Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  He glanced out the window. “Does that concern you?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems we should be turning more to the west. If we keep going south, we’ll be in—” Horror churned her stomach, and she held her mouth closed to stop the sudden urge to vomit.

  “Germany?” He half-smiled. “More precisely, Bavaria.”

  “You promised to take me to my father.”

  Theodor gazed at her, his blue eyes steady. “Your father’s last wish was for you to be reunited with The Girl in the Garden. I’m fulfilling that promise by taking you to the painting.”

  “What about your promise to me? That I could see my father?”

  “I made no such promise.”

  Alison stared at him, open-mouthed.

  He shifted in his seat so he faced her more directly. “Your father did not want you to see him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I went to Amsterdam as soon as I heard of his arrest. But it was too late. They had already . . . His hands . . .” Closing his eyes, he shook his head, and fear gripped Alison’s heart as she imagined what he so obviously wanted to forget. “Barbarians,” he muttered.

  A sob broke from Alison’s throat, and Theodor clasped her hand. “I gave him as much medical care as I dared. He wanted you to know how much he loves you.”

  She leaned her forehead against her window, too aware that the crisp autumn sun descended behind them, its rays trailing their eastward path. Each minute taking her farther from Papa. Farther from Ian and Libby. Barely aware that Theodor still clasped her left hand, she pressed her right one against her still-flat stomach while tears streamed freely down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The plane, flying from an undisclosed location in southwest England, touched down at the military airbase outside of London. Ian stretched his legs and stood, eager to get home and hug his girls. The two Allied airmen, physically weak from their trek across the Pyrenees to Gibraltar but otherwise unharmed, were still recuperating in a Plymouth Sound hospital. Both had given Ian updated intelligence on the resistance groups operating in France and Spain that he could use in his escape-and-evasion training.

  He stepped from the plane, scrutinizing the jeep headed toward him, then smiled as he recognized his brother-in-law at the wheel. “Hey, Major,” he said, throwing his duffle in the back and climbing in the passenger seat. “I thought you were in Scotland.”

  “I was.” Mark clipped the words.

  Ian glanced over, his nerves tingling. Dark sunglasses hid Mark’s eyes, but his lips were a grim line. “Something wrong?”

  Mark steered the jeep away from the plane and parked in the farthest space from the hangar door. He turned off the ignition, removed the sunglasses, and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Dev. But I wanted it to come from me.”

  “Is it my dad?”

  Mark barely shook his head.

  “Trish?”

  “Trish is fine. Your parents are fine.” Mark bit his lip.

  A thousand nightmare scenarios collided in Ian’s brain, throwing painful shards against his temples. “Not Libby? Please, God, no, not Libby.”

  “It’s Alison, Dev. She’s gone.”

  Ian opened his mouth, but no words came out. His muscles tensed, on full alert. “What do you mean gone? Where is she?”

  “There was an accident and she . . . she died.”

  The words slammed into Ian’s stomach, and he gripped the door handle. “No,” he groaned. “You’re wrong.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Do you think I would lie to you about something like this?”

  Alison gone? She couldn’t be. Ian’s eyes burned as a sob caught in his throat. “How?”

  “It’s the craziest thing, Dev. She was on this boat—”

  “What boat?”

  “A small steamer out of Sweden. It exploded off the Aberdeen coast. Her name was on the passenger manifest. Alison Schuyler Devlin. I saw it myself.”

  “No!” Ian smacked the dashboard with his fist. “She’s home. With Libby. She wouldn’t leave Libby.”

  “But she did.” Mark pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s the note she left for Trish.”

  Ian’s hand trembled as he took the opened envelope from Mark. Trish’s name was written in Alison’s familiar handwriting on the outside. He tried to remove the letter, but his fingers fumbled and he creased the envelope. He pressed it against his leg, wanting to remove the crease he’d made, wanting it to be as pristine as when Alison last touched it. “Just tell me,” he managed to mumble.

  “It says her father was arrested, but that Swedish resistance had arranged for her to see him before his execution. She asked us to take care of Libby and said she’d be back the next day.”

  “The Swedish resistance?” Ian shook his head in a vain attempt to free his thoughts from the gripping throb of his headache. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I talked to your housekeeper, Mrs. Beall. She said Alison came rushing in, changed into men’s clothes, and left with some chap who was waiting outside for her.”

  Ian squeezed his eyes shut, hearing Mark’s voice, trying to make sense of what he was saying. But none of it made sense. “What chap?”

  “Tall, blond, and Scandinavian, according to Mrs. Beall. Which fits with the Swedish connection.”

  Ian’s thoughts swirled. What an incredible story, yet Alison had believed it. She had left him on the vain hope that she could see her father.

  “I don’t believe it. She couldn’t have been on that boat.”

  “The steamer wasn’t that far offshore when it exploded. I helped oversee the rescue and recovery.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You remember Sergeant Gregg—freckles, always sunburned?”

  “Yeah, he got you on the boat at Dunkirk.”

