26

For Colonel Heller, the view from a thousand meters above Lucerne—the gateway to central Switzerland—was an impressive panorama. Although the nearby mountainous peaks of the Pilatus, Rigi, and Stanserhorn had lost their crowns of snow, the appealing contrast between the bright green alpine landscape and the steel-blue Lake Lucerne was worthy of a two-franc postcard.

As impressive as the vista was from behind the series of two-meter-high plate glass windows, the view didn’t hold a candle to the Mona Lisa, whose enigmatic smile teased him from Wessner’s buffet hutch, where she leaned against a wall. He allowed his mind the luxury of thinking through how his life would change once he escaped from his role as Göring’s minion.

The Mona Lisa had taken his breath away, not because of her towering stature in the art world, but what she meant to his future. The war would be over soon, and with the inevitable loss Germany was now facing, a sizable account at the Dolder Bank would be his only hope for a new identity and a new home far from the Fatherland.

The options were dizzying, especially from his current lofty vantage at Chalet Rigi, but he didn’t allow his mind to get ahead of himself. First, the painting must be secured. He could not rest easy until the armored truck arrived to chaperone the keystone of his future to the security of the bank vault.

He looked at his watch, an action noted by Anton Wessner.

“Oberst Heller, they are on their way. It won’t be long now.”

The German officer turned toward the Swiss bank president. “You don’t know how much is riding—”

A phone call interrupted the Nazi colonel. Wessner walked across the generous living room and answered the phone. After listening intently for a few moments, he thanked the caller and said he would relay the message.

“Herr Colonel, that was the owner of the armored truck company. He was calling from Lucerne and said the truck would be here in twenty minutes. See? We can all breathe easy.”

The perpetual frown on Heller’s face turned to a faint smile.

His eyes inspected the main living quarters and were drawn to the single entry at the far end of the room. Next to it was a dining table made from dark polished wood. A rough-cut stone fireplace on the left dominated the room. Dark russet leather couches fronted the fireplace at ninety degrees with heavy end tables on either side. A heavily beamed ceiling created an air of openness in the large room, which included Wessner’s study to his right with its picturesque view of the valley.

Perched at the end of the couch was the young French girl, hands and feet bound and with blindfold still in place. Heller wasn’t thrilled that Schaffner and Kaufman brought her along; nonetheless, she was a bit player in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps she would return to her parents, but if not, the young girl would become another faceless casualty of war.

With a clap of hands, Wessner announced to Heller, Schaffner, and Kaufman that he would like to propose one last toast. With a swirl of the full-bodied Grand Cru, they raised rose-stemmed glasses to da Vinci’s masterpiece and postwar prosperity.

“Time to get her ready for the next journey.” Heller nodded in Schaffner and Kaufman’s direction, and the pair set down their wine. Together, they carefully lifted the Mona Lisa from the hutch, slipped her back into the velvet pouch, and then inside the crate.

“Freeze! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

Eric leveled the Colt .45 and leaned out of the hallway door leading into Wessner’s living room. Bernard, from the other side of the doorway, trained his semiautomatic handgun on the four men across the expansive room.

From his briefing with Dulles, Eric was told that Kaufman was the loosest cannon in the bunch and kept his focus locked on him. Sure enough, the German operative reached for a Luger tucked under his belt. Eric reacted first, firing twice. Bernard aimed his volleys, and three of the four heavy .45 caliber slugs found their mark in his torso. Kaufman’s body stuttered with each impact as his arms flailed upward, loosening the Luger from his grip. The weapon fell to his left as his heavy frame crashed into a bookcase behind the desk. With a perplexed expression, Kaufman slid to the floor, staring back through unseeing eyes.

The other three scrambled for cover. Wessner and Schaffner took refuge behind the massive desk, where the Mona Lisa lay in her crate, while Heller dove behind the nearby couch where Kristina sat.

“Get down, Kristina,” Eric yelled in French. The girl responded immediately and dropped to her side.

He could see Schaffner’s hunched back rise slightly and assumed he was pulling his weapon from his waistband. Eric couldn’t get a clear shot. The German operative reached just above the desktop and got off three blind shots, which plugged into the rough-hewn crossbeams above Eric’s head.

Eric wanted to return fire but didn’t have a shot. Bernard kept his response in check as well. Suddenly, Schaffner—still hunched over—ducked from behind the side of the desk, giving Eric an opening.

Eric fired twice, striking him once in his shoulder and spinning him off balance. Bernard got off two more shots. The first missed high, just above Schaffner’s head, and struck the large picture window.

The sound of splintering glass filled the air. Fragments tumbled to the floor, leaving a gaping hole in the center with jagged shards hanging precariously from the perimeter. Bernard’s second shot had caught Schaffner just below his collar bone, knocking him back. He backpedaled to regain his balance.

Gabi, frantic to shield Kristina from the melee, darted between Eric and Bernard.

“Cover her!” Eric yelled as she dashed toward the fireplace.

He stepped from the doorway and fired at Schaffner again, squeezing off three shots. Bernard followed suit. Two of the big slugs caught Schaffner in the upper body, propelling him through the open glass. The thigh-high windowsill stopped his fall as shards impaled his lower back. Eric watched him flail his arms and legs to free himself like a beetle trapped on its back.

Movement to his right caught his eye, where Gabi—still bent at the waist—rolled across the floor and smashed into the side of the sofa next to where Kristina lay prone.

He glanced at his semiautomatic and saw the slide locked open. Pushing the magazine release with his thumb, he simultaneously reached for another, sliding it into place and locking the magazine with the heel of his left hand. Rousseau, also empty, did the same. The sound of the two mags hitting the floor must have been the moment Heller was waiting to hear.

In a flash, he reached over the sofa, holding Kaufman’s Luger in one hand and grabbing Kristina by her ponytail with the other. Heller yanked her back into a sitting position, eliciting an ear-piercing scream. Using the girl as a shield, he stared down the barrel trained on Gabi’s forehead.

“Drop your guns, or the Fräulein dies . . . now!”

“Don’t shoot!” Eric yelled back.

He dropped his gun to the floor. “Drop your gun, Bernard. Do it, or he’ll kill Gabi.” Eric looked hard at Bernard, and the Frenchman’s expression confirmed what he knew in his heart.

They had no choice but to surrender.

Bernard complied with a sign of defeat while memories of the Pantin rail yard flooded back. He had witnessed Heller execute a wounded and defenseless man in cold blood without the slightest hint of emotion.

“Everyone, hands up!” Heller demanded as he rose to his feet and wrapped an arm around Kristina’s neck. She was sobbing, and tears saturated the blindfold.

“Let the girl go,” Bernard pleaded. “She’s an innocent victim.”

Heller remained stone-faced and squinted his eyes. He switched to French: “I know you . . . oh, yes, the train at Pantin. Bernard Rousseau, isn’t it? I never forget a face . . . or a name. I’m glad I didn’t kill you back then. Your life, it seems, is quite valuable, especially to the lovely Miss Perriard. It took the threat of your arrest and Gestapo torture to coerce information from her lips.”

So it was true, Bernard thought. Colette had been blackmailed and risked her career and a national treasure to save him. Now feeling weak and clammy, he couldn’t deny that he’d been a fool, losing both Colette and the Mona Lisa.

“Herr Wessner, you can come out of hiding now. Gather their guns and bring them here,” Heller ordered.

“Bernard is right,” Gabi started. “She’s done nothing wrong. Let the girl go.”

“All in due time, Fräulein.”

Bernard glanced out the side window as a silver armored truck labored into view.

“Ah, perfect timing.” Heller exhaled. “Our ride has arrived.”

“The painting will do you no good,” Gabi continued. “You are a dead man unless you run now.”

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I believe I’m the one in control here.” Heller spoke in a sarcastic voice as Wessner returned with the weapons. “Pick up the painting, Anton, and we’ll be on our way. Unfortunately, we’ll need to take some insurance.” He dragged Kristina backward by her neck from the couch.

Kristina’s terror-filled whimpers escalated.

Bernard’s legs quivered, and he realized they were running out of options.

The pitiful cries from Kristina broke Gabi’s heart. With Heller’s gun trained on her and the others, she felt helpless. Desperate.

“Hold on, Colonel. I have something you might trade the girl for. May I?”

Without waiting for an answer, she slowly reached into her pants pocket, keeping one arm raised. With her free hand, she produced a thin black book. After opening the journal, she began reading.

“On October 12, 1940, you authorized the purchase of van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet. You invoiced the German Cultural Ministry for 150,000 Reichsmarks on October 14 and made a payment of 110,000 RM on October 27. Matisse’s Pianist was purchased on November 14, 1940. The invoice amount was—”

“Stop. Where did you get that?”

“Paris. The Resistance lifted a Bauche safe. I cracked the combination and found your black book inside a hidden compartment.”

