Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

  “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.

  An hour later, they still hadn’t emerged from the Zeughauskeller. Growing impatient, Ernst decided to go inside to investigate. The after-church crowd had thinned a little, but he was unable to spot his marks as he surveyed the room. Stopping one of the waiters, he offered a brief description and asked if he’d seen them.

  “They left five minutes ago,” the waiter replied, “but they headed toward the back, to the men’s room.”

  After checking the restroom and finding it vacant, Ernst rushed outside.

  They were gone.

  Eric and Gabi arrived a half hour before their dinnertime rendezvous and found a table for two at the sidewalk café. The sun cast long shadows across Boulevard Saint-Germain, where more couples strolled in the shade on an undemanding late afternoon. A general feeling of relief was the mood du jour.

  Eric flagged down a passing waiter. “Two cappuccinos, please.”

  Gabi settled into her rattan chair, surveying the early evening patrons. She knew as an agent that she should never let down her guard, but as she looked around—and gazed across the table to Eric—she felt herself relax. “This is something I wanted to do before we left Paris—sit at an outdoor café and watch the world pass by.”

  “It’s hard to believe how much has happened since we left Switzerland.” Eric paused. “Actually, it’s been quite a month.”

  Gabi nodded in silent agreement. Her thoughts raced back to the events, just a few weeks ago, that preceded their drive to Paris. “I wonder how Captain Palmer is doing? That American was quite a pilot. If it hadn’t been for his flying prowess, I wouldn’t be here. I’m guessing he’s in a Swiss theater watching his favorite Bogart movie.”

  “He sure loved spouting lines from Casablanca.” Eric chuckled.

  “I think he had memorized the entire movie after seeing it so many times in Davos with the other interned Allied pilots. But I know what you’re going to say.”

  Eric switched from Swiss-German to English. “Darling, we’ll always have Paris,” he said in a nasal-like imitation of Humphrey Bogart.

  Gabi made a show of setting her napkin on the table. “If Bogey had been a redheaded Swiss dairyman, that still would have been an awful impersonation!”

  Her smile slowly disappeared as she focused on something across the street. Eric swiveled in his seat to see what had attracted her attention.

  “Take a look at that guy—the one with the scruffy beard, leaning against the building. He looks agitated, and his eyes keep darting back and forth like he’s searching for someone.”

  “The one in the tan shirt?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seems intent on something,” Eric said.

  “He’s been there ever since we sat down.”

  “Anything else look amiss?”

  Gabi’s eyes scoured the wide sidewalks fronting Boulevard Saint-Germain as well as the entrance to the Brasserie Lipp, which was directly across the broad avenue. “No, I don’t see anything else—ooh, wait a minute. There’s Bernard and Colette.”

  Gabi caught Colette’s attention and waved them over. They pulled a couple of chairs over from a nearby table and greeted their friends.

  After they’d taken their seats, Gabi glanced back across the street. The man was still there and staring right at them. “Do you know that man?” Gabi asked.

  Bernard and Colette looked in the direction of Gabi’s line of sight.

  As soon as the stranger noticed they were looking in his direction, he turned and walked around the corner.

  “I saw him last night. He bumped into me at the Brasserie.”

  Bernard shared the story of their awkward moment. “I didn’t recognize him, as I do most of the patrons of the Lipp. He probably mistook me for someone else, or he was admiring my good looks.”

  “More likely, our beautiful companions.” Eric raised his cup toward Gabi, then Colette. “Would you like to join us for a cappuccino?”

  “Sounds good,” Colette replied. Gabi noticed Colette’s strained look. She definitely wasn’t the same playful girl who had been teasing Madame Beaumont as she made the bed this morning.

  Eric must have noticed too. He held up two fingers to signal the waiter, then turned to Colette. “How did it go today at the Louvre?”

  “I must have tried twenty times to reach the Chateau. Apparently, the phone lines between Paris and Annecy are down. It’s anyone’s guess how long it will take to get them repaired. I want to go into the office tomorrow morning and try one last time.”

  “No problem. Once we get our fuel, Bernard and I will pick you up at the Louvre.”

  “I also need to see Monsieur Rambouillet before we go. He oversaw the delivery of the Mona Lisa to the Chateau de Dampierre last spring, so he can confirm the directions.”

