Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  As she returned to the entrance, Theodor came toward her, the packaging tube containing her mother’s portrait slung over his shoulder. At his questioning look, she nodded slightly. He held out his hand, and she gave him the key.

  Wishing she knew his plans, Alison browsed through the display racks until a still life stopped her cold. The last time she had seen this particular Caravaggio was when she had photographed it at the air raid shelter. One of Hendrik’s colleagues had entrusted it to them for safekeeping.

  She stared at Theodor, who was preoccupied with telling the guards where to put the fragile items they were bringing in from the Mercedes. Taking the still life from the rack, she carried it to him and thrust it in front of his face. “Where did you get this?”

  He slightly reddened, then looked aggravated. “In a trade.”

  “A trade for what?”

  “I don’t have time for this now, Alison.”

  “Who told you about the air raid shelter?” she demanded. Her mind flicked through the handful of people who were in on the secret, unable to believe any of them capable of such betrayal. Behind Theodor’s back, the guards exchanged amused looks. They loitered inside the open steel door, apparently not wanting to miss any drama. Their nosiness increased her anger.

  “Who?” she shouted.

  He snatched the painting from her, scraping the skin from her fingers. “Did you honestly believe I risked my neck to help your chauffeur’s son escape without exacting a price?”

  His dismissive tone rankled, but she was even more disturbed by his insinuation. “Will told you?”

  “Guess again.” His mouth curled into a smirk.

  She bent her head as the sad truth became clear. Brant had told their secret to save his son’s life. And sacrificed his own. Her anger lessened, overcome by an abiding sorrow.

  “I’ll put it back,” she said quietly, reaching for the painting, but spun toward the entrance as a spray of gunfire spit up dust near the German guards.

  “Amerikaner!” shouted one of them as he fired his gun.

  A responding shot immediately echoed through the cave, and the guard staggered backward with a scream, grabbing his wounded arm. The other guard raised his hands as uniformed men, guns drawn, came deeper into the cave.

  “Nobody move,” drawled an American accent.

  Surprised by the Allies’ sudden appearance, Alison took half a step forward before Theodor dropped the Caravaggio and grabbed her. She struggled, but he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest like a shield.

  “Let her go,” said a commanding voice in a familiar British accent.

  Alison stopped struggling, unable to take her eyes from the officer who emerged from the shadows.

  “Ian,” she breathed as his gold-flecked hazel eyes met hers.

  “Ian?” Theodor tightened his grip, causing Alison to gasp. “At last we meet.”

  “I’m not telling you again.” Ian’s eyes grew cold with controlled anger. “Let her go.”

  “I don’t give up that easily,” said Theodor, maneuvering backward. A click sounded as he held up a lighter, the flame flickering near Alison’s cheek as he pinned her now with both his arms. “Look around you, Brit. See the dynamite? This cave is rigged to explode.”

  The American whistled. “Say your prayers, boys.”

  “He’ll never do it,” Alison managed to say despite Theodor’s crushing hold around her ribs. “He won’t destroy the art.”

  “I would to kill you,” Theodor said, gesturing toward Ian with the lighter. “To free Alison of you once and for all.”

  Alison held her breath, fearful Theodor just might light the fuse. Until now she would never have believed he could destroy such valuable works. But his hatred of Ian consumed him.

  “She’ll always be mine,” Ian said softly, his gaze shifting to Alison. “No matter what happens here.”

  “Always yours.” Alison smiled, willing him to know how glad she was to see him, even if it was for the last time.

  “Don’t follow us, Brit. Not if you value her life.”

  Behind Ian, Alison saw the sudden flare of a match. In a deft motion, one of the Germans lit a nearby fuse before his American guard could stop him.

  “Ian,” she shouted, struggling against Theodor. “The dynamite.”

  Ian pivoted as a shot echoed in the cavern, and the German who lit the dynamite staggered backward before crumpling to the ground. Alison shouted Ian’s name again as Theodor yanked her behind the wall of crates, then propelled her through the wooden door, closing and locking it. She heard muffled shouting and struggled to get around him.

