Chasing Mona Lisa (15 page)

As he made his way up the Champs Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe, hundreds of VIVE DE GAULLE banners were being hung from second- and third-story windows and hundreds more were already pasted against regal buildings fronting the grandest boulevard in the world. Dubois had told him that printing presses had been running until dawn, and all morning long the radio had been heralding “de Gaulle’s march” down the Champs Élysées.

The muscles in his neck tightened and his footsteps grew heavier. He wished he could stomp out de Gaulle’s name. The synergy of frustration and pent-up anger built with the unfurling of each new banner.

Where was de Gaulle when blood from the Resistance had flowed? No doubt living in England in far more comfort than his fellow countrymen. He and his comrades were the ones who had done the heavy lifting. His shoulders slumped, considering he was just one among many countless and nameless fighters shunted to the sidelines by a general who seemed oblivious to their sacrifice.

This was de Gaulle’s rendezvous with history, the radio commentators said, the culmination of his four-year crusade, the unofficial referendum in which he would establish his authority and silence political rivals. Millions were expected to line the parade route from the Arc de Triomphe to the Notre Dame, where de Gaulle and local dignitaries would witness a
Te Deum
Mass of thanksgiving inside the famous cathedral.

Spotting a VIVE DE GAULLE poster on the sidewalk of the Champs, he swooped down to pick it up, studied it pensively, and then crumpled the paper into a ball. With a flick of the wrist, Bernard discarded it into the gutter.

In many ways, he and the French Communists had been tossed aside by an imperious and opportune general who thought he knew what was best for the French people.

Vive de Gaulle?
Not if he and his comrades had a say.

From their vantage point at the Place de la Concorde, Gabi looked up the Champs Élysées, its thick borders black with cheering crowds. Young boys had climbed trees and lampposts overlooking the route. Women, children, and men lifted their faces, hoping for a glimpse of their national hero.

It was a few minutes before two o’clock, and everywhere she looked—from balconies, rooftops, windows, and curbs—hundreds of thousands of Parisians readied themselves to officially welcome Charles de Gaulle and the victorious Allies into Paris. This was their chance to formally embrace freedoms not felt in four years.

She, along with Eric and Colette, were scrunched behind a chain of police and firemen, who, with arms linked, attempted to hold back the encroaching crowd from the plaza. They were losing ground. Bodies pressed around them, and Gabi longed for a breath of fresh air.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Colette placed a hand over her heart. “The radio said two million people might be on the parade route.”

“Here, stand in front of me.” Eric stepped back and created a pocket for Gabi behind the arm-linked guards. “You’ll get a better view.”

Gabi welcomed the sheltered vantage. The parade was about to begin. Eric wrapped his arms around her, and a smile filled her face.

Vive la France
.

Bernard, positioned alongside his leader, Colonel Rol, took a deep breath and exhaled. The anger and frustration was slowly being replaced by a sense of excitement. It was impossible to be surrounded by hundreds of thousands of his cheering countrymen without being buoyed by their mood. Besides, it was clear this would be the only public recognition his branch of the Resistance would be given for putting their lives on the line for four long years. His mind flashed back to those who’d died. If he’d walk straight and tall for anyone, he’d do it for his comrades.

The grand Arc de Triomphe stood over them, casting a shadow over those who’d survived. Bernard looked up into the deep recesses of the Arc, then to the varied commanders and back again to the cheering throngs. Someday he would tell his grandchildren about this moment.

General Charles de Gaulle, tall and poised, stood erect before France’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where he laid a wreath of red carnations on the massive granite slab. Then, with a symbolic gesture, de Gaulle extended a torch and relit the grave’s eternal flame, the first Frenchman to perform this solemn duty since June 1940.

The crowds hushed in a moment of silence, giving Bernard an opportunity to clear his mind. He moved his gaze to watch de Gaulle—with the eyes of Paris upon him—turn and inspect Leclerc’s tanks and armored vehicles that ringed the Étoile. General de Gaulle’s regal air and measured steps spoke volumes about the political power that he expected France to bestow.

