27

“I apologize that this is taking so long, sir. Your escort should be here any second.”

Eric noticed the MP admiring the classic Rolls Royce. “Not a problem. The plane won’t leave without us.”

A white bar across the entrance to the Dübendorf military airfield outside of Zurich blocked their path. Eric turned in the driver’s seat to address Kristina, who sat between Gabi and her father in the back. “You’ll be going home in no time, honey. Gabi’s dad will pick up his wife and before you know it, you’ll be driving through the gates of your home.”

Kristina beamed as Gabi gave her a reassuring squeeze.

Three minutes later, the crossbar was raised, and the polished sedan was waved through the checkpoint of Switzerland’s largest military airfield. Eric was quite familiar with the home of the Swiss Air Force, charged with defending Swiss airspace from intrusions by Luftwaffe planes as well as Allied bombers and fighters. When battle-damaged RAF and United States planes approached Switzerland, however, they were escorted and allowed to land at Dübendorf instead of crashing in Nazi Germany.

A lead car guided them past more than a half-dozen rows of Flying Fortresses, B-24 Liberators, and British Lancasters parked wingtip-to-wingtip in orderly precision. They continued past the control tower and terminus building toward a section of the quadrilateral-shaped airfield where a row of Swiss Me-109 fighters were lined up. Eric’s eyes followed the lead car, which led them past the attack aircraft to a bulky tri-motor with a low cantilever wing. Stamped on the corrugated duralumin metal skin was a white cross painted over a square red background.

“Recognize the plane?” Eric looked in the mirror at Gabi, sitting behind him.

A look of surprise swept her face. “That’s a Ju-52.”

“Dulles must have called in another favor from General Guisan.” Eric was referring to the head of the Swiss Army. When Gabi had flown into Germany three weeks earlier as the Swiss courier, General Guisan had put his personal aircraft at her disposal.

“It looks like the same plane.”

“And the same pilot.”

Standing in front of the fuselage door at the rear of the passenger plane was Captain Bill Palmer of the United States Army Eighth Air Force, a warm smile creasing his lips.

“What are you talking about?” Bernard asked.

Eric spoke up. “The American pilot is Captain Palmer. Back in January, his bomber limped into Swiss air space and landed in Dübendorf. He was interned in Davos with other Allied pilots and would still be up in the mountains, but he volunteered to fly Gabi on a top-secret mission a few weeks ago. Trust me, he’s a great pilot.”

Eric eased the Rolls Royce to a stop. Palmer walked across the grassy tarmac toward them, and Gabi hustled out of the back door to give him a warm hug. Introductions were made all around.

As Ernst moved Kristina to the front seat, Eric opened the trunk. He and Bernard carefully lifted the wooden crate containing the Mona Lisa out of the back of the car.

“We got her!” Eric called out.

Ernst shot him a thumbs-up and hugged Gabi. “See you soon, and God go with you,” he said, letting go of his daughter. Then he hopped in the driver’s seat of the Rolls and drove off with Kristina.

“Looks like you’ve come up in the world.” Palmer nodded toward the stunning luxury car leaving the airfield.

“The Mona Lisa travels in style, Bill. Must be why they asked you to fly her,” Eric said with a chuckle. “Let’s get her on board.”

He and Bernard slowly shuffled toward the fuselage door. The American pilot bounded up the four steps and held out his arms.

“Let me give you a hand,” Palmer said.

Eric positioned his side of the crate into Palmer’s arms and then helped Bernard up the steps and into the passenger plane.

“Where do you think we should put her?” Eric deferred to the Frenchman on board.

Bernard looked up the relatively steep fuselage of the passenger plane, outfitted with seven rows of leather seats, one on each side of the center aisle.

After a long moment, Eric understood the delay in a decision. Bernard had never seen the inside of an airplane before.

Eric turned to Palmer. “What do you think, Bill? Where would you put the Mona Lisa?”

The American pilot, dressed in khakis and wearing a beige United States Eighth cap, rubbed his face. “I’d put the crate on the floor between the front seat and the bulkhead. I think we can wedge it in there so that it won’t budge on takeoff or landing.”

