Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  "If Walt is in agreement, as you say he is, I will do what you ask." She held his gaze until she was sure he believed her words. "Although, if I tried to put together a detonator, that would be the end of me."

  The man laughed. It was a loud, boisterous laugh that she hadn't expected.

  "No, do not worry. Our plans are far different than that."

  Emanuel glanced at Philip, who nodded and smiled. Sophie realized he was in on this, too. No wonder he hadn't said anything.

  "Señorita," Emanuel said with a sigh. "The next part of the lesson is timing. As I have said, it is just as important as the act itself. But even more important is having the right man for the right job. Or in this case, the right woman."

  "So, you have a job specifically designed for me?"

  "Sí, that I do. It is an inside job, and one that is very dangerous. But do not worry. We will have someone watching over you."

  A chill settled over Sophie as she remembered Bilbao. The scenario sounded familiar. A man had watched over her then, and she didn't realize until later that it had been her dear friend Luis. Not only had he watched for her, he had died protecting her.

  She also knew having a guardian meant she needed one. Sophie crossed her arms over her chest, hoping to hide their trembling. She offered a weak smile. "I know what this means. I've been asked to do such a thing before. And I have a feeling I should have volunteered to set bombs. I have a strange notion it's safer."

  "Sí, I suppose so, but do you see those maps? The problem with them is that the information is old. We wait to act until we get a confirmation. But by the time our data is confirmed, the situation has changed. We need you to go on the inside . . . someplace to watch and report."

  Sophie noticed he didn't use the word spy. She pressed her hand to her forehead. It made no sense. She thought their plans were to get the gold out of the country. Why had things changed?

  "We have someone on the inside . . . although he appears to be a Fascist supporter, he works for us. His position is too critical. We need someone to smuggle out information for us to look at and then smuggle it back in again the next morning before it is missed. Our friend cannot make the deliveries himself, but he will help you. We already have a story for your presence."

  "Walt agrees?" she asked.

  "Walt agrees as long as we promise to take care of you . . . and only if your help is vital to our cause. I assured him of both."

  "Where is he now?"

  "He is outside, talking with some of the others. We have a man who is familiar with the castle at Granada—Alhambra."

  "Just as long as you don't ask me to be anyone's girlfriend. I . . . I'm tired of having to spread out my affections—be it real or pretend."

  "Do not worry, Señorita. We will not ask anything of your heart—just your mind . . . and your acting abilities."

  "Let me guess. Should I get used to being called Eleanor?"

  For the next hour Emanuel told Sophie and Philip about the rugged hill on which the Alhambra was built, especially about the subterranean passages leading from the fortress to various parts of the city.

  Walt joined them, yawning widely but eager to join their talk. "More than once the tunnels carried royal damsels beyond the walls of Granada, where the cavaliers waited to bear the whole party over the borders," he said.

  "It sounds like something out of a storybook," Sophie commented. "Will I have to sneak in?"

  "Nothing of the sort. You are arriving as the niece of one of the most honored men in the city. Tomas, or rather, Uncle Tomas, lives within the Alhambra on the top of the hill. He is one of us, but we set him up there from the beginning of the war. No one questions his loyalty to Franco, which is exactly how we want to keep it. Within these various tunnels and passages of the fortress, it should be easy for you to get information to us."

  "If they know the tunnels are there, why don't they watch them more closely?"

  Emanuel cocked one eyebrow. "Walt mentioned the . . . damsels who used the tunnels. . . . When first constructed, the tunnels were used as passageways for the rich men to keep their sins hidden. Today, the travel is not much different. No one wishes to stop it, because in doing so their own indulgences would be made known."

  "Wonderful! You're going to place me in a palace and give me the reputation of a harlot?" She glanced at Philip, and for the first time he appeared ill at ease.

  "You won't be asked to do anything I wouldn't have my own daughter do," Emanuel replied. "Besides, you will be safe, and you will provide us with the information we need."

