by Tricia Goyer
“Having fun on your first plane flight?”
Eric looked away from the window with a huge grin.
He leaned over and gave her a kiss. When Gabi pulled away, she looked in Bernard’s direction to see if he had been watching them—or sightseeing.
The answer was neither. This time, he was leaning on the seat in front of him, eyes locked on the wooden crate containing the Mona Lisa.
The hum of the engines and steady progress lulled Gabi into closing her eyes. A sudden dip jostled her.
She looked at her watch. They had been in the air for nearly two hours. She unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped into the cockpit.
Bill Palmer looked up from the controls. “You’re probably wondering when we’re going to arrive.”
“Sorry. I’ve never been on a normal flight before.” Gabi flashed a smile.
“That makes two of us. Maybe I will fly for some airline after the war. At any rate, we’re a bit more than a half hour out of Le Bourget. Won’t be long now.”
“I’m really excited to be flying into Paris. Should be quite a sight.”
“What about that boyfriend of yours? Are you excited about him?”
Gabi blushed. “Very much so—more than ever.”
She turned and looked back to the passenger area. Eric wasn’t there. He must be using the lavatory before they landed. She hoped he wasn’t airsick and decided to go check on him.
Gabi stood up to walk toward the rear of the plane. This time Bernard was watching her, his eyes intent. She just passed him when she heard the command, “Stop.”
“Stop?”
She turned around, and standing in the aisle was Bernard. A pistol was pointed at her forehead.
Gabi gasped. “What are you doing, Bernard?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” His steady voice and steely resolve surprised her.
With his free hand, he reached into his knapsack and took out a set of chrome handcuffs. “Lock yourself to one of the seats.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
“The Mona Lisa?”
Bernard nodded. “This doesn’t concern you. This is a matter for France to decide. I don’t want to kill you, especially because you risked your life to save La Joconde, but what is happening right now is far bigger than you or me—or a Renaissance painting for that matter, no matter how priceless it is. So do me a favor and lock yourself to a seat.”
It only took her a second to see through Bernard’s plan, and then she understood. He was making a play for the Mona Lisa to give his side a bargaining chip. The French Communists planned to use the revered portrait as some sort of public relations weapon against de Gaulle.
“The French people will not come to your side.”
“We won’t know until we try.” Bernard waved the gun. “Oblige me, s’il vous plaît.”
Gabi sat down and slipped one handcuff over her right wrist. Then she shackled herself to an opening in the armrest. “Satisfied?”
Before he could answer, Eric stepped out of the rear restroom—and Bernard planted his gun on Gabi’s temple.
The Frenchman opened his free hand to Eric. “Your weapon.”
Eric looked up, visibly stunned. “What’s going on?”
“I’m running out of patience. Kick your gun in my direction.”
Alarmed, Eric lifted his hands. “I’ll do what you say. Just don’t hurt Gabi.”
“End of the barrel.”
The Swiss reached into his pocket, and gripping the pistol by the end of the barrel, handed it over.
Keeping his eyes on Eric, Bernard stuffed the gun into his waistband, then pulled another set of handcuffs from his pocket. “Take the row behind Gabi and lock yourself up.”
Eric followed his instructions.
“For you, for your cause, and for the Mona Lisa, I hope you’ve thought this through,” Gabi said.
“Don’t worry. I have. Now your American pilot. When I get his attention, I want you to tell him two things. First, I want him to handcuff himself to the cockpit. Second, land this plane at Orly, not Le Bourget. Remind him that I know my Paris landmarks.”
“Everything all right back there?” yelled a voice from the cockpit. They were far enough back that Palmer couldn’t see them from the captain’s seat.
Rousseau moved quickly up the aisle, and in an instant trained his pistol on Palmer.
The American pilot glared at Rousseau. “What are you doing?” he demanded in English.
Gabi answered for the Frenchman. “He’s hijacking the plane! We’re handcuffed to our chairs.”