Palmer was right. There was just enough room to lay the wooden crate on the floor.

“She’ll sleep like a baby all the way to Paris,” Eric enthused.

“Not me.” Bernard wiped his brow from the exertion. “I won’t rest until we’re on French soil and the Mona Lisa is back in the Louvre.”

“Are you going to need any help with these engine controls?” Gabi dropped into the copilot’s chair and looked at the center console, where three sets of levers controlled the throttles, mixture, and fuel cocks. “They’re still in German, you know.”

Palmer’s eyes scanned the instrument panel. He touched several electrical switches and set his feet on the rudder pedals. “I’ll be okay. Like riding a bike, right?”

“If you say so.” Gabi regarded the clusters of dials, indicators, knobs, levers, and switches crammed into the cockpit area. “I have no idea how you get this ship off the ground.”

“Don’t let a hair on that pretty head of yours worry about a thing. Looks like a milk run to me. Plenty of daylight left, no anti-aircraft guns to worry about, and a full tank of gas to get there.”

Palmer smiled. “You’re an amazing young woman, Gabi. I’m proud of what you’ve done for our country, especially helping the French get back the Mona Lisa. Your father briefed me on the phone about what happened in Lucerne. I’ll want to hear the full story.”

Palmer turned toward Gabi and set his right hand on the center console.

“I’ve gone through the preflight and haven’t forgotten how to fire up this puppy, so you can go back and visit with Eric and your French guest. Maybe you can practice being a stewardess. I hear that civilian aviation is going to take off after the war.”

“Stewardess? I think I’ll have better things to do than serving highballs to boorish businessmen on expense accounts.”

Gabi settled into the first seat on the right side of the aircraft, while Eric and Bernard took places in the second row. Bernard said he felt more comfortable sitting right behind the Mona Lisa so he could keep an eye on the wooden crate.

Sitting on the right side afforded Gabi a direct look at Captain Palmer through the open cockpit door. He tripped a couple of levers, and then she heard an electrical whine. The number one engine on the left side of the aircraft caught lustily, and a robust vibration shook the plane. Palmer then turned his attention toward engines two and three, which kicked into gear. The decibel level rose dramatically inside the fuselage.

Palmer lifted the leather helmet hanging from a hook next to the captain’s seat. He turned on the radio and set the frequency to ground control. A voice in English crackled through the earpiece, clearing him to taxi short of the active runway, and gave him the tower frequency to call when ready for takeoff. The American military pilot reached over to the center console and pushed forward on the throttles.

The plane lurched forward, and the butterflies in Gabi’s stomach jumped. To distract herself, she looked outside her window as the plane lightly bounced along the tarmac. They passed hangars, parked planes, and personnel riding in jeeps when Palmer made a broad, sweeping turn, pivoting the plane toward the west. He ran up his engines, checked his pressure gauges, and completed his preflight checklist. After resetting his radio frequency, he called the tower and received clearance to take off.

“Everyone got their seatbelts on?” he yelled over the din.

She held up a finger. “Wait a second.”

Bernard wasn’t looking outside his passenger window. His eyes were transfixed straight ahead, as if he was gazing at something in the distance. Gabi reached over and tapped him on the shoulder.

“You need to use your seatbelt.”

“A what?”

“Your seatbelt.” Gabi lifted hers, which was wrapped around her lap.

He searched his seat and found the two straps. He didn’t know how the two ends went together . . . but then figured it out.

Palmer looked back toward Gabi and gave her a thumbs-up. “You’re halfway to being a stewardess,” he shouted over the propellers’ roar.

The RPMs of the plane’s engines increased rapidly, and the plane began its takeoff roll. The noise level drowned out any chance for communication.

The plane lifted in the air, and Gabi looked down on the village of Dübendorf, off to the right.