  "Walt? Do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

  Walt's eyes darted to Emanuel. "Yes, Sophie. Actually, I think it will help us get information for our . . . shipment, too."

  "Philip?" She turned to him.

  "It will be safer than having you work with bombs and guns." Philip took her hand. "If anyone can pull this off, Sophie, it's you. And . . . well, you've helped the Republican causes in many different ways before. I have no doubt you'll succeed again. Besides, it's only for a week or two. Isn't that what you said?" He locked eyes on Emanuel.

  "Sí, just enough time for us to update our information."

  Sophie pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. Amazingly, the first thought that came to her was the woman in the cave apartment. When the Republicans win, I will have a home, she had said. That woman had hoped, even though she could do nothing for the cause. How could Sophie not act when given the chance?

  "Okay. Count me in. When do I leave?"

  Emanuel clicked his tongue. "Not too soon. The timing . . . it is not right. Not until we prepare. And not until you know your duty." He slid the gun from his shoulder holster. "First of which will be to protect yourself. And you need to know how to make it back to safety whenever it is necessary. This mission will not be done in haste. After all . . ." He smiled. "This right person is greatly valued in our eyes."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  José looked around in disbelief. He hurried around the small farmhouse, frantic. His eyes searched up and down the road. The parade of slow-moving vehicles and even slower-moving men and women on foot stretched from one hill to the other. His horse was nowhere in sight.

  He leaned over, hands on his knees, and told himself to think. Calisto would never wander off. If someone had been watching, waiting, they would have had time to mount him and ride him in any direction. Still, Calisto would only allow that with someone he trusted. José had witnessed more than once the stallion's determination not to be ridden by a stranger.

  Petra.

  José hoped more than anything that Petra had taken him. But why? Was she working with Michael? José quickly pushed that thought out of his head. Impossible.

  He heard the sound of galloping, and his heart leapt. He turned to see Petra on Erro, riding toward him. Calisto was not with her. A worried cry escaped José's lips.

  Erro stopped right before José. Petra's eyes were wild, her face frantic. "A man came in a truck. He got out and rode Calisto away."

  Michael!

  She brushed her long hair from her face. A strand still clung to her flushed cheek, and José wished he could brush it away. Wished he could take care of her and offer her a safe place. But he couldn't. He needed her.

  "What direction?"

  "Back that way." Petra pointed to the bombed-out village the people were retreating from. Her hand trembled.

  He knew he should thank her for coming—knew he'd be lost without her here. Instead he simply nodded.

  "I think I know where they are going. There is a seaside cottage near here—in Santander." The memory of two childhood friends playing in the surf hit him, nearly taking his breath.

  "But I don't understand. Calisto allowed him to ride away."

  "That's because the horse belongs to him."

  "You mean . . . Yes, it was the man we saw in Bilbao, when I got those photographs from the woman. He looked different—thinner. He walked with a limp."


  José raked his fingers through his hair. "I need you to . . ." His mind raced. "I need Erro. Then go inside and let them know who you are. Tell the nurses I'm going to find Ramona. Stay with them, wherever they go. I will find you."

  "And if you don't?" She climbed down off Erro and handed him the reins. Tears pooled in her lower eyelashes.

  José thought about promising her that he would return, but the truth of the situation did not allow that.

  "If I'm not back in two days, then you must find a way to travel into the mountains, back to the caves. Pepito and my father—I don't think they can survive alone. The horses either. Do you think you can find your way back?"

  Even though she was a petite thing, she straightened, and José could tell she found a well of inner strength as she realized the responsibility he placed on her.

  "Yes, I made a map." She pulled it from the pocket of her trousers.

  Emotion overwhelmed him, and José hugged her. Petra clung to him, and José worried that her care for him was more than that of just a friend. Gently, he pushed her away.

  "In two days. Be safe, José."

  He mounted Erro and turned in the direction of Santander. José rode off, refusing to look back. He could only trust that Petra would be safe. And, if he didn't return, that she'd care for the two older men and the other horses. He'd never placed so much trust in another human being, and even now he couldn't believe he was forced to. After all, she was not much more than a girl.

