Chasing Mona Lisa (19 page)

“The Italian art dealer didn’t believe him. Geri wrote a return letter saying he would have to see the painting before he could offer a price. Could he bring it to Italy and show him? On December 10, 1913, an Italian man with a moustache showed up at Geri’s office in Florence. He said his name was Leonardo Vincenzo and that he had the
Mona Lisa
back in his hotel room. He explained that he had stolen the painting to restore to Italy what had been stolen by France. Thus, he made a stipulation that the painting was to be hung at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence and never given back to France. He also wanted a half million lira for his trouble.

“Geri did some quick thinking. He said he needed to have the director of the Uffizi confirm that it really was the
Mona Lisa
before he handed over the money. They made arrangements to meet the next day. When they returned to his hotel room the following afternoon, Leonardo pulled out a wooden trunk. He opened it, tossed out a pair of underwear, an old shirt, a pair of shoes, and removed a false bottom. There lay the
Mona Lisa
!

“Geri and the museum director turned the painting over and noticed a seal from the Louvre. The museum director said he needed to compare the painting with other works by da Vinci, so he needed to take the painting with him. I have no idea why Leonardo agreed to this, but he said yes. Geri and the museum director carried the
Mona Lisa
out of the hotel and called the police. They stormed the room and arrested the man, whose real name was Vincenzo Peruggia.”

“So the guy who stole the
Mona Lisa
was an Italian after all?” Gabi asked.

“Yes, he was born in Italy but had moved to Paris, where he had worked at the Louvre since 1908. All the guards knew him. Apparently, on that fateful Monday morning, when the Louvre was officially closed, he noticed that the Salon Carré was empty. He grabbed the
Mona Lisa
, dragged it over to the staircase, removed the painting from its frame, and walked out of the Louvre with her under a painter’s smock. Can you believe he simply walked off with the world’s most famous piece of art?”

“I would imagine the French were happy to learn of the discovery.”

“Ecstatic! The public went wild. After being displayed throughout Italy, she was returned to France on December 30, 1913, to great fanfare.”

“What happened to Peruggia?” Eric asked.

“He got fourteen months in jail, but he was hailed for his patriotism in Italy. A ‘crime of passion’ was how the heist was described in the press. He became an Italian folk hero.”

“I don’t think the French press will call Göring’s attempt to steal the
Mona Lisa
a ‘crime of passion,’ ” Gabi declared with rectitude. “A ‘war crime’ seems more apropos.”

“I’m just hoping it’s only an attempt,” Colette replied.

Gabi remained pensive, nodding in agreement. “If the French people were that devastated during peacetime, can you imagine what the loss of the
Mona Lisa
would do to morale now? There has been so much pain already. A theft would be a crushing blow.”

Bernard unfolded the map and scanned their route. “We are coming up on Rozay-en-Brie,” he announced.

Gabi, who had been lost in thought, looked up with a grim expression.

“Bernard said this would be the fastest route to Annecy.” Eric made eye contact through the rearview mirror. Gabi looked troubled, confirming his suspicion.

Gripping the wheel harder, he eased down on the accelerator and knew she was reliving their encounter with the Ost soldiers.

Gabi, her face drawn and pallid, averted her eyes.

Five minutes later, Eric recognized the Romanesque medieval church that dominated the small village. Everything was coming into focus again: the tall cornfields outside the hamlet with ears of corn waiting to be picked; the faded barns and dilapidated homesteads dotting the landscape; and the dirt road leading into town. This time around, Eric counted a half-dozen men working in the fields, no longer afraid of German patrols.

“Stop!” Gabi cried out.

Eric, startled, reflexively slammed on the brakes. The four wheels locked up as the car slid to a stop, slightly askew. A trailing cloud of dust enshrouded the car. All eyes turned toward Gabi, who was transfixed as she stared out the window. With a click, they heard the door latch give as she stepped out and moved to the side of the road. Then she slowly walked ahead of the car, inspecting the ditch.

Eric exited the car and quickly caught up with her. Gabi had paused. With arms crossed, she was looking down at something.