The plane suddenly dove, and Rousseau hit the ceiling of the fuselage. The Ju-52 continued to gyrate and lose altitude, eliciting screams from Gabi. When the plane leveled out, Rousseau slammed to the floor and leaped toward Gabi. Once again, he placed the business end of the cold pistol on her temple. “Tell him I start shooting if he tries that again.”
Gabi glowered at Rousseau but obeyed. “He’s promised to kill us if you try that again,” she yelled out. “You’re to land the plane at Orly. No tricks. He knows his Paris landmarks.”
Rousseau reached into his satchel for another set of handcuffs and jangled them at Gabi, who understood what Rousseau wanted to say.
“Bill, another thing. Rousseau wants you to handcuff yourself to your seat or something. He’s coming up now.”
Rousseau approached the cockpit and tossed the pair of handcuffs at Palmer, who released his grip on the wooden control wheel and caught them in mid-air.
The pilot’s face was a frozen mask. “I don’t like this, but I really believe you’re crazy enough to take everyone down.” He chained his left wrist to his steering column.
“Satisfied?” he demanded.
Rousseau, who didn’t understand, ignored him and stepped back into the cabin.
Gabi looked at the rings of sweat darkening the armpits of Rousseau’s button-down green shirt. Desperation reeked from every pore.
“What happens when we land?” Gabi asked.
“I leave with the Mona Lisa, and you remain in the plane.”
“It won’t be long before half of Paris is looking for you,” Eric barked.
Bernard wiped his free hand across his brow. “Then I better work fast.”
As Gabi listened to the exchange, a gut feeling came over her. Don’t rock the boat—or the plane. Let Rousseau take the Mona Lisa and play his little game. Like a house of cards, it would all come crashing down. She gave Eric a knowing look, and he understood.
They both knew Rousseau wasn’t going to win in the end.
Bernard took Gabi’s old seat and looked down upon the rural landscape. Ahead, still a ways off on the horizon, he could make out a warren of densely packed buildings that signified Paris proper. Given that overarching landmark, he got his bearings. They approached Paris from the southeast.
The geographical difference between the Le Bourget and Orly airports was stark. Le Bourget was located a good distance north of the Seine—twelve kilometers. He was just a boy when he and his parents joined 100,000 rabid Parisians to greet American aviator Charles Lindbergh after his history-making solo flight across the Atlantic.
He turned and looked at the pilot, who concentrated on his gauges. Using the Seine as a line of demarcation, they would be landing at Orly.
Bernard took no pleasure in what he was doing. He realized that he had jumped the Rubicon regarding his relationship with Colette. She would never speak to him again.
He was taking a huge gamble, but life was a risk, was it not? He was risking everything, not for himself, but for an opportune moment—a chance to reshape postwar France into a Communist society, where everyone was treated equally. No longer would the rich and titled call the shots. The proletariat would prevail.
Gabi was right. He would have to move quickly.
The Ju-52 lowered in the sky until the wings dipped, and the plane seemed to float for the longest time. Finally, the aircraft landed on the pavemen
t with a soft bump. The Ju-52 rapidly lost speed.
Through Gabi, he informed Palmer to taxi the plane toward one of the abandoned hangers. Orly had been a strategic base for the Luftwaffe, but the Nazis were long gone.
The plane pulled up near a fence, and Bernard heard the engines cut. That was his cue. He turned to Gabi and Eric. “Sorry the trip had to end this way. I know you don’t understand, but this is for France.”
The Swiss didn’t reply, which surprised Bernard. Strangely, he had expected some sort of rejoinder. It didn’t matter.
He had the Mona Lisa. Colonel Rol and his comrades would be glad to see him. He’d become the hero they longed for.
With a short wave, he picked up the wooden crate and disappeared into the gloaming.
28
Wednesday, August 30, 1944
Paris, France
Marcel Bertille studied his black leather address book, which contained a list of newspaper reporters, radio commentators, and opinion makers. He had worn many hats for the French Communist Party over the years, but on this Wednesday morning, he played the role of media liaison. He was relying on newspapers and radio outlets to get the word out.
