Chasing Mona Lisa (11 page)

“Believe me, I was a couple of hours ago. You have no idea.”

She chuckled. “So what happened?”

“Not now. Maybe later. Tonight, we celebrate.”

Colette noted the evasive tone but let it go. He was right. Tonight was a time to celebrate and forget. He’d always hidden his involvement in the Resistance, but then again, she had her secrets too.

The sight of a couple hundred revelers, swaying to the music and draining dust-covered bottles of Bordeaux, greeted Bernard and Colette.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked. “It seems Uncle George is emptying the wine cellar tonight.”

“A glass of red would be fantastic.”

He returned with the drink and then took her hand. “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe my aunt will have something to eat besides boiled rutabaga.”

Bernard grasped Colette’s hand as they threaded their way through the crowd. He was grateful for the break to gather his thoughts. His emotions were torn, and he wasn’t sure what to believe after seeing Colette’s name on the list of informants. They were lovers, but a horrific war had forced them to hold back parts of their lives from each other. Presently, nothing made sense. If she had been talking to the Germans, why had he never been picked up and taken to the Gestapo prison at Fresnes? It didn’t make sense, but now was not the time to bring up the subject.

They climbed the stairs and turned into the dining room. Several members of the Resistance had gathered around the long wooden table, sharing boisterous exploits.

Seeing them, Aunt Irene stepped out of the kitchen and dusted her hands on her apron. She greeted Colette with two kisses and a hug. “One of the neighbors brought over some Camembert and three loaves of
pain rustique
.” She reached for a wooden board with wedges of the soft, creamy cheese and chunks of dark rye bread.

“Thank you, I’m quite famished.” Colette spread a sliver of Camembert on a slice of bread and handed it to Bernard.

“No, after you. Please, eat.”

Colette crunched into her first bite, pausing as the creamy delicacy melted into her taste buds. “This is so good! I haven’t had cheese in a month.”

“Then have another.” Madame Beaumont passed the wooden board to Colette. She accepted the offer without hesitation.

Irene Beaumont, her gray hair gathered in a bun, turned toward her nephew. “Do you want to ask the Swiss over there if they would like some?” She tilted her head toward the couple gathered at the window overlooking the courtyard.

“Good idea.”

Bernard stood, but Colette motioned to him, drawing him closer. “Who is she talking about?”

“Eric Hofstadler and Gabi Mueller.” Bernard nodded toward the couple on the other side of the living room. “They’re with the Red Cross. Arrived today with medical supplies from Switzerland.”

“So that was their car I saw parked next to the tank. Why would they come here?”

Bernard smiled—and shrugged. He reached for the wooden board of cheese and bread from his aunt. “You can ask them yourself, but to be honest, I’m not really sure.”

Bernard and Colette crossed into the living room, hand in hand. Eric spotted them first, and introductions were made as cheese and bread were passed around.

Gabi waited until she finished chewing her first morsel. “Nice to meet you, Colette. We saw you walk in together. How did you two meet?”

“We both work at the Louvre.” Colette’s cheeks flushed. “We’ve known each other a couple of years.”

“Bernard told us he worked with the maintenance crew. I know the Louvre’s a big place. So what do you do?” Gabi asked.

“I’m a curator, but really, in title only. The extent of my work and our exhibitions were quite rudimentary after the German Ministry of Culture was in control.”

“What was that like, having the—?”

The phone next to the kitchen entrance rang. The four turned. Bernard watched his aunt answer the phone and then wave him over.

“Excuse me,” Bernard said. “I should only be a moment.”

Grateful to escape the small talk, Bernard held the telephone to his right ear.

“Rousseau?”

“Oui,” he replied.

“Twenty-two hours, Meeting Point B,” the deep voice said, followed by a click.

He’d been expecting the phone call after the liberation of Paris. The message meant the war wasn’t over for the Communists in the Resistance.

The battle lines had merely shifted.

 
11

“An excellent
Wiener schnitzel
. My compliments to the chef.”

Colonel Heller lifted a bite of the Belgian veal, coated in seasoned breadcrumbs, to his lips. They never served this type of repast in the officers’ mess.

Heller let his eyes drift around Carinhall’s cherry-wood dining room. There was a lot to take in since this one room was three times as large as the house in which he was raised. Everything about Carinhall was out of scale, massive—in keeping with the image of its owner.

“It’s good you stayed for dinner, Heller. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to be entertaining a large crowd on an evening of such distressing news.”

An hour earlier, Göring had told his valet to cancel the usual dinner party, a nightly occurrence whenever the Reichsmarschall stayed at Carinhall. Between twenty and fifty were usually invited to these affairs—a glittery mix of captains of German industry, local politicians, film stars, socialites, and sycophants, sprinkled with the occasional Luftwaffe general or fleet admiral passing through. Heller was a regular invitee, but he preferred his perch on the periphery, biding his time while the Reichsmarschall held court. When summoned, Heller knew he would be given an assignment or be asked to do a favor on Göring’s behalf.