“Give it to me. If you don’t, the girl dies!” Heller trained his gun on shivering Kristina.

“In exchange for the girl,” Gabi demanded, stepping forward.

“It seems you are as stupid as you are beautiful,” Heller fumed. “I could just kill you and take it.”

“Killing me to get this book won’t end your problems.”

Gabi waved the black journal at Heller. “Göring knows all about the way you’ve diverted millions into your Swiss bank accounts here, or he will very shortly.”

Gabi saw a slight sheen of sweat form on Heller’s lip.

“Do you expect me to believe that you picked up the phone and spoke to the Reichsmarschall about your discovery?”

“Of course not,” Gabi replied. “But the German consulate to Switzerland, Rudolf Baumgartner, listened to what we had to say a few hours ago. He said he couldn’t approach Himmler without proof, but we weren’t about to give him this black book until the Mona Lisa and the girl were back in our hands. Ask Wessner if I’m telling the truth.” Gabi motioned with her head toward the banker standing with the Mona Lisa tucked under his arm and a Colt in his other hand.

“Do you know anything about this, Wessner?”

Wessner remained silent.

“Anton?” Heller yelled.

Startled, the banker responded, “I’m afraid the woman is telling the truth . . . I received a call from the Consulate General’s attaché before you arrived.”

Gabi swallowed hard and then straightened her shoulders. “I can only imagine the ‘reception’ that the Gestapo is planning for you. We told Baumgartner that if we don’t return, then you’ll have the black book. But if you give us the girl and let us go, we can make this all go away. And you get to keep the painting.”

Instead of a conciliatory gesture, Gabi saw the colonel’s face redden with rage.

“You will pay for this with your life, but first, you will watch Kristina die because of your stupid ploy.”

He pushed the girl to her knees and pressed the Luger to the back of her head.

“No . . . stop!” Gabi screamed.

The gunshot was deafening . . . Gabi saw Heller release his grip, and Kristina tumbled to the floor.

Transfixed, Wessner watched Heller slowly turn, eyes glazed with rage and hatred. Color drained from the colonel’s pasty face. His lips parted to form a word, then quivered slightly as blood filled his mouth and spilled down his chin.

Anton Wessner looked down at his hand trembling in part from shock and in part from the powerful recoil of the Colt .45. He regarded the smoke curling from the barrel, then toward his feet, where Heller had crumpled to the floor.

In desperate need of air, Wessner inhaled deeply. He had never killed a man before, but he couldn’t stand by and watch the senseless execution of an innocent girl.

With a quick look to his left, he saw the armored truck park alongside the house. In what seemed like slow motion, the young Swiss woman moved to Kristina’s side. She sat on the floor and held her in her arms while the other two men gathered around the sobbing girl.

As the shock began to pass, his mind refocused. It was clear what he should do. Training his pistol on Gabi and the girl with the Mona Lisa in his free arm, he stumbled backward toward the deck, keeping his attention and pistol aimed in the interlopers’ direction. His shoulder jostled the doorjamb that supported the shattered window, where Schaffner’s still body lay.

The impact caused a large triangular shard of glass to swing like a pendulum, free from its wooden bond. Gravity took control and pulled the heavy fragment to its final destination. The heavy quarter-inch plate passed across Wessner’s extended right forearm, scything through skin and muscle. The surgical blow was initially painless but caused Wessner to lose strength in his hand.

With a grimace, he looked at the pulsating rivulet of blood that soaked his tenuous grip on the heavy semiautomatic, now dangling from his bloody fingertips. With an intense, aching pain building in the mangled limb, Wessner knew he had to hurry. The banker rushed across the deck and down the stairs to the idling armored vehicle parked in his driveway.

Thoughts of a hefty reward from the French government for saving the Mona Lisa fueled his steps. Better yet, he would be acclaimed as an international hero, and now only he had access to Heller’s fortune. As he approached the rear of the armored truck, the back door swung open and a uniformed guard offered a hand and relieved Wessner of the painting.

“The Dolder Bank in Zurich, Herr Wessner?” the driver asked.

“No, the branch office at the Limmatplatz.” Wessner squinted up at the guard and into the blinding sunlight. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Who are you?”

“Ernst Mueller. And this is my colleague, Allen Dulles.”

As Wessner’s eyes adjusted, he saw the double barrels of the shotgun pointing at his head.

Visions of his hero status as rescuer of the Mona Lisa evaporated into the pale blue Swiss sky.