28

Wednesday, August 30, 1944

Paris, France

Marcel Bertille studied his black leather address book, which contained a list of newspaper reporters, radio commentators, and opinion makers. He had worn many hats for the French Communist Party over the years, but on this Wednesday morning, he played the role of media liaison. He was relying on newspapers and radio outlets to get the word out.

“Salut, Jean-Louis. How is Libération treating you?”

Bertille listened to the blowhard at Paris-Soir—one of the notorious collaborationist newspapers—blather on about de Gaulle’s triumphant walk along the Champs Élysées and how that epoch represented a new day in France. At the opportune moment, Bertille tickled his ears with a dainty morsel of information.

“Listen, I have a blockbuster story for you, and you’re going to want to be there.”

“Where?”

“In front of the Louvre entrance. Colonel Rol will be making an announcement at two o’clock today—a very important one. You don’t want to miss it.”

“Are Rol and your Communist pals making a play for political control of France?” Jean-Louis scoffed. “Because if you think the people are going to turn to you instead of de Gaulle—”

“Now is not the time for politics,” Bertille interjected. “That national discussion will happen someday, but not today.”

“So what’s Rol going to talk about?”

Bertille paused. It was better to let the line out a little longer and wait for this ink-stained fish to strike. “It involves a matter of national pride.”

“National pride? I think de Gaulle cornered the market in that department.”

“I’m really not supposed to say more.”

“C’mon, Bertille. You have to give me a little more than that. I’m a busy guy.”

Bertille paused again to signify that he was thinking when in actuality he was waiting for the right time to set the hook.

“Okay, I suppose I can trust you. Colonel Rol will be talking about the disappearance of the Mona Lisa.”

Bertille heard an audible gasp. “La Joconde? Wasn’t the painting evacuated with the rest of the Louvre treasures?”

“Correct, but it seems that a pair of German operatives got their hands on the portrait.”

“When?”

“Yesterday at a chateau near Annecy. We believe they took the painting into Switzerland.”

“This is unbelievable. How do you know?”

“Because one of our men was at the chateau when the thieves broke in and carried her off. His name is Bernard Rousseau. He will be at the press conference to tell his side of the story. Sorry. I wish I could share more details, but at this time . . .” He let his voice trail off.

Bertille could feel a tug on the line. Any moment, the Paris-Soir columnist would bite—and he did.

“I will be there,” the reporter said. “I was a boy when the Mona Lisa disappeared for two years before the Great War. My parents took me to the Louvre and we looked at the dark spot on the wall. Paris and the world went into spasms of aesthetic agony. So you’re saying this disturbing event happened yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Why wasn’t the Mona Lisa secured? And what about the rest of the Louvre collection? Are our Monets and Delacroix riches in jeopardy as well?” Jean-Louis rattled on. “If the Nazis can’t have Paris, will they continue to loot our treasures and cart them off?”

“All important questions, mon ami. Colonel Rol will be happy to supply the answers this afternoon. That is why I’m calling and suggesting you be there.”

After a closing salutation, Bertille settled back in his chair with a satisfied look.

Then he opened his address book again.

He had many more phone calls to make.

Gabi and Eric, along with Bill Palmer, were eating a late breakfast inside the mess tent on the grounds of the École Militaire, where they had spent the night. The trio had received red-carpet treatment after Gabi successfully picked the locks on the handcuffs with a hairpin. All they could do now was wait.

“Do you think the police will find Bernard Rousseau soon?” Palmer asked.

Eric set down his piece of toast. “He could be anywhere in a huge city like Paris. I think he—and the Mona Lisa—can’t stay under wraps for too long. He and his comrades are probably figuring out how they can exploit this situation to maximum advantage.”

After a second coffee, an aide to General Leclerc approached.

“Word is getting around Paris that Colonel Rol and Bernard Rousseau will be in front of the Louvre at 2 p.m. to make some sort of ‘major announcement’ about the Mona Lisa.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Gabi turned to Eric. “We were expecting something like this.”

Nervous energy soared through Bernard’s body as he stood at the bottom of the stone staircase leading to the Louvre entrance. Situated in the large palace courtyard, Bernard—along with Colonel Rol and Marcel Bertille—were surrounded by a legion of reporters and photographers ready to record their history-making announcement. A hundred or so tourists and locals who happened to be in the area pressed closer to learn what the fuss was all about.

