“You have done very well, and I am sure you have sought the Lord’s guidance.” Walt cleared his throat and leaned close. “I did not want to tell you this before, but you might be in Paris for longer than you first thought. Do you still have the money? You did not give it away?”
Father Manuel could feel the small purse he ’d tied to a string and hung around his neck. “Yes, I have it. But why would I need to stay longer? Is sharing my testimony with the reporter—the one I’m to meet at the Gate de Lyon—not enough?”
“It is a start. But there are so many more—hundreds, thousands, you can personally reach. I am sure you are aware that the World’s Fair is coming to Paris. I have seen the construction of the Spanish pavilion myself. All the world will be there, everyone of importance. My news service requests that you come and tell your story to the reporters there also. And your friend—” He offered a slight wave to Armando. “Your friend is welcome also.”
“The World’s Fair? I am sorry, but that is out of the question.” Father Manuel straightened in his seat and felt a flutter in his lower gut. He opened his mouth again, searching for the perfect excuse . . . yet could find none. It just seemed wrong. The mere idea of staying in Paris for weeks, maybe longer, caused heat to creep up the back of his neck. Leaving Guernica had been difficult enough. Leaving Spain, even worse.
“I see you are bothered by this.” Walt rubbed his brow, then shrugged. “But I assure you that the greatest thing you can do for your people now is to get the world involved. Make them aware of the deaths, the destruction. You have seen things with your own eyes that the world does not believe has happened. And who better to testify than a priest? They may not believe others, but they will have no choice but to believe you—”
The voice of the train conductor cried out that Pasajes was just ahead, and from behind them a baby’s wail interrupted his words. Father Manuel was thankful. He didn’t need to hear more.
“I am sorry. I will meet with your reporter friend in Paris, but I cannot stay. After that, I will return and visit the bishop’s palace.” He sighed. “I’m sure the Nationalists will have a firm position in Guernica by then, so where else could I go? I am a servant of the Lord. I have not the freedom to make another decision. Sometimes I question if I am doing the right thing even now.”
“Sí, I understand.” Walt rose and tipped his hat. “I wish you the best, and perhaps we will meet again.”
“If God so desires. But perhaps not.” Father Manuel’s words came out firmer than he ’d intended. “God’s blessings be upon you, my son,” he said, waving the sign of the cross.
The man returned to his seat and Armando hurried back, plopping down next to Father Manuel just as the train pulled into the station.
“And what was that about? You seem flustered.” Armando searched his face. He took the blanket from Manuel’s lap and readjusted it.
“A request I am afraid I cannot grant. He asks me to stay in Paris longer and meet with reporters who will be attending the World’s Fair, of all things.” He watched as the train pulled to a stop, and Walt stood and exited the train.
Armando cocked an eyebrow but didn’t say a word; then he looked past Father Manuel out the window. “I wish I could join you, but Nerea . . . I just cannot leave her for that long.” A wistful look came into his eyes. “If she could come, that would be different, but every moment we ’re apart I long to see her again.”
An unexpected ache filled Father Manuel’s chest. He knew Armando would do anything for that woman, as he should.
Father Manuel had once loved the Church that much. He ’d served with boundless energy. When had that changed? Perhaps it was when the people hadn’t responded as he had hoped. Or maybe when they refused to love in return, and instead gave minimal care to their faith and even less to their God?
He rose from the train seat and took the opportunity to stretch, wondering how long before they reached the border.
Perhaps if he still had love in him as he once did, then he ’d be willing to do anything for the Church—even stay in Paris.
Sophie tucked her satchel tight to her side as she passed through the crowds of people in Bilbao’s main square. With quickened footsteps she followed Michael to a simple house not far from the city center. Before they even made it to the top of the front steps, a thin man bolted from the front door and opened his arms to them.
“Michael, you are back. This is a surprise, but you are welcome. I suppose you saw enough of the destruction and decided to return where it is safe.” The man paused and turned to Sophie as if seeing her for the first time. “And who is this beautiful señorita? Please, let me take your luggage and welcome you into my home.”
When she didn’t hand over the bag, he reached for it himself, then took her by the elbow and led her inside. The man looked slightly familiar, but Sophie couldn’t remember where she had seen him before.
“You must stay as long as you like, and do not refuse, por favor. Do you like my home, sí ?”
She glanced behind her and saw Michael following with a wide grin.
“Your home is very beautiful,” she hurriedly said, trying to get a word in. She spotted a beautiful cape hanging from one of the walls. “Oh, my, that is beautiful. Is that yours?”
Michael stepped forward before the man could answer. “Hector, this is my fiancée, Sofía. I believe I told you about her before.” Michael turned to her. “And, Sophie, this is my friend Hector, one of our country’s great matadors. Do you remember when we saw him that day in Madrid?” He nodded to her, and she knew she was supposed to agree.
“Oh, Hector, sí. I remember now. How could I forget?” She smiled at him. “You were like a dancer, your movements so graceful in the ring.”
Michael nodded, and Sophie knew she ’d said the right thing.
