18

The deadly attack shattered the fragile peace ushered in with Libération. Two days after the German Army pulled out of Paris was too early to let your guard down.

Despite the warm August night, Gabi shivered while she and the others patiently answered questions from a police detective following his arrival by bicycle. The inspecteur scribbled their statements into a notebook as he attempted to sort out what happened or what prompted the assassination attempt on Bernard.

The detective knew the attacker. Said his name was Antoine Celeste. Well-known member of the Free French. A hero of the Resistance, but also emotionally unstable following his brother’s brutal execution at the hands of the Nazis two years ago.

“Ça suffit.” That’s enough. The detective quietly shut his notebook. “Since there were no other eyewitnesses to the events at the Pantin rail yard, I chalk this up to Celeste’s inability to deal with his grief.”

Another tragedy of this war, Gabi thought.

She watched Eric pull Bernard aside as a horse-drawn team from the morgue carted off Celeste’s body.

“You doing okay?”

The tired Frenchman sighed. “It was him or me, and I didn’t want to be the one to go.”

Gabi watched Bernard’s eyes move to where Colette sat on a nearby stoop. Her arms were crossed, and she pulled them tight against her. With head lowered and shoulders slumped, she was clearly shaken. Colette’s reaction was understandable. She’d thought—momentarily—her boyfriend was dead.

What Gabi didn’t understand was Bernard’s reaction. As he looked at Colette, Gabi didn’t see worry or sadness. She saw regret on his face.

What does he regret? That he put her in danger? Gabi wondered.

Bernard pressed a hand to his forehead and then walked toward Colette with determination.

He cares, Gabi thought to herself. I can see he loves her. He never wanted to put the woman he loves in that type of situation.

With grim faces, the two couples stepped into the Maison Beaumont, where Irene Beaumont prepared a pot of tea upon learning of the attack. Eric and the others gathered around the dining room table and described their side of the story to the Beaumonts’ friends who had stopped by to visit.

The appropriate remarks of outrage were made, and one by one, Eric noticed that the Beaumont friends drifted away, leaving them alone.

Eric was thankful that neither Bernard nor Colette were hurt. He needed them. As much as he believed in Gabi—and his own resources—they couldn’t save the Mona Lisa by themselves.

The phone rang, and Madame Beaumont answered. She called Bernard over, who listened and didn’t say much until he thanked the caller and hung up. He turned silent for a moment, as if he was replaying the conversation in his mind, trying to believe what he’d just heard.

“Did you find some fuel?” Eric asked.

“More like the fuel found us,” Bernard replied with a confused look. “Looks like we can drive over to the 2nd Armored depot at the École Militaire first thing in the morning. A Colonel Tollet will be expecting us. Apparently, he received a message from London telling him to give us as much petrol as we need, no questions asked. But who . . . how . . . did they know to call here?”

He was completely flummoxed. “Who did you say you worked for?”

“I didn’t . . . so how early can we go? I’m worried about beating the Germans to Annecy.”

“I was told not before 7 a.m.”

“That’ll work. Once we get going, how long do you expect us to be on the road?”

“Let’s see.” Bernard unfolded a fraying road map of France and spread it across the table. “I’ve heard it’s nine or ten hours . . .” He measured the distance of one hundred kilometers on the scale bar with his thumb and forefinger and “walked” that measurement from Paris across France in a southeasterly direction.

“Et voilà. Right around five hundred kilometers. If we can average fifty or sixty kilometers an hour, we should get there between six and seven o’clock, provided we leave Paris by 9 a.m. How many jerry cans do you have?”

“Two,” Eric replied. “That was enough to get us here from Bern and should be more than enough to get us to Annecy.”

“Did you hear anything about the road conditions?” Gabi asked. “The Germans are in retreat . . .”

“They took off due east for the Fatherland”—Bernard nearly spit out the words—“but we’re going south. Still, we have to stay alert.”

“We can’t be delayed,” Colette said. “If those two German agents get there first, we’ll lose the Mona Lisa—perhaps forever.”

“We’ll get there as fast as we can.” Bernard leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Eric said he wants to be a race car driver after the war, so now’s his chance for some practice.”

Gabi looked at Eric in mock surprise, the first light moment of the evening.

Eric smiled. “Bernard’s kidding. But if the roads are in good shape, I’m flooring it. Of course, some roads could be torn up from bombs or blocked by disabled vehicles. We just don’t know.”

He scanned the map, thankful for Bernard’s expertise. “So show me . . . which route are we taking?”

“Certainly. We’ll leave Paris through the Porte d’Italie, and then take the Route de Fontainebleau in a southerly direction.”

