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.

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 money 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.