Police cars led the procession—one with a loudspeaker announcing that de Gaulle was “confiding his well-being to the people of Paris”—followed by four tanks from the 2nd Armored. Bernard had never experienced this type of gathering before, and he understood the worry of the police. Enemies could still lurk among them. To eliminate de Gaulle would be a small but significant victory for the Germans, even in retreat with tails between their legs. The emotional crowds, surging forward on both flanks, were held back by members of the Free French Resistance as well as policemen.

As promised, de Gaulle made sure he was front and center, towering a head taller than his companions, at the parade start. “Messieurs, remember to stay behind me,” he said as the march began down the Champs Élysées to nearly hysterical chants of “Merci!” and “Vive de Gaulle!”

The thunderous acclaim of a nation had begun.

From a distance of more than one and a half kilometers, Eric could feel the excitement surge among the mass of humanity ringing the Place de la Concorde with its giant Egyptian obelisk.

From Eric’s view, the procession of police cars and tanks was orderly enough, but the rest of the parade flowing down the Champs Élysées resembled a disorganized mess. Minutes passed as the advancing parade moved at a slow but steady pace. Thirty minutes later, as de Gaulle neared their position, a kindergarten-age girl slipped through adult legs and handed the general a bouquet of flowers. He accepted with a smile and lofted her high before setting the girl down and pointing her toward her parents. De Gaulle then turned and handed the bouquet to—Bernard Rousseau!

Eric rubbed his eyes, making sure he was seeing correctly, but it was indeed the Frenchman.

“Salut, Bernard!” Colette yelled.

Bernard looked up at the familiar voice. He smiled and moved toward them, but as he took a step forward a rifle shot split the square.

At the crack of gunfire, thousands of onlookers fell to the pavement. Eric pulled both Gabi and Colette down under outstretched arms as screams of panic waved through the crowd. Eric crouched down, but not before he looked up to witness a sentinel moment. As thousands cowered, including Resistance members marching alongside, de Gaulle maintained his ramrod posture and moved indifferently forward, fully ignoring the chaos and panic.

He maintained his methodical gait as the parade made the bend onto the Rue de Rivoli—as if now invincible. The surrounding throng seemed to be bowing.

As his steps continued forward, panic turned into applause; first a ripple, then swelling into a tidal wave. The crowd was now delirious with adoration. De Gaulle had summited the peak into the pantheons of French immortality. The impromptu coronation was complete, christened with peals of “Vive de Gaulle!”

A brave man
, Eric thought.
He never flinched
.

Bernard worked his way to Colette and wrapped his arms around her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Colette replied over the din. “It doesn’t seem as though anyone was hurt.”

“I have to go,” Bernard said. “I’ll meet you at the Brassiere Lipp after the parade.”

“Wait!” Colette reached toward her boyfriend, but he was already lost in a sea of humanity closing in behind the procession.

From the pedestal of the Obelisk of Luxor, Antoine Celeste scanned the front of the parade through binoculars, checking to see if anyone had been hit. He saw a man leave the route for a moment, then return alongside Colonel Rol.

Recognizing the face, he seethed. His brother’s untimely death would not be forgotten.

Celeste’s revenge would be unexpected and painful.

 
1
6

The party had never stopped at the Brasserie Lipp.

Gabi and Eric followed Bernard and Colette past the crowded tables toward the back of the restaurant where a red velvet curtain separated the main floor from a private room. Eric’s hand protectively held Gabi’s, and she noticed his eyes scanning the room as they walked.

Even during the victory celebrations pulsating through Paris, Eric was alert to any danger. She appreciated that about him, knowing his vigilance had protected her. She knew that he would continue to watch out for her well-being.

Gabi moved slowly, since the Brasserie Lipp was jammed following de Gaulle’s parade. Outside, two dozen people waited for the opportunity to order from its menu of renowned Alsatian cuisine, although she imagined the selection had been limited in recent years.

Making it to the private room, Gabi counted twenty or thirty people, mostly men wearing berets, locked in conversations inside this section of the restaurant reserved for Resistance heroes. Small groups huddled with hand-rolled smokes and glasses of Chardonnay.

Bernard touched her arm. “Come meet some of my friends.” He led her and Eric toward a bareheaded older gentleman with a dimpled chin. His engaging smile reminded her of Roland Mueller, her grandfather.

“Gabi and Eric, I present to you Marcel Bertille, the mastermind of the Resistance.”

His colleague deflected the characterization. “Bernard, you sell yourself short. You were always the one thinking one step ahead of the
boches
.”

