Chasing Mona Lisa (22 page)

“Look at the license plate—from Zurich!” The white plate said ZH 499.

Bernard was already racing back to the chateau.

They hurried for the chateau’s formidable entrance, weapons drawn.

The massive front door stood ajar, causing the hair on the back of Eric’s neck to bristle. He had no idea where the Germans were—upstairs or downstairs.

Together, they listened through the gaping entrance for any sort of noise.

Hearing none, Eric waved his hand, and together they both slipped silently into the darkened passage. Staying close to the alcove wall, they headed to the left and passed through the dining room. Bernard held up a hand—then a muffled noise came from the kitchen.

They carefully stepped through the dining room, but the suppressed sounds stopped. Eric willed himself to remain calm, but he feared what was beyond the kitchen door.

He crept closer, followed by Bernard, but then he hit a spot on the wooden floor that caused a loud squeak.

Eric stopped and held his breath.

“Kommen Sie herein und Hände hoch!” said a graveled voice. “Oder wir töten unsere erste Geisel.”
Come in here and hands in the air! Or we kill our first hostage
.

Eric whispered the translation to Bernard, who responded with panic in his eyes. “We have to believe them,” Eric said.

“We’re coming,” Eric called out in German. He dropped his pistol into his pants pocket and mimed for Bernard to do the same.

They pushed through the swinging door with arms raised. One swarthy German held a gun to the temple of the shivering Countess. A thin sliver of blood trickled down her forehead. A thick rope bound her to a kitchen chair.

The other assailant, with close-set eyes and a fiendish grin, stood behind another chair, pointing his gun at Kristina. The young girl was blindfolded and seated, her cheeks wet with tears.

On the floor, Gabi and Colette were fettered with rope around their hands and feet. They leaned against kitchen cabinets. At their feet, the makings of sandwiches—sliced bread, lettuce, and tomatoes—were strewn across the parquet floor.

“Two more to add to our collection,” the heavier German said. “Very interesting. You know what we are here for, right?”

Eric glared back in silence.

“First, your guns.”

Eric bluffed and kept his arms raised.
If one approaches to disarm me, that’ll give me an opening
 . . .

The Germans didn’t fall for it. Instead, the one holding the Countess pressed his revolver against her temple. A sob escaped her lips.

“My daughter . . . please release my daughter,” the woman pleaded.

The German ignored her words. His eyes remained fixed on Eric.

“She means nothing to me, so if you don’t drop your weapons now, she’ll be the first to go.”

Eric translated for Bernard’s benefit, and the two reached into their pockets. They dropped their guns to the floor and kicked them in the direction of the Germans.

“We are in a bit of a hurry, so bring us the
Mona Lisa
. . .
schnell!
”

Eric’s brow furrowed as he weighed his options.

The second German snatched the wrist of blindfolded Kristina, who let out an ear-piercing shriek. He yanked her arm and placed her hand on the kitchen counter to a cacophony of more bloodcurdling screams. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and produced a large switchblade. With a flash and metallic click, the released blade locked into place.

“You have sixty seconds to return with the painting. If you are tardy, the girl will lose one finger. Be gone two minutes, and she loses a second finger. Do you understand?”

“No, no, please, please—!” the Countess begged.

The beady-eyed German ignored her. He maliciously pressed the girl’s wrist to the cutting block and placed the blade’s sharp end against her pinky.

“You now have
less
than one minute. Then Rolf starts cutting,” the taller German said with satisfaction.

Eric bolted for the kitchen door, with Bernard in hot pursuit.

The screams of the young girl reverberated through the spacious chateau. Eric and Bernard raced for Kristina’s room, where they found the wooden crate on the floor in the same place they had left it.

Eric took one end of the crate as they hustled down the staircase sidewise, step by step, in record time. Then it was a race through the dining room. When they burst through the kitchen door, the German was counting down the time.

“Acht, sieben . . .” The German glanced up from his watch. “Just in time. I would have hated for the Countess to witness this.” He motioned for them to set down the wooden crate and raise their hands. They obliged.

“Now let her go,” Eric said with gritted teeth. “You’ve got your painting.”

The second German relaxed his grip, and the young girl pulled off the blindfold and ran to her mother. Kristina wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist and sobbed.

The German in command then turned toward Eric and Bernard, whose arms were still raised high. “Rolf, tie them up.”

He kept his pistol trained on Eric and Bernard as his partner bound their hands and feet. Then he pushed them to the kitchen floor, where they landed in a heap with Gabi and Colette.

The heavier German then waved his pistol toward the Countess. “I need a screwdriver,” he announced.

Gabi translated the question, then the Countess’s answer. “Top drawer . . . right side.”

The German began pulling out kitchen drawers. One near the pantry had the tool he needed. He returned to the crate and placed it on the counter.

Eric watched helplessly as the heavier German loosened the screws for the cover, then quickly moved to the screws holding the wooden braces inside the crate. When finished, he tilted up the painting and pulled back the velvet covering.

The famous face looked back, unconcerned with the deteriorating situation.

“Unglaublich.”
Unbelievable.
“It really is the
Mona Lisa
.”

The German covered the painting and reset the framed portrait inside the transportation crate. He secured the crate and replaced the screws. He moved quickly, the effort causing sweat to bead up on his forehead.

Wiping his brow, the German set the screwdriver down on the kitchen table while his partner kept a gun trained on the hostages.

“If you attempt to follow us or if we feel a police dragnet has been set, we will kill the girl.”

Gabi spoke first, her voice flaring with indignation. “You’re taking Kristina hostage?”

“You heard me. When the
Mona Lisa
is safely delivered, she will be released.”

Pandemonium swept the kitchen as Gabi and Eric shared the news with the others. A gunshot split the air as the heavier German fired his pistol into the ceiling. Plaster dust filtered down amid the silenced voices. The Countess’s soft weeping was the only sound.

With a slight nod to his partner, the second German roughly pinned Kristina’s hands behind her back and bound her wrists together with thin white rope and replaced the blindfold. The girl, hysterical with fear and unable to see, resisted until the restraints were set. She whimpered while the German gagged her with a strip of cloth.

“Remember what I said. Otherwise, the girl dies.”

With that parting directive, the heavier German hoisted the wooden crate into his arms. His partner held on tightly to the frightened young girl, and together the three disappeared through the kitchen door. The silence was deafening.

A panic-stricken Countess Ariane strained against the ropes that held her back. With unbridled fury, she twisted against the restraints that tore into her wrists and ankles. The force of her efforts caused the chair to tip over.

As she lay writhing against her bonds, Eric saw the ferocity in her eyes that could only come from a mother trying to protect her child.

 23

The scramble to free themselves started the moment the Germans left the chateau.

Gabi tugged against the restraints, her fingers fighting to untie the ropes around her ankles. She knew every second counted if they were to catch the kidnappers.

“Eric, swing your legs around. Maybe I can reach your knife.”

He did as she asked and with her teeth she pulled up his pants leg. Then she turned and freed the blade from its sheath with her bound hands. She turned the knife upside down, holding the handle, then pressed with the weight of her body and pinned the tip into the floor. Eric spun around and positioned his roped wrists against its razor-sharp edge. Then he slowly worked the restraints against the blade.

As Eric cut through his ropes, Bernard brought himself to his feet and hopped to the kitchen counter. “Which drawer for the knives?”

The Countess, who was desperately trying to work herself free, directed him. “A little farther . . . yes, that one.”

With his back to the counter, Bernard used his bound hands to pull out a drawer. He fumbled for a blade until his hands grasped the handle of a carving knife. He dropped to his knees, leaned back, and commenced to cut through the rope binding his ankles.

