Prologue

Thursday, August 20, 1942

Paris, France, during Nazi occupation

Dressed in soiled blue overalls and pushing a dented trash can, the solitary figure shuffled past two German sentries stationed at the Gare de l’Est’s archway entrance.

The brim of a felt hat covered Bernard Rousseau’s downturned eyes, allowing him to avert the soldiers’ cold glare. No one will bother you if you avoid eye contact while performing a menial job. Cradling that thought, he moved past the guards into the gilded entrance arcade.

Gare de l’Est, one of six train stations in Paris and the main terminus for rail traffic to and from Germany, was moderately busy this summer afternoon. In stark contrast to the pall of oppression in the streets, a festive spirit hung in the air underneath the iron trusses of the train shed where clusters of German officers—flanked by smiling wives and jubilant children—arrived on holiday. Sweating porters toted their luggage, struggling to keep up within the grand structure dominated by decorative columns.

Rousseau ground his teeth at the sight of Germans vacationing in his city. They were the only ones who could afford the haute cuisine at the Hôtel Ritz, the nightly revues at the Moulin Rouge, and the soporific productions at the Paris Opéra. Signs in German plastered the city, including a garish “DEUTSCHLAND SIEGT AN ALLEN FRONTEN” affixed to the Eiffel Tower’s first terrace—Germany Is Victorious on All Fronts.

Every day at the stroke of noon, German tourists assembled along the Champs Élysées and clapped for three hundred Wehrmacht soldiers goose-stepping toward the Place de la Concorde, trailing a brass band that oom-pahed the strident notes of “Prussia’s Glory.”

With a sigh of regret, Rousseau refocused on the task at hand. There was only one train that interested him—the 14:05 Intercity to Berlin on Voie 2. He aimed his wheeled trash bin for the voluminous train shed, which covered twenty lines. The departure was an hour away.

He blew out a slow breath, reminding himself to remain calm. Patience and cunning were two of his best assets, and they must serve him well in the next few minutes.

Positioning his cart at the end of the nearly deserted platform, he reached for a long-handled twig broom. Wide strokes gathered food wrappers, strewn newspapers, and used claim checks into a small pile. With the blade of a square-edge shovel, he emptied the debris into his bin.

A pair of German soldiers on patrol passed by with shouldered rifles. They ignored his presence as they continued their slow plod in the direction of the train’s locomotive. No passengers were in sight as a three-man crew scrubbed the railway cars and cleaned windows.

Rousseau resumed sweeping, pacing out the mindless task with the enthusiasm of a prison inmate. Fifteen minutes later, a small team of soldiers pushing a pair of flatbed carts passed by. Heavy olive-green tarps, cinched with rope, covered the cargo destined for the heart of darkness—Nazi Germany.

A German officer, dressed in a Waffen-SS mouse-gray uniform with knee-high black boots, seemed unusually intent as he trailed close behind. The soldiers smoothly maneuvered the carts next to a freight car directly behind a tender filled with chunks of black coal. Rousseau couldn’t tell what was underneath the tarps, but they looked to be tall, rectangular crates stacked side by side.

He turned his back on the delivery and continued to work his besom broom. When he dared to look again, the soldiers were loosening the ropes on the first cart, leaving the stiff tarp over the cargo.

Rousseau eased closer—close enough to hear the sound of guttural German from the Nazi officer overseeing the loading process. He detested their heavy-handed language—an auditory reminder that German power was absolute. Because of them, the France he knew no longer existed, and the Paris he loved was on its knees.

Hate stirred like untended embers in his gut. Hate toward the Germans’ arrogance, their ruthlessness.

Shortly after the Nazis marched into Paris, his father had been picked up off the street. He’d been on his way to return a borrowed ladder when a German patrol stopped him at random, lined him against a wall with nine of his compatriots, and pulled their triggers.

His crime? Nothing. He was murdered in cold blood by a Nazi reprisal squad. Ever since that traumatic event, Rousseau’s home had been within the ranks of the Resistance.

The German officer checked a clipboard as the first tarp was peeled back. Four wooden boxes stood side by side in varying heights. Two looked to be about two meters tall, the others slightly shorter. Stenciled in black on the side of the first wooden crate was an eagle atop a swastika and “L-20”—a designation for accounting purposes. Rousseau had seen the same crate yesterday in the basement of the Louvre, where he worked as a member of the maintenance crew.

The famed Chambord collection!

