21

Colette shuffled through the La Joconde file twice before finding the correct piece of paper.

“We won’t be going all the way into Annecy,” she said. “We need to be looking for Saint-Martin-Bellevue. Once there, Chateau de Dampierre is four kilometers off the Route d’Annecy, according to these instructions.”

“Got it,” Eric said from the front seat.

Colette took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She leaned forward to flip through her notes, feeling the back of her dress—wet with perspiration—pull away from the leather seat. It had been a long, sticky day. Even though the trip had been harrowing, nothing compared to the tension building in her gut like a coiled spring, ready to explode.

Anticipating their arrival, she had no idea what they would find—but someone would be at the chateau, whether it was Countess Valois or the majordomo. When the family took custody of the Mona Lisa, one of the stipulations was that there would always be a “person of authority” on the estate grounds.

“I’m supposed to keep my eye out for a big castle with serfs working in the fields, right?” Bernard’s sly smile belied his resentment of the class difference between the landed gentry and the proletariat.

“As castles go, I don’t believe the Chateau de Dampierre is anything ostentatious,” Colette said, ignoring the bite in his words. Chateaux in this part of France were large-scale manor houses or country homes of nobility—not the spectacular royal palaces pictured in history books. Colette wasn’t sure what to expect since there wasn’t a photo in her file.

While Eric followed the twisting road past alfalfa fields lined with hedgerows, Colette noted several properties on a grand scale. She was looking at the right side of the road when a Renaissance-era castle of exquisite proportions arose into view above a massive stone wall. Two stories tall, the stately citadel was constructed of beige stone with a blue slate mansard roof accented with dormer windows. Round towers with conical tips finished all corners and bracketed the wide terraces adorned with vine-entwined balustrades.

“Nice place.” The irony in Bernard’s voice was clear.

Eric turned right into a private drive covered with fine crushed granite. A sizable wrought-iron gate flanked by stone pillars protected the Chateau de Dampierre.

“A buzzer should be on the left side,” Colette said.

“Found it.” Eric left the car idling in neutral and approached the stone pillar on his left.

Seconds after pressing the button, the sounds of barking dogs erupted from a wooded barn on the property. A workman wiping his hands on a towel soon appeared, walking their way.

“I’ll take care of this.” Colette stepped out of the car with her file in hand. She showed him several papers, and the hired hand nodded. The gate opened, leading them to a long circular driveway, frontage to the regal entrance. Intricately designed wooden doors with iron rivets were recessed just beyond a stone alcove.

“Amazing,” Eric commented. “Only thing missing is the moat and drawbridge.” He followed the salmon-colored driveway past a sparkling stone fountain and came to a stop in front of the stately entrance, cutting the engine.

Colette shivered as she scanned the windows for movement. Just then, an oversized door opened. Out stepped Countess Ariane Valois, holding the hand of a young girl who looked to be about ten years old. The Countess was dressed in a soft, feminine white blouse and a gathered A-line ankle-length mauve skirt, a look that balanced sophistication and simplicity.

Colette hurried from the car and mounted three steps. “Bonjour, Countess Valois. I’m Colette Perriard from the Louvre.”

“Quelle surprise!” The Countess threw open her arms in greeting.

Colette accepted the hug with a lift of her eyebrow. She’d expected a more constrained demeanor from nobility, especially with commoners.

“I certainly know you from our correspondence. Welcome to the Chateau de Dampierre!”

“Thank you very much.”

“When I heard we had visitors, I wasn’t sure who would be arriving in a Red Cross car.”

Colette looked back toward the dirty vehicle, where Gabi, Eric, and Bernard were standing. She motioned for them to join her on the landing.

“The car belongs to two friends, Gabi Mueller and Eric Hofstadler, and this is my . . . colleague from the Louvre, Bernard Rousseau.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the Countess said. “And this is my daughter, Kristina.”

After the four of them shook Kristina’s hand, the Countess looked toward her daughter. “Do you know why we have visitors today?”

The young girl shook her head.

“Because they’ve come to take your friend with them back to Paris.”

“But Mommy, I don’t want her to go.” Sadness suddenly filled her eyes.

The Countess patted her daughter’s cheek. “Remember? We’ve been praying that this day would come. It means France is again a free country.”

Kristina put her arm around her mother’s waist and buried her farouche expression. Smiling, the Countess turned back to her guests. “So tell us, what’s happening in Paris? We’ve heard the great news about Libération.”

Bernard beamed. “The boches—I mean, the Germans—have run like sewer rats back into their holes. Paris is overwhelmed with joy. We can again live in freedom.”

“I can only imagine the celebration along the Champs Élysées.” The Countess smiled and ran a hand down her daughter’s silky dark hair. “I listened to Radio France on Saturday, and the description of General de Gaulle laying the wreath on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier moved me.”

Colette noticed Bernard’s complexion redden. She knew he detested the general, and hoped he’d soon come to his senses. To her, French politics was a waste of time. They had control of their country back. What more could they desire? Effort should be put into bringing health and pride back to their country—not in fighting within their borders.

“We were there,” Bernard said in a matter-of-fact manner. “The general was reserved, which he should have been for such a solemn moment.”

“Bernard is being modest,” Eric interjected. “Sure, we were all there, but he was part of the official ceremony at the Arc de Triomphe. Our friend walked with the Resistance leadership down the Champs Élysées, all the way to the Notre Dame.”

“You were with the Resistance?” the Countess asked. “Then we have a real hero in our midst.”

A smile returned to Bernard’s face. “I answered the call to duty, Countess. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I’m sure you’re being far too modest. Please, come in.”