The Junkers continued to climb as Palmer set a westerly course that would take them over the Swiss lowlands before angling northwest into France and on to Paris. The view from the air was exciting. She enjoyed seeing her homeland from an entirely new dimension. The farmlands resembled a green-and-gold checkerboard, and pastoral villages dotted the verdant landscape like shimmering jewels. Flying was an act of boldness, and only a few were given this new view of the world.

She glanced behind at Eric, whose mouth was agape. He thoroughly enjoyed the view of Switzerland from the eyes of an eagle.

“Having fun on your first plane flight?”

Eric looked away from the window with a huge grin.

He leaned over and gave her a kiss. When Gabi pulled away, she looked in Bernard’s direction to see if he had been watching them—or sightseeing.

The answer was neither. This time, he was leaning on the seat in front of him, eyes locked on the wooden crate containing the Mona Lisa.

The hum of the engines and steady progress lulled Gabi into closing her eyes. A sudden dip jostled her.

She looked at her watch. They had been in the air for nearly two hours. She unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped into the cockpit.

Bill Palmer looked up from the controls. “You’re probably wondering when we’re going to arrive.”

“Sorry. I’ve never been on a normal flight before.” Gabi flashed a smile.

“That makes two of us. Maybe I will fly for some airline after the war. At any rate, we’re a bit more than a half hour out of Le Bourget. Won’t be long now.”

“I’m really excited to be flying into Paris. Should be quite a sight.”

“What about that boyfriend of yours? Are you excited about him?”

Gabi blushed. “Very much so—more than ever.”

She turned and looked back to the passenger area. Eric wasn’t there. He must be using the lavatory before they landed. She hoped he wasn’t airsick and decided to go check on him.

Gabi stood up to walk toward the rear of the plane. This time Bernard was watching her, his eyes intent. She just passed him when she heard the command, “Stop.”

“Stop?”

She turned around, and standing in the aisle was Bernard. A pistol was pointed at her forehead.

Gabi gasped. “What are you doing, Bernard?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” His steady voice and steely resolve surprised her.

With his free hand, he reached into his knapsack and took out a set of chrome handcuffs. “Lock yourself to one of the seats.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“The Mona Lisa?”

Bernard nodded. “This doesn’t concern you. This is a matter for France to decide. I don’t want to kill you, especially because you risked your life to save La Joconde, but what is happening right now is far bigger than you or me—or a Renaissance painting for that matter, no matter how priceless it is. So do me a favor and lock yourself to a seat.”

It only took her a second to see through Bernard’s plan, and then she understood. He was making a play for the Mona Lisa to give his side a bargaining chip. The French Communists planned to use the revered portrait as some sort of public relations weapon against de Gaulle.

“The French people will not come to your side.”

“We won’t know until we try.” Bernard waved the gun. “Oblige me, s’il vous plaît.”

Gabi sat down and slipped one handcuff over her right wrist. Then she shackled herself to an opening in the armrest. “Satisfied?”

Before he could answer, Eric stepped out of the rear restroom—and Bernard planted his gun on Gabi’s temple.

The Frenchman opened his free hand to Eric. “Your weapon.”

Eric looked up, visibly stunned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m running out of patience. Kick your gun in my direction.”

Alarmed, Eric lifted his hands. “I’ll do what you say. Just don’t hurt Gabi.”

“End of the barrel.”

The Swiss reached into his pocket, and gripping the pistol by the end of the barrel, handed it over.

Keeping his eyes on Eric, Bernard stuffed the gun into his waistband, then pulled another set of handcuffs from his pocket. “Take the row behind Gabi and lock yourself up.”

Eric followed his instructions.

“For you, for your cause, and for the Mona Lisa, I hope you’ve thought this through,” Gabi said.

“Don’t worry. I have. Now your American pilot. When I get his attention, I want you to tell him two things. First, I want him to handcuff himself to the cockpit. Second, land this plane at Orly, not Le Bourget. Remind him that I know my Paris landmarks.”

“Everything all right back there?” yelled a voice from the cockpit. They were far enough back that Palmer couldn’t see them from the captain’s seat.

