Chasing Mona Lisa (18 page)

A thousand kilometers to the east, Colonel Heller had his answer. A broad, odious grin slowly emerged across his face. Colette’s breathing pattern and fractional pause had given away her bluff. The painting was still outside of Annecy; she was in Paris. Certainly, transporting such an important archive would have been supervised by the curator herself.

Heller, no stranger to torture and interrogation, prided himself on being a master at reading the emotions of others, especially when intimidated. He could detect a lie, and this had the classic markings of one. As he relived the moment, he became certain of his instincts. With a bit of luck, Schaffner and Kaufman would get to the chateau before Colette, but the race would be close.

Lifting the receiver again, he told the operator he needed to send an urgent message to Hans Schaffner.

 
1
9

Monday, August 28, 1944

Paris, France

“I see them.”

Bernard pointed toward the double doors leading out from the Sully Wing. Colette, clutching a file to her chest, walked their direction. Gabi was at her side.

He and Eric sat in the Red Cross vehicle, parked at the Louvre’s Cour Carrée shortly after eight in the morning. Three days after Libération, a dozen workers in blue overalls were scattered across the vast courtyard, cleaning up and performing odd jobs in preparation for reopening the grand museum. Workmen had waved their car into the plaza after recognizing one of their own—Bernard Rousseau.

The Frenchman stepped out of the vehicle, followed by Eric.

“Any luck?” Bernard asked as Colette approached.

She frowned. “I wasn’t able to speak with Countess Valois—or the authorities in Annecy. The phone lines are still down. Monsieur Rambouillet said he’d keep trying. I hoped I could tell her to call the local police and ask for protection.”

Gabi spoke up. “Too bad you couldn’t get through. We received a transmission this morning saying that he hadn’t heard anything regarding the whereabouts of the Germans, so no help there, either. All we can do is make good time.”

Colette nodded in silent agreement and took a deep breath, debating whether she should share the phone call from Heller last night.

She couldn’t.

From the backseat of the Red Cross Mercedes, Gabi looked back for one last glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, but the nineteenth-century ironwork that defined the Paris skyline had slipped beneath the horizon. A feeling of wistfulness fell over her as the awe-inspiring city gave way to pastoral farmlands outside the Porte d’Italie, the southern gateway of Paris.

A somber mood was pervasive following the harrowing attack on Bernard. Nonetheless, after forty-five minutes of near silence, Gabi asked the question everyone wanted to know. “Bernard, what exactly happened at the Pantin rail yard?”

“Although most would think I’m some sort of hero, what happened that day was a tragedy.” He shared the entire story, describing the crates of paintings being loaded on the train, the dash through Paris streets on his bike, and his split-second decision to stand in front of the Berlin Express.

Colette reached forward from the backseat and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It was a shame that a Frenchman died, but he was murdered by the Nazis, not you. Anyone who knows the facts would understand that you saved many innocent French lives. You also saved invaluable art. And for that, you
are
a hero!”

“The war is full of such unfortunate events.” Eric took his eyes off the road for a brief moment to meet Bernard’s. “Those in the Resistance knew they were putting their lives on the line every day.”

The others agreed, and Bernard nodded slightly.

Gabi let out a sigh. “Just as today . . . we know the price we could pay for saving the
Mona Lisa
. It’s for something bigger than ourselves, which is why I take comfort in knowing that ultimately we are in God’s hands.”

Colette echoed her agreement, then continued to stare at nothing in particular through the side window. The passing scenery became a blur as a contemplative mood enveloped them.

After several minutes, Gabi tapped Colette on the shoulder. “So tell me—why
is
the
Mona Lisa
the most famous painting in the world?”

Colette’s eyes brightened. “The first time I saw her, I was a schoolgirl. My parents took me to the Louvre during a holiday, and I begged them to let me see the
Mona Lisa
first. The moment I laid eyes on her, I couldn’t believe how beautiful the painting was. Her posture was perfect with straight shoulders and her hands folded across one another. She wore an unadorned dress, no jewelry, and not even a wedding ring. Her face was slightly pronounced at the cheekbones, high at the forehead, and pointed at the chin. Her nose was narrow, and her lips were turned up ever so slightly in that famous smile of hers.”

“That smile baffles me,” Gabi responded. “First, she is smiling, right? Then the smile fades, only to return. Why is that?”

“When the original subject sat for her portrait, da Vinci had someone amuse her with jests to keep her from making that look of melancholy so common in portraits. Somehow, the artist captured a faintly wistful smile on her face, something the Italians call
sfumato
. It means blurry, vague, and left up to the imagination. How da Vinci was able to convey this ambiguity through an oil painting makes the
Mona Lisa
a masterpiece. Especially when you know that the
Mona Lisa
was painted on poplar wood, not canvas.”

Colette turned and met Gabi’s eyes. “During that first visit to the Louvre, I felt like the
Mona Lisa
’s warm and self-assured brown eyes were only for me, even though there were always dozens of people gazing at her.”

Gabi was moved by Colette’s description. “Da Vinci was an Italian painter, so how did the
Mona Lisa
end up in France?”