Bertille stepped closer to Gabi and Eric. “Did he ever tell you about the time he single-handedly stopped a train bound for Berlin?”

Gabi shook her head and noticed Eric doing the same.

Bernard held up a hand. “
Mon ami
, let’s not bore our guests. That happened a long time ago.”

“I’d like to hear the story.” Colette smiled at her boyfriend.

“Today is not a day to tell stories from the past.”

Gabi’s interest was piqued as well, but she could see that Bernard wasn’t in the mood for storytelling. She looked around and saw Resistance members milling about, cigarettes burning in cupped hands. From the body language, they were having intense conversations, and she noted an undercurrent of tension circulating within the room. Maybe Bernard knew something she didn’t—or Libération wasn’t what it seemed to be.

“Please, take our table.” Bertille called a waiter over to dump the ashtray and remove the empty beer glasses. “There are others I need to talk with. Would you excuse me? You’d think with the Nazis gone, our job would be done, but so far that hasn’t been true.”

Gabi stepped back, giving Bertille room to slip past.
He has no idea
, she mused.
If they only knew about Göring’s plan to steal the Mona Lisa
.

Bernard thanked Bertille, and the two couples pulled chairs around the scarred wooden table. A waiter scurried to wipe the surface with a dirty dishtowel.

“Anyone hungry?” Bernard asked.

Gabi’s stomach rumbled. “I’m famished.”

The Frenchman spoke to the waiter. “Could we see a menu,
s’il vous plaît
?”

“I’m afraid the kitchen is out of everything except for the
Pied de Porc Farci
, monsieur.”

Eric turned to Gabi and spoke in Swiss-German. “Did he say stuffed pig’s feet?”

Gabi nodded and laughed, then translated for Bernard and Colette. “I think Eric wants a double portion.”

Eric grinned as laughter circled the table. “Surely the chef must have something else,” he said to the waiter.

Five minutes later, the waiter returned with half a loaf of rye bread with
pâté de campagne
—country-style pork pâté—and bowls of the soup du jour, a tomato bisque.

Gabi turned toward Bernard. “On a day of celebration and thanksgiving, I can’t help but notice that some of your colleagues don’t have the same
joie de vivre
. Their smiles seem to be missing. Is something wrong?”

“Very perceptive, Mademoiselle Mueller.” Bernard slipped into a formal elocution. “They’re talking about the sniper attack on de Gaulle at the Notre Dame.”

“Don’t you mean at the Place de la Concorde?” Eric asked.

“No, there was a second attack.” Bernard set his piece of bread with a dab of pâté back on his plate. “You noticed that a bullet fired in de Gaulle’s direction didn’t faze him. Well, there appeared to be another assassination attempt at the Notre Dame, but with more shots fired. I saw it. So did my colleagues.” He tipped his head toward the men gathered in the private section.

“What happened?” A look of concern crossed Colette’s face.

Bernard leaned in. “We were marching into the plaza in front of the Notre Dame when I looked up toward the tower on the left. I saw the tips of three rifles extend between the openings of one of the pylons. Before I could warn anyone, shots swept across the square. French soldiers weren’t sure where the bullets were coming from, so they raked the rooftops. You can imagine the panic as people screamed and scrambled for cover, even though there was no place to hide.

“Once again, de Gaulle was indifferent to the bullets aimed in his direction. He strode into the cathedral as if it was Christmas morning. The pews inside the Notre Dame were full, but when I arrived, everyone had ducked for cover.”

“Did the thanksgiving service go on?” Gabi asked.

Bernard nodded. “De Gaulle walked up the center aisle while we could still hear shooting from the plaza. He took his place of honor at the front of the main aisle, and then he and the priest recited the Magnificat together. When they finished, I think they both realized it was folly to continue, so de Gaulle departed with the same steady pace. I watched the expressions of everyone. They looked at him like he was walking on water. When news gets out about what happened at the Notre Dame, de Gaulle will have France resting in the palm of his hand.”

As Gabi listened, everything made sense. The Resistance in Paris had been dominated by Communist-led cells and organizations, but it was de Gaulle who was winning the hearts of the people at just the right moment in history. No wonder these Resistance members at the Brasserie Lipp were dismayed.

