Baumann has been cooperating fully with our investigation. He’s provided us with useful information that has been independently corroborated, including his dealings with Anton Wessner. Herr Baumann has also helped determine the alternate location. He’s been to the banker’s chalet, knows the lay of the land, and is offering to help by giving us details of the property.”

  Gabi looked to Eric, wondering what he thought. At one time, Dieter was one of Dulles’s go-to operatives. The Swiss, a handsome man in his late twenties, had been put in charge of the Basel office of the OSS, and Gabi had worked for him in the translation department. He had feigned a more-than-professional interest for her, but it turned out to be a ruse to use her safe-cracking abilities to line his pockets.

  “I know what Gabi’s thinking,” Eric said. “The Dieter we know was always working an angle. Looking out for himself first. So what’s in it for him?”

  Dulles stepped into the discussion. “A more than fair question. Mr. Baumann developed a network of contacts on both sides of the fence that he exploited—er, maintained—over the years. Now he wants to make sure he’s on the right side of history. Ernst and I cannot divulge why we’re confident that we have Mr. Baumann’s full allegiance, but he’s on our side.”

  Gabi turned to Dieter. She was repulsed, but if her father and Dulles trusted the man, she had no choice but to listen to what he had to say. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  Baumann pursed his lips. “First, let’s turn our attention to Anton Wessner. He’s a vain man running a private bank as his personal fiefdom. He accepted dirty money and an assortment of valuables long before Hitler’s troops invaded Poland, much of the stash arriving by courier to his Alpine chalet because many of his clients demanded secrecy and discretion. In other words, they refused to walk through his bank’s front door on the Bahnhofstrasse carrying a purloined painting in their arms. That’s why deliveries of a sensitive nature were brought to his chalet, away from prying eyes. In those situations, Wessner sends for an armored truck to make the pickup.”

  Baumann stopped and opened a thick folder and began spreading the contents across the table. “Here’s what I think you should know.”

  For the next ten minutes, Baumann used a map of the access roads, photographs of the property, and sketches of Chalet Rigi’s floor plan to help formulate a plan.

  After all of the options were assessed and discussed, Dulles took the floor. “Excellent presentation, Mr. Baumann.” He tamped his pipe in preparation for his first smoke of the day while Dulles’s secretary escorted Baumann from the room. After the door closed, he continued.

  “Of course, Gabi, we don’t trust Mr. Baumann any further than we can throw him, but he has found himself in a . . . shall we say . . . difficult situation. I believe he has been honest regarding his assessment of Chalet Rigi, which will be beneficial for you to gain entry, undetected. We will keep him detained here until your mission is completed to avoid the risk of any leaks.”

  “There’s something else we need to discuss,” Gabi said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “An interesting item that I found in a safe stolen from a Nazi stronghold in Paris.” Gabi produced the black notebook and handed the slim volume over to Dulles.

  “We have good reason to believe that this belongs to Colonel Heller. Inside,
you will find documentation of the paintings he purchased on Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring’s behalf. You will notice separate columns showing the sales price, the invoice amount, and the generous cut he took for himself. The Louvre curator, Colette Perriard, oversaw many of these sales and has verified the actual sale prices. As you will see, the colonel has given himself a substantial commission for all the transactions. I estimate at least three million Reichsmarks since the start of the war. Not bad for a military officer.”

  Dulles studied the notebook intently for several minutes and then passed it over to Ernst Mueller to examine.

  “I wouldn’t want to be Colonel Heller or be standing anywhere near him when Göring finds out about this,” said her father.

  “Take your time, gentlemen.”

  Heller expressed caution as Schaffner and Kaufman carried the Mona Lisa in her wooden crate to Wessner’s oversized desk, positioned at the far side of the living room on the second floor.

  He watched Wessner place a woolen blanket across the surface to protect the glassy finish from the crate. A screwdriver was produced.

  “May I?” Schaffner asked, looking in Heller’s direction.

