Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Walt shrugged. Then he scribbled a quick note and handed it to the messenger. “Can you tell them I will try? I have a story to get out as soon as possible. I am sure they understand. Gracias.”

  The messenger nodded and Walt shut the door, amazed at how easily he could slip from one persona to another. Just after the war started, he ’d traveled to Salamanca, making friends in Falange headquarters and with the newly arriving Germans and Italians. A week here, a week there, becoming familiar in Franco’s circles had been a fun game to play. Of course, being entertained by the Fascist leaders came second to keeping track of Michael. And who won the war was a secondary concern compared to the treasure that had gained the interest of Walt’s employer long before the undercurrents of war rippled through the discontented country.

  Walt pounded out a news story concerning the most recent Nationalist victories and planned to turn in early, not giving the generals the pleasure of his presence. Tomorrow would be soon enough, after the press conference. He ’d discuss some of the latest issues regarding the war, then turn the conversation to more interesting matters, such as well-protected shipments out of Spain. Generals rarely shared their secrets vocally, but Walt had been around long enough to read their facial expressions that often revealed exactly what he needed to know.

  Just as he finished the story, there was a knock on the door. Walt opened it just a crack and immediately recognized one of his coworkers. “Wilson, come in.” He swung the door the rest of the way and stepped to the side.

  “We have heard from Lester. He ’s safe . . . and he ’s with the woman.”

  “Sophie?”

  Wilson nodded. “He hoped her information would be important enough to risk reappearing. He was right.” He moved to the window with sure steps, glancing down to the courtyard below.

  Though he worked with this man, Walt didn’t like how Wilson handled himself. The more vital the information he needed to pass off, the more Derrick Wilson acted like a scared rabbit, darting from here to there. And his dull brown hair was too long and curly for Walt’s taste.

  Walt ignored the man’s movements and hid his own impatience. “Well, what is this information?”

  “She found a solid connection between Michael and the gold pieces—it seems Michael’s friend Maria is married to a banker in Madrid. We checked him out, and he was one of the four who held keys to the vault.”

  “Maria, of course . . . she would be able to charm one such as him.” Walt’s mind clicked through all the pieces that needed to fall into place for him to return to Madrid. And those he ’d contact first when he arrived.

  “There ’s more. She ’s found photos.” Wilson fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, unaware of his nervous actions. “Lots of

  photos.”

  “Any that we need?”

  “It appears so.” Wilson smiled as he moved to the door. “Our plan is already in motion. José is being contacted as we speak. If all goes well, the photos will be waiting in Madrid by the time you arrive.”

  “It’s as if you read my thoughts.” Walt moved to his bed and pulled his satchel out, already repacking for the trip.

  Wilson scratched his forehead. “Yes, well, that’s what you pay me for. A little now, a lot later, yes?”

  Walt placed his black fedora firmly on his head, pulling it low over his eyes. “You know that’s correct. You also know this could be just the break we were waiting for. And not a moment too soon.”

  José recognized the form of the man even in the dimness of the stable. He stood near the stall of Calisto, leaning with arms on the rail as if meeting up like this was the most natural thing in the world. José’s quick steps slowed, and when he got within ten feet, the man turned.

  “Lester. I wish I could say it is a pleasure to see you, but that would be a lie.” José leaned his back against the same railing.

  “I heard you found Ramona. I also heard she decided to stay at the hospital.” Lester’s voice mimicked compassion, but José could tell the difference.

  José shrugged. “What can I say? She has a caring heart. It is hard for her to leave the injured.”

  “Too bad. I need you to find someone to help with your next assignment.”

  “And who said I was interested in helping? Besides, I have no one to help.”

  “Oh, you will be interested, all right. And I think the young lady will do just fine. What is her name again?” Lester snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes, I remember. Petra.”

  “No, I refuse. I’m not going to risk her in that way.”

  As if sensing José’s anxiety, Calisto turned toward him and whinnied. He pawed the ground.

  “Too bad, then. Sophie ’s death will be on your shoulders.”

  “Sophie? What are you talking about? Last I heard she was leaving Spain.”

  “She would have, if your car—without the accident, well— would have made it. Thankfully that didn’t happen. She ’s been more valuable to our cause than anyone would have guessed.”

  “Where is she? How is she involved?”

  “She ’s in Bilbao. She has only been there since after the bombing in Guernica. She was there during the bombing. She went looking for answers . . . looking for you.”

  “For me?” José ran his hand down his jaw, his heart filled with fear. “So where is she now? Is she at the hospital? With the other correspondents? Is she okay?”

  “She ’s fine, and those are all good guesses. But she found an old friend—her fiancé, in fact. She ’s with Michael.”

  With two quick steps, José found his face within inches of Lester’s nose. He grasped the man’s collar and twisted it, catching Lester by surprise and nearly cutting off his air supply.

  “Why? What is she doing with him?” José shouted.

  “I am not the one who sent her back to him,” Lester managed to croak. He squirmed, struggling for breath. “I helped you fake his death, remember? Who was the one who found the identical camera? Now if you care for her, let me go. She . . . she needs you to get the information and pass it on to her guardian. Within those walls, I am already under suspicion.”