The German Ministry of Culture, now in charge of the Louvre, used the storage rooms to process paintings they had “acquired” for export to the Fatherland. Whether they were buying art or—as the rumors persisted—confiscating paintings, these masterpieces and treasures were being shipped to the Third Reich in inordinate amounts. The Chambord collection, he recalled, included Boucher’s Diana Bathing, Daumier’s Le Wagon de Troisiéme Classe, and Pissarro’s Le Quai Malaquais, Printemps. They were worth a fortune.

Anger at the loss of French art caused the pavement before him to blur for a moment. His hands tightened around the broom handle, and he could feel his heartbeat in his temple. As if German greed hadn’t taken enough . . . and now this.

The soldiers hefted the wooden crates into the boxcar as the officer checked off the progress. Then the next flatbed cart was loaded onto the train. This time, Rousseau counted eleven boxed crates—and then five more freight wagons appeared!

How much beautiful art was leaving France forever? He dreaded reporting back to Colonel Rol, his Resistance leader, what his reconnaissance confirmed: there were enough masterpieces being loaded onto the Berlin Express to empty a wing of the Louvre.

Anger turned to sadness. His heart ached at the realization that his country faced more losses than they knew. Their French culture was being stripped, one railcar at a time.

Rousseau stifled a groan as he resumed tidying up the platform. His thoughts returned to an earlier time when, at the age of eighteen, he’d started working in the Louvre’s maintenance department. Exposure to the world’s great masterpieces had given him a deep appreciation for fine art, especially oil paintings. He admired the way artists conveyed imagination through brushstrokes. Now his knowledge of and appreciation for fine art deepened the sense of loss.

What he saw stenciled on the next set of packed crates stunned him. These wooden boxes were part of the A series—A-1, A-2, A-3 . . . delineating the crème de la crème: Rembrandts, Rubens, van Goghs, Matisses, and Renoirs. He turned away, not daring to look back at the Wehrmacht soldiers loading the carefully packed wooden crates bound for Berlin. He had seen enough.

Rousseau glanced at the round clock overlooking the Gare de l’Est’s main hall. The Resistance leadership had asked him to call in his report at one o’clock, which was fast approaching.

He aimed his trash cart toward a side entrance that led to the maintenance shed, where several sweepers were taking a break. They too were part of the Resistance brotherhood.

“Someone wants to see you.” The supervisor motioned his head toward the station entrance.

Rousseau recognized Alain Dubois pacing the sidewalk. Dubois worked with him on the Louvre grounds.

Rousseau lit a cigarette as he made his way to Dubois, who immediately pulled him toward the deserted taxi stand.

“Salut, Alain. Everything okay?”

“The art is on the train, right?”

“Much more than we thought. There must have been two dozen A series crates today.”

Dubois swore in frustration.

“I know. So many masterpieces—”

“It’s more than that,” Dubois interrupted. “The FFL wants to blow up the train. They’re certain that Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring will be on the Berlin Express when it leaves at 14:05. But he left Paris yesterday. Our people saw him board a plane at Le Bourget.”

The picture cleared for Rousseau. Every couple of months, sources at the Louvre told him, Göring breezed into Paris to add to his swelling collection of fine art. The greedy general must have gone on another shopping spree, which would explain today’s heavy load-in of wooden crates. But the Field Marshal of the Luftwaffe also had a private plane at his disposal.

“Isn’t someone going to stop them?” Rousseau balled his fists at his side. The FFL, Forces Françaises Libres—or Free French Forces—were a rival underground group led by General Charles de Gaulle, even though de Gaulle had been exiled in London following the fall of France.

Rousseau gave Dubois a knowing look. They both belonged to a different resistance group—the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, or FTP, one of several Communist-led underground groups that spearheaded the Resistance. The FTP didn’t see eye-to-eye politically with the Gaullists, but they were united—for the moment—in their common fight against the Germans. “Keep your enemies close and your friends closer” was a motto Colonel Rol often repeated in their clandestine meetings.

Rousseau lifted his fist. “If the FFL blows up this train, they destroy irreplaceable masterpieces. But more importantly, Göring isn’t even a passenger. If German soldiers are killed, there will be reprisals. Who knows how many French will die—and for what?”

The usual ratio was 10:1—ten Frenchmen picked randomly off the streets and lined up for summary execution for every German soldier killed in Paris. He had counted at least ten soldiers at the train. If all perished, then at least a hundred innocent Frenchmen would pay the ultimate price, one far too high for failing to kill the Reich’s second-in-command.

