Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The bombers had flown over the town just a day ago, northeast to southwest. That was one thing Petra was good at—maps, directions, locations. It was as if she were born with an internal compass that could point her in the correct direction at any time. Her skill had helped her driver more than once as he had brought her to Guernica.

  When she had finally arrived at her aunt ’s house, Petra quickly remembered why it was not her favorite place to visit. Shunned by her cousins and mistreated by her difficult step-uncle, she found every possible excuse to avoid the family. So when her aunt and step-uncle had gone into town for lunch, she said she was too tired to join them. A short time later, she heard the insect-like buzzing of many airplanes, and then the bombs began to fall.

  Petra had fully expected to die under the constant bombardment, so what good would it do to run? Instead she sadly, calmly sat among her relatives’ beautiful furnishings and waited for the inevitable. The midday twilight of Guernica’s rising smoke engulfed the house, but she lit no lamps. The bombs fell for hours, but none landed near the house.

  After the last bomb had fallen, Petra dared to leave her aunt’s house for a few minutes. What she saw defied comprehension. Less than a mile away, on the other side of Calle Allende Salazar, the town was a heap of flaming rubble. Yet returning to the house, nothing was out of place. The polished floors shone, reflecting the setting sun through the widows. The family photographs of her grandparents, aunt, step-uncle, and cousins hung straight. Every last china teacup remained in its place in the hutch.

  One hour passed. Then three. Then five. By the next morning, when no word had arrived, she knew for certain her aunt and uncle were dead. Yet not even one tear fell. They were strangers to her, distant relatives who knew little about her until she showed up at their doorstep. And Petra’s cousins didn’t give her the time of day. She had no idea where to go next.

  Her stomach growled in hunger, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since the bombing. She rose and padded barefoot toward the kitchen when she heard her cousins’ voices on the other side of the closed kitchen door.

  “In town they’re saying the rich were protected from the bombs because of their leanings. You’ve seen the town. Father and Mother are dead for sure. And what of us? I’ve heard some of the wealthy people have already been rounded up. Maybe they were killed. They will come for us too, I know.” Ruy cursed under his breath. “They will drag us into the streets and get their revenge. We must leave, hide ourselves.”

  “How can the townspeople believe we had anything to do with it? Just because we are wealthy doesn’t mean we welcomed the bombers. We loved our town as much as anyone else,” Rafael answered.

  Petra could hear the fear in his voice.

  “Sí, but they do not know this. Father’s friends—some were rounded up months ago. Imprisoned. Most likely dead by now. They were considered Fascists.”

  “What about the girl? Where will she go?” Rafael asked.

  “Petra?” Ruy spat her name. “She is no concern to us.”

  “Yes, but if the Moors come, as it has been rumored . . . well, you’ve heard what they do to women.”

  “Pst. Rumors. I doubt the Moors are this far north. I expect their main concern is Madrid. Besides, if we take her, she’ll just slow us down. . . . ”

  Petra didn’t need to hear any more. She didn’t need them. She ’d lost her parents, her life. If she could live without her family, she could live without Ruy and Rafael.

  Forgetting about food, she hurried back toward her room. On the way, she noticed a door ajar to one of the maids’ small rooms. All the help had fled last night, after the bombing, returning to their families in the countryside. Remembering that, Petra knew what she must do.

  Entering the room, she took a quick account of all she ’d need. She rummaged through a trunk at the end of the bed. Grabbing a worn satchel from under the bed, she packed some things; then she quickly changed her clothes, leaving her fine dress in a pool of fabric on the floor—leaving behind the carefree girl she had once been.

  Petra blew out a breath and left the room, wondering where to turn next. She remembered a boy she once knew and wondered if he’d remember her. They’d met when both their families had been vacationing in Madrid. He lived in the north—not too far away. They could escape. Maybe they’d even cross to France and start a new life together.

  Walt paced the small room in which Sophie had rested just a few hours earlier. He took three strides from wall to wall, then turned to do it again, rethinking his conversations with the young woman and worrying he ’d told her too much. Information was power. Or it was death. Above all else, the most dangerous part of his work was relaying the right amount of information to the right person at the exact moment it was needed.

  He glanced toward the closed door and listened for footsteps outside. Then he knelt beside the cot, lifted it to the side, and worked the loose boards free. He pulled out the small suitcase, laid it on the floor, opened it, and pushed aside the prints he ’d just developed. Sophie ’s photos of enemy bombers. Ones that could never bear her name, for risk of her life. And more than anything, he needed her alive. She was the only one who could get close enough to Michael, Walt knew.

  Walt carefully folded his suit coat and felt hat, placed them inside, and snapped the case shut. He had less than an hour to wait before the other journalists arrived. He, more than anyone, knew the importance the press played in this war’s tide of events. He also knew that the reporters who waited for events to happen, then chased after them, missed most of the story. Walt ’s duties behind the scenes as a spy helped his work on the front page in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

  Since he ’d arrived before the others, he already had written two reports. One he ’d transmitted to the London Times under another name—James Kimmel, a pro-Franco reporter and his most well-known alias. The second he had to wait to submit until the other pro-Republican journalists arrived. Walt needed them so they could tour the town and submit their reports together.