They stepped into the chateau’s entrance foyer, and it took several seconds for Colette’s eyes to adjust to the darker surroundings. The foyer was magnificent: quarter-sawn oak floors in a herringbone pattern, a sweeping staircase leading to the living quarters on the second floor, a formal receiving room with a wood-paneled library, and four sets of French doors showing the way to an expansive terrace at the rear of the chateau.

The Countess led them toward the formal living room. “It’s a shame that my husband isn’t here. He’s in Sainte Foy-la-Grande tending to business.”

The Countess stopped. “Have you had dinner? I prepared a beef bourguignon this afternoon. We have plenty.”

Colette looked to the others. “We’ve been in a rush to get here, so we haven’t eaten. Did Monsieur Rambouillet reach you today?”

“No, phone service has been sporadic. Is something wrong?”

“Actually, there is.” For the next couple of minutes, Colette outlined the threat against the Mona Lisa.

“Thank you for telling me the situation,” the Countess said. “Then we will have to hurry. I’ll get dinner ready. I only need a few minutes.”

“We would be most grateful.” Colette felt that she couldn’t say no to the Countess’s offer of hospitality, but they couldn’t linger.

Kristina suddenly pulled on her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, can I show them?”

“Show them what?” she teased.

“You know—”

With that, the girl beckoned for her mother to lean over so she could whisper something into her ear.

Colette’s heart warmed from the cute interplay between mother and child.

“What do you want to show us?” She teased Kristina with a puzzled expression.

Kristina reached out and grabbed Colette’s hand, and the rest fell in behind as she led them up the long staircase.

“Come back down in five minutes,” the Countess called out. “Dinner will be on the table.” She then retreated to the kitchen.

Gabi’s excitement level rose with each step. Knowing that she was so close to the Mona Lisa, to actually see her for the first time, was electrifying.

The long hallway that led to the young girl’s bedroom was tastefully adorned with a variety of artwork, including canvas paintings, many of the trompe l’oeil technique.

Kristina dropped Colette’s hand and ran the last ten steps, placing both hands on the doorknob.

“Are you ready?”

Gabi nodded but didn’t say a word. She followed Colette into the bedroom, and there, on a wall behind her four-poster bed, was La Joconde.

Gabi stopped breathing. Da Vinci’s painting was so exquisite, so perfect—so emotional. She reminded herself to inhale.

Slowly moving into the room as if on hallowed ground, the group assembled at the foot of Kristina’s bed. All eyes fixed on the mesmerizing masterpiece. For a minute, no one spoke.

Awestruck, heat rose to Gabi’s cheeks as Eric slipped an arm around her waist.

“Everything that people have said about the Mona Lisa is right,” she whispered. “Her smile is mesmerizing.”

Bernard folded his arms across his chest. “I can see why no other painting has captured the world’s imagination like this one.”

“She is exquisite.”

All heads turned to the voice from the doorway. Countess Ariane stepped to the side of the bed. “She’s kept watch over Kristina every night since her arrival in February. La Joconde has become her friend.”

“I don’t want her to go, Mommy.”

“Listen, mon petit chou, the Mona Lisa doesn’t belong to us. She belongs to all of France, and it’s time for her to go home . . . and for us to head downstairs and eat.”

“Can we visit her in Paris?”

Gabi watched Colette step closer and bend her knees until she was at eye level with the young girl. “I’ll make sure you have a private audience with her every time you visit. You can even stay with her after closing. My promise.”

The Paquis neighborhood was Hans Schaffner’s kind of place.

This part of Geneva was a melting pot of thieves, pickpockets, and hustlers—the type of place where prostitutes openly gathered on street corners while they waited for approaching customers from the Rive Droite.

Inside a tawdry bar on the Rue de Berne, Schaffner and Kaufman took a table among the lowlifes. The congenial waitress who took their order immediately switched to a passable German after hearing their fumbling French. Schaffner got the feeling that they weren’t the first Germans to find themselves in Geneva’s red-light district.

They had driven into the border city at dusk, arriving as lights illuminated the Jet d’Eau, a water fountain shooting a plume of lake water high above the majestic buildings along the southeastern bank. They were running right on schedule, thanks to their German resilience in overcoming the travel setbacks.

A dinner break in Geneva would give them time to regroup and go over their plans again. Schaffner told his partner that he was actually expecting more trouble finding the chateau than snatching the Mona Lisa.

“The good news is that the moon will be bright, so you’d think a big place like that will stick out like a sore thumb,” Schaffner said. “Let’s take a look at that map again.”

The Chateau de Dampierre was on the way into Annecy, a small city and Alpine pearl he had visited before the war. No more than thirty-five kilometers, less than an hour from the border.

“Seven kilometers before Annecy, we take this turnoff . . . looks straightforward to me.”

The borders between Switzerland and France and Germany had been sealed since 1939, but Schaffner had done some checking and found a country road in Thônex, a small town outside of Geneva, where patrols were sparse and the customs booth on both sides of the border closed at 6 p.m. Once they slipped into France, they would have a clear shot toward Annecy.

“Have you ever seen the Mona Lisa?” Schaffner asked.

His partner shook his head. “Only pictures.”

“I don’t understand what the fuss is all about. She looks like she has constipation, you know?”

Kaufman grinned and unloaded his fork. “Do you think we’ll find any resistance?” He half mumbled his words past the food.

“Heller doesn’t think so. The Count is apparently out of town, checking on one of his wineries in the Bourgogne. There should only be the Countess, their young daughter, and a few farmhands on the estate. Maybe we’ll see a paysan with a pitchfork. I don’t know. But I can tell you this: nothing is going to keep me from collecting the second half of our fee.”