  “Come on.” He grabbed her wrist, dragging her through the zigzag in the short passageway and toward the ledge surrounding the pool. An explosion sounded from the cave, its deafening boom pounding against Alison’s ears. She fell, breaking Theodor’s grip and gashing her palms and knees against the rough ledge. The pistol bounced against her hip, and she yanked it from her pocket. With both hands wrapped around the handle, she pointed the wavering barrel at Theodor. He stared down at her, uncertainty in his eyes.

  “Just go.” Her aching ears blurred her voice. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Not without you.”

  She glanced behind her, closing her eyes against the vision of broken limbs beneath exploded rubble that assaulted her imagination. Breathing a prayer, she faced Theodor. “I’m going back for Ian.”

  His brilliant-blue eyes darkened, and he slid the packaging tube from his shoulder.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” He swung the tube holding her father’s masterpiece over the dark pool, the strap loosely clasped between his fingers. “You know what’s in here.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Unless you come with me, I swear I will.”

  Lowering the pistol, she slowly rose to her feet, mesmerized by the swaying tube. She needed to save the painting, to save Ian. Hendrik’s voice whispered: “The Mona Lisa or the child?” Her finger curled on the trigger and she raised the barrel skyward, determined to save both.

  She pressed against the metal prong with all her strength, firing into the overhead stalactites. As mineral deposits rained upon them, she rushed forward, and Theodor stepped backward, ducking his head. Lunging for the tube, Alison slipped on the damp ledge and tumbled into the pool. She screamed as the dark water splashed upward and choked as it enclosed her in its murky depths. With a kick, she propelled herself to the surface, taking a quick breath before descending again, weighted by her clothes. She struggled to remove the heavy jacket, tangling her arms in the sleeves as her world darkened.

  So this was the end. Wanting it all, she was left with nothing. Not even her life.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Time seemed to slow as Ian pivoted toward the bleeding German, then back to Alison as she disappeared behind the crates.

  “Get down,” Cowboy shouted.

  The explosion whooshed hot air and debris across Ian’s back as he hit the floor, hands over his head. When the rumbling ceased, he raised up, shaking his head to clear his senses. Crates near the entrance had blown inward, littering the cave floor with bits and pieces of wood, canvas, and packing materials. Tag knelt beside the wounded German. Cowboy, knife in hand, scurried toward a length of glowing fuse and cut it before more dynamite exploded.

  Ian stood, a little unsteady on his feet. “Did you shoot that Jerry, Tag?”

  “That’d be me, sir,” Cowboy said. “Just not soon enough.”

  Ian half-grinned. “Secure the others. I’ll be back.” He sprinted toward the still-standing wall of crates, grimacing when he accidentally stepped on a twisted canvas, and Cowboy followed him.

  “Not without me, Major.”

  “This is my fight.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Ian didn’t bother to protest. Behind the crates, he grabbed the handle of the thick wooden door. Locked. Aiming his gun at the latch, he pulled the trigger. The w
ood splintered, and he kicked open the door, then zagged through the passageway. Where it opened into a cavern nearly filled by a pool of water, he hesitated and peered around the corner. Alison stood, her back to him, while Scheidemann faced her, holding a packaging tube over the dark pool in one hand and the revolver in his other.

  Before Ian could make a move, Alison fired a pistol into the ceiling and grabbed for the tube. Scheidemann pulled back and she slipped. Ian’s boots seemed stuck, his legs dismembered as he watched Alison tumble into the pool.

  Not again, God. The helplessness that had dazed him when his brother drowned threatened to paralyze him.

  Alison’s scream slapped him from his stupor. He fired into the cavern, and Scheidemann staggered behind a stalagmite column. “Cover me,” Ian ordered Cowboy, and he dove into the pool to the sound of ricocheting bullets.