“Colonel Rol wants us to stop the attack.” Dubois rubbed his brow. “Rol is worried about the reprisals, but now there is so much more we could lose . . . our heritage, our masterpieces.”

“But how? We don’t even know where the train will be blown up.”

“One of our people was in the meeting when the decision was made to assassinate Göring. They are wiring dynamite to the track just past the marshaling yards in Pantin.”

“Can’t anybody get to the FFL and tell them Göring flew back yesterday?” Rousseau asked.

“We got the message minutes ago, and there’s no time to get through to them. And what if they don’t listen—don’t believe Göring flew back? They might go ahead with it anyway. We have to stop the attack ourselves.”

“But the Berlin Express leaves in thirty minutes. It has to be four or five kilometers to the Pantin Triage. We’ll never get there in time.”

Dubois held up a hand. “We must try. Otherwise there will be a massacre for nothing. And the art . . .”

Rousseau didn’t need Dubois to finish that thought.

Rousseau flicked a layer of sweat off his forehead and looked over his shoulder. Dubois was nowhere to be seen. Even though Rousseau’s sturdy bike wasn’t built for speed, he had pulled away from his fellow Resistance member not long after they departed the Gare de l’Est, Dubois yelling encouragement as he faded in the distance.

Rousseau pumped his legs harder as he flew along the Avenue Jean Jaurés, unfettered by traffic. Gasoline-powered cars, trucks, and taxis had practically disappeared since the Nazis took over.

Fighting to keep his legs driving like pistons, Rousseau rued his smoking habit. He pulled off his hat and tucked it inside his overalls, freeing both hands and allowing him to crouch down, reducing wind resistance. Leaning into turns, he rolled through roundabouts like a truck driver owning the right-of-way and dodged cars at busier intersections.

A glance at his watch told him that the Berlin Express had departed the Gare de l’Est. Most likely, the train had left on time—a testament to German efficiency. Rousseau figured he had less than a kilometer to go. Getting there on time wouldn’t be enough; he needed several minutes to find the person detonating the dynamite charge.

The marshaling yard at Pantin was a beehive of activity. Rousseau knew it well. One of the ways the underground confounded the brazen invaders was by throwing a rail switch at the opportune moment, resulting in derailments and devastation but no deaths.

He figured the Berlin Express would be staying on the “through” track once inside the Pantin rail yard. If Dubois’ information was correct, then the train would be blown up after the main rail line converged with side tracks at the eastern end of the Pantin Triage.

A loud steam whistle pierced the air, jarring Rousseau’s nerves. He looked up, startled. The Berlin Express had arrived, slowing as the long train entered the yard. He had only a minute, if that, to find the dynamite charge.

Rousseau steered his bike to a dirt path between the rail lines, eyes fixed on the convergence point. He kept pedaling rapidly, as if he was sprinting for a finish line.

The Berlin Express bore down, but still at lowered speed. The dynamited rail line had to be somewhere—then it hit him. An elevated bridge crossed a small gorge following the yard. If the wooden supports were blown the moment the engine passed, the momentum of the falling locomotive would drag the remaining cars into the gorge, their combined weight crushing one car atop another. The overpass was just ahead.

Rousseau skidded to a stop and slammed his bike to the ground. Time had run out.

Running to the tracks, he reached for a white handkerchief from inside his overalls. Standing between the rails, he waved his arms from side to side. The immediate release of air brakes split the air. A whistle blew three short blasts as train wheels squealed in protest.

The locomotive neared. Shuddering and groaning, the train pushed a wall of sooty air toward him. Old newspapers rose from the ground, levitating, yet he stood, feet planted. A mere ten meters separated him from the massive machine. Just when he was prepared to jump from its path, the steel wheels of the Berlin Express screeched to a stop. Rousseau leaped aside and bolted toward the locomotive engineer, now leaning from the window.

“What are you doing?” the engineer demanded in French.

“You can’t continue on this line. The route is sabotaged.”

German soldiers, rifles ready, poured out of the passenger cars and surrounded Rousseau.

A German officer approached—the same one Rousseau had seen checking off the cargo list.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in rapid-fire French that carried a hint of German accent.

Rousseau repeated what he had told the engineer.

“Are you with the Resistance?”

Rousseau ignored the question. “The rail line is dynamited ahead. I am gambling with my life, I know, but I was told that you have valuable paintings on this train. I work at the Louvre and cannot allow irreplaceable masterpieces to be destroyed.”

“How do you know about this trap?”

“I overheard a conversation at the museum. People talk.”

The German officer pursed his lips.