  “He was in the communications room when the manifest came in. Happened to see the name and brought me a copy.” He gripped Ian’s forearm, and his voice cracked. “It’s her, Dev.”

  Ian leaned back in the seat and shaded his closed eyes with his hand. Alison. His lovely Alison, who had stolen his heart with a single glance. Visions of her danced before him. Alison at Waterloo Station, at Minivers, at the little park that Libby now loved so much. Alison at the canal house with the white bandage against her temple. The delicate white scar he so often kissed. Alison sketching the ancient oak. Wearing her painter’s smock, dabs of blue and yellow on her face.

  This isn’t how it was supposed to be. The Van Schuyler family fate dictated his death, not hers. Just a superstition, that’s what he had told Alison. That’s what he believed.

  “Oh, God, help me,” he moaned. Thou art my hiding place. Don’t let me slip from You.

  * * *

  Libby clutched Ian’s hand throughout the mercifully brief memorial service, held in their neighborhood church the Saturday after his return. The little girl’s sad eyes pierced Ian’s broken heart, and he wished for an end to all the formalities. As soon as the last of the well-wishers said good-bye, he planned to take her to Kenniston Hall. Perhaps there, in the gardens and near the sea, he could find the comfort that eluded him in town.

  Yesterday he had wandered alone through their brownstone, remembering Alison’s joy in transforming it into a home. Pausing before the fireplace, he had gazed at her oil painting of him and Libby beneath the oak tree in Trish’s garden. How proud she had been of that portrait. Even he could see the influence of her father’s masterpiece in how she brought light into the foreground. Painting it had eased the heavy grief she carried in her own heart, providing a blessed healing that caused her beautiful gray-blue eyes to sparkle.

  But the dream had come to an end. Everything in the brownstone, except for the portrait and a few other keepsakes, would be sold or stored away. He intended to never set foot in the house again.
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  Dr. Richard Ericson touched Ian’s arm, forcing him to return his attention to the church foyer. Looking for Libby, he saw her with Trish, talking to the piano teacher.

  “I’m so sorry, Ian,” said Richard. “To think how quickly . . . Just last week, she was glowing, and then for this to happen.”

  “Thank you,” Ian said dully, the same meaningless words he’d spoken too many times the last few days.

  “If you need anything, you’ll let me know.”

  “Of course.” The practiced smile barely curved Ian’s lips. He was so weary of the same sympathetic condolences. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Just last week, she was glowing. . . .” “You saw Alison last week?”

  Richard flushed. “She came to see me.” He hesitated and his jaw twitched. “I should have realized . . . She didn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “This isn’t the place, Ian. Come by later. Or I’ll stop in to see you.”

  “Was she sick?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Ian raised his voice. “Then what?”

  Richard drew Ian away from the curious stares. “She . . . you . . . She was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?”

  Looking miserable, the doctor slowly nodded. “I am so sorry, Ian. You shouldn’t have found out like this.”

  “When?” Ian blinked and chewed on his lip. “When would she have had the baby?”

  “Middle of May.” Richard clasped Ian’s shoulder. “I really am sorry.”

  Unable to speak, Ian bowed his head. God, wasn’t it enough to take my wife? Why did there have to be a child, only for it to die too? The unfairness of it all gnawed his gut and filled his chest. Drawing back his fist, he punched Richard’s jaw.

  The doctor staggered backward, his hand pressed against his bruised face. Immediate guilt slammed Ian’s gut, and he reached out to steady the doctor.

  “I don’t know why I did that,” he said. His skinned knuckles ached, but somehow the pain soothed the raw cut in his heart. “Are you all right?”

  “I think I’ll live.” Richard rubbed his jaw. “Feel better?”

  “A little.” Ian half-shrugged. “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “I won’t.” Ian looked straight in Richard’s eyes. “Alison was happy? About the baby?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  Of course she had been. And when she had come home, they would have celebrated. If only she had come home.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  APRIL 1944

  Ian swiveled back and forth in his office chair as he stared at Alison’s photograph. He had taken the picture himself in the gazebo, after they announced their engagement to his family. Her hair, ruffled by the summer breeze off the sea, framed her pale cheeks and dazzling smile. Her eyes sparkled as she gazed straight at him.

  In his dreams, she still lived, her body heavy and round—and more beautiful than ever—as their baby’s birth drew near. Brushing the glass covering the photo with his finger, he tried to imagine his hand on her taut belly, feeling kicks and flutters beneath her silky-smooth skin.

  “Why did you leave me?” he whispered.

  At least his ragged grief wasn’t as razor-sharp as it had been six months ago. Needing to be strong for Libby, he had found strength deep within himself. His faith had seen him through the darkest nights, and his little girl had brightened his days. He missed her, now that he couldn’t see her as often as he wanted.

  Ian and Libby had lived with the Mannings until about four months ago. Then the Army brass transferred Mark to Italy and Ian to SHAEF, the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, headed by US Army general Dwight Eisenhower. With Mark gone and Ian often traveling with Ike, Trish had taken all three children to Kenniston Hall.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Ian swiveled to face his desk. “Enter,” he said, then stood and saluted as Colonel Roger Davies entered.

