And as she hugged José one more time, she felt the coolness of the photos pressing against her skin. They still hid beneath her blouse, waiting for the right time. Yet a new confidence surged through her. She had done well, and she trusted the person she was to turn these photos over to. More than anyone else, she knew she could trust José. And once she handed them over, it would only be a matter of time. Her part would be done, and she ’d be free to leave Michael—free to find Philip.
Or at least that was her hope.
José led them outside, taking the cap from his head and twisting it in his hands. “The truth is, I’ve come for help. Not for me, but for my friends.”
Sophie didn’t know what José was talking about. But she and Michael followed their friend, with his typical quick steps, no more than five blocks from Hector’s house. It appeared to be a place where Spaniards from the country came to bring their food and livestock for sale. Only now the stalls were empty—few people bought and sold in Spain these days. Instead, some of the small wooden shacks had been transformed into shelter for the many refugees who had spilled into town, hoping to find safety.
Sophie glanced at Michael, but he said nothing. She could see the tenseness in his jaw.
“One thing I know about Michael,” José said, speaking over his shoulder. “He connects with the people he needs for his photographs by bearing gifts of news and gossip. I do not have much news, but I come bearing gifts. Yet these gifts come with a request. To save these treasures, I need your help.”
José met Michael’s gaze. “My father heard from a friend that you were seen around Bilbao. Seen at Hector’s house. He wondered why you stayed here when your family’s home was so close. At first I told him we must wait—that you had work to do, important work, and that you could not be bothered by the treasures of the estate . . . but I’m sorry to say that the time has come when waiting is no longer an option. My hope is that by helping me, you can protect all that your mother’s family once stood for. All they have protected through the years. This is what I offer . . . ” José pointed to a small corral where two horses waited. Both were saddled, and they stood poised and beautiful, in statuesque stances as if they purposefully displayed their beauty.
Sophie saw a young woman standing near the corral. At first she thought it was José’s wife, but as they drew closer she realized the young woman was barely more than a child, perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
“I don’t understand.” Sophie paused, taking in their beauty.
“You’ve brought the horses here?” Michael stood in a wide-legged stance, hands on hips, shaking his head in disbelief.
“They are safe for now, but maybe I should explain.” José approached the nearer horse and ran his hand down its muzzle. The horse ’s eyes brightened at José’s touch. “The other four are back at the stables.”
Michael turned to Sophie. “This is what I was going to show you. But I thought by now . . .” His voice trailed off. “So many things could have happened to them. I was afraid they’d all be destroyed.”
“I don’t understand. Is this the treasure you grew up with?”
Michael nodded and opened his mouth as if to give an explanation, but no words came out. The anger in his face faded as he looked toward the animals.
Instead José spoke in an authoritative tone. “It all started in 1580 when the brother of the emperor of Austria bought thirty-three Spanish horses. They were a special breed, and generations of men have cared for them.”
Michael approached the white stallion, and Sophie was certain she noted tears in his eyes. “Yet what many don’t know is that in Spain the same breed of horses was cared for by one family. My family.” Michael’s voice caught in his throat. “Our horses were descendants of the same ones purchased by the emperor’s brother. But instead of raising them for show, my ancestors raised them out of love. They even risked their lives many times to save these horses. But that is not the case any longer.”
Michael turned to her. “I never told you much about my time in Spain growing up, but that’s how I came to know José. My mother’s family is the one who raised these horses all these years. José and his father were a few of those who cared for them, and I got to know him there. We have been friends ever since, and we found it amazing we both ended up in Madrid at the same time.” He glanced at José, his eyebrow cocked. “And now here. Together again.”
Sophie held up her hands in question, again feeling the photos under her shirt. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked.
Then she turned to José. “It’s amazing that I didn’t know that part about you either. You talked about being childhood friends, but left out so much. So you trained these horses?”
“Sí, and now it is my job to save them. That’s why I have come for help. If I do not find a way to get them out of here, they will be lost for good. Soldiers are hungry—and they will do anything for food . . . anything.”
Sophie shivered as she thought of these amazing creatures being slaughtered to feed troops.
Michael’s voice was curt. “I don’t understand. You know my newspaper work. You said yourself how important it is. You also know that the rest of my family has fled to save their own skin. What could I possibly do?”
Suddenly the sound of gunfire erupted around them, and an explosion sounded, hitting a building not far from the corral.
Without hesitation, José motioned to the young girl. “Sophie, hurry, take Petra. Run back to Hector’s!” Then he turned to Michael. “I plead with you. Help me . . . these creatures do not deserve war. Or deserve to die. Help me find a safe place.”
Sophie didn’t wait to hear Michael’s response. With an outstretched hand she ran to the young woman; then together they ran down the street, with more sounds of fighting behind them. They entered Hector’s house just as the other men ran out the front door to see what the commotion was about.
“The photos,” said the girl. “José asked me to get them from you. Hurry, before anyone comes.”
