"What did Walt tell you?"
"He said to tell you that you won. The treasure you spoke about was true . . . and you have done more for him than he managed to do for you." The man cleared his throat. "He said that when he saw you on that train heading to the Spanish border he thought he had helped you cross over to the other side . . . but in truth you helped him to do just that."
Sophie let out a little cry. Her chin dropped to her chest. "The other side?" She didn't know whether to smile or cry. She did both.
From the corner of her eye she saw Michael enter the cave. He stepped to her side as if understanding something terrible had happened.
"Walt's dead," the man said solemnly. "They took him again, for interrogation. He never came back. But he asked me to give you a message. He told me that if something happened, I was to find you. He said he learned to believe what he could not see." Tears filled the stranger's gaze.
"But that makes no sense. He told me that in order to continue seeking the treasure, he learned to have faith in the great treasure house." The words caught in Sophie's throat.
"Yes, but this is a different treasure he speaks about." The man slipped a small piece of paper into her hand. She unfolded it and read Walt's handwriting. Streets of gold. A bridge to the other side. Jesus.
* * *
Sophie knew that for the rest of her life she'd never forget Walt. And she'd never forget how in the end he'd found what he'd always sought—truth, treasure, acceptance.
She'd have time to mourn Walt later. More than anything, she knew, he would want her to complete what he had started.
All the other men left, to give them space, leaving only Michael and Philip to comfort her. Sophie wiped away her tears. "Well, our job isn't done. We still have to find Maria."
Michael looked at Sophie, and she knew something was wrong. "She is gone. I went for her this morning, and one of the maids said Maria had already left for the coast."
Sophie's head pounded, unable to absorb the mounting news. "We have to go. We have to find her! I promised Maria . . . she needs a way of escape. I'm afraid she thinks I am not coming back. She's desperate. She thinks it's all up to her now."
"Sophie." Philip took her hands. "Either that or she's decided to stay."
Sophie jerked her hands away. "Maria married Emilio for Michael. She carried a child because of this man." Sophie pointed to Michael's chest. "He asked her to do whatever it took to make sure they were able to get into the bank. She trusted me. I gave her my word. More than that . . . I promised to help her."
Philip placed a hand on her shoulder. "We can't risk any more. We have the gold. We have plans for escape."
Sophie shook her head. "I've made my choice. I'm not going without her. Gold or no gold."
"Sophie, please." Michael added his plea to Philip's.
She turned to him. "Go ahead. Ritter is waiting."
"Why are you doing this?" Michael asked.
"You may not understand this, but I'm saving the one thing worth saving. And that's not the gold."
Michael's gaze narrowed. "Sophie, you can't be serious."
"The gold belongs to Spain. It does not belong to me. Or either of you." She glanced at both men. "Just promise me you'll sell it and use the money for the good of the people."
"You are confused." Philip's voice was gentle.
"Am I? From the moment the gold was taken hundreds of years ago, people have chased it. Greed kills and destroys. People will continue to die for this treasure—"
"That's why we must get it out," Michael interrupted. "Before more people die hunting it. Before more people are lulled into its trap. What has been sacrificed: life, families, truth, souls?"
Philip reached for her hand, but Sophie pulled away.
"This gold has trapped me since the moment I entered this country." Sophie distanced herself from the men. "It will not hold me anymore. I am leaving. I'm going to find Maria, and we'll figure out on our own how to get out of this country."
Chapter Forty-One
Ritter's disguise had been simple. A pair of handmade crutches, tattered clothes, and a full facial beard hid his true identity. His downcast eyes kept everyone away. The fact that he smelled bad helped, too.
Through the afternoon and evening, Ritter had shuffled through the streets near the air base where he'd previously been stationed, hoping to locate one of his former friends. He needed the help of someone still assigned to the local squadron. It was the only way.
He'd asked Philip and Michael to make sure the gold was transferred to canvas moneybags. From there they were to be secured in the bomb bay of a Dornier Do.17—called the Flying Pencil. The Dornier was capable of carrying fifteen hundred pounds of bombs. He hoped the gold didn't weigh much more.
Night had nearly descended, and Ritter was about to give up hope when his shuffle took him past a park where a small gathering of pilots and mechanics played cards. It was then he spotted his former wingman, Erik Schomburg.
Ritter shuffled by and caught Schomburg's eye. With his right hand, Ritter flashed Erik the sign they'd used when flying formation to determine who would break away first when an encounter was eminent. Schomburg's eyes lit with recognition, and Ritter could almost see the blood drain from his friend's face. Ritter kept on moving toward another bench a good distance away. He eased down, got comfortable, and waited.
In a few minutes the card game broke up, and the men headed off in different directions. Ritter turned and watched Schomburg come toward him at a natural pace to avoid the attention of his departing squadron mates.
Schomburg looked around, then grasped Ritter's hand with both of his. "Friend, it is great to see you alive."
