22

“This is the first beef I’ve had in a year, and it was worth the wait.”

Colette savored the rich and tender bite of beef bourguignonne. It was a heavenly preparation made by the Countess herself. She was a great cuisinère and an elegant hostess, so when seconds were offered, she and the others could hardly refuse.

Yet even as Colette enjoyed the meal, tension was building again. Every little noise drew her attention, and when Kristina dropped a piece of silverware, she thought she’d jump out of her skin. This dinner was taking too long.

Countess Ariane set her silver fork on her plate. “We read of your deprivations in Paris, and I’m pleased the braised beef is raising your spirits.”

“May I raise my spirits a third time?” Bernard held up his plate, which elicited light laughs around the long table set in the formal dining room. If he had been seated closer, Colette would have elbowed his ribs. Didn’t he understand that they’d come to Chateau de Dampierre on a serious mission . . . and not to indulge?

The Countess’s eyes lit up. “Hand over that plate, young man. You have a long night ahead.” The Countess scooped another generous helping from the enameled casserole dish.

Every minute that passed, the Germans were potentially that much closer. Colette set her fork down harder than intended and saw that all eyes had moved to her. “As much as we’d like to stay, we must get back on the road to Paris—as soon as possible.”

Colette turned to Kristina, who sat next to her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we have to pack up La Joconde. I hope this news doesn’t upset you.”

Kristina made a brave face but was near tears. “Does she really have to go?”

“Yes, dear.” Colette wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I would imagine that you have to be very careful when transporting a priceless painting,” Gabi interjected, attempting to change the subject.

“You should have been here when she arrived,” the Countess said, warming to the memory. “The Mona Lisa was in her protective crate, and when the truck pulled up to the front door, four men carried her in like Cleopatra on the Nile. It was quite a production.”

“Where have you stored the crate they used to transport her?” Colette asked the Countess.

“You’ll find it under Kristina’s bed.”

While Bernard finished mopping up the last drops of brown sauce from his plate, Colette forced a smile and worked the napkin in her hands.

She rose, unable to contain herself any longer. She needed to begin packing the Mona Lisa in the protective transportation crate—now.

“We really have to get moving. Countess, is there any way Kristina can give you a hand in the kitchen while we get started?”

The Countess smiled in understanding. “She can help me clean up the dishes, but I know Kristina will be heartbroken if she doesn’t say goodbye.”

“Very well. When you’re done, come on up. But this should only take us fifteen or twenty minutes to get her ready.”

Colette, followed by Bernard, mounted the limestone staircase to Kristina’s bedroom, where her eyes were again drawn to that hypnotic smile. Taking a deep breath, she cleared her mind and ran through the packing process. She was thankful that the Mona Lisa was not set behind glass since that would have posed special challenges during transportation. Slivers of broken glass with razor-sharp edges and fragile centuries-old oils . . . not a good mix.

“Bernard, can you offer your handyman’s opinion?” She motioned toward the floor under the bed. “I want to insure the integrity of the original box used to transport the Mona Lisa. One can’t be too careful.”

She’d heard stories about things going wrong when moving a work of art—scratches, chipped paint, even tears in the canvas. That would not happen on her watch. The Florentine lady had to be fully protected at all times.

Bernard dropped to his knees and lifted the heavy floor-length bedspread and folded the lightweight comforter back atop the four-poster bed. He reached underneath and pulled out a rectangular wooden box that was covered with white linen. A light layer of dust coated the sheet, but the box looked like new.

The Frenchman looked up when Eric entered the room, holding the handle of a small gray toolbox. Gabi was right behind him.

“Where would you like this?” Eric asked.

“Set it over there.” Colette pointed to the window overlooking the circular driveway. She turned her attention back to the wooden box set before her. Six cross-slotted flat head screws around the perimeter secured the lid.

“Here, allow me.” Bernard reached for the metal tool box. After finding the Phillips head screwdriver, he began loosening the screws.

“Careful.” Colette knew she was hovering like a mother hen, but she didn’t want Bernard to damage the crate.

Within a few minutes, the six screws lay in a neat pile, allowing Bernard to lift off the top section.