  The German colonel nodded his approval. He had become a bit blasé over the years since it was his job to purchase the finest of fine art for his benefactor, but the Mona Lisa was in a league of her own. He had never seen that fascinating smile—described as an expression of “sweet perfidy, androgynous beauty, and desperate hope”—in person. Would he see the smirk of a kept woman who dined off her husband? Would she appear confident or reticent?

  After removing the wooden braces, Schaffner and Kaufman stood up the framed painting, still encased in its royal purple covering. They loosened the drawstring and allowed the covering to fall.

  It was her. The soft golden shade of her complexion was unmistakable.

  The Mona Lisa, just as she had been portrayed in a million books and magazines, loomed larger than life. She had the colors of the Tuscan countryside and an ethereal, almost magical quality that made her face glow. She was seductive yet serenely contained, instantly recognizable yet elusive. Quite simply, the Mona Lisa was the most coveted woman in the world.

  And now she was in his possession. The ultimate bargaining chip and their passage to another life.

  “When is the armored truck arriving?” Heller asked.

  Wessner consulted his watch. “Later this afternoon. The dispatcher apologized for not being more responsive, but with such late notice, that’s the best he can do.”

  “So we have a few hours.” Heller’s face brightened. “Why don’t we enjoy her until she starts gathering dust? I say we prop her up on a chair and break open a vintage from that wine cellar of yours.”

  Wessner considered the request. “Of course. As you wish, Oberst Heller.” He returned a few minutes later with a silver tray, four lead crystal glasses, and a dusty bottle of Chateau Latour 1937.

  “The Americans are looking for her arrival in Zurich.” Wessner worked the corkscrew. “I just received a phone call that two additional cars are staked out on the Bahnhofstrasse. So, I have made arrangements to keep the painting at our branch office in the Limmatplatz for a few days. Then we’ll transfer her to the Dolder Bank when it’s safe.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that the Americans are watching you?” Heller was uneasy with the revelation.

  “Not in the least,” the banker replied. “Swiss banking privacy laws date back to the Middle Ages, and client confidentiality protects me even from the Yanks.”

  26

  For Colonel Heller, the view from a thousand meters above Lucerne—the gateway to central Switzerland—was an impressive panorama. Although the nearby mountainous peaks of the Pilatus, Rigi, and Stanserhorn had lost their crowns of snow, the appealing contrast between the bright green alpine landscape and the steel-blue Lake Lucerne was worthy of a two-franc postcard.

  As impressive as the vista was from behind the series of two-meter-high plate glass windows, the view didn’t hold a candle to the Mona Lisa, whose enigmatic smile teased him from Wessner’s buffet hutch, where she leaned against a wall. He allowed his mind the luxury of thinking through how his life would change once he escaped from his role as Göring’s minion.

  The Mona Lisa had taken his breath away, not because of her towering stature in the art world, but what she meant to his future. The war would be over soon, and with the inevitable loss Germany was now facing, a sizable account at the Dolder Bank would be his only hope for a new identity and a new home far from the Fatherland.

  The options were dizzying, especially from his current lofty vantage at Chalet Rigi, but he didn’t allow his mind to get ahead of himself. First, the painting must be secured. He could not rest easy until the armored truck arrived to chaperone the keystone of his future to the security of the bank vault.

  He looked at his watch, an action noted by Anton Wessner.

  “Oberst Heller, they are on their way. It won’t be long now.”

  The German officer turned toward the Swiss bank president. “You don’t know how much is riding—”

  A phone call interrupted the Nazi colonel. Wessner walked across the generous living room and answered the phone. After listening intently for a few moments, he thanked the caller and said he would relay the message.

  “Herr Colonel, that was the owner of the armored truck company. He was calling from Lucerne and said the truck would be here in twenty minutes. See? We can all breathe easy.”

  The perpetual frown on Heller’s face turned to a faint smile.

