Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  Theodor walked around the bed to stand beside her and lowered his head. When he spoke, he kept his voice low so only Alison and Hendrik could hear him. “There was an attempt on Reichsmarschall Göring’s life outside the Rijksmuseum a few hours ago.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” Hendrik asked weakly.

  “I hope, for your sake, nothing at all.” Theodor held Alison’s gaze. “Tell me the truth, Alison. Do you know anything about this attempt?”

  “Why would I?” she said with a nervous laugh. Heat brightened her cheeks.

  “Your father has reason to wish for the Reichsmarschall’s death.”

  “I’m sure he’s not the only one in Holland with that wish.”

  Doubt showed in Theodor’s eyes, and something else. Fear. For her. He switched his gaze to Hendrik. “Your chauffeur, sir. What is his name?”

  “Why do you ask?” asked Hendrik stonily.

  “His name,” Theodor said impatiently.

  Hendrik only stared. Alison spoke up. “His name is Jacobus Brant. But he had nothing to do with the attempt. He is at the gallery, recovering from—” She glanced at Hendrik, then finished lamely, “An injury.”

  “He has a son,” Theodor said. It was not a question.

  “Yes,” said Alison.

  “Willem Brant.”

  “Yes.”

  “He has been arrested.”

  Alison gasped, and her knees buckled. Theodor caught her and helped her to a metal chair beside the bed. Her fingers trembled, and she clasped them together into tight fists.

  Theodor knelt beside her, his voice soft and compassionate. “He did it for you, didn’t he?”

  She couldn’t answer. Her tongue felt swollen, her lips frozen. Will’s final words echoed in her mind. “No matter what happens, take care of Hannah.”

  “Is he in love with you?”

  She looked in his eyes, surprised by the lack of jealousy, by his tenderness. “No,” she stammered. “We grew up together. He is like a brother to me.”

  “I see.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At Gestapo headquarters in Amsterdam. I doubt he’ll be there for long.”

  “May I see him?”

  “That will not be possible.” Theodor shifted his weight but stayed kneeling. “Alison, you must listen to me. Göring will execute young Brant. He may also arrest his father. You, your grandfather, and your father will all come under suspicion. I offered to help you before. Please let me help you now.”

  “How can you help?”

  “I have influence.”

  “You still wish to marry me.”

  “I have wished that for a long time.”

  “You can save Will?”

  He shook his head. “Göring will insist on a public execution. But I will do everything I can to protect the rest of you from his wrath.”

  Alison bit her lip, thinking of her family, thinking of Ian. Perhaps this was her fate, to sacrifice her love for one man to save her father. Where are you, Papa? She wished she knew.

  “If you truly love her,” said Hendrik, his voice weak and halting, “arrange for her to go to London.”

  “Why London?” For the first time, a harsh edge crept into Theodor’s voice.

  “She will be safe there.” Hendrik struggled with his breathing. “The safest place.”

  “The British will yet bow to German superiority, Herr Van Schuyler. When they do, London will be only a memory.”

  “From London, she can go to America. Her home. Until the war is over.”

  “Perhaps that would be best.” Theodor glanced at his watch. “I’ve delayed too long. The Reichsmarschall is certain to look for your father at the gallery. He will welcome the excuse to once again strip it bare. I’ll meet him there and try to dissuade him from too much damage.” He stood and pulled Alison to her feet with him. “You must not return there. Not for any reason. Do you understand?”

  Her thoughts frozen, Alison nodded. She had no choice but to trust her life to this man, who in his own strange way loved her. Only he seemed to have the power to extricate them from their troubles.

  All of them except for Will.

  She cringed, recalling stories she’d heard about Gestapo interrogation techniques. A fancy name for torture. There had to be something she could do.

  “Take care of Hannah. For me.”

  “Alison, are you listening to me?”

  She snapped out of her thoughts, tried to remember what Theodor had said. “I won’t go to the gallery. I promise.”