One hundred meters away, the Mona Lisa lay in her crate inside a Peugeot double-parked on the Place du Carrousel. Bernard turned and looked at the four armed men surrounding the vehicle. It was Bertille’s idea for the bodyguard quartet to ceremoniously carry the Mona Lisa the length of the courtyard while photographers snapped pictures that would be transmitted around the world.

The four men awaited their cue to begin the procession, but that would only come after Colonel Rol hectored the Gaullist government for allowing the Mona Lisa to fall into Nazi hands. After railing against the malfeasance, Rol would tell the courageous story of how he—Bernard Rousseau, Resistance hero—risked his life to single-handedly free La Joconde and bring her back to her home at the Louvre.

Bernard knew it was all a bald-faced fabrication, but he and the French Communists were operating under the Churchillian axiom that a lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on. His side needed to do something to knock de Gaulle off his pedestal, and right now, the Mona Lisa was their biggest club. Sure, the Gaullists could produce Gabi and Eric as well as the American pilot, but it was his word—a Frenchman!—against theirs. It also helped that Bertille could obfuscate with the best of them.

Bernard regarded his wristwatch, battered and scratched from his underground missions. Only a few minutes remained until nearby church towers heralded the arrival of the two o’clock hour.

The plan was for Colonel Rol and Bertille to do most of the talking until Bernard delivered his eyewitness account of the Germans’ heist at Chateau de Dampierre. He planned to embellish the story of how the hated boches threatened to cut off the girl’s fingers one by one. He was certain that this detail would be highlighted in tomorrow’s newspaper stories. Then the Mona Lisa would be produced, procession and all, and together the three of them would escort La Joconde back to the Louvre, where future generations would enjoy that famous smile.

Bells pealed in the distance, prompting Bertille to mount two steps and address the media crunch.

“Welcome, everyone, and thank you for coming today on short notice. It pleases me to see so many reporters from newspaper and radio stations on hand. Freedom of the press was lost when Nazi boots occupied Paris, but those of us in the FTP gave our blood to see that liberty returned,” Bertille said.

There was polite applause, and Bernard joined in the clapping.

“But a serious situation has arisen that I want to bring to your attention today, and to help me do that, I’ve asked one of the real heroes of the Resistance—”

Bertille’s introduction of Colonel Rol was drowned out by the sound of police sirens and honking horns barreling into the Louvre’s palace courtyard. All eyes turned to a fast-moving motorcade of four black Citroën sedans with miniature French tricolores, escorted by a pair of police motorcycles. Mothers reached for hands of little ones, and couples made sure they got out of the way. The parade of shiny cars rolled to a stop not far from the entrance staircase where Bernard and the others had gathered for the press conference.

Cries of “It’s de Gaulle!” rose into the air. Bernard took a step to gain a better view and saw the regal general step out of the car wearing his trademark képi, a cap with a flat circular top and visor.

A clamor arose, and the bystanders surged toward the general. Chants rose from their lips. “Vive de Gaulle! Vive de Gaulle! Vive de Gaulle!”

The pool of reporters deserted their press conference and rushed over to see what was happening.

What Bernard viewed next was unbelievable. Stepping out of the same rear seat was Colette, dressed in a yellow sun dress and dark sunglasses to shield her eyes from the hot August sun. The raucous crowd immediately engulfed her as well.

“What’s going on?” Bertille demanded, as if Bernard knew the answer.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Bernard’s world was thrown into a faster tailspin when Eric and Gabi exited the second car. They fell into a group that followed de Gaulle to the top step of the entrance stairway. Photographers chased after the entourage, angling for a shot of the general marching into the Louvre. Bernard saw flashbulbs go off and cameramen winding film in their cameras.

The crowd noise intensified and bordered on chaos. De Gaulle, in that imperial manner of his, turned at the top of the steps and faced the throng.

“Mesdames et messieurs, la Mona Lisa est arrivée!” Ladies and gentlemen, the Mona Lisa has arrived!

Bernard’s head throbbed, and he felt a shortness of breath.

“What is the meaning of this?” Colonel Rol demanded.

“I have no idea, sir.” How could de Gaulle say he had the Mona Lisa when they had her? He looked back toward the parked Peugeot. The four men, with guns drawn, still surrounded the vehicle.

De Gaulle spread his arms to signal that he wished to continue. “She will now be hung in the Salle Carré and restored to her place of glory. I invite you to witness one of the first important steps that show France getting back up on her feet after the national humiliation of German occupation.”

The doors to the Louvre—which had been closed for better than ten days—suddenly swung open. The crowd pressed forward, and Bernard found himself following Rol and Bertille through the front entrance. The ticket booths were unmanned, and Louvre personnel were on hand to direct the sudden flood of visitors.