“I can only imagine the chaos on the streets of Paris, sir.” Heller knew his comment was like setting the ball on the pitch for a penalty kick. He hoped the Reichsmarschall would boot it in for a goal.

Predictably, Göring’s countenance brightened. “We’ll see if the Gaullists turn on their Resistance brothers, or vice versa. If the cheesers thought they had problems with us in charge, wait until they discover what it’s like dealing with the Bolsheviks. I have a feeling their ‘liberation’ is just the beginning of their next war. After all, Stalin has killed many more Russians than we have. Uncle Joe won’t hesitate to exterminate anyone standing in communism’s way, especially in France.”

Heller watched Göring set down his silver fork and knife and fidget with one of the half-dozen bejeweled rings attached to his sausage-like fingers. He could foresee what was coming next—a diatribe against the Jew-infested Communist “rabble” seeking world domination. But lately, such harangues had given way to a different topic that stirred his passions—art. This time, Göring chose the latter route, although he took a conversational detour to get there.

“The distressing news on the war front prompted me to do some diversionary reading. I found an old diary of mine from 1911, right after I graduated from Gross Lichterfelde.” Göring patted the quarto-sized volume beside his plate.

Heller was surprised. The Reichsmarschall
never
spoke about himself in a personal matter, unless it was an opportunity to boast about his genealogy, exploits, or collection of art. He could trace his bloodline back through most of Germany’s emperors as well as Bismarck and Goethe. He was the last commander of the legendary Richthofen Squadron in the Great War, a celebrated fighter ace with more kills than any German pilot save for the Red Baron. He was one of the founding fathers of the Nazi Party and more: after Hitler consolidated power in 1933, Göring created not only the concentration camp penal system, but he was also the architect of the Gestapo, the secret state police. Heller had heard it all so many times . . .

Heller harbored no illusions for whom he worked. Underneath the bonhomie and pretense of art connoisseur, Reichsmarschall Hermann Wilhelm Göring was ruthless, vicious, and self-centered, and operated under two principles: National Socialism defined morality, when convenient; and money could buy everything and anything you wanted—including the world’s greatest art. His appetite to accumulate was centered somewhere between his ego and his stomach, and it was getting hard to tell which was bigger.

“Excuse me, Reichsmarschall. You mentioned Gross Lichterfelde. This would have been when you were eighteen or so?” Gross Lichterfelde, the Prussian military academy, ranked with Sandhurst and West Point.

Heller waited in anticipation for what he envisioned to come. His foot tapped softly on the wood floor, impatiently hoping that his hard work and dedication would pay off soon and he’d be the man Göring would usher into unimaginable power and wealth. He understood that if the Reich continued to fall, the Allies would have Göring in their sights. The goal for Heller was to be close enough to hold the keys to the kingdom, but recluse enough to remain hidden in the shadows. For his plan to succeed, maintaining trust was imperative.

The Reichsmarschall set down the diary and sectioned off another portion of his schnitzel. “Correct. I sailed through my finals and scored 232 points, the highest in the academy’s history. I graduated summa cum laude.”

Here it comes, the self-inflating windbag
. So far, the Reichsmarschall hadn’t said much that was new, but he dare not interrupt Göring’s soliloquy.

“Back then, some of the boys and I decided to take a springtime trip to Italy.” Göring leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, revealing an ankle clad in a fine woven red sock. “Our first stop was Milan, where we found Leonardo da Vinci’s
Last Supper
. The mural that da Vinci painted was so faded and cracked that it had lost its original beauty. I wasn’t impressed, but that changed after we arrived in Rome. My pals and I came upon famous works by Raphael, Titian, and Bellini. Here’s what I noted in my diary:

The paintings we saw at the Sistine Chapel today were magnificent, as well as the sculptures inside St. Peter’s. We spent hours gazing at each piece of art, but the passage of time never moved so quickly. Nor had I been so moved.

“I know, Heller, scribblings of an immature schoolboy. But I must say that my time in Rome was when appreciation for art stirred for the first time. And now look where I am. Thirty years later, I have become the world’s most discerning collector.”

Was there no end to the self-praise?
Heller knew where the conversation was heading—and the Reichsmarschall determined its timing.

Göring uncrossed his legs and reached for a handbell. “Care to share a cognac or a schnapps after dinner?”

“Cognac will be fine, Reichsmarschall.”

Göring’s bloated fingers flicked the bell, and a butler dressed in a black suit stepped through a swinging door. Once the Reichsmarschall finished his instructions, he resumed his ravenous attack on what remained of his second helping of
Wiener schnitzel
. After the manservant had departed, Göring declared, “I want to return to our conversation about the
Mona Lisa
.”

