Chasing Mona Lisa (16 page)

Evening had dropped like a curtain over the City of Light.

As the group stood to leave the Brasserie, Bernard told the others to go ahead. “There’s someone I need to talk to.”

After the trio had departed, Bernard caught Bertille’s eye and waved him over to the table.

He got right to the point. “We need to meet with Colonel Rol.”

“Something happen?”

“Yes.” Pulling him aside, Bernard shared the startling new development. What he left unsaid was how the German operatives even knew
where
the
Mona Lisa
was being hidden at this moment. He feared that Colette had relayed that information but hoped that wasn’t true.

Bertille tugged on his right earlobe, lost in thought. “I know what the Colonel would say.”

“What?”

“Nous faisons d’une pierre deux coups.”
We hit twice with the same stone.

“I don’t quite understand—”

“You secure the
Mona Lisa
, which solves one problem. Then at the right moment, we deliver
La Joconde
with maximum public attention, which will solve another.”

Bernard frowned. “It sounds like you’re asking me to steal the
Mona Lisa
before the Germans do.”

“Exactly, comrade. If we have possession of
La Joconde
under de Gaulle’s watch, we undermine confidence in his leadership. We can go to the people and say, ‘Look, de Gaulle is in charge for one week, and the first thing that happens is that the Nazis steal our crown jewel! This wouldn’t have happened under a democratic socialist government.’ Then we deliver the
Mona Lisa
, saving the day, just as we have during the entire Occupation while de Gaulle sipped tea in England.”

Bernard saw the merit in Bertille’s thinking. The public
would
blame the Gaullists if the painting fell into German hands—and create a perfect public relations nightmare. Colonel Rol could disseminate a story about how the
Mona Lisa
was stolen, and then at the most advantageous time, they would “recover” the celebrated artwork and reap a windfall of goodwill—and support for the Communist Party.

But that meant taking possession of the
Mona Lisa
from Colette. What would happen to her? He rationalized that as an informant, no matter the outcome, she had it coming, but things would be worse if the painting was lost. Either way, all fingers would point to his girlfriend’s loose lips. He would do what he could to protect her, of course, but one thing was certain: it would cost him their relationship.

Bernard’s heart ached. His emotions felt torn between Colette and the future of France. Then again, what if she was part of it? She seemed saddened and anxious by the news . . . maybe her fearful eyes were due to the fact she’d been found out. There was so much he didn’t know, and Colette herself admitted her help in selling their country’s priceless artwork to Heller. How could he trust her?

He couldn’t bear to see his political cause lose out due to his affections for a traitorous woman. If forced to decide between Colette and the political direction of France under Communist rule . . . well, that decision would be easy.

Seated at the end of the bar, sipping a glass of beer, Antoine Celeste watched Rousseau and Bertille walk to the front of the restaurant to use the telephone. The two men huddled near the entry as Bertille made the call, probably to their leader Colonel Rol.

With his hat pulled low to conceal his eyes in the shadow of its brim, he saw that Rousseau—with his back to him—concentrated on his colleague’s phone call.

This was his chance. He rapidly closed the distance between them with his hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, fingers tightly wrapped around a handle securing the tang of a wide six-inch blade. His dying brother’s face filled his vision.

Then, just as he neared his mark, a waiter carrying a tray of empty beer glasses high above his head squeezed in between, stopping Celeste’s advance.

The waiter passed by with a swish of his apron. Celeste looked up to find himself face-to-face with Rousseau. The element of surprise had vanished. He froze for an uncomfortable moment. Rousseau made an awkward nod of greeting, and instinctively, Celeste nodded in return, then slipped out the front door.

Standing on the curb, Celeste steadied his trembling right hand. He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves and think through what had just happened. He’d almost snuffed out the quisling, but the opportune moment was gone. He could have skewered Rousseau and slipped back into the crowd, lost in the commotion.

Revenge would have to wait.

 
1
7

Sunday, August 27, 1944

Zurich, Switzerland

Hans Schaffner paced the Bahnhofstrasse—leading to Zurich’s fashionable business district—with purpose. Rolf Kaufman strode by his side. It was good to be back in business, even if the assignment to steal the
Mona Lisa
was so audacious.

Schaffner knew that neither Göring nor Heller would ever take physical possession of the
Mona Lisa
. The priceless painting was to be delivered to the banker Anton Wessner for safekeeping. From there . . . well, who knew? All he cared about was his fee and the freedom it would provide.