From the corner of his eye, Rousseau spotted one of the soldiers raising his rifle.

“Halt!” The shout from the soldier caused the hairs on the back of Rousseau’s neck to stand at attention.

Rousseau turned. A partisan darted from a nearby maintenance shack, fear distorting his features. One shot shattered the air. Then other soldiers joined in. Gunfire pounded Rousseau’s eardrums.

To his horror, the partisan stumbled and then fell into a heap, grabbing the back of his left leg.

Get up!

The man fought to rise and then staggered a few steps, before crumbling again.

“Bring him here!” shouted the officer in charge.

Rousseau’s shoulders slumped. His odds of living beyond the next few minutes had just shrunk dramatically.

Oberst Walter Heller, hands clasped behind his back, placidly surveyed the Frenchman who had boldly stopped the train. While he was sizing him up, another soldier ran toward him, out of breath.

“Colonel, we discovered a dynamite charge about a hundred meters down the track. We found the detonating plunger in the maintenance shed.”

So the Frenchman was telling the truth. But why would he risk his life to stop a German train with this information?

Two soldiers dragged the injured partisan toward Heller. The ashen-faced young man grimaced in pain. His saturated pant leg glistened with blood, leaving an uneven, dark crimson trail behind his limp leg.

“Were you going to blow up the train?” Heller demanded.

The nearly unconscious partisan incoherently mumbled something Heller couldn’t understand, although he heard the word “Göring,” which caught his attention.

The German colonel directed more questions at the prisoner, now pallid and clammy. There was no response.

“Shoot them both,” he ordered in German. He didn’t have time to wait for the Gestapo to arrive. They had a schedule to keep.

The partisan hung limp in the soldiers’ grasp, showing no reaction to the command.

The other Frenchman gasped and stepped backward, and the two soldiers guarding him clasped his arms.

“No!” He kicked and twisted against their iron hold. “Sir, I risked my life to save you, your soldiers, and your paintings, and this is the thanks I get? My friends and colleagues at the Louvre will find out what happened here. My unjust death will only inspire others to take revenge on German lives.”

Heller lifted his chin and approached the Frenchman.

“What’s your name?”

“Rousseau. Bernard Rousseau.”

“Well, Monsieur Rousseau, I don’t think we’ll be meeting again.”

The German colonel unhooked his leather holster and drew his service Luger. With arm extended, he moved two steps to his right and placed the tip of the barrel against the forehead of the injured partisan. Nearly unconscious, the young man hung against the soldiers’ clenched grip.

Heller pulled the trigger, and a plume of red mist exited the base of the freedom fighter’s skull.

Heller turned the gun on Rousseau. The German officer was used to making judgment calls when appraising an artist’s talent as well as the value of a painting or sculpture in Reichsmarschall Göring’s collection. Now a different type of appraisal was set before him, and a man’s life hung in the balance. If what Rousseau had said was true, by all rights he and his fellow soldiers should be dead, lying in a mass of twisted steel.

“Allez,” he said to the Frenchman. Go. “Before I change my mind.”

Relief widened the man’s eyes and softened his face. The soldiers released their grasp.

Heller watched for a moment as the man sprinted to his bike. Small clouds of dust and gravel punctuated each stroke as the bicycle tires struggled to find traction.

They were wary adversaries, but he and the Frenchman agreed on one thing: the irreplaceable value of fine art.

For that, he deserved a second chance.

From the back of an empty boxcar on a side track, Antoine Celeste dropped his binoculars to his chest. His lips trembled at the sight, and his breathing became more rapid.

No man should have to witness the execution of his brother, yet he just had. Bile rose in his stomach, and a profound sadness filled his heart. They said that when you joined the Resistance you were signing your own death warrant: sooner, not later, you would join the brotherhood in eternity.

But a fellow Frenchman betraying the cause for liberté in broad daylight—singlehandedly stopping a German train bound for destruction with Göring on board? What explanation could there be?

When he and Philippe had joined the Gaullists’ Free French, he expected a fight against Nazi swine, not treachery at the hands of his own people.

Celeste picked up the binoculars and locked on the solitary figure pedaling his bike pell-mell across the rail yard—memorizing his build, mannerisms, and the face that now filled his binoculars’ view.

Restraining himself not to act immediately, he slumped to the floor of the boxcar after the bicyclist had passed. Tears streamed down his cheeks as emotions took control.

There, sitting alone in the shadows, minutes passed. Celeste steeled himself. Knowing that his vengeance must wait, he vowed that no matter how long it took, this treasonous dog would be found.