Inside the custom-made box was a precisely fitted cavity lined with royal purple velvet. The recessed interior matched the exact proportions of the framed Mona Lisa. Lying at the bottom of the box was a folded purple slipcover with a drawstring, to place over the painting. There were also two wooden braces wrapped with velvet to secure the painting inside the crate.

“Everything looks in order to me,” Colette said. “What do you think?”

Bernard ran his fingers over the velvet lining and inspected the crate for cracks. “I don’t see any problems.”

“Excellent.” Colette clapped her hands together. “Bernard, Eric—would you bring the Mona Lisa over here? You’ll need to lift straight up to release her from the four supporting hooks.”

The two eyed each other, and Colette saw looks of resolve.

“We better move the bed first,” Eric said.

“Good idea, but be careful not to bump the frame.”

Bernard nodded his agreement as he and Eric positioned themselves midway on either side of the bed. They lifted simultaneously. Then with controlled steps, they moved the heavy bed away from the wall, giving them ample room.

Colette held her concerned expression. “You gents think you can handle her?”

“She’s not heavy, is she?” Bernard asked.

“My notes say that the painting and frame weigh ten kilos because she was painted on a wood panel. That’s not very heavy but perhaps more than you’d expect from a traditional painting on canvas.”

“We’ll be very careful,” Eric reassured.

Colette placed her hand over her heart as they carefully lifted the Mona Lisa up several centimeters so she was no longer tethered to the wall.

“Got it?” Bernard asked.

“Got it.”

They took mincing steps as they carried the painting toward the wooden crate.

“Ready to turn?”

“Ready.”

The two men turned the Mona Lisa on her back and slowly descended to the floor, where they carefully set the painting into the wooden crate.

“So far, so good.” Colette snapped the purple slipcover to get rid of any dust. She then reached down into the velvet pouch to ensure that nothing abrasive could come in contact with the delicate paint.

At that moment, the Countess and Kristina appeared in the doorway, holding hands. “Are we too soon?” the Countess asked.

“Perfect timing.” Colette waved the girl over. “Ready to tell your friend goodbye?” she asked.

Kristina knelt at the base of the crate next to Colette. She ran her fingers across the polished frame and then blew a kiss. “I’ll come visit you soon,” she whispered.

The young girl then stood next to her mother, wrapped her arms around her waist, and watched as the men tilted up the base of the painting while Colette gently eased the slipcover over the frame. Halfway up, they placed the base back in the crate and tilted the top up. The cover slipped into place like a satin glove. After the silk-braided drawstring was cinched down, the painting was placed in the recessed velvet cradle. Kristina inched forward for a closer look as Bernard secured the two wooden crossbars horizontally across the velvet covering.

Eric sidled up next to the Countess. “As you now know, there’s an imminent threat by German operatives to steal the Mona Lisa, so Bernard and I will have a look around before we leave.”

The Countess nodded. “I wondered if there would be such a threat during the Occupation. Frankly, I’m not surprised, other than it’s coming now, after Libération.”

“Do you have someplace that you can go tonight? I think it would be safer . . .” Eric’s voice trailed off.

“We can stay with my sister, who has a villa less than five kilometers from here. I’ll let her know we’re coming. I wouldn’t want Kristina to be in any danger. Thank you for suggesting this.”

Colette saw Eric and the Countess step closer just as Bernard sealed the lid with six screws. “That should do it,” she said, showing some signs of relief.

“Come, darling.” The Countess took hold of Kristina’s hand. “Let’s make some sandwiches, and then I have a surprise.”

“Sandwiches? But we just had dinner.”

“Not for us, dear. For our new friends. Remember, they’re leaving for Paris right away, and they need food for the long drive back. Then we’re going to spend the night at Aunt Louise’s. You’ll be able to play with your cousins.”

Kristina beamed with approval, then looked back to the wooden box lying next to her bed. “Au revoir, La Joconde.” Then the two disappeared down the hall.

Seconds later, the Countess reappeared. “I nearly forgot. There are several cans of petrol in the garage. If you need them, please help yourself.”

Then with a brief smile, she hurried down the hall.

“Give me a hand with the bed.” Eric bent down to move the queen-sized bed back into position.

“Colette and I will get that,” Gabi said. “Why don’t you take care of the petrol? Take Bernard with you. Those Germans could be out there.”

“You’re right. Let’s get moving.”