“Yes, I was hoping we would.” Heller dabbed his lips with his starched napkin. “I must admit that I was taken aback by your idea. We’re not 100 percent sure where the
Mona Lisa
is, although we have a good idea.”

“But you could find out, correct?”

Heller nodded. His chest tightened within him, not with anxiousness, but with excitement. Was it really possible to find the painting? To behold it? To claim it?

“Yes, Reichsmarschall. Our informant in the Louvre has kept us apprised of where the French are hiding their national treasure.” He pictured beautiful Colette and was disappointed their relationship had been all work. “If my memory is correct, the
Mona Lisa
is resting at a chateau outside of Annecy. The exact location is in my file.”

“Annecy?” Göring stopped chewing. “That’s right outside Geneva.”

“Correct. Less than fifty kilometers from the Swiss border.”

Heller regarded the Reichsmarschall, who was lost in thought.

Göring leaned back with fingertips pressed together and stared into the distance. “So once we get our hands on the
Mona Lisa
, we could get the painting into Switzerland rather quickly.”

“It would seem so, yes. But we’re relying on the resourcefulness of Schaffner and Kaufman to ‘get’ the
Mona Lisa
. For all we know, the French may have the local police guarding the chateau.”

“Offer Schaffner and Kaufman ten times what we normally pay them. They’re creative. Tell them they’ll receive a generous bonus once they deliver the
Mona Lisa
to Zurich.”

Heller considered Göring’s idea. Hans Schaffner and Rolf Kaufman were a two-man team—both Germans and both Party members—living in Switzerland’s largest city. They acted as the Reichsmarschall’s personal emissaries in Switzerland. Armed with diplomatic passes and guile, they’d been performing various “errands” over the last decade, from depositing knapsacks of cash in numbered accounts to hand-delivering some of his most prized paintings for storage in Swiss bank vaults. They weren’t averse to performing the occasional “muscle work” when warranted. Schaffner and Kaufman were resourceful, calloused—and well paid.

Heller adjusted himself and leaned in toward Göring. “What’s working to our advantage is that the
Mona Lisa
is a small painting, so it’s easy to transport. Also, the chaos of the last few days will work in our favor. The French will have their guard down, still hung over from celebrating our departure.”

“Excellent.” Göring tinkled the bell one more time, a signal that he was finished eating and ready for dessert and his daily
digestif
. “You know what to do?”

“Yes, but one question remains. May I ask how you intend to use the
Mona Lisa
? Were you thinking of using her as a bargaining chip, should the war . . .”

Heller let the question hang. It was too risky to speak in a defeatist manner.

At that moment, the butler entered the dining room carrying a bottle of Rémy Martin Cognac and two silver plates adorned with plum tortes crowned with fresh cream. They waited until the butler departed before resuming their conversation.

“May I be candid with you?” Without waiting for a reply, Göring continued. “As you know, unless there is a somewhat unlikely turn of events, the Third Reich will be overrun by the Allied forces. Many have made plans for a life after the war and its uncertainties. There are few desirable locations, but fewer that offer anonymity without significant travel. The nearest port would be through France, which could present problems for a man of my stature. I propose we have a passport that would make the French welcome my departure from their beloved Marseille. Once safely on foreign soil, we turn over the whereabouts of their national treasure.”

What Göring told him made all the sense in the world.

He was crazy—like a fox.

With a gracious
auf Wiedersehen
to the Reichsmarschall’s valet, Colonel Walter Heller departed Carinhall through the front door, welcoming the warm evening air. His black leather boots crunched a path across the gravel drive toward the gray BMW motorcycle with attached sidecar. With a single kick, his driver brought the engine to life. Two white-tailed rabbits scurried across the lawn, seeking shelter from the distinctive exhaust notes.

He had first dismissed Göring’s idea about the
Mona Lisa
as coming from someone intoxicated with gluttony, but as they talked through his plan over dessert, Heller saw the merits—and the possibilities.

South America. That was a new one, but Göring mentioned that those in the know were already making plans for the future—probably in Argentina. The more Heller thought about disappearing in untamed South America, the better he liked the idea. He had his future to think about too. Thankful that his nest had already been partially feathered, he was grateful not to be completely dependent on Göring when it would be every man for himself.

Though he was well-versed in art, Heller viewed himself as a pragmatist—and yes, sadly, an opportunist, but only out of necessity, he rationalized. Long before Göring would admit the obvious, Heller recognized that the Third Reich’s ambitious plans were faltering and saw a need to protect his future. Göring’s appetite for exquisite art had provided the solution. The sheer volume of purchases on Göring’s behalf had left ample room for creative accounting, the tangible fruit secure within a numbered account at the Dolder Bank of Zurich.