  “I may have to entertain the Reichsmarschall this evening.” He practically shivered with distaste. “I’ll return for you as soon as I can, either tonight or in the morning. If you must stay here for the night, ask the doctor to accommodate you. In secret.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Good.” He paused, then spontaneously kissed her cheek. “Wish me well, my love.”

  “Thank you, Theodor,” Alison said with more appreciation than she felt. Her mind had too many strands to follow; too many lives were at stake: Will, Papa, even Brant. What would happen to him when Göring arrived at the gallery? She pasted on a brave smile, and with a final nod, Theodor disappeared through the gap in the screens.

  Hendrik clutched her hand. “Come, child.”

  “What are we going to do, Opa?”

  “We’re going to hide you, mijn schatje.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Less than five minutes after Theodor’s departure, Etienne Duret glided through the gap in the screens. “I thought he would never leave,” the Frenchman sniffed.

  Alison wrapped her arms around him. “Did you find Papa?”

  “No, cherie. I was too late to stop their plans. Too late to stop the arrests.”

  “Was Papa arrested?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Etienne,” Hendrik interrupted, “Count Scheidemann is going to the gallery. We must warn Brant.”

  “It’s too late for warnings. When I left him, he promised to lie low, as the Americans say.” In quiet tones, Duret told them how he had followed the arrested saboteurs to the Gestapo station and waited outside the building until Count Scheidemann left.

  “I followed him here all the way from Amsterdam. I thought he might go to the gallery, so I took a shortcut and arrived before he did.” From inside the locked gallery, Duret had spied on the count through the upstairs windows as he talked to the baker.

  “Does Brant know about Will?” Hendrik asked.

  “He knows.” Duret clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head for a moment.

  “We must hope that Pieter is in hiding. Perhaps he will find a way to save Will.” Hendrik’s voice sounded much stronger than it had during Theodor’s visit. “The count has promised to use his influence with that thief Göring to protect us,” he told Duret. “As long as Alison goes with him.”

  “He is a cad.”

  “Indeed,” Hendrik said. “He may return at any time. How soon can you implement your plan?”

  “What plan?” Alison asked.

  “Your father dubbed it Operation Lighthouse,” Duret said. “He said if anything happened to him, I should implement it immediately.”

  “Implement what?”

  “The plan for your departure, naturally.”

  “You can’t expect me to leave.” Alison looked to her grandfather for support, but he turned his face away from her. She gripped Duret’s arm. “Not when Papa may be in prison. When Opa needs me.”

  “Schatje, I have indulged your stubbornness for too long.” Hendrik blinked and pulled at his beard. “My selfish desire to have you near me has endangered your life. Go with Etienne. He will send you to England. When the war is over, you and your young man can return to us.”

  “Will you still be here, Opa?”

  “Van Schuylers will always be in Rotterdam. In spirit, if not in body.” His speech became more labored, his breathing more ragged. “But you must live your own life,
wherever the fate may take you.”

  “It only leads to heartache.”

  “And to great joy. You will see.” He enveloped her hand and tucked it near his chin. “Now go. Quickly.”

  “Come, Alison.” Duret stood in the gap between the screens and extended his hand to her.

  “I’ll go with Theodor. He’ll keep his promise to protect all of us. I know he will.”

  “No. You will not sacrifice yourself.” A spasm of coughing shook Hendrik’s body. “Not for me. Not for your father. Now go.”

  “No more arguing, cherie. Do as your opa and your papa say. Allow them to fight their battles without fear for you.”

  Despite her protests, despite all the arguments with Papa, Alison had expected this day to come. Just not with her opa in the hospital and her papa facing arrest. Though she hated admitting it, Monsieur Duret was right. It was time for her to go.

  She leaned over the bed rail and kissed Hendrik’s cheek, as thin and delicate as parchment paper.

  “God bless you and keep you, mijn schatje.”