  “Speaking of confirming things, I made reservations at a small bistro near my aunt’s home,” Bernard said. “It’s called the Café de Flore. The Poulet à la Montrache is their calling card. You’ll love it.”

  Eric turned to Gabi. “Sounds like a great meal to celebrate our night out in Paris.”

  As Bernard promised, Colette found Café de Flore’s house specialty—pan-fried chicken immersed in a mushroom and cream sauce—to be delicious.

  She offered the last of her roasted potatoes to Bernard, who cut them in half and used each piece to mop up what little sauce remained on his plate. Colette assessed his clean dish and wished there was more. French cuisine was uniformly excellent, but the portions were trop petit.

  The four shared a pear tart with a small dollop of whipped cream for dessert, but Colette had only a bite. An infectious yawn circled the table, and she was eager to call it a day. She couldn’t sit this close to Bernard without feeling tension radiate off him like heat from a wood-burning stove.

  Colette stood quietly by Bernard’s side as Eric paid the check. Just as they reached the door, Gabi announced that she wanted to buy some things to eat on the trip.

  “Maybe the chef will part with a few provisions—or an extra tart,” she said with a smile.

  Eric patted Bernard’s shoulder. “Feel free to go on ahead. We’ll catch up.”

  Colette followed Bernard as they made their way onto the sidewalk, welcomed by the cool evening air.

  Bernard’s aunt and uncle lived only a few blocks away off the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Turning in that direction, Bernard folded her arm into his, and they headed down the dimly lit street, enjoying the chance to let their dinner settle.

  Colette had been worried Bernard would hound her, wanting to know information about Heller, so she was pleasantly surprised he said nothing, asked nothing. How could she explain what she had done?

  As they passed a small alley next to the restaurant, Colette noticed the smell of cigarette smoke drifting from the darkness. Crossing the alley’s entrance, she detected the sound of someone coming from behind.

  Turning first, she saw the flash of polished steel as a man emerged from the alley, running toward Bernard. Her voice caught in her throat and she forced it out.

  “Bernard, look out!” she cried.

  The blade rose just as Bernard turned. Instinctively, she pushed Bernard to the side as the sharp blade came slashing down. The razor-sharp edge caught on the sleeve of her jacket. She cried out as she felt herself losing her balance. Her feet stumbled, and she crashed to the sidewalk. Her shoulder hit first, then her cheek. Pain radiated down her arm.

  Colette recoiled, expecting a second blow. As the attacker lunged again at Bernard, she recognized him as the person lurking
outside the Brasserie Lipp.

  “Stop!” Colette cried out.

  Bernard jumped away from the man’s reach just as the blade slashed down. She watched helplessly as they warily circled each other. The bearded man again lifted the wide serrated knife, ready to strike.

  “Who are you?” Bernard shouted.

  “You don’t know me, but you should remember killing my brother!”

  Had Bernard done such a thing? Colette covered her mouth with her hand and wondered if she should run for help. Instead, fear planted her to the ground.

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else!”

  The assailant slashed the blade across Bernard’s chest, slicing his khaki shirt as he leaned away.

  Colette scurried to her feet. The agitated man looked like he only wanted one thing—to avenge his brother’s death. He again whipped the air with his knife and advanced on the Frenchman.

  “The Pantin rail yard. Two years ago. You stopped that train.”

  Bernard backed up. “Yes, and saved dozens of French lives!”

  “But not my brother’s!”

  The crazed man lunged, making another attempt to thrust the blade toward his chest. Bernard sidestepped the advance and caught the wrist of his attacker. The momentum of the assailant’s driving force knocked Bernard back, causing both to plummet to the concrete sidewalk. Colette stepped back and then stood by helplessly, wondering if she should try to jump in and separate them as they rolled, arms flailing.

  “Colette! Bernard!” It was Eric’s voice down the street as he sprinted toward them.

  “Hurry!” The exclamation came out in a desperate gasp as she watched each man trying to gain the upper hand. Then, with a thud, the two tumbled off the curb and into the street.

  Neither moved.

  Eric neared, rushing to grab the back of the assailant’s shirt. With amazing strength, Eric yanked him off Bernard.

  Colette’s knees grew weak, and tears filled her eyes as she saw a large red stain already forming on the front of Bernard’s shirt.