It took Ritter nearly an hour to tell his friend how he happened to "go missing," and why he needed help now.
Schomburg's eyes sparkled at the promise of gold for his help.
"Send the truck with the gold tonight," Schomburg said. "Meet me there. We can work together to load the gold, and in the morning I'll convince the base mechanics to allow me to pre- flight the large twin-engine bomber."
"Perfect. I knew I could count on you," Ritter said with a smile.
Philip drove Michael to the airfield. In the distance he saw the transport plane. Parked beside it was the truck that had carried the gold for so long, now empty. The cargo was loaded, and he could see Ritter and another man doing a final check of the plane.
Michael opened the door and turned to climb out.
Philip stopped Michael with his words. "It seems we both ended up here because we love the same woman. And that is no fault of ours. The problem is, you hurt her . . . and I have hurt her less. Still, I trust you" He emphasized the last two words.
"Yes, well, I'll be waiting in Paris. Let me know when you arrive . . . and together we can work to get the money from the sale into the right hands."
"I'll be sure to do that."
Philip noticed Michael's gaze soften.
"There is one more thing I have to tell you." Michael cleared his throat, then glanced away. "I read your father's letters. First with amusement. What foolishness. Then with curiosity. Why did his words stick with me? I asked myself. I wondered why I could not shake them. Then . . ." Michael sighed. "I read the letters with hunger. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know how someone with so little could have such hope."
"When I get there, we can talk about this more. And maybe someday you can meet my father. I think you'd like him."
"Yes, I would like that." Michael shook Philip's hand. "In the meantime take care of Sophie. She's a stubborn woman."
Philip nodded. "Yes, I know that well."
"Take care of Maria and the baby, too."
"And you take care of the gold . . . for the gold will take care of many."
* * *
Sophie's heart was heavy every time she thought of Walt, but she urged herself to continue what he had started. She even imagined him looking upon her with a smile as she kept her promise to her friend.
<
br /> It had been easy to find Maria. At the train station, she and Philip had simply asked the man at the ticket counter to tell them which direction the beautiful woman with the small child had traveled. Then together, Eleanor Howard and Phil Attis bought tickets for Gibraltar. Sophie would return there, but this time for a different treasure.
Eleanor and Phil booked a room at the finest hotel they could find, and then Sophie waited in the lobby. Sure enough, a few hours later Maria exited with the baby in a carriage. Her face filled with joy, and she embraced Sophie.
"Come with me," Sophie said, taking her arm. "Philip should be ready."
* * *
Philip patted the paperwork in his pocket, adjusted his cap, and drew in a breath to make himself seem taller. A voice met his ears as he entered the doorway to the command post of the volunteers. The polite and proper intonation told Philip the man was British.
"Bugger this rain," the burly soldier guarding the door complained to no one in particular.
Philip approached them. "Excuse me. I'm looking for the doctor. I hear he's looking for volunteers to transport wounded men?"
The Englishman scoffed. "Don't be daft. He's looking for men stupid enough to drive unreliable vehicles to the front lines and most likely wind up in the middle of enemy fire. Dang the Reds." The man crossed his arms over his chest and studied Philip from the top of his head to the toe of his shoes. "Still interested?"
Then he lifted his eyes and met Philip's gaze.
"Yes, I suppose I am. Didn't come to volunteer for Franco because I expected rest, relaxation, and roses."
Deep laughter burst from the man's lips, and he nodded his head and patted Philip's shoulder.
"Hey, I like you. Usually the volunteers come shaking in their boots. You seem more like a veteran of this war than someone just arriving."
Philip stomped one foot. "No shakes—at least showing on the outside, anyway. I wish I were a veteran," he quickly added. "Then at least I'd know it's possible to survive this thing."
"Sure, you'll survive. I can tell those who will—call it my sixth sense." The man paused as if a parade of faces of all those who didn't make it filled his mind. "I'll walk you to the docks. Put in a good word, even. They're transporting troops north by way of ship, you know."
"Yes, I know."
The man reached his hand to Philip. "I'm Gregory, by the way."
"Phil. Phil Attis."
"Gregory Wiersbe, at your service." He didn't take time to introduce Philip to the others, and Philip was grateful. His mind was already full of the duties he had to complete by the time darkness fell.
Philip strolled with a relaxed posture as he followed the man through the halls leading past offices. The command post overflowed with people moving with purpose in their step. He wondered if there was ever a time when quiet filled these halls. His guess was that even late at night the office was staffed with people waiting to get news of the latest events—good or bad, but always colored so Franco looked liked the victor.
Philip didn't need to think about that now, or how he'd find the right ship so that they could steal away unnoticed. Instead he focused on walking along and answering the man's questions as convincingly as he could.
"So, Phil, what do you think of Spain so far?"
"Spain is beautiful, and so are its women. But I've heard that as someone new I shouldn't try to get to know the others by joining card games—if I want to keep my wallet, that is."