  He hated the fact that his work sometimes benefited the Fascist cause, yet he knew it was important for his cover. James Kimmel’s story of Guernica’s fate—its being destroyed by Reds—was already circulating through newspapers and over the radio. Walt ’s true story of the German bombing raid would be printed in smaller publications that would be of little consequence. Yet both reports accomplished one thing—they proved to his superiors that he was doing his work and hunting down the war’s important stories. The slanted news reports proved his loyalties . . . or so they thought. In truth, his main goal all along had been to work with the Communists to keep track of the gold reserves of Madrid.

  But one could not track the gold without also following the tide of the war. Or following the man who had also been tracking the gold long before the first gunshot ever sounded in Spain. Yes, Walt had gotten to know Michael well. He ’d watched his every move in Boston and in Spain. And now he would get closer than ever through Sophie.

  The bonus of his inside position also afforded Walt the opportunity to pass on key information to his Soviet friends. In his reporting, generalizations of battles did not interest him; he wanted the unit names, numbers, and strength of formations. And within the limits of security and censorship, he also appeared keen to pry out information about reinforcements and the direction of the next push forward. What made the papers wasn’t nearly as important as the classified information he was able to pass on.

  But today Walt’s concerns had changed dramatically. They centered on the one person Michael trusted without question. Walt hoped she could pull it off—hoped Sophie ’s anger and feelings of betrayal wouldn’t override her smarts.

  He knew Michael—more than anyone, perhaps. He knew Michael didn’t worry about attracting hounds. Michael, no doubt, knew others tracked the gold. And the best way to deal with a hound was to get him off track.

  He thought of Sophie again.

  Or in this case, get her off track.

&n
bsp; Chapter Nine

  The train had arrived to carry away refugees from Guernica. Sophie had no intention of leaving with them. Instead, she waited under a haze-dimmed sun for the next group of correspondents to arrive.

  Her shoulders trembled, and she felt her resolve weakening. Walt had likely had months, maybe years, to train as a spy. She had only a few hours to get used to the idea of reuniting with Michael, not to mention learning and processing all the information on how to send emergency messages to Walt or other “contacts.”

  The train’s whistle pierced the air. Sophie once again slid her hand into her slacks pocket to reassure herself that the small piece of rice paper was there. Though only the size of a postage stamp, it held all the information she would need. If only she had more to cling to—something substantial to strengthen and guide her.

  She thought of the Bible in her satchel. She hadn’t had time to read it, or even open it, since she ’d received it, and she thought it unlikely that she would anytime soon. As it was, it took all her concentration just to remember all the information from Walt. Her stomach knotted as she thought about meeting up with Michael and leaving town with him.

  “The Nationalists will be here Thursday morning,” Walt had stated matter-of-factly. “Italian and Moroccan troops are joining the Spanish. You must leave town by then. You cannot wait. Make sure Michael joins you. We need his information, and he can’t be put in danger. To lose him is to lose everything we know about those gold shipments.”

  Sophie didn’t ask how Walt knew these things. How he knew which train would bring Michael. Or how he knew the movements of Nationalist troops and men.

  “What can I possibly say to make sure he will leave with me?” she ’d asked.

  Walt had offered an encouraging squeeze on her shoulder. “You’re a bright girl, Sophie. You’ll think of something.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you for putting the weight of saving the world on my shoulders.”

  Walt leaned forward and bumped her chin with his knuckle. “It ’s not the whole world you must save. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He sighed. “It’s just Spain you must worry about.”

  Sophie pressed her fingertips to her temples and sighed. “That makes me feel so much better.”

  The whistle of the locomotive sounded again as it arrived at the platform, and Sophie searched the windows for Michael’s face. She saw someone in the second car who looked like him.

  Her mind flashed to the memory of the body on the sidewalk, and the pool of blood. How many nights had she cried herself to sleep thinking of his death and his betrayal?

  She tried to look closer as the train slowed to a stop, but the hazy air denied her a clear view. The man’s face was turned slightly as he spoke to someone seated in front of him.

  Sophie held her breath as she waited for him to exit the train. Then, like something from a dream, Michael appeared at the coach’s door. Wearing a gray cotton jacket, he stepped down lightly to the platform. His camera case—identical to the one she had “inherited” after his death—was slung over his shoulder, hitting his side as he quickly moved. Then he turned toward her, and his eyes widened into a look of disbelief. He took two hesitant steps, and his jaw dropped as his gaze shifted to the heaps of wreckage beyond her. He paused in mid-step, and his eyes widened even more.

  Finally their eyes met, and Sophie bit her lip. And it was only then that she believed he was alive. She pressed the newspaper tight to her chest, and more than anything she wanted to stride up to him and slap him. She wanted to yell at him, to curse him for putting her through this. But instead she took a deep breath, forcing her fury deep inside, and met his gaze, willing herself not to cry.

  His green eyes softened, and his mouth parted as if he wished to speak, but no sound escaped.

  Sophie made the next move. Slowly, cautiously, she walked toward him.