  Yet he couldn't think about that. He focused on the path ahead, on rescuing his wife. He didn't know why Michael had resorted to this, but things must be bad. In fact, the gold must be lost. He feared that Michael had returned to seek revenge. A friend turned enemy—that was the worst kind of opponent, because those who know you best also understand how to hurt you the most.

  José urged Erro on faster.

  Ritter's eyes scanned the control panel. He leaned back in his seat slightly, finding a comfortable spot for the return flight to Berlin.

  Monica sat in the copilot's seat, and a huge smile filled her face. Blonde curls peeked from under the leather flight helmet. "Amazing! I never get tired of flying. Isn't it wonderful? I remember going to school as a child on Long Island, memorizing all the European countries. I never imagined someday I'd fly from Germany to Spain and back again, just to ferry supplies. Can you imagine what the early explorers would have thought of this?"

  Ritter laughed at her enthusiasm. "Ja, it is wonderful, isn't it? The thing I have trouble understanding is what is so important to your uncle Hermann for him to pay us so generously to make this long journey." He glanced at her again, appreciating her beauty that even the plain, drab flight suit could not hide.

  At first when Monica had returned to Berlin, Ritter had thought her a bother. She demanded his attention. Wanted to spend all their free time together. But the more time he spent with her, the more he enjoyed it. And while his heart still ached for Isanna, he was thankful that Monica had forced herself into his life—cracking open a part of his heart that had grown cold and dark.

  She turned slightly in her seat, nearly shouting over the roaring of the engines. "You don't think it's those crates back there they care about, do you?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because they tossed them inside with little concern. They didn't even tie them down well, even though they are marked 'Fragile.' Personally, I think what they want is in that satchel you have tucked behind your seat."

  "The satchel?"

  "Oh, please, Ritter. You can't fool me. The only thing I wonder is if you've looked inside that bag? Perhaps you know more about this war than anyone." Her laughter filled the cockpit.

  "Maybe I have. Are you challenging me?" Ritter glanced out the side window of the plane, peering over the top of the white peaks. Even after all the flights over the Pyrenees, he had a hard time believing that men—volunteers even—hiked across those mountains in order to volunteer for Spain. Giving their all. Facing extreme danger for a great leader was one thing . . . but their cause had no great leader. In fact, it wasn't even a great cause. He glanced over and noticed Monica's smirk.

  "I'm not challenging you. I already know you've never looked. You're too honorable and noble for that. You respect Uncle Hermann and feel honored that he trusts you—you, of all people. Still, don't you wonder?"

  Before he had time to respond, Monica leaned over and grabbed the satchel, placing it on her lap.

  "What are you doing?" Ritter reached for it, but she sat just beyond his grasp. He tried to snatch the satchel again, but as he did the nose of the plane dipped, causing the whole plane to groan and shake. "Monica, you're going to get us killed!"

  "What Uncle Hermann doesn't know won't hurt him. That's my motto."

  Ritter grabbed his pistol from his shoulder holster. "Monica, I told you. Put it away." He waved it her direction.

  Her eyes widened, and then laughter poured from her lips. "Ritter, you're no fun! You don't have to be so dramatic."

  She opened the satchel and began flipping through the pages. She stopped, read some, and Ritter couldn't help wondering what had caught her interest.

  After five minutes passed, Monica lifted her head and turned to him.

  "Listen to this. It has nothing to do with the war in Spain—or at least what I can see." Her voice vibrated from the movement of the engines.

  "I'm not listening."

  Monica ignored him. "When do you have to turn this in? Right when we fly in? No, wait, you told me earlier. You have a meeting in the morning." She let out a dramatic sigh. "Well, I don't think we should rest tonight. We should read through it. It's about a guy's connection with Inca gold."