Rousseau moved quickly up the aisle, and in an instant trained his pistol on Palmer.

The American pilot glared at Rousseau. “What are you doing?” he demanded in English.

Gabi answered for the Frenchman. “He’s hijacking the plane! We’re handcuffed to our chairs.”

The plane suddenly dove, and Rousseau hit the ceiling of the fuselage. The Ju-52 continued to gyrate and lose altitude, eliciting screams from Gabi. When the plane leveled out, Rousseau slammed to the floor and leaped toward Gabi. Once again, he placed the business end of the cold pistol on her temple. “Tell him I start shooting if he tries that again.”

Gabi glowered at Rousseau but obeyed. “He’s promised to kill us if you try that again,” she yelled out. “You’re to land the plane at Orly. No tricks. He knows his Paris landmarks.”

Rousseau reached into his satchel for another set of handcuffs and jangled them at Gabi, who understood what Rousseau wanted to say.

“Bill, another thing. Rousseau wants you to handcuff yourself to your seat or something. He’s coming up now.”

Rousseau approached the cockpit and tossed the pair of handcuffs at Palmer, who released his grip on the wooden control wheel and caught them in mid-air.

The pilot’s face was a frozen mask. “I don’t like this, but I really believe you’re crazy enough to take everyone down.” He chained his left wrist to his steering column.

“Satisfied?” he demanded.

Rousseau, who didn’t understand, ignored him and stepped back into the cabin.

Gabi looked at the rings of sweat darkening the armpits of Rousseau’s button-down green shirt. Desperation reeked from every pore.

“What happens when we land?” Gabi asked.

“I leave with the Mona Lisa, and you remain in the plane.”

“It won’t be long before half of Paris is looking for you,” Eric barked.

Bernard wiped his free hand across his brow. “Then I better work fast.”

As Gabi listened to the exchange, a gut feeling came over her. Don’t rock the boat—or the plane. Let Rousseau take the Mona Lisa and play his little game. Like a house of cards, it would all come crashing down. She gave Eric a knowing look, and he understood.

They both knew Rousseau wasn’t going to win in the end.

Bernard took Gabi’s old seat and looked down upon the rural landscape. Ahead, still a ways off on the horizon, he could make out a warren of densely packed buildings that signified Paris proper. Given that overarching landmark, he got his bearings. They approached Paris from the southeast.

The geographical difference between the Le Bourget and Orly airports was stark. Le Bourget was located a good distance north of the Seine—twelve kilometers. He was just a boy when he and his parents joined 100,000 rabid Parisians to greet American aviator Charles Lindbergh after his history-making solo flight across the Atlantic.

He turned and looked at the pilot, who concentrated on his gauges. Using the Seine as a line of demarcation, they would be landing at Orly.

Bernard took no pleasure in what he was doing. He realized that he had jumped the Rubicon regarding his relationship with Colette. She would never speak to him again.

He was taking a huge gamble, but life was a risk, was it not? He was risking everything, not for himself, but for an opportune moment—a chance to reshape postwar France into a Communist society, where everyone was treated equally. No longer would the rich and titled call the shots. The proletariat would prevail.

Gabi was right. He would have to move quickly.

The Ju-52 lowered in the sky until the wings dipped, and the plane seemed to float for the longest time. Finally, the aircraft landed on the pavement with a soft bump. The Ju-52 rapidly lost speed.

Through Gabi, he informed Palmer to taxi the plane toward one of the abandoned hangers. Orly had been a strategic base for the Luftwaffe, but the Nazis were long gone.

The plane pulled up near a fence, and Bernard heard the engines cut. That was his cue. He turned to Gabi and Eric. “Sorry the trip had to end this way. I know you don’t understand, but this is for France.”

The Swiss didn’t reply, which surprised Bernard. Strangely, he had expected some sort of rejoinder. It didn’t matter.

He had the Mona Lisa. Colonel Rol and his comrades would be glad to see him. He’d become the hero they longed for.

With a short wave, he picked up the wooden crate and disappeared into the gloaming.