  “Michael.” She forced an evenness into her voice, remembering Walt’s assignment and the fact that she didn’t have much time to get Michael back on that train and out of town. She unfolded the paper to one of the photographs taken by “Arnold Benedict.” She couldn’t stop her hands from trembling.

  “Michael, I . . . I knew these pictures were yours. Everyone told me I was crazy. But I just knew. Even though I saw you—” She paused, unable to say the word. Her chin quivered. “Even though I saw your—” Her voice caught in her throat, and Sophie realized she didn’t have to worry about trying to act believable. “Oh, Michael . . .” She gulped down a sob and placed her face in her hands.

  With a few steps he reached her, yet he hesitated. Instead of pulling her into an embrace, he gently grasped her arms.

  “Oh, Divina. I’m so sorry. Your life—I was so worried about your safety. I knew from . . . from the bombings, the troops— you would die if I didn’t take such drastic measures.” He paused and lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his soft green gaze. “I’m so sorry, Sofía.”

  She didn’t argue. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had a part to play. Thousands, millions of lives depended on her. She remembered again the additional help they could receive from that gold.

  He took one more cautious step toward her, then pulled her into his embrace. “The plan—my death—it wasn’t my idea. It’s just that we were all so worried. I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” he repeated, pressing her face to his chest. “I knew you’d never leave as long as I was alive.”

  Sophie nodded, but another face filled her mind. She thought of the beautiful young woman with the long black hair who had never tried to hide her infatuation with Michael. More than anything, Sophie wanted to ask him about Maria, but instead she stood frozen in his arms.

  “I know you only thought of me,” she finally managed to say. “I understand.”

  Sophie wiped her face and looked around, noticing soldiers and refugees climbing onto the train that waited to depart. According to the schedule, the next one wouldn’t be leaving for hours. Then she remembered Walt’s prompting. According to him, the next one wouldn’t leave at all.

  This train was her last chance.

  “Somehow I knew you were still alive,” she continued, speaking louder to be heard above the movement and voices of the others on the platform. “I would have known—as close as we were. My soul would have told me if you were dead.”

  Sophie thought back to that day she ’d spotted his coffin. Bombers had threatened to bear down on their city as they did every afternoon, but she had no longer cared if she lived or died. She hadn’t known how she would continue without him.

  Yet, instead of Sophie spilling tears over the wooden box, Maria had stepped into the role of grieving girlfriend. Sophie thought also of the child Maria claimed to carry. Walt had told her that nothing had happened between Michael and Maria, that it was all lies, but she wasn’t sure whom or what to believe. After all, from the moment she ’d been approached by Walt at the border, it seemed truth was handed out only when deemed “necessary,” and not before.

  “The train. This was the last one I could wait for.” She lifted her hand to his face, running her fingers down his jaw. “I have to go to Bilbao. I wish you would come with me.”

  “But I just—”

  “I know you just got here, Michael, but it’s dangerous. I’ve heard that the Nationalists will be here by morning. It’s not safe for me to stay—for you either, for that matter. And besides.” She lifted the camera in the satchel. “I already have photos of the town burning—better ones than any of these men will get. And I’m an eyewitness report. I was here during the bombing. I saw it all.”

  She blew out a long breath and fanned her face. “This is like a dream. I really don’t know what to say. I have so many questions . . . but if you’d rather meet later in Bilbao . . .” She stepped back from his touch, lifting her satchel from the place she ’d set it at her feet.

  “No!” Michael blurted out. “I . . . we need to talk. I can’t let you leave without explaining. I’m sure seeing my body—�
� He shook his head. “And I still don’t understand. Why are you still in Spain? How did you get here?”

  “It’s a long story. So much has happened. . . .” Sophie didn’t need to fake her emotions. Michael no doubt saw the truth of her pain in her eyes. She glanced back over her shoulder to the hillsides, where heavy artillery continued in a constant pounding. “It’s been a long few months, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. I’m scared to stay . . . and just as scared to leave here alone.”

  Michael glanced at his watch; then he ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Then don’t worry about staying. Photos of this town don’t matter to me as much as you do, Divina. We can get back on this train.”

  Sophie eyed him suspiciously. It was almost like having the old Michael back—the one she ’d met in Boston. Looking into his handsome face, she saw that man again.

  But as Michael led her to the train, a thousand memories reminded her that looks could deceive. He had much to explain; that was for sure. But what she truly needed to know she couldn’t ask.

  Chapter Ten

  A cow bellowing outside his window woke Ritter. He ’d had very little sleep, thanks to a recurring nightmare. In it, he had lost his will to kill. He ’d crashed again behind enemy lines and lay injured in bed, watching Sophie paint. As she painted the rows of He.51s lined up outside the window, he confessed his questions about involvement in this war. He admitted following orders for a cause he didn’t really believe in.

  Now, opening his eyes to the new dawn, Ritter wondered if this dream foretold the future or reflected his subconscious thoughts. Either way, thoughts like those could affect his reactions and get him killed in air combat. He ’d better get his head screwed on right, as he had early patrol in a few hours.