  José released his grasp slightly and noted that Calisto pushed his chest against the door of his stall, as if trying to break through and help him. “Will you promise me that you’ll help her get out?” José quieted his voice, trying to calm himself for the horse’s sake.

  Lester shrugged. “I’m sorry. It’s not my call. But without your help tomorrow, let’s just say her case is hopeless. She will be found out for good.”

  “Fine.” José crossed his arms to his chest and paced back and forth. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  “Tomorrow. This all must take place tomorrow.”

  José listened closely as Lester relayed his plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sophie wasn’t sure if she closed her eyes during the night, so intent were her ears on hearing every sound within the house. Sometime when the night was darkest and not a sound could be heard, she dressed and quietly made her way out of her room, then to the back door. With the softest steps possible, she walked through the patio and toward the shed. Reaching the shed door, she sucked in a breath, then pulled the door. Slowly, slowly she opened it, cringing when the hinges squeaked in protest.

  Pausing, she listened to see if the sound had been heard or if anyone had awakened. After a minute, when no one seemed to stir, she pulled the door again, wider. Another squeak, and more waiting. Finally she stood inside the shed with the door closed.

  Thankful the shed had no windows, she pulled a candle and match from her pocket. With shaking hands she lit it and placed it upon a dusty wooden shelf. The light flickered on the antique-looking tools and bins, and she noticed more than one large insect scurrying to hide behind cobweb-covered buckets.

  As carefully as possible, Sophie pulled the wooden box off the shelf. Placing it on the ground, she thumbed through the prints. Some were of Madrid. Others of ships in a harbor. Sophie made a small pile of any t
hat appeared to involve shipping, including a photo of large crates that read DINAMITA on the side. There were others too, of a large tunnel. There were many men working there—dark-skinned ones being watched by Spanish guards. Sophie didn’t have time to question what these photos involved. She took the ones she hoped were relevant, knowing that trying to pass off too many could risk everything. She returned the rest to the box.

  When she was through, she put the lid on, knowing any fool would realize the box had been compromised. She then tucked the photos under her blouse, using the waistband of her trousers to hold them there. There were fewer then twenty, but their bulkiness would be evident to anyone who looked closely.

  She placed the box back on the shelf, then blew out the candle. The sound of scurrying feet sounded across the floor, and Sophie guessed it was a mouse. She blew out a breath. She waited for the wick to cool and the wax to harden; then she slipped them back into her pocket.

  In the darkness of the shed, all her senses seemed heightened, and as she listened again to hear if anyone was outside, she inhaled the dusty air and said a silent prayer that she would make it back to her room in safety. Then she retraced her steps, out the shed, across the patio, into the house, and finally into her room. It was only after she ’d made it all the way back and shut her door that Sophie realized her whole body was trembling.

  Instead of climbing into her bed, she fell onto her knees before it. Wondering once again why she ’d been chosen for this task, she prayed that God would help her succeed.

  Petra yawned as she watched José saddle up Calisto and Erro. “Are we leaving this morning?” she asked, tucking her shirt into a pair of boy’s pants. They looked handmade and had large pockets on the side. They were small, but not small enough. She wore a pair of leather suspenders to keep them up.

  “We have a short job to do; then we will head for the mountains.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is something very important. I need you to trust me.”

  In the early morning light she watched as José tenderly adjusted Calisto’s saddle. He ’d come in from the stables yesterday full of anger, saying nothing, but stomping around the house as if he ’d just been double-crossed by his best friend. He spent much time talking with Pepito and Juan too, as if seeking their advice. Petra didn’t ask what was wrong. Instead she kept her distance, hoping that the new day would bring a different attitude.

  In the morning José busied himself around the stables, working with determined steps. He seemed resigned to some action he could not avoid. Action that for some reason included her and the horses.

  Finally, he ’d approached her with the clothes, telling her he needed her to hurry and put them on. Dressed and ready to go, Petra still did not know what urgent task awaited them.

  She smiled as she approached Erro and rubbed her palm on his nose, just as he liked. She didn’t say a word. She knew José would fill her in when he was ready.

  He tied a saddlebag to Erro’s saddle, then turned to her. “We’ll ride into Bilbao today. I have a meeting with friends.”

  “Into town? Are you sure? I mean, if the city is bombed or the Nationalists break—”

  José’s eyes narrowed as he looked to her, and Petra quickly bit her lip. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to question you. You know what is best for the horses, and for me. I know you’ve already weighed all the consequences.” Without another word, she slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. She patted Erro’s neck as she settled in.

  With her compliance, Petra noticed the tenseness in José’s face ease and the worry lines on his forehead fade.

  “Good. I am thankful for your help.” His voice was low. “We will ride into town. When we get there, I will ask a friend for help. His family owns these horses. I believe he is the only family member left in Spain.”