They had an appointment to meet with Wessner on this quiet Sunday afternoon. Three or four years ago, Germans like him would have been invited to the bank to meet in an expansive office or over a sumptuous meal at the Alt Züri, one of Zurich’s finest restaurants. But when the tide of the war changed—especially after the Allies gained a foothold in Normandy—Germans became persona non grata. The Swiss might blather on about their sacrosanct neutrality, but they knew how to choose sides when the outcome was no longer in doubt.

It came as no surprise—Wessner didn’t want to meet in a public place.

Department stores and shops along Zurich’s famed Bahnhofstrasse were closed for the Sabbath. Only a few restaurants remained open, including the Zeughauskeller, packed with the after-church crowd enjoying a decent bratwurst and a half-liter of Klosterbrau.

The pair walked past the busy restaurant and turned left at the corner. Across the street, they saw an olive-green Mercedes 170V parked, facing away. Wessner watched them from his rearview mirror. With his left hand, he patted the door to get their attention.

They approached the car on the passenger side, and Wessner leaned across the seat and opened the door. Schaffner climbed into the front, and Kaufman took a seat in the back.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Wessner extended his hand. He was in his late forties with close-cropped black hair flecked with gray. The smile appeared genuine but his manner was abrupt.

“Shall we get right down to business? Let’s start with your plan to obtain the painting.” Wessner turned at a forty-five-degree angle to face both men.

Schaffner looked to Kaufman, who nodded his head, indicating he wanted his partner to take the lead.

“Procuring enough petrol will be difficult, even with bribes,” he began. “I don’t see how we can get out of Zurich before mid-morning, at the earliest.”

“Perhaps I can help—” Wessner stopped himself. “No, sorry. On second thought, it’s better that you solve this problem. I suppose our mutual acquaintance anticipated this since I have been authorized to give you a sizable advance.”

“I figured as much.” Schaffner had never known a banker to get his hands dirty. “Speaking of money . . .”

“Everything you need is under your seat.”

Schaffner leaned forward and looked underneath the bench seat, spotting a dark leather attaché case.

“You’ll find fifty thousand Swiss francs inside, various denominations,” Wessner said. “That should get you started. Another fifty thousand francs will be divided in half and deposited into your private accounts upon delivery of the painting.”

Schaffner nodded. Over their four-year association, Wessner had never missed a payment, large or small, and fifty thousand francs was a lot of money—enough to buy ten houses in Switzerland. Once the job was complete, he and Kaufman would be set for life. The smallest hint of a smile formed on his lips as he tried to conceal his excitement.

“Did you get the address?” Wessner asked. “I was driving back from Lucerne and couldn’t receive messages this morning.”

“Yes and no,” Schaffner replied. “Heller sent a message an hour ago saying he could not reach his contact in Paris, but last month he was told that the
Mona Lisa
was being kept at the Chateau de Dampierre, somewhere outside of Annecy. That’s all he knows. He doesn’t have an address, just the chateau’s name.”

“Chateau de Dampierre? Sounds like a winery.”

Schaffner shrugged. “Could be. At any rate, we’ll find it. May take us a little extra time, but castles tend to stick out. We plan on getting on the road once we receive confirmation from Heller.”

“How’s your French?” Wessner asked.

“Rusty. What about you, Rolf?”

“Better, but that’s because I like the French girls.” Kaufman flashed a lecherous grin.

Schaffner turned to Wessner. “We’ll manage. If not, we’ll let our Lugers do the talking.”

“And after the
Mona Lisa
is in your possession?” Wessner’s left hand drummed the steering wheel. The money said the banker trusted them to do the job, but his nervous twitches said otherwise.

“If the getaway is clean, we don’t anticipate a problem at the border.” Schaffner spoke with confidence, attempting to put Wessner at ease. The German had his own concerns, but he trusted his instincts. They’d always managed to get out of trouble before. This time would be no different.

Schaffner cocked his chin and continued. “We’ll wait until late evening and pass through one of the back roads into Switzerland, probably near Annemasse. The border guards at these small outposts leave every evening at six o’clock, rain or shine. With a little luck, we should be standing inside your bank’s underground vault five or six hours later. You might want to prepare for a night deposit.”

“Excellent. But don’t bring the
Mona Lisa
back to Zurich.”

“Why’s that?”

“I got a tip a few weeks ago from a fellow named Dieter Baumann. Do you know him?”

Schaffner’s mind filed through his lists of contacts, but the name didn’t sound familiar. Then again, just because he didn’t know the name didn’t mean he didn’t know the man. Few revealed their true identities in his line of work. He slowly shook his head.

“He’s a Swiss working for the Americans, but he likes to work both sides of the street, if you catch my drift.” Wessner let the subtlety sink in before continuing. “He told me that American operatives were keeping our bank under surveillance, although he would not elaborate. If true, it would be foolish to walk into the Dolder Bank carrying the
Mona Lisa
—even in the wee hours of the morning.”