“Colonel Rol thinks the Free French were taking the potshots,” Bernard continued. “That it was a setup orchestrated to make de Gaulle’s arrival look like the Second Coming.” He cursed under his breath.

Gabi looked at Eric, but they both were silent. She was beginning to understand the war was far from over. It was obvious the French Communist leadership was angered by the apparent checkmate from their rival, Charles de Gaulle.

She wondered what their next move would be.

Eric also noted the tension in the room, and even at the table. But now was the time for him to make his move—to get the help he needed—or France would lose much more than they already had.

“Colette, there’s something we want to tell you,” Eric lowered his voice so only she and Bernard could hear. “Gabi and I are part of an underground as well, although our work for the Allies has been from the Swiss side of the border.”

“Really?” Colette said. “Are you some sort of spies?”

“Not a term we use.” Gabi remained composed. “But we help where we can, which is why we drove to Paris yesterday with the medicines and supplies on behalf of the Red Cross.”

“So why are you telling me this?” Colette eyed them skeptically.

“Because we need your help.”

“With . . . ?”

“The
Mona Lisa
.”

Eric registered the looks of shock and distanced determination at the mention of their national treasure.

“Hear me out,” he encouraged, seeing Colette pull away. “We have solid information that German operatives are preparing to steal her.”

“What?” Colette’s eyebrows knitted with incredulity. “How could you know this? And why would they want to take
La Joconde
now?”

Bernard’s face hardened. “The painting could never be sold to another collector. It’s priceless. Even if it was sold, they would be found out.”

“Which makes the painting the ultimate bargaining chip,” Gabi chimed in. “This is pure speculation, but we think a Nazi bigwig might want to use the painting to save himself from the hangman’s noose when the war’s over.”

“Any ideas on who that could be?” Bernard asked.

“We have a strong assumption that a Colonel Heller is involved,” Eric replied smoothly.

Colette’s chin quivered, and tears rimmed her lower eyelids. Eric could see she was distraught by the news—and even more so by the mention of Heller’s name.

Eric fixed his eyes on the beautiful curator. “Does Heller’s name mean something to you?”

Colette reached into her small purse and pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her damp eyes. “Sorry. I feared something like this during the Occupation, but not . . .”

The curator stopped herself. “What I mean is, I don’t think I—or France—could bear the news that the Germans have the
Mona Lisa
in their possession. It would be devastating for all of us. Unthinkable, especially now that we’ve been liberated.”

“What do you know about Heller?” Eric persisted.

Bernard’s gaze bore down on Colette as she gathered herself.

“This is complicated . . .” Colette looked pained.

Bernard placed his hand on top of hers. “But you know this
boche
, correct?”

“Unfortunately, yes, I know the colonel all too well,” she began. “He has been a painful thorn in my side since I took my position at the Louvre. I believe he’s working for Göring and serves as a buyer of art—I’m talking about massive quantities—on his behalf.” She paused and looked around the table. “Colonel Heller is a shrewd and determined man. One not to be underestimated.”

The sudden revelation left the table silent, absorbed in thought. All eyes remained transfixed on Colette.

“Do you think Heller really knows where
La Joconde
is hidden?” Bernard was staring hard at Colette. “After all, isn’t this a carefully guarded secret?”

Colette, with upturned palms, said, “But of course. She’s been moved several times since the war began. So who knows if Heller has this information? He’s a ruthless man. I wouldn’t put anything past him, including extortion and murder.”

Gabi motioned to speak. “We don’t want anything to happen to the
Mona Lisa
. We can help you bring her back.”

“You’re sure your intelligence is reliable,” Colette said.

“Quite sure.”

“Then we have to do everything we can to bring her home. If Heller gets to her first, she’ll be gone for good.”

Eric turned to Bernard. “Could you come along? We don’t know who or what we’ll find, but you have a lot of field experience.”

Bernard smiled. “But of course. Anything to save our national treasure.”

“Good. First, we’ll need some fuel.” Eric was eager to get started.

Bernard frowned. “Petrol has yet to trickle into Paris. From what I hear, they’re saying Monday. Plus, I imagine the line would stretch the length of the Champs Élysées.”

“I might know someone who can help,” Eric said.

If Dulles could get to the right people, their car would be the first to fill up in Paris.