  His eyes inspected the main living quarters and were drawn to the single entry at the far end of the room. Next to it was a dining table made from dark polished wood. A rough-cut stone fireplace on the left dominated the room. Dark russet leather couches fronted the fireplace at ninety degrees with heavy end tables on either side. A heavily beamed ceiling created an air of openness in the large room, which included Wessner’s study to his right with its picturesque view of the valley.

  Perched at the end of the couch was the young French girl, hands and feet bound and with blindfold still in place. Heller wasn’t thrilled that Schaffner and Kaufman brought her along; nonetheless, she was a bit player in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps she would return to her parents, but if not, the young girl would become another faceless casualty of war.

  With a clap of hands, Wessner announced to Heller, Schaffner, and Kaufman that he would like to propose one last toast. With a swirl of the full-bodied Grand Cru, they raised rose-stemmed glasses to da Vinci’s masterpiece and postwar prosperity.

  “Time to get her ready for the next journey.” Heller nodded in Schaffner and Kaufman’s direction, and the pair set down their wine. Together, they carefully lifted the Mona Lisa from the hutch, slipped her back into the velvet pouch, and then inside the crate.

  “Freeze! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

  Eric leveled the Colt .45 and leaned out of the hallway door leading into Wessner’s living room. Bernard, from the other side of the doorway, trained his semiautomatic handgun on the four men across the expansive room.

  From his briefing with Dulles, Eric was told that Kaufman was the loosest cannon in the bunch and kept his focus locked on him. Sure enough, the German operative reached for a Luger tucked under his belt. Eric reacted first, firing twice. Bernard aimed his volleys, and three of the four heavy .45 caliber slugs found their mark in his torso. Kaufman’s body stuttered with each impact as his arms flailed upward, loosening the Luger from his grip. The weapon fell to his left as his heavy frame crashed into a bookcase behind the desk. With a perplexed expression, Kaufman slid to the floor, staring back through unseeing eyes.

  The other three scrambled for cover. Wessner and Schaffner took refuge behind the massive desk, where the Mona Lisa lay in her crate, while Heller dove behind the nearby couch where Kristina sat.

  “Get down, Kristina,” Eric yelled in French. The girl responded immediately and droppe
d to her side.

  He could see Schaffner’s hunched back rise slightly and assumed he was pulling his weapon from his waistband. Eric couldn’t get a clear shot. The German operative reached just above the desktop and got off three blind shots, which plugged into the rough-hewn crossbeams above Eric’s head.

  Eric wanted to return fire but didn’t have a shot. Bernard kept his response in check as well. Suddenly, Schaffner—still hunched over—ducked from behind the side of the desk, giving Eric an opening.

  Eric fired twice, striking him once in his shoulder and spinning him off balance. Bernard got off two more shots. The first missed high, just above Schaffner’s head, and struck the large picture window.

  The sound of splintering glass filled the air. Fragments tumbled to the floor, leaving a gaping hole in the center with jagged shards hanging precariously from the perimeter. Bernard’s second shot had caught Schaffner just below his collar bone, knocking him back. He backpedaled to regain his balance.

  Gabi, frantic to shield Kristina from the melee, darted between Eric and Bernard.

  “Cover her!” Eric yelled as she dashed toward the fireplace.

  He stepped from the doorway and fired at Schaffner again, squeezing off three shots. Bernard followed suit. Two of the big slugs caught Schaffner in the upper body, propelling him through the open glass. The thigh-high windowsill stopped his fall as shards impaled his lower back. Eric watched him flail his arms and legs to free himself like a beetle trapped on its back.

  Movement to his right caught his eye, where Gabi—still bent at the waist—rolled across the floor and smashed into the side of the sofa next to where Kristina lay prone.

  He glanced at his semiautomatic and saw the slide locked open. Pushing the magazine release with his thumb, he simultaneously reached for another, sliding it into place and locking the magazine with the heel of his left hand. Rousseau, also empty, did the same. The sound of the two mags hitting the floor must have been the moment Heller was waiting to hear.