The man laughed again. "In that case, can I talk you into some flamenco dancing? Pretty women, and you get to keep your wallet. Well, unless you fall in love, that is. I know one volunteer who took a wife only to discover that she expected him to support her family, too."
"And maybe her friends as well?" Philip laughed; then he scanned the docks. "I think I can take it from here. Thank you. This is just what I needed."
* * *
Sophie hurried down the dock, head down. Rain softly fell. She saw the small boat, just as she'd expected. She saw Philip, in his disguise, sitting on the bow. He rose when he saw her.
"Do you have Maria and the baby?"
"Yes, they are below," he said. "What took you so long?"
She climbed onto the boat. "I sent a telegram ahead. I told Michael where to meet us—on the coast."
"Do you think he will?"
Sophie shrugged. "I'm not sure. For all we know he could have taken the gold and run." A baby's cry rose from down below. "Even if he does, we have the most important part."
"Maria and the child."
Sophie nodded, and then drew a small pouch out of her pocket with five coins. "Yes, that too." She placed a quick kiss on Philip's lips. "It's time to go now."
With a smile, Philip used his foot and pushed away from the dock.
Sophie watched the coast of Spain grow dim. Tears filled her eyes.
"I know it's hard. With Walt—" Philip placed an arm around her shoulders.
"Shhh, you don't need to say anything. Just hold me." The tears refused to stop. "Just hold me and let me know that I am worth it."
"Worth what?"
"His sacrifice."
"In his eyes you are."
"Yes." Sophie sighed. "You are right. In his eyes I am . . . and that's hard to accept."
The boat continued onward until Spain disappeared in the distance. She had entered with Walt's help; now she exited the same way. And yet in between she had become a patriot of Spain and a saint. An unusual mix, but both due to Walt's sacrifice.
"He knew what he was doing, Sophie—trading his life for yours."
Sophie sighed deeply. "I know. And I pray that the rest of my life will show my gratitude."
Epilogue
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
Ramona held the blanket tight to her shoulders, and she focused on the coastline ahead of her. France. It seemed a dream. It also seemed strange that Spain was behind them. They had fought for their country, but she died before their eyes. The International volunteers had been sent home months ago, and it was only a matter of time before the government agreed to declare Franco the victor.
José wrapped his arm around her. "I sent word ahead. I believe there will be friends waiting."
"Really, who?"
"A priest named Father Manuel. Do you remember him, from Guernica? I hear he has opened a home in Paris for stragglers like us. I'm not sure where he received the funds to do so, but many have benefited from his care."
Ramona closed her eyes and nodded, then pressed her cheek against his chest. "Yes, I remember him. But that seems a lifetime ago. It will be strange to live in a real home—to sleep on a bed." She chuckled. "In a strange way, I'll miss our cave . . . it's where we truly had a chance to love each other." She opened her eyes and peered into her husband's face. "Do you think we will ever comeback home?"
José set his chin. "It's my hope. Maybe we can unite with others and return someday to reclaim what we have lost."
Ramona nodded. It seemed hard to imagine such a thing coming true, especially with Hitler's war machine bent on controlling Europe.
"At least we have each other." She placed a kiss on his lips. "And at least we know our Lord is with us . . . wherever we are."
"It is enough," José agreed. "It is enough."
Acknowledgments
John, thank you for sharing me with Spain for three years. I hope you liked how the story ended! Your love for me is more overwhelming than I can put into words.
Cory, Leslie, and Nathan. Thanks for being great kids!
My loving family . . . grandma, dad, mom, Ronnie—who always rejoice with me.
Stacey, Kimberley, Lesley, Melissa, Bruce, and Susan—unexpected and special gifts.
Robbie, my brother-in-law. No, I wouldn't tell you how the book ended, but now you can find out for yourself!
Amy Lathrop, my right-hand-gal. You are the best!
My small group, Job and Marie, Casey and Allyson, Tara and Skyler, Kenny and Twyla. Dearest friends and fellow God-seek
ers. Thanks for your encouragement and prayers!
My agent, Janet Kobobel Grant. I'm thankful for your wisdom and dedication.
My editor, Andy McGuire. This book is here because of your enthusiasm over my spark of an idea! Thank you for believing in me.
The whole Moody team whose partnership was a true gift from God.
LB Norton. You make me look good. I consider you a friend.
My "unofficial" editors, Cara Putman, Ocieanna Fleiss, Amy Lathrop, and Jim Thompson. Thanks!
Finally, this book wouldn't be written if not for the wonderful men and women who help with my research:
Alun Menai Williams. February 20, 1913 - July 2, 2006.
Veteran of the Spanish Civil War.
Karen Lynn Ginter. Thank you for making Spain real to me!
Norman Goyer. Though we may not be related, I'm
thankful for all your expert aviation advice! I have
no doubt God sent you to me.
And others from the Abraham Lincoln Brigade Associated who answered my questions and provided insight. Thank you!
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