The bodies were gone, but there—staining the dirt on the left-hand side of the road—were imperfect circles of dried blood, the color of burnt sienna.

Gabi wrapped an arm around Eric and looked up at him with a faint smile. “I’m all right. For some reason, I needed to see it again.” She let out a low sigh. “We were saved for a reason.”

“I agree.” Eric pulled her closer as they slowly walked together back to the car.

Colette watched with a concerned expression. Eric shook his head as if to say,
Don’t ask. I’ll explain later.

“The Ost soldiers?” Bernard asked.

Gabi nodded and closed the door.

Eric eased the sedan into Rozay-en-Brie’s picturesque town square, where there were more signs of life this week. In the cobblestoned plaza, women slapped wet clothes against a washing stone while their young children played nearby. On the opposite side, two elderly men shared a bench, each with their hands resting on wooden canes. The setting was peaceful.

“Why don’t we stop for a short break,” Gabi said.

Eric swung the car next to a farmhouse dotted with colorful geranium boxes and parked behind an abandoned buggy. He stepped out of the car and looked in the direction of the old men sitting across the square. One tipped his hat, and Eric replied in kind. The others exited the vehicle and stretched their legs.

“Would you like a
petit pain
?” Colette asked. She reached into the small sack and pulled out a brown roll. “We also have some cheese, tomato, and mayonnaise from Madame Beaumont, if you feel like a sandwich.”

Eric smiled. “Sure. Bernard and I only got some fruit for breakfast since we were in a hurry to get to the École Militaire.”

Colette, using the hood of the car as a makeshift table, spread a small cloth and assembled the sandwiches with Gabi’s assistance.

Eric came up next to her. “That was a fascinating story about how the
Mona Lisa
was stolen. Where did you learn all that?”

“I studied art history at the École des Beaux-Arts in Strasbourg, where I grew up.”

“Strasbourg? Your city has volleyed back and forth between France and Germany for centuries.”

“Well, we are on the border. Strasbourg reverted back to France following the Great War, and now it’s under Nazi rule, but not for much longer I hope. I worry for my parents.”

“Verstehen Sie Deutsch?” Eric asked.
Do you understand German?

She hesitated to answer. Still speaking in French, she said, “We had to learn German in school, but mine isn’t very good.”

Eric could see that she didn’t want to talk about Strasbourg and knew why she would be concerned about her parents. For the last year, Allied aircraft had bombarded the city.

He looked to Bernard. “So,
mon ami
, how much longer?”

Bernard took a long draw on his cigarette before answering. “I’d say another six or seven hours if we don’t run into any problems. The tough part should be over. We’re south and west of any German military—”

A steady mechanical hum was growing in the distance. Eric cocked his head toward a hazy sky filtered with blue.

“Hear that?” he asked.

“Look at them!” Colette pointed to the source of the droning noise.

Eric craned his neck in time to see several hundred B-24s and B-17s, heading east toward Germany, moving across the sky. Mustang fighters, which looked like gnats next to the big four-engine bombers, escorted the air armada.

The rows of bombers dotted the sky like a swarm of bees.

“Churchill calls it ‘round the clock bombing,’ ” Eric said. “The United States Eighth sends its sorties by day, and the RAF gets the night shift. Some place in Germany is going to get hammered in about an hour—Munich, if I had to hazard a guess.”

Colette shaded her eyes and looked skyward. “I hope one of those bombs has Heller’s name on it.”

 20

With the folded-out map resting on his lap, Bernard’s eyes followed the route between the Paris basin and the Rhône valley. He pointed his finger at Annecy, a medieval city nestled at the doorstep of the French Alps.

They still had some distance to go but were making good time. Pastoral landscape streaked past the dirty windshield. Farmlands were flanked by wooded foothills crowned with high-walled villages, many adorned with French flags. Looking up, Bernard spotted a regal castle with a red-white-and-blue
tricolore
affixed to a stone turret. “News travels fast,” he said to no one in particular.

