by Tricia Goyer
“What about the Count? Were you able to reach him?”
“Yes. He’s rushing home and will return late tonight.”
Bernard left Gabi and Eric at the entryway and hurried into the kitchen. He arrived to find Colette sitting with the Countess, who still worked a handkerchief in her hands.
When Colette looked up, he could see that she had been crying as well. “I have some good news.” An ache clawed within, and he looked away from Colette and turned to the aristocratic woman instead. “Countess, Gabi was able to talk to your husband—”
Without a word, Colette rose and dashed through the kitchen door and out to the backyard garden.
Bernard watched her leave. Part of him told him to follow, but he needed to speak to the Countess first. He could only handle one distraught woman at a time.
“Your husband,” he continued, “is heading back home now. We also now know the identity of the kidnappers, and their destination. If they make it past the border, we will get them in Zurich. There are already men waiting.”
“Thank you.” The Countess nodded. “I know you are doing all you can.”
Bernard excused himself, then headed out the back door after Colette. The moonlight gave the back gardens a soft glow. He spotted her standing by a maze of hedges and rosebushes.
“Colette!”
She turned and faced him under the moonlight. Bernard couldn’t wait any longer. He couldn’t pretend that everything was all right. He hated to think that Colette had any part of this, yet deep down he wondered why she wasn’t willing to chase the Germans and preferred to stay with the Countess. Was it because she was feeling guilty for allowing this to happen?
“We’re in a real jam right now,” he began.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Tears had given way to anger, meekness had transformed to defiance.
“Why are you mad at me?” Bernard questioned. “This whole mess is all your fault.”
Colette gasped. “What are you talking about?”
“An innocent girl has been kidnapped. The Mona Lisa is missing. All because you informed Heller where the painting was.”
A look of shock registered on Colette’s face. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. “What—what are you saying?”
“Don’t act so innocent with me. I know the truth. Last week, we found a safe from the German stronghold at the Luxembourg Gardens. Inside were files, including a list of those who were cooperating with the boches. Your name was on the list!”
Colette’s face flushed. “So that’s why you’ve been acting different.”
“What was I supposed to think?”
“You obviously decided I was a collaborator—or maybe worse.”
Bernard shrugged. “Call it what you like, but it doesn’t change the fact that you helped the Nazis. I didn’t want to believe that you were an informant, but when I saw your name—”
“Did you ever consider I was blackmailed?” She stepped closer to him.
“Blackmailed?”
“Heller told me that if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he would have the Gestapo arrest and torture you.”
“Arrest and torture me?”
“Yes, he explained how he’d do it, in graphic detail. He told me how you stopped the train at Pantin. He was the boche who aimed a gun at your head. Then he let you go, even though he knew you were part of the Resistance.”
Bernard fumbled for words. He had misjudged his girl.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I never believed for a moment that you would collaborate with the boches. But I saw too many of my comrades betray others. I had friends who were tortured, lined up against an alley wall—”
“Listen to yourself, Bernard. You just contradicted yourself. One second you accuse me, the next you deny doubting me. You wouldn’t know the truth if it hit you in the face like a sledgehammer. I thought you were smarter than this. But you deceived me and lied to me as well, including your stupid little game with this locket.”
She reached for the golden ornamental case and yanked it off her neck. “Here, it’s yours. We both know it never belonged to your grandmother.”
She threw the jewelry at his feet, and with that, she hurried back to the chateau.
Gabi and Eric paced the study lined with dark mahogany bookshelves. High-back chairs and couches decorated the oversized room that smelled of leather and cigars.
“We have to get going,” she said. “There’s no need for Bernard to go with us to Zurich anyway—”
“Let’s get in the car,” Eric moved to the door. “If Bernard doesn’t show up in one minute, we’ll leave without him.”
They headed to the awaiting Rolls Royce Wraith, black with silver trim. Eric turned the ignition key. The giant engine sprang to life. He shifted the vehicle into gear just as a flustered-looking Bernard emerged from the entry and bounded down the steps, followed by the Countess. But no Colette.
Gabi stepped out of the car. “What took you so long?” she asked.
Bernard ran his hands through his black hair. “Colette is upset with me, and that’s an understatement. I had no idea she cooperated with the boches to save my skin. How can I convince her of that?”
“That’s your problem.” Gabi barely glanced at the Frenchman. “Eric and I are leaving now. We’ll drive back to Switzerland and join in the race for Zurich. It’s our turf, and we’ll move quicker with just the two of us.”
“You’re going without me?” Bernard threw up his hands in disgust.
“Gabi’s right,” Eric interjected. “There’s nothing you can do in Zurich. Besides, you don’t speak German. You should stay here, at least until the Count arrives home.”
“C’est impossible. Someone representing France needs to be there when La Joconde is freed from their clutches. Otherwise, there will be an international incident, especially if something happens to her. No, this I cannot accept. I will accompany you. The matter is closed.”
Gabi looked at Bernard, and her eyes followed him as he got into the backseat. “As you wish.”
Eric got out with Gabi to meet the Countess hurrying down the entrance steps to say goodbye.
“Countess . . . I want you to know that we’ll do everything we can to bring your daughter back home safely.” Gabi leaned forward and bussed her on both cheeks.
Eric repeated the same farewell. “As soon as we hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thank you. And I have something for you.” The Countess handed Eric a cigar box.
“My husband’s revolver. Take it with you, just in case.”
“Thank you, Countess. If I have to use it to save your daughter, I will.”
Schaffner fired up the engine, and the BMW lurched into gear. Instead of driving toward the Swiss customs point, he steered the car onto a desolate road running parallel to Switzerland’s border.
The German driver looked up into his rearview mirror. Kaufman, wisely, had been watching to see if they were being followed. They weren’t. Only faintly lit farmland and fruit orchards beyond the thin dust cloud settling back on the hardpan.
They drove for ten minutes until they saw a sign announcing a left turn toward La Louvière in Switzerland. Yet another pipsqueak border crossing, but they couldn’t risk driving through. He continued past the turnoff.
The dirt road veered closer to the border as the two-lane route continued to run parallel to the frontière between France and Switzerland. He was looking for the right spot . . . and there, in the dim light, he could make out the outline of a barn—the same one he’d spotted two hours ago. The cowshed rested just on the other side of the Swiss border. Only a fence of barbed wire blocked them from crossing.
Schaffner downshifted and parked the BMW beside a towering oak. “Let’s make this quick.”
“I need you to unlock the trunk,” Kaufman said.
“Of course.”
Hopping from the driver’s seat, Schaffner lifted the lid to the sight of a bound and blindfolded girl, sh
ivering in a fetal position.
“Allez.” Schaffner knew that was about the extent of his French.
Kaufman herded the girl while Schaffner opened the back door to retrieve the wooden crate.
She whimpered softly, but thankfully she had stopped crying. He was glad. Children’s cries grated on his nerves.
They crossed the deserted road with Schaffner carrying the Mona Lisa. Kaufman yanked on the girl’s left arm to steer her. She stumbled and then righted herself again.
Only one hundred meters of grassy farm separated them from the Swiss border, delineated by a barbwire fence.
Schaffner’s eyes and ears were tuned to any Swiss border patrols in the area, but the only sounds came from their own leather boots as they flattened stalks of alfalfa grass.
When they arrived at the barbwire fence, Schaffner set the wooden crate on the ground. His arms were tired from the exertion, but thoughts of their reward drove him on.
“You have the wire cutters?”
“In my jacket.” His partner nodded while maintaining a grip on the girl.
Kaufman reached into his pocket with his free hand and handed the cutters to Schaffner. He set to work, aggressively cutting his way through three lines of heavy barbwire. The fencing filament spun to the ground, creating a large opening.
The trio resumed their march. This time, they veered in the direction of the ramshackle barn. The blindfolded girl had stopped whining and seemed resigned to her fate. When they arrived, Schaffner pulled away a barn door—and there was the Citroën Traction Avant.
“I couldn’t believe the bartender let us borrow his car,” Kaufman scoffed.
“Wouldn’t you have done the same if someone paid you twice as much as it’s worth?” Schaffner congratulated himself for coming up with a brilliant plan. The Swiss would be looking for a BMW two-door, which they had stolen yesterday. There was no way the vehicle could be traced to them. Besides, in twenty-four hours they’d be rich and could disappear for the foreseeable future.
Schaffner doubted anyone would report finding the ’38 BMW anytime soon. He left an inducement behind: the keys were in the ignition—and there was more than a half tank of gas.
He kicked the front tire of the Citroën. “She may not look like much, but she’s our ticket to freedom.”
24
The Citroën progressed along the Quai de Cologny, past watch stores and private banks that fronted the western bank of Lake Geneva.
The image Schaffner wanted to project to prying eyes was that they were a couple of guys out on the town, meeting their friends at their favorite bar.
They followed the quai and passed the Jardin Anglais—English Garden—where Schaffner recognized the local landmark, a manicured flower clock. Then a more disturbing sight caught his attention—several policemen stationed at the streetlights leading to the Pont du Mont Blanc, the bridge spanning the Rhone River.
“Don’t make eye contact,” he said to Kaufman.
They were in luck. The lights remained green, and they didn’t have to stop.
From the corner of his eye, though, Schaffner saw that no one was paying attention to the Citroën. A BMW coupe, however, was parked at the side of the road, and the driver was being questioned by a cop.
They drove along the lake to Lausanne, then took a less-traveled route through vineyards as they followed road signs toward Neuchâtel, heralded as the wine- and watch-making capital of Switzerland.
Traveling out of their way on minor roads would add extra hours, but for a job like this, the extra caution was justified.
After Countess Ariane alerted the caretaker and his family to the tragic events, she sat down with Colette in the breakfast nook.
The young curator wiped away tears. “I’m so sorry, Countess, that Kristina has been kidnapped and there is nothing I can do to help.”
The Countess refilled her cup of tea. “Don’t blame yourself for this, Colette. We always knew there was a risk, and yet . . . we did what little we could to help France, even if it was only to protect her art. This isn’t your fault, and Bernard should have known that you would have never betrayed your country, even with your name on the list. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding—”
“There was no misunderstanding! Bernard should have known that I would only cooperate with the boches under extreme duress. I didn’t have any bargaining power. How was I to know that something like this would happen—that your daughter would be kidnapped? I’m wracked with guilt. I feel horrible.” Colette blew her nose and looked glumly into the distance.
The Countess laid her hand gently on Colette’s arm, a forced smile belying the fear that numbed her. Somewhere in Switzerland, her daughter was in the clutches of two men who’d probably kill her once her usefulness ended.
West-to-east traffic in Switzerland never took this route.
They were certainly taking the long way to Lucerne, traveling along Lake Neuchâtel, the largest lake within Switzerland. The kitschy cuckoo clock shops, elegant watch stores, and inviting pastry shops were buttoned up for the evening.
Even though it was past midnight, Schaffner had no problem remaining alert. The adrenaline coursing through his veins fueled his charge through the canton of Neuchâtel.
Kaufman, who had been dozing, stirred with a question. “Where are we?”
“We’ve passed Neuchâtel, and soon we’ll hit another long lake on our way to Biel/Bienne. Or is it Bienne/Biel?”
Kaufman perked up. “Biel/Bienne is on the border between the French- and German-speaking parts of Switzerland.”
“I hope we don’t have to show a passport,” Schaffner said dryly.
The remark elicited a grunt from Kaufman. “No language border check. But it will be good to be back on the German side of Switzerland. So which route are we taking to Lucerne?”
“There are lots of small roads. I’m thinking we’ll go to Solothurn and then cut down to Hutwil. A couple of mountain passes will slow us down, but that’ll get us to Lucerne. We’ll probably get there in the early morning.”
“I can’t believe we’re in this situation. My heart breaks for Kristina.”
Eric’s ears perked up at the sound of Gabi’s words coming from the passenger seat of the plush Rolls Royce.
Bernard stirred from the rear. “All is not lost. We’ll find these mongrels. If we don’t, at least we’ll know where the Mona Lisa is being kept. France will apply pressure on the Swiss government to have the painting released from her prison inside a Swiss bank vault.”
The Geneva border check rolled into view. The flash of Eric’s red Swiss passport from a black Rolls Royce was enough for them to be waved through by the night shift.
The four-door luxury sedan rolled smoothly through the dark and deserted streets of Geneva, staying on frontage roads to the lake. Eric looked again into the rearview mirror, but Bernard wasn’t there. He was lying down, alone with his thoughts.
Gabi’s head rested against the thick glass window. The smooth Swiss highway and gentle ride of the luxury sedan had lulled her to sleep. Eric reviewed what had transpired the last couple of hours. It was a forlorn sight when he had last looked in his rearview mirror and saw the Countess offering a weak wave. But he was pleased to know that the hired hand’s family was there to offer moral as well as physical support.
Now their destination was Allen Dulles’s apartment in Bern, where they would regroup. Pressing down on the accelerator, the in-line six-cylinder engine with 4,257 cubic centimeters of finely tuned power responded instantly.
They would make it to Bern in record time.
25
Tuesday, August 29, 1944
Near Lucerne, Switzerland
The Citroën balked at the gain in elevation, and they were inching along in first gear at fifteen kilometers per hour. Cirro-cumulus clouds billowed in an azure sky, and a pair of white paddle steamers sliced through the crystal blue waters of Lake Lucerne. To the south, the jagged crags of Mount Pilatus loomed dramatically over t
he medieval city.
“We shouldn’t be much longer. Another ten minutes is what I’m figuring.”
Schaffner had visited Anton Wessner’s mountain chalet on several occasions, purely social. Now that he was thinking about it, neither he nor Kaufman had been invited back since the reversals began on the Eastern Front. He was confident the red carpet would be rolled out today, however.
The winding dirt road—one lane wide in most places—corkscrewed precipitously past postage-stamp plots where brown cows with golden cowbells munched on thick grass. They continued their ascent high above Lucerne until they were a thousand meters above the city’s signature landmark—the Kapellbrücke, or Chapel Bridge, the oldest wooden covered bridge in Europe, spanning the Reuss River. This was William Tell country.
After a final hairpin turn, a long uphill driveway delivered them to Chalet Rigi. The outsized chalet was a veritable fortress in wood with walls consisting of barricaded tree trunks in tiers—one trunk on top of another and notched firmly together at the corners. The roof, covered with slabs of gray slate, protected against the lift of mountain gales. Boxes of pink geraniums lined the second-story balcony of the wide A-frame structure.
Schaffner looked up and saw Wessner standing on the veranda. A wide smile creased his face. He wondered if his countenance would change after he learned they had the girl.
The German operative parked the car next to an olive green Mercedes sedan just as Wessner stepped outside the chalet’s front door, painted red to match the shutters. The handshake was formal. “Welcome to Chalet Rigi,” Wessner said.
Schaffner was still pumping hands when he looked up to an unexpected sight. A severe-looking man dressed in a casual suit exited the front door.
“Colonel Heller?”
“Good to see you, Schaffner. Don’t look so surprised. This is a momentous day for all of us, unless you were not able to—”
Schaffner exhaled. “I think you will be pleased, sir.”