  His boots weighted him, dragging him downward, but his strong kicks propelled him to where he sensed Alison should be. He willed his eyes to focus, searching the murky shadows, unable to give up hope despite the pressure building in his air-starved lungs.

  Whether it was a trick of the sparse light lining the cavern’s perimeter or an answer to prayer, Ian could never be sure. A glint of gold—Tante Meg’s locket that Alison always wore—caught his eye. He snared her waist and kicked upward, adrenaline powering his legs and arms.

  They broke the surface near the edge of the pool. Holding tightly to Alison, Ian gulped air and shook the water from his eyes. Tag, his rifle trained across the pool, crouched near Cowboy, who grabbed Alison, pulling her from the pool and rolling her onto her side.

  She coughed, spitting up water as Ian heaved himself from the pool. He drew her into his lap, brushing her clammy hair from her pale face. Her eyes fluttered and he kissed her forehead.

  “Ian.” She said his name with the gentleness of a breath, and her slight smile sent a warm current into his heart.

  “I’m here.” He freed her arms from the twisted jacket, then pulled her shivering body close to his chest. She opened her gray-blue eyes, enchanting him with their light, and touched his damp cheek with her cold fingers.

  “Brit!” The shout echoed around the cavern. Scheidemann stood near a passageway, staring at them as he gripped the packaging tube. He held his revolver at his side, the barrel pointed downward. “Will she be all right?”

  Ian resented the worry he heard in Scheidemann’s voice, and fury clenched his stomach. Tightening his hold on his wife, he glared at the Nazi officer. His lungs still ached, but he found the strength to bellow, “She’s not your concern. Not now. Not ever.”

  “Just give me the word, Major.” Cowboy picked up his rifle and aimed it across the pool.

  “It’s not too late, Alison. You can have your father’s painting.” Scheidemann held up the tube. “Only come with me.”

  Ian’s blood boiled at the man’s arrogance. He held out his hand to Cowboy. “Give me your gun.”

  “No, Ian,” Alison said softly. “You’re not a killer.”

  He hefted Cowboy’s revolver, gritting his teeth to control the anger that had driven him to slash Gretchen’s murderer with a hoe, to bash the German’s head against a bloodied rock. He had killed for a woman he didn’t know. What tortures could he inflict on the man who had stolen his wife?

  “Remember the psalm?” Alison pressed her hand against his jaw so his eyes met hers. “The one that brought you home from Colditz?”

  “Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble.” Ian held on to his anger even as the familiar words played in his mind. “Thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.” He glared at Scheidemann over Alison’s shoulder, certain he deserved to die.

  “Ian, he’s not worth it. But you, you’re worth everything.” Alison unexpectedly stood, bracing herself against him. He quickly stood too, positioning himself to partially shield her from Scheidemann’s stare. She hugged his arm and leaned her head against his bicep. Seconds ticked by, and with them, his desire for revenge.

  The Nazi held out the tube. “Here it is, Alison. It’s yours.”

  “I don’t want it.” Her voice rang out clear and strong. “I only want Ian.”

  “Have him, then.” Even across the distance, the coldness in Scheidemann’s eyes was evident. “You’ve lost more than you know.”

  He fired across the pool and Ian pulled Alison to the ground. Cowboy returned fire, but Scheidemann was gone.

  “Do you know where that tunnel leads?” asked Tag.

  “To the chalet, but I don’t think he’ll go there,” Alison answered. “There are other tunnels.”

  “Too bad he got away with that painting,” said Cowboy.

  “I’m sorry about that too.” Ian gazed at Alison, her unkempt hair plastered to her head and her pale face streaked with grime. Never had she looked more beautiful.

  “He’ll keep it safe,” she said, smiling up at him. “I can count on him for that.”

  “Did I catch it right, Mrs. Major? He took your father’s painting?”

  Her smile disappeared as she turned her head, staring across the pool as she slowly nodded. “His masterpiece.”

  “I’d have liked to take a look at that.”

  “I wish I could show it to you.”