  “You, too, Opa.” She almost choked on the words, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “We must go.” Duret took her gently by the arm and she let him lead her away. At the gap in the screens, she took one last look at her grandfather. His white fluffy hair surrounded his head like a snowy halo, and his whiskers fluffed above his chest. She imprinted the image in her mind: The crisp white linens, the brown blanket, the metal table and black-encased monitors, the cold overhead lighting that cast imperfect shadows in the corners.

  With a sudden intake of breath, she realized that her dress, a rich amethyst with emerald and gold trim, provided the only color in the room. When she left, Opa would be alone with bland sterility and metallic coldness.

  Alison hurried through the gap, peering through other screens till she found what she wanted. Smiling at the elderly woman who occupied the bed, Alison pointed to the nearby floral arrangement. “Please, may I have one of your flowers?”

  The woman, confusion in her weary eyes, nodded.

  “Thank you.” Alison pulled a crimson rose from the bouquet and hurried back to her grandfather. Words failed her as she pressed the rose into Hendrik’s hand.

  She glanced at him before slipping through the gap for the last time. The crimson rose rested against his cheek, and his gray-blue eyes, so like her own, glistened through a veil of tears.

  * * *

  Theodor breathed a sigh of relief as he drove past the front of the gallery and turned into the back parking area. Göring had not yet arrived, and that gave him the advantage. He could think of only one way to prevent young Brant’s execution, though there was no guarantee that Göring wouldn’t go back on his word. A gentlemen’s agreement was only as binding as the honor of the agreeing gentlemen—and Göring was no gentleman.

  He squashed the pesky temptation that threatened to suck out his own honor. Hendrik was an old fool. Alison would never set foot on American soil again. If all went as planned, she would arrive at the Scheidemann chalet in a day or two. Her watercolors now graced the walls, and her mother’s portrait rested on an easel in an upper room that contained a wealth of paints, brushes, tools, and special equipment. Everything she needed to restore the portrait. She could wish for nothing more.

  Tugging at the hem of his jacket, he took quick strides to the gallery’s back door and twisted the handle. To his surprise, the door opened and a three-note bell tinkled. Hesitating in the partially open door, he drew his sidearm. When several seconds passed without him hearing any noises, he quietly made his way to the kitchen.

  Hendrik’s chauffeur sat near the stove, feeding paper into the open stove door. When Theodor entered, Brant glanced up, nodding a hello as if the count were an expected guest instead of an intruder with a drawn gun, and never pausing in his systematic feeding of the fire.

  Let the papers burn. Nothing could stop Theodor’s plan now. Smug satisfaction buoyed his spirits. Events were turning out better than he hoped. Alison would have eventually told him what he wanted to know to save Brant the younger; of that he had no doubt. But so would Brant the elder.

  “Your son is under arrest.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “He will no doubt be executed. After he is tortured.”

  A grimace crossed Brant’s face and disappeared, leaving his jaw solid, his expression impassive. “Why are you here?”

  “Reichsmarschall Göring is on his way. He believes that your son’s traitorous activities are headquartered here. You understand these implications?”

  “Let him come.”

  “Alison has agreed to come with me.”

  Brant stared at Theodor, his hands finally stilled.

  “You are surprised? Yet she is so willing.” Theodor pulled a chair from the table and sat down, enjoying Brant’s puny efforts to hide his anger. “Not even Reichsmarschall Göring will find it easy to execute my wife’s father. Or to make sport with my gallery.”

  “And Will? What about my son?”

  “Göring requires a scapegoat. Justice demands one.” Theodor examined his buffed nails, patiently waiting for Brant to make the next move, confident of what it would be. He was not disappointed.

  “You will trade my life for Will’s?” Brant’s expression was both shrewd and wary. “You can arrange this with Göring?”

  “If you confess to masterminding the operation, yes. But you must name names. Everyone except Pieter Schuyler.”

  Brant slowly nodded.

  “There is one more condition.”

  He waited for Brant to meet his gaze and relished the utter defeat in the other man’s eyes. “I have researched the Van Schuyler Gallery’s inventory and records. When Reichsmarschall Göring acquired the gallery contents a couple of years ago, a certain Vermeer should have been included in the shipment. The Reichsmarshall has quite a fondness for Vermeer.”