Without even taking time to catch her breath, Sophie took the photographs from under her shirt and handed them to the young woman. With quick hands, she slipped them into a large pants pocket, buttoning it closed. Only then did the two turn to the window to see Michael jogging toward them down the street.
When he reached the door, he turned to the girl. “José asks for you. He told me to send you back.”
“But the danger—she can’t leave yet.” Sophie touched the girl’s shoulder.
“There is nowhere in Spain without danger, Sophie.” He looked to the young woman again. “Go. It was foolish to bring the horses into the city. There is nowhere safe here.”
Without a word, the young woman ran from the house and back up the street toward José and the horses. Only after she was out of sight did Michael’s gaze focus on Sophie.
“So, you are not going to help José? Help save the horses?” She studied his green gaze and noticed the conflict inside. And instead of anger, her heart ached for the decision he was forced to make.
“Just because I cannot help does not mean I do not care. There are other things I have to consider. First, to guarantee your safety. If anything happened to you, I could not live with myself. And there are other considerations, things you cannot understand. Things I’ve wished to share, but cannot.” His eyes were tender, and Sophie knew he told the truth. Yet there was also something else she noticed in his gaze—suspicion, as if trying to figure out a deeper meaning to José’s visit.
She opened her mouth to plead with him to open up, to tell her the truth, when another explosion shook the ground. This one was closer, vibrating the house. It seemed to come from the backyard.
And even before Sophie turned to look, she knew what had been hit. As she walked to the back window, she knew she would see the small shed going up in flames.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It took one day’s travel for Walt to reach Madrid. And after that only two hours before he had Maria’s husband,
Emilio, in his custody. It had been simple enough. He approached the older Spanish man outside the bank just before the lunch hour. Displaying his press credentials, he asked Emilio into his private press suite for an interview.
Thankfully the man was as prideful as he was foolish. And these two traits, which had made it easy for Maria Donita to capture him in her web, also led Emilio to the hotel room where Walt ’s brandished pistol had him promising to give Walt anything.
Walt considered the man on his knees on the patterned rug, and then pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “Honestly, amigo, I do not wish to hurt you. I simply need some information for the good of Spain. In fact, I plan to reward you for your efforts.”
“Reward me?” Emilio placed the cigarette between his trembling lips and allowed Walt to light it.
“You have a wife and a new son, correct?” Walt blew out the match and tossed it into the wastebasket.
“Sí, a baby born last week. Surely you would not deny him a father.”
“No, of course not. In fact, I can offer you passage out of Spain—to Morocco or France, if you wish. You better than anyone know that Madrid will not be safe for long. After all, señor, you have a family to protect.”
Emilio pushed his glasses up the rim of his nose. He blew out a lungful of cigarette smoke, then placed the cigarette in the ashtray on the side table next to him. “What do you wish to know?”
“Get off your knees. Relax.” Walt motioned to a high-backed chair. “I only wish to know about the shipment of gold in October.”
“The Republican plan was to move the treasure southeast . . . to the coast,” he hurriedly said. “I was one of the ‘lock men’ from the bank’s staff—for this second shipment.”
“Lock man . . . what does this mean?” Walt noticed sweat form on the man’s brow. He sat down across from Emilio and placed the pistol on his lap, out of sight, lest the man have a heart attack.
“The move was supposed to take place with utmost secrecy. My job was to hold one of four special keys for the ammunition-storage caves in a mountain just outside the port city’s naval base.”
“What city?” Walt leaned forward in his chair.
Emilio lowered his head. “Cartagena. But you have to understand; this was the only way. All of us knew it. It was the only way we could beat Franco. The gold could fuel the war.”
“At that time, did you realize the gold was not safe? That, in fact, there were many who wanted to steal it?”
The man’s eyes widened.
“You don’t need to tell me; I’ve heard all about it.” Walt readjusted his fedora. “It seems that although most of the commoners knew nothing about the treasure, every politician or commander saw it as an opportunity to help his own cause. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, many rumors were circulating around the city. We knew we couldn’t keep it safe for long. That’s why we sped up the gold’s transport to Cartagena,” Emilio said. “We knew once the gold reached the Russians, they had to ensure its safety. Also, the sooner the gold was in their hands, the sooner we ’d receive the promised weapons. Also, it helped to make certain that no one else would attempt the same.”
“Sí, that must be quite troubling, to be in charge of so much—as if the weight of the souls of Spain rested on your shoulders. In fact, I heard the head cashier was so nervous, he committed suicide. . . . It must have been hard, keeping the gold’s shipment a secret from everyone except the few in charge of the locks and the transport.” Walt grinned. “What I don’t understand is how you managed to fall in love and marry when so much was happening.”
The man ran a hand through his graying hair. “Maria and I met a few months prior. It was an immediate romance. And once I found she carried my child, how could I not marry her? With war all around, one tries to find happiness in the few places he can.”
Emilio stood and paced. “But it seems you know as much as
I. . . . Perhaps there are others who have told you what you need to know? If so, I do not see why you need me.” “Sí, there are others. But this is where my information ends.” Emilio paused and turned. “I am not sure what you need of me. . . .” Walt stood, placed his hands on the table, and leaned close.