“Another interesting story. We’re fairly certain that da Vinci painted the
Mona Lisa
in Florence between 1503 and 1506, but he kept the portrait for himself because it was his favorite. Toward the end of his life, François I of France gave him a generous commission to come live at the Royal Chateau at Amboise, where the French king was often in residence.”

“Amboise? Where’s that?”

“The Charolais Brionnais area of central France. François I decided that the best way to glean the ideas of the Italian Renaissance was to import the greatest artist of his day to France, so for the last three years of his life, da Vinci puttered with his mechanical inventions and sipped tea with his royal patron. After da Vinci died in 1519 at the age of sixty-seven, François I purchased the painting from his heir for 4,000 gold florins—a ton of money back then—and hung it in his royal bath. From that moment on, the painting became part of the French monarchy’s art collection. For several centuries, she was a showpiece at various palaces around France—Fontainebleau, Versailles, and the Tuileries.”

Eric slowed the car to pass two dairy cows nibbling tall stalks of grass along the road’s shoulder. When he accelerated, Colette resumed her story.

“During the chaos of the French Revolution in 1789, the
Mona Lisa
was hidden in a warehouse. Louis XVI went to the guillotine and his palaces and prized possessions became property of the newly formed state. When Napoleon came to power, the enigmatic lady was restored to a place of honor in the emperor’s luxurious bedroom. After the Louvre Palace was turned into a public art museum, though, the
Mona Lisa
was installed inside the former palace, where she has resided ever since. Except for the time when she was stolen.”

The juxtaposition of
Mona Lisa
and the word
stolen
startled Gabi and prompted Eric to join the conversation.

“Someone stole the
Mona Lisa
?” he exclaimed from the front seat. “When did that happen?”

“Back on August 21, 1911. It was the greatest art theft ever, although no one talks about it now.”

“Since we’re trying to prevent the
Mona Lisa
from being kidnapped, maybe we can learn something,” Gabi suggested.

“I doubt it. Even today, the brazen theft seems unfathomable—like the Eiffel Tower falling over. But one Tuesday morning in 1911, a guard walked into the Salon Carré only to find the
Mona Lisa
missing from her place on the wall. All that remained were four iron hooks and a rectangular shape several shades deeper than the surrounding area. The guard thought the
Mona Lisa
had been taken away to be photographed. Photography was relatively new in those days, and there was a project at the Louvre to photograph the entire collection. The idea was that in case of damage, loss, or future restoration, the museum would have an accurate picture to work from.

“A few hours passed, and the
Mona Lisa
was still missing. Someone thought to check with the photography studio, where the guard was greeted with stares as blank as the Salon Carré wall. They had a problem.”

Eric looked into his rearview mirror and locked eyes with Colette. “You mean security was so lax in 1911 that anyone could have walked into the Louvre and walked out with the
Mona Lisa
?”

“Apparently so. Art treasures were poorly guarded in those days. More than one hundred passkeys floated around the Louvre. The museum was closed the previous day, a Monday, so anybody could have been walking around. The most famous painting in the world wasn’t even wired or bolted to the wall; it hung there on four simple hooks. Once the authorities at the Louvre discovered that the
Mona Lisa
had been stolen, all France went into a state of shock. Extra editions of Paris newspapers screamed,
MONA LISA A DISPARU!

“The Louvre was closed until further notice while the Paris police started an investigation. They stopped cars on their way out of Paris. Trains were searched. Ships inspected. The borders of France sealed. The Louvre curators expected a swift recovery or a ransom demand, but that never materialized. Meanwhile, the story of her disappearance traveled around the world.”

“Did they think it was an inside job?” Gabi asked.

“Initially, yes, but that’s all the police had to go on in those early days. There was tremendous pressure to break the case and recover the painting. When the Louvre reopened a week after the
Mona Lisa
vanished, long lines of crowds filed through the Salon Carré to view the empty space on the wall, like mourners at a funeral. As the weeks and then months passed and denial turned into acceptance, everyone assumed she was lost forever.”

“So the
Mona Lisa
wasn’t found right away?” Gabi pictured the long line of mourners.

“Not at all. Fifteen months after her disappearance, France officially called off the search. Public sentiment had turned from shock to sorrow, from disgruntlement to disappointment. When the new Louvre catalog was published in January 1913, the
Mona Lisa
was not listed in the collection. It looked like the perfect crime, although there were numerous ‘sightings’ all over Europe—Belgium, Holland, and even your Switzerland. Still, the public sentiment was that she was gone for good.”

Eric turned to Bernard. “You know this story, don’t you?”

Bernard bobbed his head. “Yeah, it really is amazing how they found her. When Colette told me the story, I had trouble believing it.”

“So . . . go on,” Gabi prodded. “I’m dying to find out.”

Colette leaned closer to the front seat. “Pure luck broke the case. An Italian antique dealer named Alfredo Geri placed a classified ad in several Italian newspapers that he was in the market to buy art objects at good prices. This happened in the fall of 1913. He received a letter from a fellow in Paris who called himself ‘Leonardo.’ He said he was in possession of the stolen
Mona Lisa
.