  José mounted Calisto, but instead of urging the horse forward, he sat as if thinking over the words to come next. Finally he turned to her. “While we are there, we will meet a woman, Sofía. She will give you some photographs. You must ask for them, take them quickly, and hide them in your pockets. No one else must know. Not even my friend. It is vital . . . to save everything. If we lose those photographs we cannot save these horses or Spain.”

  Petra had never received a request so shrouded in mystery. And though questions filled her mind, it excited her to think that José would trust her in this way. She quickly nodded her head.

  “Sí, I will do this. Thank you for asking for my help. I won’t let you down, José.”

  He clicked his tongue against his teeth, making a sound that informed the horses it was time to head out.

  “Thank you, Petra,” he said. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  Petra shrugged. “How could I not? You’ve given me only reason to trust.”

  José smiled, then looked away. But not before Petra saw heartache in his gaze, telling her trust was something he appreciated, and something he ’d not always received. She didn’t ask any more, for fear his brave face would crumble before the horses covered ten steps.

  The smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen caused Sophie ’s stomach to growl. Remembering her assignment, she sat up on her bed and looked out the window into the streets of Bilbao. Gazing at the scene of fearful people and a battered town, Sophie realized she didn’t even see Spain anymore—only pain, only conflict. But the fact was, she was here, and she had a part to play. Surely God must have trusted her to bring her to this country and plop her in the middle of this mess. If He were a God of love, that meant His love had brought her to this place too. And perhaps, in the end, she would discover a purpose in it all.

  Voices reached her ears, and she knew the others were rising for the day. She dressed and went about her normal activities. Most of all, she hoped Lester had followed through on his word. And hoped that the stolen photographs wouldn’t be missed before the mystery person showed up.

  If not—if no one showed—she knew her best chance would be to wait until tonight and make her way to the cathedral again. Getting there would be easier now that Cesar no longer guarded the doorways. No one had mentioned his disappearance, and she didn’t ask.

  Of course, what she ’d done might be discovered before then. If so, the charade would be up. Michael would know for sure, and maybe she would disappear just as Cesar had—with no one asking questions. No one thinking much more of the American painter who had found her way into Spain at the wrong time and gotten involved with the wrong people.

  Sophie flipped open the Bible again, but her mind was too occupied with her own concerns to read Eleanor’s letters. Instead the pages fell open to Psalm 117. And in the margin Sophie noticed these words written out in Eleanor’s handwriting: A promise to cling to.

  Sophie whispered to herself the verses that followed: O praise the Lord, all ye nations: praise him, all ye people. For his merciful kindness is great toward us: and the truth of the Lord endureth forever. Praise ye the Lord.

  His merciful kindness is great toward us. . . . Sophie let those words drift through her mind.

  The truth of the Lord endureth forever. She smiled as she thought of those words too. God knew the truth of this whole situation. He knew Michael’s connection with the gold. He knew if Walt’s motives were pure. He even knew where the gold was hidden and whether or not finding it could change any aspect of this war. God knew if the photos were worth the risk. And He was not surprised at the situation Sophie found herself in now.

  Sophie closed the Bible and held it tight to her chest.

  God also knew her heart, her emotions. He knew the truth about her place in Spain. And His merciful kindness is great toward me. Just as it was to Eleanor, whose heart is shared in the letters in this book.

  “Show me Your merciful kindness, Lord. Is that okay to ask? In some way, can I get a small glimpse of Your plan and place in this mess? It’s a promise I need to cling to. I—”

  Sophie ’s whispered prayer was interrupted by a knoc
k at the door. She placed the Bible on the night table and stood, trying to put on her poker face for Michael. Trying to hold on to the truth of God, even as she stepped out into the false role she played.

  “Almost ready, sweetheart.” She smoothed her blouse and opened the door.

  Sophie froze as she realized it wasn’t Michael who stood there. Her quivering hand immediately covered her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise, and words abandoned her.

  José stepped forward and grasped her free hand. Her eyes darted to the large scar on his neck, a reminder of their parting months prior. He ’d come to her rescue many times before—offered her kindness when she didn’t know where to turn. Seeing him there reminded her that she wasn’t alone after all.

  “Walt sent me to help you, Sophie. Don’t worry,” José whispered. “He used Lester to get the message to me.”

  Sophie heard footsteps and looked down the doorway to see Michael coming. Disbelief still coursed through her, and she knew she couldn’t have hidden her surprise and relief if she had tried.

  Sophie also knew that Walt wasn’t the only one who had sent José. God had heard her prayer and had answered even before she ’d whispered those words.

  “Hola, Sofía. It is your friend, José, back from the dead, sí.” José spoke louder this time. “I should have sent Michael ahead to warn you. You should have seen the look on your face when you saw me. I thought you were going to faint.”

  “Oh, José. You are well. I am so thankful.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear.

  Michael approached and slapped José on the back. “He certainly gave me a start. I’ve never been more relieved to see an old friend.”

  Sophie studied Michael’s face, and though he said the words, his eyes betrayed them. How did it change Michael’s plans, seeing José here? Sophie didn’t have time to worry about that now. She just enjoyed the overwhelming feeling of relief that José’s presence had brought in answer to her prayer.