  “You want the painting?” Brant asked in disbelief.

  “I want all the hidden paintings.” Theodor stood and hovered over the chauffeur. He placed the barrel of the revolver on Brant’s neck. “Tell me, and only me, where the paintings are hidden. I will ensure that Göring gets the Vermeer. In exchange for such a generous gift, he may let you die in your son’s place.”

  Struggling to his feet, Brant knocked the revolver from his neck and let the papers fan across the floor. Overcoming his surprise, Theodor regained control of the gun and stuck the barrel into Brant’s side. Brant grabbed Theodor’s tie, yanking until their noses were within inches of each other. Theodor choked, gagging on the stale tobacco on the older man’s breath.

  “I’ll tell you where the paintings are,” Brant hissed. “But not until you save Will.”

  All he had to do was pull the trigger, but Theodor’s finger refused to move. His eyes, entranced by the smoldering hate in Brant’s face, refused to look away, refused to even blink. Fear squeezed his jaw and his chest. The noose tightened around his neck as Brant twisted his tie, choking his throat.

  “Do we have a deal, Count?”

  “Ye-es.” Theodor gripped Brant’s forearm, surprised by the hard muscle he felt beneath his grasping fingers.

  Another twist. “Upon your honor? Say it.”

  “Upon my honor,” Theodor said, choking on each syllable.

  He coughed as the tie went slack. His watery eyes finally blinked, wouldn’t stop blinking, and his hand shook so hard that it took all his effort not to drop his revolver.

  Brant sank to the floor, amid the paper debris, his legs splayed out before him. Standing over Brant, Theodor loosened his tie as he tried to stir up anger for what the chauffeur had done to him. But instead of fiery embers, he only succeeded in poking the unfamiliar ashes of cowardice.

  “She’s going with you?” Brant spoke so softly that Theodor strained to hear him. “Miss Alison?”

  “She is.”

  “Don’t you dare hurt her.” Tears welled up in the chauffeur’s eyes. “Don’t you d
are.”

  Still breathing deeply, Theodor holstered his revolver and fixed his tie. “On your feet,” he ordered, tugging at his jacket hem.

  “I can’t.”

  “Stand up, I said.”

  Heavy pounding sounded at the front door, followed by a single gunshot and the cracking of wood.

  Brant smirked. “Your friends have arrived.”

  “Back here,” Theodor called. Several Nazi soldiers entered the kitchen, rifles at the ready. Theodor gestured toward Brant. “Arrest him.”

  Two soldiers, one on each side, grabbed Brant by the arms and dragged him from the room. The chauffeur’s legs, seemingly helpless, trailed behind.

  Theodor watched him disappear through the kitchen door, a weak and broken man. Somehow the victory left a sour taste in his mouth. He turned to the sink and vomited.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Alison crossed her arms, hugging the mishmash of sorrow and fear that threatened to explode—afraid that if it did, she’d never find the pieces of herself again. “I promised Will.”

  “I promised your father.” Monsieur Duret stared ahead, maneuvering the Bentley away from the hospital.

  “I may never see Papa again. Or Will.” Her voice trembled. “Please, let me do this one last thing. Then we can leave.”

  “You will find no more excuses?”

  “None.”

  “Which is the way? Back streets, if you please.”

  Alison directed Duret to the street where the de Graaf family lived. Outside the narrow house, two Nazi soldiers waited by the curb.

  “Get down before they see you,” Duret demanded.

  Alison knelt on the floorboard while he drove past the soldiers, his eyes never veering from the street. “We have to go back.”

  “Absolutely not.” Duret’s voice brooked no argument.

  “What if they arrest Hannah? What will happen to the children?”

  “There is nothing we can do.”

  Alison crawled onto the seat and looked out the rear window. “Can’t we at least watch a minute? See what happens?”

  “No.”

  She slumped back in the seat, arms hugging her chest again. The sky darkened as heavy clouds covered the sun. “It’s going to rain.”