Chasing Mona Lisa (20 page)

With two arms, he motioned for Eric to back up farther. Smoke around the stricken plane was starting to thicken. Eric obeyed without hesitation, retreating another twenty meters. He looked up to see the pilot running in their direction. A small surge of flames flashed upward from the belly of the aircraft.

Then the road and plane disappeared into a ballooning orange fireball. The explosion and shock wave rocked the car, filling it with a searing heat wave. The blast blew the advancing pilot off his feet, skidding forward with outstretched arms.

“He’s on fire!” Eric jumped from the car and raced to his side, quickly extinguishing the flames from the pilot’s pants leg with hands full of roadside dirt. Bernard was in hot pursuit. Eric leaned over the fallen pilot, protecting him from the shrapnel of hot metal.

With a groan from the stricken pilot, Eric and Bernard helped him to his feet. They moved him behind the open car door, shielding them from the heat.

“That was close.” The pilot caught his breath, then extended his hand. “I’m Lieutenant T. J. Rawlings. But you probably don’t understand a word I’m saying.”

“Actually, I do.” Gabi stepped out of the car. “You’ve got a burn there.”

“Just a scratch, ma’am,” Rawlings replied with a shy grin as he looked toward the torrid blaze. “Coulda been worse.”

“Let me take a look at that leg.” It wasn’t a request. Gabi led him to the backseat, where he removed his leather aviator cap and goggles and allowed himself a grimace from the pain. Colette offered him a sip of water from a canteen.

After Eric handed her a first aid kit from the trunk, Gabi cut a vent up the side of his flight suit, exposing a calf that had already formed a cluster of blisters. She applied an ointment and wrapped his lower leg with a sterile gauze. “You’re in pretty good shape, but we need to get you to a doctor. Burns can get easily infected. If all goes well, you’ll be flying again in no time.”

“That’s good news, ma’am, cuz we’re swatting those Nazis out of the air like flies with these new Mustangs. They’re one heckuva fighter!”

“Great to hear. Now if you don’t mind, T.J., we’re going to get you to the closest doctor.”

“You’re the boss.” The pilot then looked to either side at his seatmates. “I’m feeling better already.”

Eric swiftly maneuvered the car around the twisted metal skeleton engulfed in flames. Even through closed windows, intense heat radiated into the car. The explosion had pushed the plane’s main fuselage off the road—giving them just enough room to pass by.

The American pilot had a somber expression as he watched the conflagration consume his plane. “So long, Sally. You were one sweet ride,” T.J. whispered.

After a moment, he turned back and patted Eric on the shoulder. “That was a slick bit of driving back there. You some kind of race car driver?”

Eric and Gabi laughed as Bernard and Colette looked on with a quizzical expression, waiting for the translation.

“There’s been talk of a new career after the war,” Gabi replied.

“Well, if there’s a race that’s run backwards, I’d put my money on you,” T.J. deadpanned, then broke into a wide smile.

Ten minutes later, they rolled into Cravant and located the town doctor. The group accompanied T.J. into the office, and Gabi described the pilot’s wounds to the doctor. She felt compelled to stay and translate, but by the time T.J. got settled to wait his turn, she could see that everyone was anxious to get back on the road.

“We’re losing too much time. We have to get to Annecy as soon as we can,” Colette fumed. “Surely you understand . . .”

Gabi forced herself to hold back her words. “You’re right. I just want to be sure the doctor doesn’t have any more questions for Lieutenant Rawlings.”

“Ma’am, is something wrong?” T.J. pushed up from his chair and limped over to Gabi’s side. “I heard my name mentioned, but I didn’t understand what else was said.”

“It’s just that we’re supposed to be somewhere today . . .”

“Then go. I’ll manage just fine. Believe me, I’d be in a world of hurt if Sally and I hadn’t limped back into French airspace.”

The weight of caring for him slipped off Gabi’s shoulders. “Are you sure?”

The pilot nodded. “Go.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

Once back in the Red Cross car, the urgency of the mission returned. They needed to keep moving.

After departing the village of Cravant, Gabi nudged Colette. “If the plane had hit us . . .”

“Yeah, we would have lost our chance.” Colette didn’t say any more.

Gabi knew they were the only ones standing between a Nazi megalomaniac and a country’s national treasure. Somewhere out there, another team was trying to reach
La Joconde
. Colette had been right—the American pilot could handle things for himself.

Gabi’s fingers tightened around the door handle. She hoped she hadn’t cost them their chance at saving the painting.

 2
1

Colette shuffled through the
La Joconde
file twice before finding the correct piece of paper.

“We won’t be going all the way into Annecy,” she said. “We need to be looking for Saint-Martin-Bellevue. Once there, Chateau de Dampierre is four kilometers off the Route d’Annecy, according to these instructions.”

