24

The Citroën progressed along the Quai de Cologny, past watch stores and private banks that fronted the western bank of Lake Geneva.

The image Schaffner wanted to project to prying eyes was that they were a couple of guys out on the town, meeting their friends at their favorite bar.

They followed the quai and passed the Jardin Anglais—English Garden—where Schaffner recognized the local landmark, a manicured flower clock. Then a more disturbing sight caught his attention—several policemen stationed at the streetlights leading to the Pont du Mont Blanc, the bridge spanning the Rhone River.

“Don’t make eye contact,” he said to Kaufman.

They were in luck. The lights remained green, and they didn’t have to stop.

From the corner of his eye, though, Schaffner saw that no one was paying attention to the Citroën. A BMW coupe, however, was parked at the side of the road, and the driver was being questioned by a cop.

They drove along the lake to Lausanne, then took a less-traveled route through vineyards as they followed road signs toward Neuchâtel, heralded as the wine- and watch-making capital of Switzerland.

Traveling out of their way on minor roads would add extra hours, but for a job like this, the extra caution was justified.

After Countess Ariane alerted the caretaker and his family to the tragic events, she sat down with Colette in the breakfast nook.

The young curator wiped away tears. “I’m so sorry, Countess, that Kristina has been kidnapped and there is nothing I can do to help.”

The Countess refilled her cup of tea. “Don’t blame yourself for this, Colette. We always knew there was a risk, and yet . . . we did what little we could to help France, even if it was only to protect her art. This isn’t your fault, and Bernard should have known that you would have never betrayed your country, even with your name on the list. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding—”

“There was no misunderstanding! Bernard should have known that I would only cooperate with the boches under extreme duress. I didn’t have any bargaining power. How was I to know that something like this would happen—that your daughter would be kidnapped? I’m wracked with guilt. I feel horrible.” Colette blew her nose and looked glumly into the distance.

The Countess laid her hand gently on Colette’s arm, a forced smile belying the fear that numbed her. Somewhere in Switzerland, her daughter was in the clutches of two men who’d probably kill her once her usefulness ended.

West-to-east traffic in Switzerland never took this route.

They were certainly taking the long way to Lucerne, traveling along Lake Neuchâtel, the largest lake within Switzerland. The kitschy cuckoo clock shops, elegant watch stores, and inviting pastry shops were buttoned up for the evening.

Even though it was past midnight, Schaffner had no problem remaining alert. The adrenaline coursing through his veins fueled his charge through the canton of Neuchâtel.

Kaufman, who had been dozing, stirred with a question. “Where are we?”

“We’ve passed Neuchâtel, and soon we’ll hit another long lake on our way to Biel/Bienne. Or is it Bienne/Biel?”

Kaufman perked up. “Biel/Bienne is on the border between the French- and German-speaking parts of Switzerland.”

“I hope we don’t have to show a passport,” Schaffner said dryly.

The remark elicited a grunt from Kaufman. “No language border check. But it will be good to be back on the German side of Switzerland. So which route are we taking to Lucerne?”

“There are lots of small roads. I’m thinking we’ll go to Solothurn and then cut down to Hutwil. A couple of mountain passes will slow us down, but that’ll get us to Lucerne. We’ll probably get there in the early morning.”

“I can’t believe we’re in this situation. My heart breaks for Kristina.”

Eric’s ears perked up at the sound of Gabi’s words coming from the passenger seat of the plush Rolls Royce.

Bernard stirred from the rear. “All is not lost. We’ll find these mongrels. If we don’t, at least we’ll know where the Mona Lisa is being kept. France will apply pressure on the Swiss government to have the painting released from her prison inside a Swiss bank vault.”

The Geneva border check rolled into view. The flash of Eric’s red Swiss passport from a black Rolls Royce was enough for them to be waved through by the night shift.

The four-door luxury sedan rolled smoothly through the dark and deserted streets of Geneva, staying on frontage roads to the lake. Eric looked again into the rearview mirror, but Bernard wasn’t there. He was lying down, alone with his thoughts.

Gabi’s head rested against the thick glass window. The smooth Swiss highway and gentle ride of the luxury sedan had lulled her to sleep. Eric reviewed what had transpired the last couple of hours. It was a forlorn sight when he had last looked in his rearview mirror and saw the Countess offering a weak wave. But he was pleased to know that the hired hand’s family was there to offer moral as well as physical support.

Now their destination was Allen Dulles’s apartment in Bern, where they would regroup. Pressing down on the accelerator, the in-line six-cylinder engine with 4,257 cubic centimeters of finely tuned power responded instantly.

They would make it to Bern in record time.