Hector smiled even more broadly, and his feet seemed to take on a lighter step as he walked to the cape. “Sí, I am privileged to be a matador, and the son of the greatest bullfighter in history.” He bowed respectfully. “And this, señorita, is the traje de luece, suit of lights. My father wore it in Toledo when he got two ears. And I too have done the same.”
The cape was beautiful, hand-embroidered blue satin. There was a photo near the cape that showed Hector in the complete outfit, including satin pants and a matching short jacket.
“Touch it. Touch the cape,” Hector insisted.
“It’s so beautiful. I don’t want to dirty it.”
“No, I insist.” He took her hand and lifted it to the cape. “Feel how heavy it is? See those glittering stones? It takes as much energy to wear the outfit as to fight the bull!” Hector laughed.
They talked about bullfights and some of Hector’s close calls, and Sophie still wasn’t sure what the point of all this was.
Finally, after nearly an hour had passed, Michael broached the subject of their visit.
“I thank you for opening your home. My newspaper will no doubt be sending me off soon, and I just need a place for us until I can find a more permanent place for Sophie—a safe place. I am sure you can understand.”
“You know my home is always yours. And for Sofía, too. She can stay as long as you need. After all, our families have been the closest of friends for years.”
“Thank you, Hector, for your generosity,” Sophie said with a smile, but inside her stomach felt sick. She took Michael’s hand and squeezed it tightly. The whole point of returning to Michael was to stick by him and seek information about the gold. They’d only been back together for half a day, and he was already looking to find a “safe place” for her.
Hector showed her to a room. Then he gave her a fresh basin of warm water and a towel to freshen up. Sophie closed the door behind her, but she was almost afraid to take too long. She needed to stay in Michael’s presence as much as possible, and she didn’t know how soon he would leave again.
The same thing had happened in Madrid. Work often called him away, and they had spent more days apart than together.
He was always finding someone to care for her, which is how she had met José. Or someone to stay with, which is how she met Luis and Benita. And while they were all wonderful people, this time Sophie refused to be brushed aside so easily.
Quickly changing into a clean skirt and blouse, Sophie brushed her hair so it fell over her shoulders the way Michael liked it. Then she gingerly laid out her belongings in a specific pattern, remembering the tips Walt had given her so she ’d know whether someone had rifled through her things.
She laid the Bible the nun had given her on the side table and opened it to one of the pages that held a letter. She turned the letter so the stamped corner was on the inside, top section of the book. Then placing her satchel on the floor, she gingerly pulled a bit of string off the hem of the bedspread and laid it over the zipper. She scanned the room one more time and prayed a silent prayer before she headed for dinner.
Sophie ’s shoes clacked on the tile floor as she made her way to dinner. Her stomach rumbled at the scent of fresh bread and soup, and she realized how little she ’d eaten over the last few days. She mentally prepared herself to talk about witnessing the bombing of Guernica, without mention of Deion or Philip or Walt, of course. She rehearsed in her mind what to do if anyone happened to mention any piece of information that she felt would help Walt.
Sophie rounded the corner and paused. In the dining room, Michael stood next to the elegantly set table. He was clean, shaven, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have his camera case swung over his shoulder. He spread his arms outward toward her, and in his hand he held a single red carnation.
A lump formed in Sophie ’s throat, and her chest tightened. She knew he was simply trying to win back her favor. Trying to make her forget all the pain he ’d caused. All the heartache over his death. All his lies.
The problem was, looking into the eyes of the man she ’d loved for the past three years, anticipating his strong, protective arms opened to her and seeing his loving smile, she felt her heart begin to warm.
Chapter Thirteen
Dinner was nothing like Sophie had expected. While they ate a scrumptious meal prepared by Hector’s cook, they talked about Spain, about the people, and touched on the fighting—but nothing too important, as if they were talking about an event happening overseas instead of here. They talked as if it were a distant war and not one that personally threatened their very lives.
Sophie mentioned the bombing of Guernica, but neither man asked any questions about what she had seen. As they lingered over wine, Michael told Hector how he and Sophie had met at the art museum three years earlier, and he knew it was love at first sight.
Michael glanced at her and winked. “I saw Sophie walking down the hall, and I had to catch my breath. I knew she was someone worth getting to know, but she never ceases to surprise me.” His tone grew serious. “The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt her. I thought that my sacrifice was the only way to ensure her safety, but every day since I hated myself for it. And I have missed her intensely.”
Sophie felt her face redden. At her first opportunity, she excused herself for the night, telling them the long days and nights at Guernica had taken their toll, which was the truth.
After a goodnight kiss on Michael’s cheek, she hurried to her room. Sophie shut the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it, attempting to control her shaking. He did love her . . . or at least he claimed to.
She didn’t know how in the world she would ever get the information Walt needed. She didn’t feel at ease in Michael’s presence. How could she when he had lied so completely to her? And how could she protect her heart with him talking like that? Her cheeks felt warm still.
What was she supposed to do now, sneak around the house and search for clues? The prospect was ridiculous—like something from a poorly made cinema.