Eric followed Bernard’s finger, which took them through Rozay-en-Brie. He didn’t say anything, and a quick glance at Gabi’s poker face meant that she wasn’t going to bring up the incident with the Ost soldiers again.

For the next ten minutes, Bernard carefully explained the entire route they would follow. Eric could tell that he was thorough in his approach, as well as his calculations.

“Colette, tell us what you know about the family,” Bernard said.

“A count and countess live at the chateau,” Colette answered. “I’ve corresponded frequently with Countess Ariane Valois. Up until last week, we spoke together by telephone every fortnight when service was available. But I’ve never met her or her husband.”

“It’s a shame you couldn’t reach them,” Gabi said.

“I tried several times. I’m worried about the safety of the Countess and La Joconde. All we can do is hope for the best.”

“Is the plan to drive back to Paris the following morning?” Eric asked.

“Depending on what we find there, the answer is yes.”

Gabi looked from the map to Colette. “If we’re spending the night, where are we going to stay?”

Colette grinned for the first time in hours. “Apparently, this ‘little’ chateau has fifteen bedrooms. I would imagine the Countess will extend hospitality, given the unusual circumstances.”

Bernard folded the map as everyone stood up to go off to bed.

Things were shaping up nicely, although the more he learned about Eric and Gabi, and their connections, the more his guard went up. They were not to be trifled with, especially if things got sticky with the Mona Lisa.

He mentally reviewed some items he needed to pack in his satchel, such as a pistol, ammunition, knife, blackjack, and handcuffs.

Preparation was key. He would bide his time until the right moment, and then he would strike.

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

Colette sat up in bed. She knew it wasn’t Gabi since her friend was taking a bath. She pulled her blanket closer to her neck.

“Entrée,” Colette said.

Madame Beaumont stepped inside. “I know it’s terribly late, but there’s a monsieur on the phone who insists on speaking with you.”

“Who could be calling at eleven o’clock?” Colette’s tone was foreboding.

“I don’t know, but he said there was a pressing matter regarding the Louvre.”

Colette rose and slipped on a robe, her heart pounding. She rushed past Madame Beaumont and hurried downstairs. Knowing who it could be . . . but not wanting to believe it.

Cupping the black handset to her ear, she felt her pulse race and a queasy feeling sweep through her body.

“Oui?”

“Mademoiselle, you are a difficult one to reach these days.”

“How did you get this number?” she snapped.

“I still have a few reliable contacts in Paris. Our military may have departed your beloved city, but there are assets willing to help, for a price.”

“I am no longer one of your ‘assets.’ Now that Paris is free, there is no need for you to contact me again. I wish you a pleasant evening.” Colette started to hang up the phone, but something caused her to pause. If Heller knew how to reach her by phone, he no doubt could send his “reliable contacts” after her—and after them.

“I am concerned for Madame Beaumont’s safety,” Heller continued in a cool tone. “These are uncertain times.”

Fear stiffened Colette. She could hear the older woman humming as she cleaned the kitchen. If Heller had the ability to track her down in the middle of the night, he still had the clout to follow through on his threats.

“What do you want?”

“Just confirmation that the Mona Lisa has not been removed from the location that you gave me a month ago.”

Colette inhaled sharply and paused. She released the breath slowly, hoping her next words would sound convincing. “Actually, she is en route back to the Louvre as we speak.” Her voice rose in mock confidence.

“I see. That is most unfortunate. Well . . . c’est la vie. I would hope that you haven’t tried to mislead me, my dear Colette. It would be such a tragedy to make Madame Beaumont suffer needlessly, in addition to your brave boyfriend.” The line went dead.

Colette stood motionless. Her hands trembled as she pushed open the door into the dining room. Replaying the conversation, she hoped she was persuasive. The problem was, he’d caught her off guard, and she knew that had the roles been reversed, she would have seen through the attempted deception.

Even though fear from tonight still had her on edge, it would take more than a phone call to scare her off.

She would not let Heller win.

Not this time.

A thousand kilometers to the east, Colonel Heller had his answer. A broad, odious grin slowly emerged across his face. Colette’s breathing pattern and fractional pause had given away her bluff. The painting was still outside of Annecy; she was in Paris. Certainly, transporting such an important archive would have been supervised by the curator herself.

Heller, no stranger to torture and interrogation, prided himself on being a master at reading the emotions of others, especially when intimidated. He could detect a lie, and this had the classic markings of one. As he relived the moment, he became certain of his instincts. With a bit of luck, Schaffner and Kaufman would get to the chateau before Colette, but the race would be close.

Lifting the receiver again, he told the operator he needed to send an urgent message to Hans Schaffner.