For Eric, a sense of urgency returned as uncertainty of the Germans’ whereabouts underscored the fact that they could be close. Until they were back on the road, there was real danger in being a stationary target.

The pair departed through the front door and jumped into the waiting Mercedes. Eric pulled around to the large four-car garage on the north side of the chateau. They found the cans of petrol neatly placed against an empty wall in a garage that housed a black Rolls Royce with silver trim and a polished red Mercedes coupe. They took turns ferrying the full cans and emptying them into their gas tank. After topping off, they filled an empty jerry can as their reserve supply.

“Nice to be royalty,” Bernard quipped.

“So it would seem,” Eric replied. “But you know, the Countess was so down-to-earth and hospitable, I almost forgot about it.”

“She was nice. I’ll have to give her that. And she even cleaned up in the kitchen.”

Eric closed the garage door, glad to breathe fresh evening air after inhaling gasoline fumes for the last ten minutes. He took a deep breath and hopped into the filthy Mercedes sedan for the short drive back to the chateau’s front entrance.

After cutting the engine, he turned to Bernard. “I think we should look around before we go back in. Make sure everything is buttoned up.”

The two walked around the chateau. Not finding anything amiss, they returned to the gravel driveway and headed toward the wrought iron gated entrance. Illuminated by a nearly full moon, a stone wall two meters in height outlined the estate.

“Too bad we don’t have a key to open the gate,” Bernard said.

“I saw the hired hand reach here.” Eric approached the guardhouse next to the stone pillars framing the entrance. He reached above the doorjamb and found the key.

They stepped out onto a deserted dirt road. Eric looked right, then left—when he spotted a car parked fifty meters away.

“See it?” he asked Bernard.

The Frenchman strained his eyes in the moonlight. “Let’s go check it out.”

Within ten steps, Eric recognized the model of the car—a BMW 320, probably five or six years old. Alarm bells went off in his head, and he broke into a sprint.

“Look at the license plate—from Zurich!” The white plate said ZH 499.

Bernard was already racing back to the chateau.

They hurried for the chateau’s formidable entrance, weapons drawn.

The massive front door stood ajar, causing the hair on the back of Eric’s neck to bristle. He had no idea where the Germans were—upstairs or downstairs.

Together, they listened through the gaping entrance for any sort of noise.

Hearing none, Eric waved his hand, and together they both slipped silently into the darkened passage. Staying close to the alcove wall, they headed to the left and passed through the dining room. Bernard held up a hand—then a muffled noise came from the kitchen.

They carefully stepped through the dining room, but the suppressed sounds stopped. Eric willed himself to remain calm, but he feared what was beyond the kitchen door.

He crept closer, followed by Bernard, but then he hit a spot on the wooden floor that caused a loud squeak.

Eric stopped and held his breath.

“Kommen Sie herein und Hände hoch!” said a graveled voice. “Oder wir töten unsere erste Geisel.” Come in here and hands in the air! Or we kill our first hostage.

Eric whispered the translation to Bernard, who responded with panic in his eyes. “We have to believe them,” Eric said.

“We’re coming,” Eric called out in German. He dropped his pistol into his pants pocket and mimed for Bernard to do the same.

They pushed through the swinging door with arms raised. One swarthy German held a gun to the temple of the shivering Countess. A thin sliver of blood trickled down her forehead. A thick rope bound her to a kitchen chair.

The other assailant, with close-set eyes and a fiendish grin, stood behind another chair, pointing his gun at Kristina. The young girl was blindfolded and seated, her cheeks wet with tears.

On the floor, Gabi and Colette were fettered with rope around their hands and feet. They leaned against kitchen cabinets. At their feet, the makings of sandwiches—sliced bread, lettuce, and tomatoes—were strewn across the parquet floor.

“Two more to add to our collection,” the heavier German said. “Very interesting. You know what we are here for, right?”

Eric glared back in silence.

“First, your guns.”

Eric bluffed and kept his arms raised. If one approaches to disarm me, that’ll give me an opening . . .

The Germans didn’t fall for it. Instead, the one holding the Countess pressed his revolver against her temple. A sob escaped her lips.

“My daughter . . . please release my daughter,” the woman pleaded.

The German ignored her words. His eyes remained fixed on Eric.