“Salut, Jean-Louis. How is Libération treating you?”
Bertille listened to the blowhard at Paris-Soir—one of the notorious collaborationist newspapers—blather on about de Gaulle’s triumphant walk along the Champs Élysées and how that epoch represented a new day in France. At the opportune moment, Bertille tickled his ears with a dainty morsel of information.
“Listen, I have a blockbuster story for you, and you’re going to want to be there.”
“Where?”
“In front of the Louvre entrance. Colonel Rol will be making an announcement at two o’clock today—a very important one. You don’t want to miss it.”
“Are Rol and your Communist pals making a play for political control of France?” Jean-Louis scoffed. “Because if you think the people are going to turn to you instead of de Gaulle—”
“Now is not the time for politics,” Bertille interjected. “That national discussion will happen someday, but not today.”
“So what’s Rol going to talk about?”
Bertille paused. It was better to let the line out a little longer and wait for this ink-stained fish to strike. “It involves a matter of national pride.”
“National pride? I think de Gaulle cornered the market in that department.”
“I’m really not supposed to say more.”
“C’mon, Bertille. You have to give me a little more than that. I’m a busy guy.”
Bertille paused again to signify that he was thinking when in actuality he was waiting for the right time to set the hook.
“Okay, I suppose I can trust you. Colonel Rol will be talking about the disappearance of the Mona Lisa.”
Bertille heard an audible gasp. “La Joconde? Wasn’t the painting evacuated with the rest of the Louvre treasures?”
“Correct, but it seems that a pair of German operatives got their hands on the portrait.”
“When?”
“Yesterday at a chateau near Annecy. We believe they took the painting into Switzerland.”
“This is unbelievable. How do you know?”
“Because one of our men was at the chateau when the thieves broke in and carried her off. His name is Bernard Rousseau. He will be at the press conference to tell his side of the story. Sorry. I wish I could share more details, but at this time . . .” He let his voice trail off.
Bertille could feel a tug on the line. Any moment, the Paris-Soir columnist would bite—and he did.
“I will be there,” the reporter said. “I was a boy when the Mona Lisa disappeared for two years before the Great War. My parents took me to the Louvre and we looked at the dark spot on the wall. Paris and the world went into spasms of aesthetic agony. So you’re saying this disturbing event happened yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Why wasn’t the Mona Lisa secured? And what about the rest of the Louvre collection? Are our Monets and Delacroix riches in jeopardy as well?” Jean-Louis rattled on. “If the Nazis can’t have Paris, will they continue to loot our treasures and cart them off?”
“All important questions, mon ami. Colonel Rol will be happy to supply the answers this afternoon. That is why I’m calling and suggesting you be there.”
After a closing salutation, Bertille settled back in his chair with a satisfied look.
Then he opened his address book again.
He had many more phone calls to make.
Gabi and Eric, along with Bill Palmer, were eating a late breakfast inside the mess tent on the grounds of the École Militaire, where they had spent the night. The trio had received red-carpet treatment after Gabi successfully picked the locks on the handcuffs with a hairpin. All they could do now was wait.
“Do you think the police will find Bernard Rousseau soon?” Palmer asked.
Eric set down his piece of toast. “He could be anywhere in a huge city like Paris. I think he—and the Mona Lisa—can’t stay under wraps for too long. He and his comrades are probably figuring out how they can exploit this situation to maximum advantage.”
After a second coffee, an aide to General Leclerc approached.
“Word is getting around Paris that Colonel Rol and Bernard Rousseau will be in front of the Louvre at 2 p.m. to make some sort of ‘major announcement’ about the Mona Lisa.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Gabi turned to Eric. “We were expecting something like this.”