Eric’s hands were freed first. He quickly cut the ropes from Gabi’s hands. She then untied her feet and began helping Colette. Eric was already untying the Countess. Three minutes later, everyone was free and dashed out of the kitchen.

The Countess raced through the dining room and out the front door, calling out Kristina’s name. The rest of them followed. Her cries were emotionally wrenching.

The Countess didn’t stop running until she reached the front gate, which lay open, just as Bernard and Eric had left it.

“We saw their car over there—along the wall,” Eric said. The BMW sedan was gone, and the night was eerily still.

The Countess reached into her pocket for a handkerchief while Gabi squeezed her shoulders. “I don’t think they’ll harm Kristina. She’s worth far more as a hostage. At least we know the direction they’re heading . . . and their destination. Once they’re in Switzerland, Kristina’s situation improves because we have more resources that can be put into play.”

“But we
have
to chase them—now.” Bernard rested his hands on his hips. Anger flashed across his face. The edge in his voice bordered on desperation.

Gabi understood. Not only had the
Mona Lisa
slipped from their grasp, a young girl’s life was on the line. “Shouldn’t we call the authorities first—before they get to the border?” she asked.

“I agree,” Eric said. “We need to call the local police, and I can contact our colleagues in Bern. Perhaps they can get word to the border checkpoints. The Germans can be caught, but it has to be done in a way that won’t harm Kristina. I’ll call right now and tell them the situation.”

The Countess looked relieved that action was being taken. “Let me take you to the telephone in my husband’s study.” She dabbed the handkerchief on her eyes as she hurried forward.

As they walked back, Gabi momentarily glanced at Colette, who appeared to be thinking about a different young woman, albeit four centuries older. Her faraway eyes and poker face conveyed the idea that as much as she did not want to elevate a Renaissance portrait to the life of an innocent young girl, she was having a hard time separating the two.

They were approaching the chateau’s front entrance when Gabi noticed their Red Cross automobile leaning at an awkward angle.

“Uh-oh. I think they punctured our tires.” Gabi rounded the sedan to examine the right side of their vehicle. She’d guessed correctly.

“Use my car.” The Countess pointed toward the garage. “You have to save my little girl.”

“We will, Countess, as soon as we make those phone calls.”

“The line is dead!”

Eric cupped the handset to his ear again, but all he heard was a slight hum.

“What happened?” Countess Ariane’s face melted into grief.

“They must have cut the telephone wires,” Eric replied.

“How far is your nearest neighbor?” Gabi asked.

The Countess composed herself. “A–a few hundred meters, maybe half a kilometer. Take our Rolls Royce. It’s gassed up and ready to go.”

Eric quickly headed toward the door. “I’ll get the car. Keys?”

“In the ignition,” the Countess replied.

Eric moved toward the front entrance. Bernard and Gabi followed.

“Eric!” Colette’s voice caused him to pause.

He glanced back.

“I’m staying with the Countess. She can’t be alone at a time like this.” Colette took the woman’s left hand into her own. “I know—I know you three will do all you can to find—” Her voice faltered.

Eric nodded, and his respect for the woman grew. Staying behind with the Countess spoke volumes. Eric glanced at Bernard and noticed the shocked expression on his face. A new thought emerged.
Maybe they could accomplish more if they split up
.

“Gabi, you go with Bernard to call the local authorities. I’ll use the transmitter to reach our contact in Switzerland. We’ll leave as soon as you get back.”

The Countess scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper. “Can you also call my husband? Tell him about the dire situation and that he needs to come back home immediately.”

“Of course,” Gabi replied. She and Bernard hustled toward the garage while Eric approached the Red Cross sedan, now sitting lopsided. He popped the trunk, pulled out the transmitter, and ran back up the front steps.

Back in the study, Eric plugged in the transmitter while the Countess and Colette looked on.

“Should warm up in a minute. I’m hoping we can get a message relayed to the checkpoints heading into Switzerland.”

