Free Chasing Mona Lisa by Tricia Goyer; Mike Yorkey Page A

the same way. She longed for the hour when she could relax and release the breath she seemed to have been holding for years.
    She continued up the marble staircase, and with each footstep she felt her composure returning and confidence building. Years of kowtowing to the Germans would soon be over, and life would return to some semblance of normalcy.
    When she opened the door to her office, Anne jumped out of her chair to greet her.
    “You poor thing!” Anne reached out and pulled her close, and Colette felt her body slump. She expected tears to come, but they didn’t.
    She pulled back from Anne and pressed both hands to her temples. “The sound. It was horrific—”
    “Don’t say anything. Push that out of your mind. It had to be done,” Anne rambled. “Here, have a cup of tea.” She poured her a cup from the ceramic teapot.
    Colette sipped her lukewarm tea and could tell that her fellow curator had doubled up on the honey. “That’s very nice of you,” she replied unconsciously, lost in thought. Colette was no innocent when it came to man’s inhumanity to man. She had seen the same themes in the works she cared for. The artists of the past understood the human condition—the desire to conquer and subjugate others.
    Anne’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “Monsieur Rambouillet wants to see us. We saw the entire incident from his office. When I’d heard you’d used the Monsieur Monet alert code, I feared for what would happen next.”
    “If only Bernard was there. When it wasn’t his voice on the phone, I feared—well, I could barely walk across the palace courtyard. I knew that the German major wouldn’t hesitate to kill us. When he fired a shot in the hallway, I was sure both of us were next.”
    “They are dead and gone, thank goodness. Let’s not dwell on it. You showed great courage.”
    “ Merci . That’s very nice of you.” Colette sat at her desk, feeling the strength that had carried her up the stairs ebbing away. She lifted the cup with both hands. “Give me a moment, and then we’ll go see Monsieur Rambouillet.” Though Anne had encouraged her not to dwell on the incident, she did not see the cup of tea before her eyes but rather the dark red pool of blood seeping from the major’s skull.
    A few minutes later, after informing Anne that she was ready, the pair walked together into the senior curator’s spacious and well-appointed office. A light cabaret tune hummed from a mahogany-cased radio perched on his desk, its bouncy tune conflicting with the dull pain filling her chest.
    Rambouillet reached over and lowered the volume, then hurried around his desk, opening his arms wide to embrace Colette. “You saved my life. When that boche officer walked into my office and waved his Luger in my face, I thought today would be my last. You followed the plan to perfection.”
    The music stopped, and Colette pulled back from his embrace, turning her head to the radio. Perhaps there was an announcement forthcoming from the German Ministry of Propaganda. The Germans still held control of the major radio stations in Paris, and everybody knew what the announcers didn’t say was more telling than what they did report. Usually the pronouncements on the radio were the opposite of what was really happening.
    Rambouillet raised the volume in time to hear the familiar voice of Roger Villion, the infamous collaborator, echoing through the speaker:
The following is an important announcement: The authorities are appealing for calm. Do not believe the rumors that you are hearing on the streets. You are urged to stay inside your homes, where you will be safe.
    Rambouillet lowered the volume as an accordion-driven folk song came on. “My brother called ten minutes ago. A friend told him that French tanks were seen passing through Porte St. Cloud.”
    Colette’s lips parted. Porte St. Cloud was on the southwestern periphery of Paris. “French tanks? I thought the Americans were coming to