“Got it,” Eric said from the front seat.

Colette took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She leaned forward to flip through her notes, feeling the back of her dress—wet with perspiration—pull away from the leather seat. It had been a long, sticky day. Even though the trip had been harrowing, nothing compared to the tension building in her gut like a coiled spring, ready to explode.

Anticipating their arrival, she had no idea what they would find—but someone would be at the chateau, whether it was Countess Valois or the majordomo. When the family took custody of the
Mona Lisa
, one of the stipulations was that there would always be a “person of authority” on the estate grounds.

“I’m supposed to keep my eye out for a big castle with serfs working in the fields, right?” Bernard’s sly smile belied his resentment of the class difference between the landed gentry and the proletariat.

“As castles go, I don’t believe the Chateau de Dampierre is anything ostentatious,” Colette said, ignoring the bite in his words. Chateaux in this part of France were large-scale manor houses or country homes of nobility—not the spectacular royal palaces pictured in history books. Colette wasn’t sure what to expect since there wasn’t a photo in her file.

While Eric followed the twisting road past alfalfa fields lined with hedgerows, Colette noted several properties on a grand scale. She was looking at the right side of the road when a Renaissance-era castle of exquisite proportions arose into view above a massive stone wall. Two stories tall, the stately citadel was constructed of beige stone with a blue slate mansard roof accented with dormer windows. Round towers with conical tips finished all corners and bracketed the wide terraces adorned with vine-entwined balustrades.

“Nice place.” The irony in Bernard’s voice was clear.

Eric turned right into a private drive covered with fine crushed granite. A sizable wrought-iron gate flanked by stone pillars protected the Chateau de Dampierre.

“A buzzer should be on the left side,” Colette said.

“Found it.” Eric left the car idling in neutral and approached the stone pillar on his left.

Seconds after pressing the button, the sounds of barking dogs erupted from a wooded barn on the property. A workman wiping his hands on a towel soon appeared, walking their way.

“I’ll take care of this.” Colette stepped out of the car with her file in hand. She showed him several papers, and the hired hand nodded. The gate opened, leading them to a long circular driveway, frontage to the regal entrance. Intricately designed wooden doors with iron rivets were recessed just beyond a stone alcove.

“Amazing,” Eric commented. “Only thing missing is the moat and drawbridge.” He followed the salmon-colored driveway past a sparkling stone fountain and came to a stop in front of the stately entrance, cutting the engine.

Colette shivered as she scanned the windows for movement. Just then, an oversized door opened. Out stepped Countess Ariane Valois, holding the hand of a young girl who looked to be about ten years old. The Countess was dressed in a soft, feminine white blouse and a gathered A-line ankle-length mauve skirt, a look that balanced sophistication and simplicity.

Colette hurried from the car and mounted three steps. “Bonjour, Countess Valois. I’m Colette Perriard from the Louvre.”

“Quelle surprise!” The Countess threw open her arms in greeting.

Colette accepted the hug with a lift of her eyebrow. She’d expected a more constrained demeanor from nobility, especially with commoners.

“I certainly know you from our correspondence. Welcome to the Chateau de Dampierre!”

“Thank you very much.”

“When I heard we had visitors, I wasn’t sure who would be arriving in a Red Cross car.”

Colette looked back toward the dirty vehicle, where Gabi, Eric, and Bernard were standing. She motioned for them to join her on the landing.

“The car belongs to two friends, Gabi Mueller and Eric Hofstadler, and this is my . . . colleague from the Louvre, Bernard Rousseau.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the Countess said. “And this is my daughter, Kristina.”

After the four of them shook Kristina’s hand, the Countess looked toward her daughter. “Do you know why we have visitors today?”

The young girl shook her head.

“Because they’ve come to take your friend with them back to Paris.”

“But Mommy, I don’t want her to go.” Sadness suddenly filled her eyes.

The Countess patted her daughter’s cheek. “Remember? We’ve been praying that this day would come. It means France is again a free country.”

Kristina put her arm around her mother’s waist and buried her farouche expression. Smiling, the Countess turned back to her guests. “So tell us, what’s happening in Paris? We’ve heard the great news about Libération.”

Bernard beamed. “The
boches
—I mean, the Germans—have run like sewer rats back into their holes. Paris is overwhelmed with joy. We can again live in freedom.”

“I can only imagine the celebration along the Champs Élysées.” The Countess smiled and ran a hand down her daughter’s silky dark hair. “I listened to Radio France on Saturday, and the description of General de Gaulle laying the wreath on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier moved me.”