Bernard and his comrades fell in behind the army following de Gaulle and his former girlfriend. The throng marched along several long halles whose walls were lightly populated with works of art along with sawhorses and carpenter’s tools.

They entered the Salle Carré, where men in white lab coats and white gloves waited with their own set of work tools. Six Free French 2nd Armored Division soldiers flanked them with rifles resting across their chests.

And then everything came into view.

Sitting on a table against the far wall was a wooden transportation crate—but made of different wood than the one from the Chateau de Dampierre.

De Gaulle took his place in front of the table. “The Mona Lisa arrived from her summer home in southern France early last evening, and we only thought it was appropriate that she be immediately shared with the French people. Her presence today is a national reminder that art inspires the soul, uplifts the human spirit, and creates unity among its people.”

Reporters scribbled in their notebooks, and photographers’ flashes filled the grand hall. De Gaulle stepped aside as two men in white lab coats meticulously unscrewed several screws around the perimeter of the wooden crate.

Bernard moved closer, holding his breath the entire way. Underneath the lid was the same purple slipcover that covered his Mona Lisa . . .

The two men untied the drawstring and carefully worked the velvet pouch down the frame to reveal La Joconde.

How could this be? Impossible!

A gasp circulated through the crowd, and a flurry of flashes filled the room.

“Mesdames et messieurs, I present you . . . the Mona Lisa!” De Gaulle, a rarely seen smile creasing his taciturn face, pulled both arms behind him and then stepped back. He appeared to be content having the spotlight taken off him—which had to be a first.

Anger and confusion wrestled for control of Bernard’s mind.

He turned to say something to Colonel Rol and Marcel Bertille, but they were already beating a hasty retreat. Instead of chasing after them, though, Bernard chose to step closer as de Gaulle stood for a photograph with the Mona Lisa. If the general was trying to match her impish smile, he fought a losing battle. Then the French general waved Colette to stand next to him as more flashbulbs popped inside the grand hall.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present you with the heroine for the Mona Lisa’s return—Colette Perriard.”

De Gaulle’s introduction set off a torrent of questions from the reporters.

“Mademoiselle Perriard, is it true that the Germans tried to steal the Mona Lisa?”

“Can you give us more details about what happened yesterday?”

“What did the boches look like?”

General de Gaulle stepped in front of Colette and asked for politeness and decorum. “Mademoiselle Perriard is prepared to provide more details, although there are some facts that must be withheld because of the wartime situation. Mademoiselle Perriard?”

Colette cleared her throat. “Yes, the rumors are true. The Nazis tried to steal the Mona Lisa. She had been secured during the last six months of the Occupation at a chateau outside of Annecy, away from prying hands. But the attempt was foiled, and the decision was made to immediately bring the Mona Lisa back to the Louvre, where she will resume her reign as the world’s most famous painting under the watchful eye of the Louvre’s security detail.”

“How did the Nazis try to steal the Mona Lisa?” shouted a reporter from Le Petit Parisien newspaper. “How many were involved?”

Colette looked to General de Gaulle, who bestowed a faint shake of the head.

“I’m sorry, but we are not prepared to discuss those details at this time.”

For the next few minutes, Colette doled out bits of information—and devoted most of her answers to explaining why she couldn’t answer further, which raised the frustration level with the press.

“Thank you for your attention, but that is all we are prepared to discuss today.” With that statement, Colette stepped back as her eyes scanned the room.

Bernard thought about departing, but like a moth drawn to a flame, he could not look away.

“I can’t believe what happened. I really can’t.”

For the fifth time in the last half hour, Bernard bitterly railed against the events that had transpired at the Louvre. If he expressed enough vehemence, he thought, maybe Colonel Rol and Marcel Bertille would forget that it was him who was at the epicenter of l’affaire Mona Lisa.

Bernard looked at those gathered inside the crowded living room of Bertille’s third-floor apartment tucked away in the Marais neighborhood. Filling couches and sitting on chairs were more than a dozen men—the senior leadership of their organization. A heavy pall hung over the room, reminding Bernard of a reception hall at a morgue.

Bertille took the floor, building a case that the French Communist Party had been pushed to the fringes of political discussion and would likely remain that way in postwar France. As Bernard listened glumly, he wondered how such a hoped-for prize had slipped out of their hands.

At every juncture, de Gaulle had been a step ahead. And if what he had witnessed with his own eyes was true, then Colette had the real Mona Lisa.