Mostly, the realization that she was involved in some type of international espionage plot unnerved her. Who was she to be pulled into this? Especially if it was as big as Walt claimed. She was simply a silly girl who’d fallen for a boy. And now look at her—she needed to look for clues in a house where nothing seemed out of place.
The walls were brick, and the room had been scrubbed clean. On the bed to her left sat a feather mattress that looked recently filled, fluffed, and covered with two clean blankets. Her satchel was on the floor next to the bed. One small window gave her a view of the courtyard below.
At first glance, nothing in the room seemed different, and her satchel appeared just as she ’d left it.
She slowly approached it, kneeling to look for the piece of thread she ’d laid over the zipper. Her heart pounded as she noticed it was gone—brushed to the floor, where it lay under her bed.
She trembled, thinking of the next part of her assignment. Taking the hairbrush from her satchel, she stood in front of the window and brushed out her long hair, peering into the courtyard below.
Walt had told her someone would be watching. And he ’d told her that brushing her hair in front of her bedroom window would be a sign to him that she was okay and still on task. Yet how did she truly know someone watched? What if Walt had just told her that to make her feel better?
She looked toward the small houses that surrounded this larger one and to the people milling through the streets. An inner peace stole over her, a sense that she wasn’t alone. That Walt had indeed sent someone to watch over her, protect her, make sure she was okay—and was ready to remove her from any situation that threatened her life.
Suddenly a soft knock at the door startled her, and she turned. “Coming,” she said, placing the brush in the window.
She opened the door to see Michael’s smiling face.
“I’m sorry. I know I should let you sleep, but I just had to see you one more time. To believe you’re really here and that . . . ” He lowered his voice. “That you’ve found it in your heart to give me another chance.”
“Oh, Michael.” Sophie forced a smile. “I know you were thinking of my safety.”
Sophie allowed him to pull her into his embrace, and relaxed her body so she could fold into his arms. She had a million questions—about faking his death, about the newspaper photos he submitted under the name Arnold Benedict, about Maria. Yet she knew she couldn’t speak one word, or she might lose all sense of control. Her emotions were too close to the surface, and it took all her energy just to hold them at bay.
Michael pulled her back and placed the softest kiss on her lips. Then he stepped away. “There, I’ll be able to sleep now. Thank you again for coming for me, for finding me.”
“How could I not?” Sophie said. “I mean, everything I believe in is wrapped around you.” She spoke the words with conviction, realizing they were true. The people she ’d grown to love—their fate—all centered around this one man. If Walt was right, Michael controlled the gold that could bring them victory . . . or ensure their defeat. The thought caused a shiver to race down her spine.
“Good night then,” he said, turning and walking away with the slightest bounce to his step. “We have a big day ahead tomorrow.”
Sophie nodded, realizing Michael spoke the truth. If he only knew . . .
Weather grounded Ritter on the day after his crash landing. But for the first time ever, he didn’t feel much like flying.
He rubbed the bandage where the Russian’s bullet had nicked his forehead. It hadn’t done much damage, except for grazing the skin. The doctor confirmed it was the stress of the situation, not the injury, that had caused Ritter to black out. He was more embarrassed about it than anything—until the news of his successful landing started circulating.
After that, he ’d retold the story at least a dozen times to pilots amazed at his ingenuity under pressure. As far as he knew, it was the first successful landing with damaged gear in Spain. Any others who had attempted it were no longer around to share their stories.
But his story wasn’t the only one being discussed at length.
Rumors circulated
from the main office that cable after cable had arrived from international reporters eager for any bit of information on who had bombed Guernica. Their sergeant-telegraphist offered the same response to each.
Ritter had personally talked to the man this afternoon.
The telegraphist always cabled back, We have been grounded for days because of the weather. He gave no hint of their mission. Or hinted that the “we” could include German pilots.
Ritter sat next to the radio in his private room and turned on the radio and listened as the Nationalists issued their first disclaimers. As he did each night at ten o’clock, General Queipo de Llano gave his official report. No matter what else was happening, Ritter knew that all over Spain, people would pause what they were doing to listen to the general, who was more like a radio star than a military leader. Some cheered and chuckled. Others most likely fumed at his rugged, clear voice. They loved him and hated him, but all were entertained.
Ritter remembered one of his quips during the massacres early in the war. “Tonight I shall take a sherry, and tomorrow I shall take Málaga,” he had boasted.
Now, in line with the other communiqués from Nationalist headquarters, he simply dismissed the Guernica bombing as a myth. “The reports of German bombers are completely false,” he declared.
Tired of hearing the general’s voice, Ritter turned off his radio. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. Ritter opened it, and a timid-looking soldier stood there with his hand outstretched, offering Ritter a slip of paper.
“Herr Agler, telegram for you. I’m sorry, sir; there were so many cables coming in today, we almost missed it. It looks important, sir. It’s from Göring himself.”
Ritter took the note, only mildly interested. The news of his recent air victories must have somehow reached Berlin. Göring no doubt wished to congratulate his friend’s nephew for a job well done. As if that would make any difference to his mood. As if that would make him want to go up tomorrow.
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