“She means nothing to me, so if you don’t drop your weapons now, she’ll be the first to go.”

Eric translated for Bernard’s benefit, and the two reached into their pockets. They dropped their guns to the floor and kicked them in the direction of the Germans.

“We are in a bit of a hurry, so bring us the Mona Lisa . . . schnell!”

Eric’s brow furrowed as he weighed his options.

The second German snatched the wrist of blindfolded Kristina, who let out an ear-piercing shriek. He yanked her arm and placed her hand on the kitchen counter to a cacophony of more bloodcurdling screams. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and produced a large switchblade. With a flash and metallic click, the released blade locked into place.

“You have sixty seconds to return with the painting. If you are tardy, the girl will lose one finger. Be gone two minutes, and she loses a second finger. Do you understand?”

“No, no, please, please—!” the Countess begged.

The beady-eyed German ignored her. He maliciously pressed the girl’s wrist to the cutting block and placed the blade’s sharp end against her pinky.

“You now have less than one minute. Then Rolf starts cutting,” the taller German said with satisfaction.

Eric bolted for the kitchen door, with Bernard in hot pursuit.

The screams of the young girl reverberated through the spacious chateau. Eric and Bernard raced for Kristina’s room, where they found the wooden crate on the floor in the same place they had left it.

Eric took one end of the crate as they hustled down the staircase sidewise, step by step, in record time. Then it was a race through the dining room. When they burst through the kitchen door, the German was counting down the time.

“Acht, sieben . . .” The German glanced up from his watch. “Just in time. I would have hated for the Countess to witness this.” He motioned for them to set down the wooden crate and raise their hands. They obliged.

“Now let her go,” Eric said with gritted teeth. “You’ve got your painting.”

The second German relaxed his grip, and the young girl pulled off the blindfold and ran to her mother. Kristina wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist and sobbed.

The German in command then turned toward Eric and Bernard, whose arms were still raised high. “Rolf, tie them up.”

He kept his pistol trained on Eric and Bernard as his partner bound their hands and feet. Then he pushed them to the kitchen floor, where they landed in a heap with Gabi and Colette.

The heavier German then waved his pistol toward the Countess. “I need a screwdriver,” he announced.

Gabi translated the question, then the Countess’s answer. “Top drawer . . . right side.”

The German began pulling out kitchen drawers. One near the pantry had the tool he needed. He returned to the crate and placed it on the counter.

Eric watched helplessly as the heavier German loosened the screws for the cover, then quickly moved to the screws holding the wooden braces inside the crate. When finished, he tilted up the painting and pulled back the velvet covering.

The famous face looked back, unconcerned with the deteriorating situation.

“Unglaublich.” Unbelievable. “It really is the Mona Lisa.”

The German covered the painting and reset the framed portrait inside the transportation crate. He secured the crate and replaced the screws. He moved quickly, the effort causing sweat to bead up on his forehead.

Wiping his brow, the German set the screwdriver down on the kitchen table while his partner kept a gun trained on the hostages.

“If you attempt to follow us or if we feel a police dragnet has been set, we will kill the girl.”

Gabi spoke first, her voice flaring with indignation. “You’re taking Kristina hostage?”

“You heard me. When the Mona Lisa is safely delivered, she will be released.”

Pandemonium swept the kitchen as Gabi and Eric shared the news with the others. A gunshot split the air as the heavier German fired his pistol into the ceiling. Plaster dust filtered down amid the silenced voices. The Countess’s soft weeping was the only sound.

With a slight nod to his partner, the second German roughly pinned Kristina’s hands behind her back and bound her wrists together with thin white rope and replaced the blindfold. The girl, hysterical with fear and unable to see, resisted until the restraints were set. She whimpered while the German gagged her with a strip of cloth.

“Remember what I said. Otherwise, the girl dies.”

With that parting directive, the heavier German hoisted the wooden crate into his arms. His partner held on tightly to the frightened young girl, and together the three disappeared through the kitchen door. The silence was deafening.

A panic-stricken Countess Ariane strained against the ropes that held her back. With unbridled fury, she twisted against the restraints that tore into her wrists and ankles. The force of her efforts caused the chair to tip over.

As she lay writhing against her bonds, Eric saw the ferocity in her eyes that could only come from a mother trying to protect her child.