  "I'm not going to read it." His curiosity was piqued—but there was the question of honor. He'd worked hard, had gone through a lot to earn Göring’s respect. "I don't think we should."

  "Why not? It's not as if we're going to go to South America on a treasure hunt. It's interesting, that's all."

  "I'll think about it. But put it away for now. You're making me nervous."

  Monica shrugged, and then put the papers back and closed the satchel. "You win. But promise me you'll at least glance at it."

  Ritter nodded, even though he had no intention of doing so. Göring trusted him. He would not lose that trust.

  But as the miles passed and the sunlight faded, Ritter had time to think. Inca gold? What could be so interesting about Inca gold? Why would Göring care about such a thing?

  Before an hour passed Ritter had changed his mind. He would read it—skim it—just to ease his curiosity. As Monica said, it wasn't like he was going to head to South America in search of treasure.

  * * *

  Ritter read the papers as if they contained an adventure novel. They told of a man named Barth Blake who found great treasure. He and a friend had followed something called Valverde's Guide and found the gold. Well, it was more than gold, really . . . silver handicraft, life-sized gold figures, emeralds. And much more.

  Blake's partner, Chapman, died, supposedly by falling over a cliff. Or perhaps killed by Blake, Ritter thought as he read.

  Blake made it out of the mountains without a partner, but with great evidence his story was true. His pockets were filled with Inca gold. After telling his story to a few, he headed back to England to raise money for an expedition. It was on the trip that someone pushed him overboard to steal his maps.

  Monica yawned even though her eyes were bright. "I think I found something." She spoke no louder than a whisper, even though they were alone in her apartment. "This is supposedly a description from Blake."

  Ritter took the paper from her and read it himself.

  It is impossible for me to describe the wealth that now lies in that cave marked on my map, but I could not remove it alone, nor could a hundred men. . . . There are thousands of gold and silver pieces of Inca and pre-Inca handicraft, the most beautiful goldsmith works you can imagine, life-sized human figures made out of beaten gold and
silver, birds, animals, cornstalks, gold, and silver flowers. Pots full of the most incredible jewelry. Golden vases full of emeralds.

  "So how long would it take for us to fly to South America?" Monica laughed. She shuffled carefully through the rest of the papers, then sighed. "Too bad there's no treasure map here. But there is a translation of Valverde's Guide. Listen to how it begins."

  She cleared her throat.

  "Placed in the town of Pillaro, ask for the farm of Moya, and sleep (the first night) a good distance above it. And ask there for the mountain of Guapa, from whose top, if the day be fine, look to the east, so that thy back be towards the town of Ambato, and from thence—"

  "Enough. This is foolish. As long as there have been men, there have been rumors of hidden treasure. If there was such a thing, surely it would have been found by now." Ritter took the papers from her hand and returned them to the satchel in the order they had come.

  Monica shrugged. "I'm sure to someone it's important, but you're right. It means nothing."

  "It's time for bed, and I'm going to head home." Ritter rose, tucking the satchel under his arm.

  "Why don't you stay? It's a pity for you to go all the way back to your place. I promise I won't look in the satchel again."

  "Sorry. Not this time." Ritter walked to the door, placing his hand on the ornate handle. "But I'll stop by tomorrow to see you. Maybe we can have dinner?"

  Monica rose and walked Ritter to the door, and though she tried to hide it, Ritter noticed anger in her eyes.

  "I'm not sure. I might be busy." She placed her hand over his and opened the door without offering her usual embrace.

  "Well, then maybe I'll dine with your uncle. He loves to tell stories. Perhaps he'll clue me in to what this is about." He stepped outside, feeling the cool night air hit his arms and face.

  "Yes, perhaps. Good night." And with that Monica closed the door.

  "Women," Ritter scoffed as he hurried to the side street where he'd parked. "You can never please them . . . never understand them either." He climbed into his automobile and placed the satchel on the seat. "Women are about as useless as fairy tales that speak about lost treasure. No, make that more useless. At least fairy tales sometimes have a happy ending."