Nervous energy soared through Bernard’s body as he stood at the bottom of the stone staircase leading to the Louvre entrance. Situated in the large palace courtyard, Bernard—along with Colonel Rol and Marcel Bertille—were surrounded by a legion of reporters and photographers ready to record their history-making announcement. A hundred or so tourists and locals who happened to be in the area pressed closer to learn what the fuss was all about.
One hundred meters away, the Mona Lisa lay in her crate inside a Peugeot double-parked on the Place du Carrousel. Bernard turned and looked at the four armed men surrounding the vehicle. It was Bertille’s idea for the bodyguard quartet to ceremoniously carry the Mona Lisa the length of the courtyard while photographers snapped pictures that would be transmitted around the world.
The four men awaited their cue to begin the procession, but that would only come after Colonel Rol hectored the Gaullist government for allowing the Mona Lisa to fall into Nazi hands. After railing against the malfeasance, Rol would tell the courageous story of how he—Bernard Rousseau, Resistance hero—risked his life to single-handedly free La Joconde and bring her back to her home at the Louvre.
Bernard knew it was all a bald-faced fabrication, but he and the French Communists were operating under the Churchillian axiom that a lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on. His side needed to do something to knock de Gaulle off his pedestal, and right now, the Mona Lisa was their biggest club. Sure, the Gaullists could produce Gabi and Eric as well as the American pilot, but it was his word—a Frenchman!—against theirs. It also helped that Bertille could obfuscate with the best of them.
Bernard regarded his wristwatch, battered and scratched from his underground missions. Only a few minutes remained until nearby church towers heralded the arrival of the two o’clock hour.
The plan was for Colonel Rol and Bertille to do most of the talking until Bernard delivered his eyewitness account of the Germans’ heist at Chateau de Dampierre. He planned to embellish the story of how the hated boches threatened to cut off the girl’s fingers one by one. He was certain that this detail would be highlighted in tomorrow’s newspaper stories. Then the Mona Lisa would be produced, procession and all, and together the three of them would escort La Joconde back to the Louvre, where future generations would enjoy that famous smile.
Bells pealed in the distance, prompting Bertille to mount two steps and address the media crunch.
&
nbsp; “Welcome, everyone, and thank you for coming today on short notice. It pleases me to see so many reporters from newspaper and radio stations on hand. Freedom of the press was lost when Nazi boots occupied Paris, but those of us in the FTP gave our blood to see that liberty returned,” Bertille said.
There was polite applause, and Bernard joined in the clapping.
“But a serious situation has arisen that I want to bring to your attention today, and to help me do that, I’ve asked one of the real heroes of the Resistance—”
Bertille’s introduction of Colonel Rol was drowned out by the sound of police sirens and honking horns barreling into the Louvre’s palace courtyard. All eyes turned to a fast-moving motorcade of four black Citroën sedans with miniature French tricolores, escorted by a pair of police motorcycles. Mothers reached for hands of little ones, and couples made sure they got out of the way. The parade of shiny cars rolled to a stop not far from the entrance staircase where Bernard and the others had gathered for the press conference.
Cries of “It’s de Gaulle!” rose into the air. Bernard took a step to gain a better view and saw the regal general step out of the car wearing his trademark képi, a cap with a flat circular top and visor.
A clamor arose, and the bystanders surged toward the general. Chants rose from their lips. “Vive de Gaulle! Vive de Gaulle! Vive de Gaulle!”
The pool of reporters deserted their press conference and rushed over to see what was happening.
What Bernard viewed next was unbelievable. Stepping out of the same rear seat was Colette, dressed in a yellow sun dress and dark sunglasses to shield her eyes from the hot August sun. The raucous crowd immediately engulfed her as well.
“What’s going on?” Bertille demanded, as if Bernard knew the answer.
“I don’t know, sir.”
Bernard’s world was thrown into a faster tailspin when Eric and Gabi exited the second car. They fell into a group that followed de Gaulle to the top step of the entrance stairway. Photographers chased after the entourage, angling for a shot of the general marching into the Louvre. Bernard saw flashbulbs go off and cameramen winding film in their cameras.