Finally, in Schaffner’s mind’s eye, a face filled in. Handsome, but ruthless. “Oh yes, I remember now. I have met Baumann. I didn’t trust him. He would sell out his mother. I assume this tip was not gratis.”

“Correct. I gladly paid.”

The Swiss banker sat straighter in his seat. “Here’s what I want you to do. Come to my mountain chalet outside Lucerne instead. I’ll send for an armored truck to pick up the painting. My chalet is fairly remote, so if someone is sniffing around, we’ll know about it.”

Gabi leaned into Eric’s embrace and wrapped her arm around him, tucking herself close to his side. For the past hour, they’d been walking along the Seine River, discussing what they could do to foil the Germans intent on stealing the
Mona Lisa
. Both were frustrated that they couldn’t get on the road today but understood that there wasn’t any petrol to be had in battle-fatigued Paris. They had done what little was needed to prepare for their early departure. After helping Madame Beaumont clean the courtyard and tidy up from the party, there was nothing to do but wait. Getting out of the house for some fresh air was just a way to maintain their sanity.

“I’m concerned that Heller’s agents will get to Annecy before we do. What if they are on their way right now?” she asked.

Eric stopped and turned toward her. “Nothing we can do, but Dulles said in his transmission that London hadn’t intercepted any more messages from Schaffner or Heller, so we have to assume they haven’t left Zurich. The chief knows we need petrol before we can leave, and we’ll get it—but not before the morning. Hopefully, Colette can get through to the Count or Countess by phone and warn them.”

Gabi sighed, and they continued a little farther. When they came to a stone wall overlooking the Seine, they took in the Sunday afternoon traffic on the peaceful waterway. The Bateaux Mouches were still moored to the docks, no doubt because of the fuel shortage. Only a handful of rowboats glided across the glassy surface.

“Let’s walk across the Pont Neuf.” Eric steered her onto the gilded span and led her toward a wrought-iron railing above one of the bridge’s medieval arches, affording them a view of the placid river and the teardrop-shaped Île Saint-Louis. “Funny how they call it the Pont Neuf—or New Bridge—even though it’s the oldest bridge in Paris. A few days ago, if Hitler had his way, this bridge would have been reduced to a heap of rubble. What a shame that would have been.”

Gabi switched to English. “Yup. That would have been in-Seine,” she smirked.

Eric shook his head. “Nice one.”

Gabi tucked herself closer to his side. “When are we due for dinner?”

“We’re supposed to meet Bernard and Colette at the Brasserie Lipp at 7 p.m. But Bernard says he wants to take us to another restaurant.”

“Good. I was hoping for someplace other than the Brasserie. In a city known for great food, there has to be more than one place to enjoy a nice meal.”

“There’s a small sidewalk café across the street from the Brasserie. Why don’t we have a cappuccino and wait there?”

Gabi gave him a squeeze. “Sounds perfect.”

The call girl at La Boîte à Bonbons, or the Candy Box, knew her customers well and was a magnet for information. Ernst Mueller was most appreciative and passed her five large denomination banknotes.

Her directions led him to an alley just past the Zeughauskeller, where Mueller had a clear view from his Peugeot as Schaffner and Kaufman crossed the street and stepped into a green sedan. They had never seen their tail.

Fifteen minutes later, he watched the two Germans exit the vehicle and noted Schaffner carrying a small satchel. They looked both ways and then headed back in the direction they’d come. He couldn’t see the driver’s face, but the vehicle matched the description of Anton Wessner’s car from the profile Dulles had given him.

Assuming the satchel didn’t contain the bank’s annual meeting notes, Ernst surmised that the cash advance had been made.

He watched the green sedan pull away and then turn left at the next corner. Immediately, Ernst eased his car from the alley and pulled up near the next cross street in time to see Schaffner and Kaufman enter the Zeughauskeller. From their languid manner, they didn’t appear to be in any hurry—which could only mean that they weren’t leaving today for Annecy. Most likely tomorrow.

When Ernst departed Dulles’s Bern apartment, the OSS director had said the code breakers at Bletchley Park were sifting through transmission traffic, watching for more communications between the conspirators. Nothing had surfaced. Ernst hoped it meant the two German agents were still waiting to receive confirmation of where to go. From their confident body language, the two had the look of cocksure thieves who believed they were about to steal the most famous painting in the world.

He wished he could stop them dead in their tracks, but there were too many witnesses, plus his congregation might not understand why their church pastor was arrested for gunning down two men in front of a crowded restaurant. He parked near the corner with a clear view of the entry.