Colette noticed Bernard’s complexion redden. She knew he detested the general, and hoped he’d soon come to his senses. To her, French politics was a waste of time. They had control of their country back. What more could they desire? Effort should be put into bringing health and pride back to their country—not in fighting within their borders.

“We were there,” Bernard said in a matter-of-fact manner. “The general was reserved, which he should have been for such a solemn moment.”

“Bernard is being modest,” Eric interjected. “Sure, we were all there, but he was part of the official ceremony at the Arc de Triomphe. Our friend walked with the Resistance leadership down the Champs Élysées, all the way to the Notre Dame.”

“You were with the Resistance?” the Countess asked. “Then we have a real hero in our midst.”

A smile returned to Bernard’s face. “I answered the call to duty, Countess. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I’m sure you’re being far too modest. Please, come in.”

They stepped into the chateau’s entrance foyer, and it took several seconds for Colette’s eyes to adjust to the darker surroundings. The foyer was magnificent: quarter-sawn oak floors in a herringbone pattern, a sweeping staircase leading to the living quarters on the second floor, a formal receiving room with a wood-paneled library, and four sets of French doors showing the way to an expansive terrace at the rear of the chateau.

The Countess led them toward the formal living room. “It’s a shame that my husband isn’t here. He’s in Sainte Foy-la-Grande tending to business.”

The Countess stopped. “Have you had dinner? I prepared a beef bourguignon this afternoon. We have plenty.”

Colette looked to the others. “We’ve been in a rush to get here, so we haven’t eaten. Did Monsieur Rambouillet reach you today?”

“No, phone service has been sporadic. Is something wrong?”

“Actually, there is.” For the next couple of minutes, Colette outlined the threat against the
Mona Lisa
.

“Thank you for telling me the situation,” the Countess said. “Then we will have to hurry. I’ll get dinner ready. I only need a few minutes.”

“We would be most grateful.” Colette felt that she couldn’t say no to the Countess’s offer of hospitality, but they couldn’t linger.

Kristina suddenly pulled on her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, can I show them?”

“Show them what?” she teased.

“You know—”

With that, the girl beckoned for her mother to lean over so she could whisper something into her ear.

Colette’s heart warmed from the cute interplay between mother and child.

“What do you want to show us?” She teased Kristina with a puzzled expression.

Kristina reached out and grabbed Colette’s hand, and the rest fell in behind as she led them up the long staircase.

“Come back down in five minutes,” the Countess called out. “Dinner will be on the table.” She then retreated to the kitchen.

Gabi’s excitement level rose with each step. Knowing that she was so close to the
Mona Lisa
, to actually see her for the first time, was electrifying.

The long hallway that led to the young girl’s bedroom was tastefully adorned with a variety of artwork, including canvas paintings, many of the trompe l’oeil technique.

Kristina dropped Colette’s hand and ran the last ten steps, placing both hands on the doorknob.

“Are you ready?”

Gabi nodded but didn’t say a word. She followed Colette into the bedroom, and there, on a wall behind her four-poster bed, was
La Joconde
.

Gabi stopped breathing. Da Vinci’s painting was so exquisite, so perfect—so emotional. She reminded herself to inhale.

Slowly moving into the room as if on hallowed ground, the group assembled at the foot of Kristina’s bed. All eyes fixed on the mesmerizing masterpiece. For a minute, no one spoke.

Awestruck, heat rose to Gabi’s cheeks as Eric slipped an arm around her waist.

“Everything that people have said about the
Mona Lisa
is right,” she whispered. “Her smile is mesmerizing.”

Bernard folded his arms across his chest. “I can see why no other painting has captured the world’s imagination like this one.”

“She is exquisite.”

All heads turned to the voice from the doorway. Countess Ariane stepped to the side of the bed. “She’s kept watch over Kristina every night since her arrival in February.
La Joconde
has become her friend.”

“I don’t want her to go, Mommy.”

“Listen,
mon petit chou
, the
Mona Lisa
doesn’t belong to us. She belongs to all of France, and it’s time for her to go home . . . and for us to head downstairs and eat.”

“Can we visit her in Paris?”

Gabi watched Colette step closer and bend her knees until she was at eye level with the young girl. “I’ll make sure you have a private audience with her every time you visit. You can even stay with her after closing. My promise.”

The Paquis neighborhood was Hans Schaffner’s kind of place.

This part of Geneva was a melting pot of thieves, pickpockets, and hustlers—the type of place where prostitutes openly gathered on street corners while they waited for approaching customers from the Rive Droite.

Inside a tawdry bar on the Rue de Berne, Schaffner and Kaufman took a table among the lowlifes. The congenial waitress who took their order immediately switched to a passable German after hearing their fumbling French. Schaffner got the feeling that they weren’t the first Germans to find themselves in Geneva’s red-light district.