  “Cowboy,” Ian said in exasperation. “You’re dismissed.”

  “Dismissed to where, Major?”

  “Come on, Corporal.” Tag shouldered his rifle. “Let’s follow that tunnel a ways.”

  “Good idea, Captain,” said Cowboy. “I think I might have winged him.” He tipped his hat to Alison. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Major.”

  The two Americans walked single-file along the narrow edge to the opposite tunnel.

  “Alone at last,” Ian said, cupping her face in his hands. His voice grew husky. “You’re alive.”

  She smiled up at him, her gentle fingers tracing his whiskered jaw. “Because you saved me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Alison followed Ian through the remnants of the wooden door into the cave and cringed as her foot landed on pieces of canvas. Blown-up crates and paintings littered the cave floor. The loss pained her, as if her skin had been pierced by the jagged fragments. She rubbed her arms, seeking both warmth and comfort.

  “We didn’t have time to stop it,” Ian said, gesturing toward the debris. “But Cowboy cut the fuse to save the rest.”

  She nodded, numbed by the exploded treasures, now irreparably lost to future generations. “I can’t believe he did this. Not Theodor.”

  “Nothing Scheidemann did would surprise me.”

  “But this was art. It can’t be replaced.”

  “And neither can you.” Ian gently pushed her damp hair from her neck. “You need to change out of those wet clothes.”

  “You too.”

  “Duty before comfort.” He looked toward the cave entrance, and she followed his gaze. The two Germans, hands bound with lengths of fuse, sat on the ground in front of the Americans.

  “That soldier—Cowboy. He called you Major.” Alison touched the insignia on Ian’s collar. “I’m sorry I missed your promotion.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  “Libby must have changed so much since I left. Do you think she’ll remember me?”

  “She keeps a photo of the three of us beside her bed.”

  “Taken at the gazebo?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I can’t wait to see her again.”

  “Here, take a look at this.” Ian pulled a soggy piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on a crate. He carefully unfolded it, revealing a smeared drawing, and laughed. “I’m afraid she’ll never pass for a Van Schuyler.”

  Alison examined the childish picture, her professional eye blurred by motherly love. “She uses color in an interesting way,” she said defensively. Her fingertips brushed the labeled figures, pausing over the one of Libby. Priceless art surrounded her, but her daughter’s drawing was the most valuable of them all.


  * * *

  “Scheidemann disappeared,” Cowboy announced as he strolled into the cave. He tipped his hat at Alison, and she smiled at his unsophisticated gallantry. “He’s wounded, but not bad enough to leave much of a trail.”

  Ian muttered something under his breath, and Alison bent her head. Theodor had gotten away. Both surprised and ashamed by the relief that flooded through her, she focused on flipping through the inventory lists she had found while they were waiting for Cowboy and Tag to return from the tunnels. There’d be no arrest. There’d be no trial.

  Most importantly, there’d be no more confrontations. She shuddered, remembering the hard glint in Ian’s eyes when he had glared at Theodor. That same glint may have been in her father’s eyes when he confronted her mother’s cruel uncle. Life had scarred Pieter, slowly consuming him with heartache and guilt. She couldn’t bear the same thing happening to Ian. He had already killed once, a justified death that had given him nightmares. How could they survive if he gave in to his desire for vengeance now?

  All she wanted was to return to England. To be a family again. Unless Ian . . . Jealousy stabbed her heart as she remembered the newspaper photo of him with the American actress.

  She lifted her eyes, watching Ian as he and the Americans talked quietly. They obviously respected his leadership and judgment. Pride surged through her, and she closed the inventory folder. He was a man worth fighting for, but what could she do if he loved someone else?

  Ian and the Americans, eager to return to the chalet, gave her little time to dwell on such thoughts. When they arrived, they discovered that Frau Mueller had disappeared. Tag, as the commanding American officer, claimed the chalet as Allied headquarters for his jurisdiction before he and Cowboy searched the chalet’s end of the tunnel for any signs of Theodor. They found nothing.