Suppressing a nagging sense of guilt, he focused on his current role of spoiler. If he could return to Paris in possession of the
Mona Lisa
, he and the French Communists would orchestrate
une affaire
that would make the Italian’s theft of the
Mona Lisa
look like a warm-up act at the Folies Bergère.

When the people hold de Gaulle’s feet to the fire, we’ll see how he responds. The general’s grip on the country will be slippery at best
.

He knew that Colette wouldn’t understand why he had to take temporary possession of the
Mona Lisa
. She belonged to the insular world of art, which made her a puppet of the bourgeoisie. Like millions of clueless French, she didn’t realize that they were being swept along by a tidal surge that began in 1917 when Vladimir Lenin introduced communism to combat Russia’s economic problems brought on by civil war. France would be the next great Communist country, a worker’s paradise where property and money would be equally shared. She would come around to his point of view when a new dawn arose in France.

He checked the map again to verify their location. Eric was burning up the kilometers since they pulled out of Rozay-en-Brie an hour ago, steering the heavy Mercedes around potholes like a Swiss skier negotiating a slalom course. If they didn’t run into any road closures, they would arrive in Annecy sometime around 7 p.m., matching his pre-trip estimate.

What happened when they arrived would change the direction of postwar France.

Colette closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, missing the tableaux of sunflower fields and lavender meadows. The scenery didn’t interest her at the moment. Her focus was singular, driven by the oppressive responsibility entrusted to her. Failure would be a crushing blow to national morale and would decimate her professional reputation. She loathed Heller for his coercion, forcing her to decide between her love for Bernard and her professional obligation to secrecy.

At this point, nothing could be done to speed up their trip. Only the anticipation of arriving at the Chateau de Dampierre and taking possession of the
Mona Lisa
would ease her breathing.

Eric’s question about whether she spoke German unnerved her. If Bernard knew she was fluent, he would ask questions—uncomfortable ones. Soon, when the time was right, she would tell him the truth about Colonel Heller and how she had traded information in exchange for his life. But not yet.

Bernard sat within a few feet of her, but it was as if a canyon spread between them. They’d turned to each other during the dark days of war; at the present time, it didn’t seem right that freedom would put this gaping hole between them. She ached knowing he lied to her about the locket. Even more than that, at the aloofness she saw in his eyes. She pushed those thoughts aside. Bernard was not her main concern now.

“Where are we?” Gabi questioned. “This wasn’t part of our route when we left Bern.”

“This is a faster way,” Eric said.

Bernard consulted his
carte
. “We just passed Vincelles, and the next town is . . . Cravant, probably three kilometers. Just before we drive through, we’ll cross a bridge at the L’Yonne River. My parents used to take my brother and me to this part of France every summer.”

Ever since they’d left the Left Bank, Eric noted that Bernard had been a nonstop tour guide and political commentator, offering sophistry on the future of France. One thing was certain: Bernard and his Communist comrades wouldn’t be settling their political differences with de Gaulle and his loyalists over a glass of Beaujolais.

While Bernard rambled on about the difficulties de Gaulle was sure to face in coming weeks, Eric cracked open his window to increase airflow and help drone out the stuffy commentary. He diverted his eyes from the road, which was straight as an arrow for as far as he could see. They passed through thick apple orchards, laden with fruit, on both sides of the two-lane road. Checking his petrol gauge, he noted they would need to refuel with one of their jerry cans in the next hour. Then something in the sky caught his attention.

A trail of brown smoke followed a P-51 that was losing altitude . . . fast! The canary yellow nose with matching tail markings identified the United States fighter plane. No more than three hundred meters off the ground, the P-51 fluttered across Eric’s horizon, moving from his left to right. The fighter’s wings dipped from side to side, a clear indication that the pilot was fighting to stay aloft.

“He must have gotten hit by flak over Germany,” Eric said. “He’s going down.”

“Where will he end up?” Bernard leaned forward in his seat to track the crippled fighter. “Hopefully, he can find a grassy field, but I don’t see anything around here. Unless . . .”

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.