Or did she?

He stood up from the settee and walked into Bertille’s formal dining room where three armed men, unshaven and sweating in the unyielding heat of August, sat around a mahogany table. The Mona Lisa—at least the painting that he thought was La Joconde—was still lying inside the uncovered wooden transportation crate. She was exposed to the world; her protective purple slipcover had been taken off and placed underneath the painting.

He sidled up next to the crate and regarded the monotone palette of yellows and browns that defined da Vinci’s genius. Time had aged and darkened her complexion, and upon closer examination, he could easily view cracks caused by differential shrinkage of traditional oil paints.

Then a staggering thought hit him like a thunderbolt: They still had the real Mona Lisa!

“Marcel, come here!” Bernard called to the other room.

Upon his colleague’s arrival, Bernard rapidly explained his theory. Colette and de Gaulle had pulled off an elaborate ruse with a reproduction—and they would take back the Mona Lisa from them!

Bertille buried his chin in the palm of his right hand. “Sounds entirely plausible to me. I wouldn’t put it past the old goat. Let’s get more men stationed inside and outside. We have to be prepared for—”

“Sir, a man is approaching the building.” The report came from one of the Resistance members on lookout.

“Is he armed?”

“I don’t think so. Doesn’t look the type, either.”

Bernard followed the partisan to a bay window overlooking the street. To his surprise, he identified the lone figure right away—Henri Rambouillet, the senior curator and Colette’s boss. After a knock on the door, Bernard warily welcomed him inside Bertille’s apartment.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Bernard said. “So why are you here?”

Rambouillet took off his hat. “To talk about the Mona Lisa.”

“What’s there to discuss? I have the original Mona Lisa, and you fooled everyone today by hanging a copy in the Louvre.”

“Please, Bernard. I come here as a friend. I could have sent the police to recover the property you’ve stolen from the Louvre, but I wanted to save you a shred of respect by not exposing you to further humiliation.”

“Don’t try to deceive me, as you did the press and General de Gaulle today. It is you, Colette, and that pompous general that need saving from humiliation!”

Rambouillet offered a sad smile. “Please, don’t mistrust me. I’m grateful for all you have done to free France, and because of my gratitude for what you have done as a member of the Resistance, I’m asking you to do the right thing now.”

“Colette should be the one asking. Or should I say begging that I give back the original Mona Lisa.”

“You disappoint me, Bernard. She risked everything to save you—her professional career and her life. She came to me after Heller threatened her and then promised to have you tortured if we didn’t comply. Together, we devised a plan to foil any Nazi attempt to steal the Mona Lisa. We never expected da Vinci’s masterpiece to be stolen by a fellow countryman, especially someone in the Resistance. You have hurt Colette deeply. How could you expect her to come back here and beg you to save yourself? Do you not have any self-respect?”

Bernard was convinced he was right. His only confidence was in the Communist party, and Rambouillet represented the part of society he wanted to grind out of France with the heel of his boot. He was destined to be defiant to the end and would have nothing left to lose if Rambouillet was telling the truth.

Colonel Rol, Bertille, and many of his fellow comrades watched Bernard in silence.

“If you’ve come to claim the real Mona Lisa, then we have a problem,” Bernard replied in a condescending tone.

“There won’t be a problem.”

Gaining confidence, Bernard let his arms fall to his side. “And why do you say that?”

“Because you have the copy.”

Bernard remained resolute, jutting out his chin and looking down on Rambouillet. Bertille and several witnesses whispered among themselves.

“Prove it.” Bernard crossed his arms across his chest, the picture of arrogance.

“Shall we have a look at your ‘Mona Lisa’?” the senior curator asked.

“Be my guest.”

Rambouillet tilted up the Mona Lisa and inspected the backing of the painting. “Do you see the Louvre seal, right here in the center, as it should be?”

“The official wax seal. I see it.”

“Did you notice the inscription on the bottom?” He pointed toward the lowest point of the picture frame.

Bernard regarded the scribbling, in golden paint, at the bottom of the right-hand corner. “It’s some sort of writing, but it looks indecipherable. Are those numbers?”

The Louvre director reached inside his coat pocket and took out a small hand mirror. “It’s written backwards, a trick da Vinci liked to use. Place this mirror against the back of the painting. Read for everyone the writing you see in the mirror.”

Bernard held up the mirror to the back of the painting.

“So what does it say?”

Bernard’s heart sank.

“Copie par Gilles Simon, 1932.”