“Just answer two questions. Has the gold been shipped?”
“Yes. It is in Russia.”
“Was any of it stolen?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Fine. But now I want every detail of how the shipment took place.”
“I swore not to tell . . . besides, it’s over. Done. There is nothing we can do to change what is already finished.”
Walt shrugged. “Then what does it matter? The gold is gone, and in exchange you obtain protection for your family.”
“Fine. But, please, can we leave soon? I will protect my family at all costs. I worry about the bombers. I worry our luck will expire.”
“Of course.” Walt smiled. “I can make sure you are safely out of the country by tomorrow afternoon.”
Walt tried to picture what ten thousand white wooden army ammunition boxes had looked like eight months prior, before the October transport, as they filled the circular vault. He had visited the vault under the National Bank of Spain once when he had written a story on it. And though he ’d promised the head cashier all the details would be left out of the news story, Walt remembered every one. And with Emilio’s information, he now had a complete picture.
The vault sat a hundred feet underground, behind concrete walls and all-but-unbreachable steel doors. Emilio claimed it had taken twenty-five bank employees to pack the boxes, and once packed, each box weighed about sixty-five kilos.
The ammunition boxes full of gold had been carried to the elevator by a crew of some fifty handpicked soldiers. The men worked in three shifts and ate and slept in the bank until the job was complete. Walt wondered if they had believed the lie—that artillery had been stored in the vault. Then again, how would ordinary soldiers know such treasure existed? Most of Spain had no idea of the amount, nor its worth.
Walt strode to the window, watching Emilio climb into the black sedan Walt promised would be waiting. What would Maria think, he wondered, when Emilio arrived home to tell about their trip out of the country? What would Michael think when he arrived in Madrid and found she had disappeared? Walt knew he ’d have to watch that play out, but until then, his mind returned to the gold.
On his tour of the bank, he ’d ridden a slow elevator to the vault. The vault itself had been twentyfive meters in diameter and surrounded by a protective moat six meters wide. To approach the gold, he ’d crossed a bridge of wooden planks. It seemed rickety at the time, and he imagined how it must have sagged precariously every time two soldiers crossed balancing a box of gold.
Once inside, Walt had expected to see gold ingots, but he was told there were very few solid bars—maybe thirteen boxes full, once loaded. Instead, he saw millions and millions of gold coins—dollars, sovereigns, gold pestas, currency from at least a dozen countries. The most appealing were the Aztec gold, louis d’or, and other ancient coins with numismatic value far exceeding their weight in fine gold.
The man had urged Walt not to print any of this in the newspaper, of course. But like King Hezekiah in the Bible who showed his wealth to neighboring kings, the man’s pride was greater than his wisdom.
Walt ’s employer had been right. Spain did not realize the treasure it guarded in its vaults. As Walt followed Michael, he had discovered the truth. Though Michael’s cover had been a photographer, his role in Spain involved stealing the most valuable gold pieces—Aztec gold and louis d’or coins—ones that would make any collector proud.
Michael believed his efforts would protect the finest pieces from being melted down in Russia with the rest of the gold. He also believed that by turning the gold over to Franco he would save some of Spain’s most priceless treasures.
Walt knew otherwise. Franco had a war to win, a country to command, and would use any re
source possible to help his efforts.
Walt knew only his employer—who could care less about who won in Spain—could maintain the gold’s safety. Walt’s employer was a lover of fine art, who understood that such treasure must be protected at all costs. But he was also a businessman, looking to make a profit by selling the coins to the most influential museums in the world. And though his boss favored no side over the other, Walt offered his services on one condition—part of the income would return to the Republic, providing more help and weapons than Russia alone could provide.
While he had first come to Spain years ago in search of this treasure, he had eventually fallen in love with the people. If the Fascists won, he knew things would get worse. And while Walt wouldn’t call himself a Communist, their ideals were ones he could appreciate—ones worth backing up in any way possible, for the good of Spain.
Emilio’s information had been vital. It took Walt one step closer to finding the lost pieces and saving them . . . before the gold—and the war—were lost for good.
Sophie ’s hands gripped the armrests of the seat as the train carried them from Bilbao. How was she so lucky to leave, when thousands wished for a way to escape to the relative safety of Madrid? The citizens of the town hid in fear, knowing the Iron Ring weakened, and in a matter of time the Nationalists would descend upon them. The people had heard stories of other overrun towns. As she looked out the window, getting one last glance of the coastal town, Sophie hoped they were just that—stories.
“Don’t worry, Divina. We will be safe in Madrid before we know it.” Michael wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “The fighting is getting a little too close for comfort now, isn’t it? I mean, who would have guessed a handmade bomb would land in the backyard of Hector’s home? What were the odds?”
Though his words were spoken softly, questions filled his gaze.
Sophie looked away. “The only thing that helps me at times like this is to get my mind off of it.” She lifted her satchel from the floor and placed it on her lap, removing the Bible. She had told Michael before about the letters, but he had seemed mildly amused.
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