  The American officer, an intelligence expert, returned the salute. “At ease, Captain. Please sit.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “May I?” asked Davies, reaching for the photograph.

  Ian handed it to him, then settled in his chair.

  “I’ve read your file, Captain. I’m sorry for your loss.” The colonel looked at the photo, then gave it back to Ian. “She’s lovely.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve asked around about you, Captain. You’re not dating anyone, are you?”

  Taken aback by the question, Ian furrowed his brow. “No, sir. I couldn’t.”

  “Because you still love your wife?”

  “Colonel, with all due respect—”

  “Captain, have you heard of Double Cross?”

  Ian shrugged, confused by the sudden change of subject. “Rumors.”

  The colonel chuckled. “That’s the way they like it. Basically, the Double Cross Committee is the puppeteer manipulating our intelligence strings. Agents, double agents. And to some extent, Operation Overlord.”

  Ian leaned forward with interest, recognizing the code name for the upcoming Allied invasion.

  “The operation requires too much preparation to keep it a secret,” Colonel Davies said. “But we’re doing our best to keep the Germans from finding out when and where it’s going to take place.”

  “With misinformation?”

  “That’s right. Double Cross believes you’re the perfect candidate for a special mission.”

  “Me, sir?”

  The colonel nodded. “You have two necessary qualifications. First, you’ve impressed General Eisenhower and earned his trust. Just as important—” he paused and pointed to Alison’s photo—“is her.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This mission requires an officer with access to Ike to become romantically involved with a Double Cross agent.”

  Ian held up both hands, palms out. “Impossible.”

  “Which is why you’re perfect. We need an officer who can protect our agent’s cover without falling in love with her.”

  Ian grunted. “Who is she? Bathsheba?”

  “See for yourself.” The colonel slid a folder across the desk.

  Leaning back in his chair, Ian opened the folder and stared at an eight-by-ten professional headshot of one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Black lashes fringed her doelike eyes with their slight come-hither look, and dark, glossy hair accentuated her classic cheekbones. Her kissable lips curled into a perfect smile.

  “Her name is Marie Wyatt.”

  “French?”

  “On her mother’s side. But she’s an American. Came here with the USO and was recruited by the Twenty for courier work.”

  The Twenty, another name for the mysterious Double Cross because of their XX symbol.

  “What’s her cover?”

  “That’s the beauty of this mission. She’s her own cover. And so are you.”

  “I’m an officer with access to Eisenhower.”

  “And Marie is an American actress. We’ve already arranged for her to appear in an upcoming theatrical production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “How does this confuse the Germans?”

  “Marie’s assignment is to attract the attention of a certain Spanish embassy official. If all goes as planned, she will provide him with falsified documents she ‘steals’ from you.”

  “And he’ll give them to the Germans.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Ian studied the photo again. This time he noticed something fragile beneath the beauty, an innocent vulnerability. “What you really mean is that she will seduce this Spanish chap.”

  “She’ll string him along.” The colonel shrugged, clearly indicating that how Marie handled the Spaniard wasn’t his concern. “But whatever she does, we can’t have our officer losing his head over the situation and threatening the mission. Too many lives are at stake.”

  “What do I do?”

 
“Take her out for dinner, dancing. Be seen around town together. Have a good time.” Colonel Davies glanced at his watch. “Other than that, continue your regular duties with the general. I’ll provide you with the false documents.”

  The mission seemed harmless enough. Yet Ian felt uneasy. He gazed at Alison’s photo, her pale loveliness tugging at his heart.

  “You’re not being unfaithful, Captain. Whatever the world thinks about you and Miss Wyatt, Double Cross expects you to keep it platonic.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that, Colonel.”

  “Marie is a very attractive woman.”

  “Not compared to my wife.”

  The colonel chuckled. “Then I can tell the committee that you’ve accepted the assignment?”

  “I’m willing to do anything I can to support Operation Overlord.”

  “Good.” Colonel Davies provided additional details of the mission, then stood. “Good luck, Captain. To both of you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ian said as they shook hands.

  The colonel hesitated at the door. “One more thing. No one can know of your mission.”

  “No one will, sir.”

  “That includes your brother-in-law, Major Manning, and your family. They must believe, along with everyone else, that you are very much in love with Miss Wyatt.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Holding Marie’s photo, Ian swiveled his chair away from his desk as the sudden thought of a future grandchild popped in his head.

  “What did you do in the war, Grandpa?”

  “Why, I duped the entire German army.”

  “How did you do that, Grandpa?”

  “I dated an American actress.”

  He grinned at the absurdity, then straightened his tie and put on his jacket. It was time to see if the girl was as lovely in person as she was in her picture.

  Before he left, he took off his wedding band and stuck it in his pocket. Glancing at Alison’s photo, he frowned. “Colonel’s orders. But you know you’re the only girl for me. Always.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY