Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

  What happened next froze Eric’s hands to the steering wheel. The injured fighter banked hard right and lined up in their direction.

  “He’s coming our way!” Bernard shouted. “He’s going to land on our road!”

  The women in the back were silent, hunching forward to catch a glimpse of the plummeting aircraft. Eric willed himself to think through his options.

  “He’s going to hit us!” Colette cried out.

  She was right. The P-51 pilot had lined up his crippled plane for a landing on the road, and he was coming right at them. Eric quickly looked left, then right, but driving off the dirt road wasn’t an option because of deep drainage ditches.

  The P-51 was closing in faster than he expected. In a split second, Eric made his decision and stood on the brakes, grinding the tires to a halt.

  “I’m getting out of here!” Bernard grabbed at his door, but Eric yanked his shirt.

  “Hang on!” He threw the car into reverse and floored the accelerator. The Mercedes responded with a jerk to the sudden increase in speed.

  “Are you crazy?” Bernard shouted. “Let me out—”

  Eric ignored him as he turned to view the road through the rear window. The transmission wound up to a high pitch as Eric held his line and focused on the road. No need to look back toward the oncoming plane. This was his only option.

  The speedometer passed forty, then fifty kilometers an hour. He could see from the expression on Gabi and Colette’s faces that the plane was gaining on them.

  The crippled fighter would be forced to land any second. A loss in momentum would introduce the hood of the Mercedes and the four occupants to the churning four-bladed propeller of the P-51 Mustang.

  “Gabi, what’s happening? I can’t turn around.”

  “Go faster! He’s about to land!”

  Gabi’s eyes were locked on the P-51, wheels down, fluttering like a butterfly in a breeze. With full flaps gathering as many air molecules under the wings as possible, the pilot was pulling up the plane’s yellow nose, trying to keep the Mustang in the air and give their car more time to clear his active runway. Hovering ten meters off the deck and four hundred meters away, the plane’s distinctive engine and wing-mounted .50 caliber machine guns were closing in fast.

  She saw Eric press down even harder on the accelerator, but it was already floored. The transmission screamed for mercy as the speedometer remained pegged at 60 kilometers per hour.

  The plane was just one hundred meters from their retreating chrome grill when the heavy fighter dropped awkwardly onto the road and bounced from one wheel to another, sending up plumes of dust as rubber met the road. She saw Eric’s grimace as the roar of the P-51’s engine overpowered the shrill scream from the German transmission.

  Gabi dug her fingernails into the leather seat. “You can do this. He has to slow down soon.”

  She counted out the distance to help Eric as he gritted his teeth and concentrated on keeping the speeding Mercedes on the road. “One hundred meters . . . fifty meters . . . twenty-five meters . . . he’s slowing down . . . ten meters. . . .”

  The plane was centered on the distinctive Mercedes star. “God, please save us,” she whispered.

  With just a few meters separating them and the plane still gaining, an earsplitting explosion erupted. Gabi and Colette shrieked in unison as all six midwing Browning machine guns came to life with white-hot muzzle flash. The lead fusillade and tracers blistered the air.

  Is he trying to kill us? Doesn’t he know we’re on his side?

  Gabi ducked in fright, fearing they would all be killed by American fire. She glanced behind her, following the stream of bullets. Several hundred meters down the road, the heavy caliber bullets tore into the orchard, splintering heavy limbs into toothpicks and vaporizing fruit. The explosive recoil from the six cannons instantly slowed the plane with a jolt, and their car pulled away.

  “The plane’s stopping!” Gabi yelled.

  Eric eased up on the accelerator as the drone of the Mustang diminished, then coughed and backfired into submission.

  Eric eased down on the brake, subduing the high-pitched whine as the gears gratefully wound down. Coming to a complete stop, the four of them fell back into their seats. The miasma of dust, exhaust, and spent gunpowder—mixed with shock—left them all speechless.

  “What happened?” Gabi asked, breaking the silence.

  Eric shook his head. “The kickback from the machine guns must have slowed the plane. I doubt they teach that in flight school.”

  Dust settled around the now-silent Mustang and idling Red Cross sedan. The two vehicles eerily sat facing one another, like two gladiators in a ring, agreeing not to fight. Then the canopy of the smoking Mustang slid open. Gabi watched the aviator step onto the wing and jump to the ground, flight cap and goggles still in place. He made his way toward their car.

  With two arms, he motioned for Eric to back up farther. Smoke around the stricken plane was starting to thicken. Eric obeyed without hesitation, retreating another twenty meters. He looked up to see the pilot running in their direction. A small surge of flames flashed upward from the belly of the aircraft.

  Then the road and plane disappeared into a ballooning orange fireball. The explosion and shock wave rocked the car, filling it with a searing heat wave. The blast blew the advancing pilot off his feet, skidding forward with outstretched arms.

  “He’s on fire!” Eric jumped from the car and raced to his side, quickly extinguishing the flames from the pilot’s pants leg with hands full of roadside dirt. Bernard was in hot pursuit. Eric leaned over the fallen pilot, protecting him from the shrapnel of hot metal.

  With a groan from the stricken pilot, Eric and Bernard helped him to his feet. They moved him behind the open car door, shielding them from the heat.

  “That was close.” The pilot caught his breath, then extended his hand. “I’m Lieutenant T. J. Rawlings. But you probably don’t understand a word I’m saying.”

  “Actually, I do.” Gabi stepped out of the car. “You’ve got a burn there.”

  “Just a scratch, ma’am,” Rawlings replied with a shy grin as he looked toward the torrid blaze. “Coulda been worse.”

  “Let me take a look at that leg.” It wasn’t a request. Gabi led him to the backseat, where he removed his leather aviator cap and goggles and allowed himself a grimace from the pain. Colette offered him a sip of water from a canteen.

  After Eric handed her a first aid kit from the trunk, Gabi cut a vent up the side of his flight suit, exposing a calf that had already formed a cluster of blisters. She applied an ointment and wrapped his lower leg with a sterile gauze. “You’re in pretty good shape, but we need to get you to a doctor. Burns can get easily infected. If all goes well, you’ll be flying again in no time.”

  “That’s good news, ma’am, cuz we’re swatting those Nazis out of the air like flies with these new Mustangs. They’re one heckuva fighter!”

  “Great to hear. Now if you don’t mind, T.J., we’re going to get you to the closest doctor.”

  “You’re the boss.” The pilot then looked to either side at his seatmates. “I’m feeling better already.”

  Eric swiftly maneuvered the car around the twisted metal skeleton engulfed in flames. Even through closed windows, intense heat radiated into the car. The explosion had pushed the plane’s main fuselage off the road—giving them just enough room to pass by.

  The American pilot had a somber expression as he watched the conflagration consume his plane. “So long, Sally. You were one sweet ride,” T.J. whispered.

  After a moment, he turned back and patted Eric on the shoulder. “That was a slick bit of driving back there. You some kind of race car driver?”

  Eric and Gabi laughed as Bernard and Colette looked on with a quizzical expression, waiting for the translation.

  “There’s been talk of a new career after the war,” Gabi replied.

  “Well, if there’s a race that’s run backwards, I’d put my mone
y on you,” T.J. deadpanned, then broke into a wide smile.

  Ten minutes later, they rolled into Cravant and located the town doctor. The group accompanied T.J. into the office, and Gabi described the pilot’s wounds to the doctor. She felt compelled to stay and translate, but by the time T.J. got settled to wait his turn, she could see that everyone was anxious to get back on the road.

  “We’re losing too much time. We have to get to Annecy as soon as we can,” Colette fumed. “Surely you understand . . .”

  Gabi forced herself to hold back her words. “You’re right. I just want to be sure the doctor doesn’t have any more questions for Lieutenant Rawlings.”

  “Ma’am, is something wrong?” T.J. pushed up from his chair and limped over to Gabi’s side. “I heard my name mentioned, but I didn’t understand what else was said.”

  “It’s just that we’re supposed to be somewhere today . . .”

  “Then go. I’ll manage just fine. Believe me, I’d be in a world of hurt if Sally and I hadn’t limped back into French airspace.”

  The weight of caring for him slipped off Gabi’s shoulders. “Are you sure?”

  The pilot nodded. “Go.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  Once back in the Red Cross car, the urgency of the mission returned. They needed to keep moving.

  After departing the village of Cravant, Gabi nudged Colette. “If the plane had hit us . . .”

  “Yeah, we would have lost our chance.” Colette didn’t say any more.

  Gabi knew they were the only ones standing between a Nazi megalomaniac and a country’s national treasure. Somewhere out there, another team was trying to reach La Joconde. Colette had been right—the American pilot could handle things for himself.

  Gabi’s fingers tightened around the door handle. She hoped she hadn’t cost them their chance at saving the painting.

  21

  Colette shuffled through the La Joconde file twice before finding the correct piece of paper.

  “We won’t be going all the way into Annecy,” she said. “We need to be looking for Saint-Martin-Bellevue. Once there, Chateau de Dampierre is four kilometers off the Route d’Annecy, according to these instructions.”

  “Got it,” Eric said from the front seat.

  Colette took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She leaned forward to flip through her notes, feeling the back of her dress—wet with perspiration—pull away from the leather seat. It had been a long, sticky day. Even though the trip had been harrowing, nothing compared to the tension building in her gut like a coiled spring, ready to explode.

  Anticipating their arrival, she had no idea what they would find—but someone would be at the chateau, whether it was Countess Valois or the majordomo. When the family took custody of the Mona Lisa, one of the stipulations was that there would always be a “person of authority” on the estate grounds.

  “I’m supposed to keep my eye out for a big castle with serfs working in the fields, right?” Bernard’s sly smile belied his resentment of the class difference between the landed gentry and the proletariat.

  “As castles go, I don’t believe the Chateau de Dampierre is anything ostentatious,” Colette said, ignoring the bite in his words. Chateaux in this part of France were large-scale manor houses or country homes of nobility—not the spectacular royal palaces pictured in history books. Colette wasn’t sure what to expect since there wasn’t a photo in her file.

  While Eric followed the twisting road past alfalfa fields lined with hedgerows, Colette noted several properties on a grand scale. She was looking at the right side of the road when a Renaissance-era castle of exquisite proportions arose into view above a massive stone wall. Two stories tall, the stately citadel was constructed of beige stone with a blue slate mansard roof accented with dormer windows. Round towers with conical tips finished all corners and bracketed the wide terraces adorned with vine-entwined balustrades.

  “Nice place.” The irony in Bernard’s voice was clear.

  Eric turned right into a private drive covered with fine crushed granite. A sizable wrought-iron gate flanked by stone pillars protected the Chateau de Dampierre.

  “A buzzer should be on the left side,” Colette said.

  “Found it.” Eric left the car idling in neutral and approached the stone pillar on his left.

  Seconds after pressing the button, the sounds of barking dogs erupted from a wooded barn on the property. A workman wiping his hands on a towel soon appeared, walking their way.

  “I’ll take care of this.” Colette stepped out of the car with her file in hand. She showed him several papers, and the hired hand nodded. The gate opened, leading them to a long circular driveway, frontage to the regal entrance. Intricately designed wooden doors with iron rivets were recessed just beyond a stone alcove.

  “Amazing,” Eric commented. “Only thing missing is the moat and drawbridge.” He followed the salmon-colored driveway past a sparkling stone fountain and came to a stop in front of the stately entrance, cutting the engine.

  Colette shivered as she scanned the windows for movement. Just then, an oversized door opened. Out stepped Countess Ariane Valois, holding the hand of a young girl who looked to be about ten years old. The Countess was dressed in a soft, feminine white blouse and a gathered A-line ankle-length mauve skirt, a look that balanced sophistication and simplicity.

  Colette hurried from the car and mounted three steps. “Bonjour, Countess Valois. I’m Colette Perriard from the Louvre.”

  “Quelle surprise!” The Countess threw open her arms in greeting.

  Colette accepted the hug with a lift of her eyebrow. She’d expected a more constrained demeanor from nobility, especially with commoners.

  “I certainly know you from our correspondence. Welcome to the Chateau de Dampierre!”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “When I heard we had visitors, I wasn’t sure who would be arriving in a Red Cross car.”

  Colette looked back toward the dirty vehicle, where Gabi, Eric, and Bernard were standing. She motioned for them to join her on the landing.

  “The car belongs to two friends, Gabi Mueller and Eric Hofstadler, and this is my . . . colleague from the Louvre, Bernard Rousseau.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” the Countess said. “And this is my daughter, Kristina.”

  After the four of them shook Kristina’s hand, the Countess looked toward her daughter. “Do you know why we have visitors today?”

  The young girl shook her head.

  “Because they’ve come to take your friend with them back to Paris.”

  “But Mommy, I don’t want her to go.” Sadness suddenly filled her eyes.

  The Countess patted her daughter’s cheek. “Remember? We’ve been praying that this day would come. It means France is again a free country.”

  Kristina put her arm around her mother’s waist and buried her farouche expression. Smiling, the Countess turned back to her guests. “So tell us, what’s happening in Paris? We’ve heard the great news about Libération.”

  Bernard beamed. “The boches—I mean, the Germans—have run like sewer rats back into their holes. Paris is overwhelmed with joy. We can again live in freedom.”

  “I can only imagine the celebration along the Champs Élysées.” The Countess smiled and ran a hand down her daughter’s silky dark hair. “I listened to Radio France on Saturday, and the description of General de Gaulle laying the wreath on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier moved me.”

  Colette noticed Bernard’s complexion redden. She knew he detested the general, and hoped he’d soon come to his senses. To her, French politics was a waste of time. They had control of their country back. What more could they desire? Effort should be put into bringing health and pride back to their country—not in fighting within their borders.

  “We were there,” Bernard said in a matter-of-fact manner. “The general was reserved, which he should have been for such a solemn moment.”

  “Bernard is b
eing modest,” Eric interjected. “Sure, we were all there, but he was part of the official ceremony at the Arc de Triomphe. Our friend walked with the Resistance leadership down the Champs Élysées, all the way to the Notre Dame.”

  “You were with the Resistance?” the Countess asked. “Then we have a real hero in our midst.”

  A smile returned to Bernard’s face. “I answered the call to duty, Countess. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “I’m sure you’re being far too modest. Please, come in.”

  They stepped into the chateau’s entrance foyer, and it took several seconds for Colette’s eyes to adjust to the darker surroundings. The foyer was magnificent: quarter-sawn oak floors in a herringbone pattern, a sweeping staircase leading to the living quarters on the second floor, a formal receiving room with a wood-paneled library, and four sets of French doors showing the way to an expansive terrace at the rear of the chateau.

  The Countess led them toward the formal living room. “It’s a shame that my husband isn’t here. He’s in Sainte Foy-la-Grande tending to business.”

  The Countess stopped. “Have you had dinner? I prepared a beef bourguignon this afternoon. We have plenty.”

  Colette looked to the others. “We’ve been in a rush to get here, so we haven’t eaten. Did Monsieur Rambouillet reach you today?”

  “No, phone service has been sporadic. Is something wrong?”

  “Actually, there is.” For the next couple of minutes, Colette outlined the threat against the Mona Lisa.

  “Thank you for telling me the situation,” the Countess said. “Then we will have to hurry. I’ll get dinner ready. I only need a few minutes.”

  “We would be most grateful.” Colette felt that she couldn’t say no to the Countess’s offer of hospitality, but they couldn’t linger.

  Kristina suddenly pulled on her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, can I show them?”

  “Show them what?” she teased.