Eric heard the heavy Rolls crunch gravel as the car headed out the driveway. He glanced out the study’s window in time to see a pair of taillights disappear. He then turned back to the portable Mark II Morse code transmitter and checked the frequency, which was already dialed in to the receiver in Dulles’s apartment. Thinking through what he wanted to communicate to the American director, his fingers tapped in frenzy for five minutes.

When the transmitter sat in silence, Eric turned to the Countess. “All we can do is pray that the message gets forwarded to the Swiss border guards before the Germans reach Geneva.”

Eric busied himself with packing up the transmitter. Then he heard the engine of the Rolls Royce entering the grounds of the Chateau de Dampierre and slow to a stop. The distinctive round headlamps illuminated the driveway, and Gabi jumped out, running toward the front entrance with everything in her.

The BMW 320 with Zurich license plates encountered little to no traffic in its race for the Swiss border.

Hans Schaffner made eye contact with his partner sitting in the passenger’s seat.

“She doing okay?”

“I haven’t heard her make a peep.”

Schaffner thumped the steering wheel. “I’m talking about the
Mona Lisa
, not the twerp in the trunk.”

“The painting is doing fine.” Kaufman reached into the backseat and rapped the wooden box with his knuckles. “But we’re still going to need the girl.”

Sometimes Kaufman made sense, and in his dim-witted way, he was right. The Countess’s daughter was a nice pawn to have on the chessboard.

He figured they had a fifteen-to-twenty-minute head start on the others—even if those fancy cars in the garage had gas.

They were just minutes from the border, so it was unlikely that the ineffectual French police—or whoever was officially in charge of this part of France—could stop them now.

As for the two Swiss he found at the chateau, that was unexpected. How did they get involved? Or why? Schaffner had a feeling that the drive through Switzerland was about to get more complicated. He had a contingency plan for that as well. Of one thing he was certain: Kaufman had cut the phone lines, so that would buy some time.

Figuring out how they’d reenter Switzerland had been the tricky part. There was no way they could hide a wooden crate—and now a bound-and-gagged school-age girl—from the border guards. To keep their border secure during this war, the Swiss also relied on regular patrols along their common border.

Coming
into
France on their way to the chateau, they had exited Swiss territory via a country road in Thônex, a placid village outside of Geneva that backed up to the French town of Annemasse. The border gate was unmanned—by both countries—when they’d passed by after dinnertime.

A half hour after their rapid departure from the chateau, Schaffner exited the principal route between Annecy and Geneva onto a secondary road. He was happy to get off the main drag. A car with Swiss tags—even in the dark of night—might as well have been lit up like a cinema marquee on a Saturday night.

Ten minutes later, he pulled off to the side of the road at a rural intersection. Schaffner reached into the glove compartment for binoculars.

He lifted the high-powered Zeiss lenses to his eyes, and what he saw didn’t surprise him. The French border crossing was dark—the frogs still didn’t have their act together—but two well-lit Swiss guards with shouldered rifles stood next to each other, rocking back and forth in their boots.

A black sedan rolled to the checkpoint. The Swiss border guards sniffed around, and then ordered the driver to open the trunk. His papers were closely inspected before he was allowed to proceed.

“There’s our answer.” Schaffner set the binoculars in his lap.

“Someone got the word out?” Kaufman asked.

“That would be my guess. Probably used a neighbor’s phone to call the authorities. They would know we were coming.”

Gabi pulled Eric to the side just within the front door.

“The family down the road let me use their phone. No one answered at the police station. They must be closed for the night. So I called home and got through to my father. He said he knows Heller’s henchmen.”

“Really?” Eric waited to hear the rest.

“Apparently, Hans Schaffner and Rolf Kaufman have been living in Switzerland since 1940 at Heller’s beck and call. He believes they’ve stashed a lot of cash and valuables, including paintings, inside Swiss bank vaults.”