Valley of Betrayal Read online

  After breathing new life into WWII historical fiction for the past few years, Tricia Goyer turns her keen eye to vistas of the Spanish Civil War. Goyer is a painter of words, creating memorable scenes and characters, educating while entertaining. And, at the heart of this story, she reminds us that God can bring beauty from the darkest places, that each of us have gifts that can be used to God's glory. This is a fantastic new series, not to be missed.

  —Eric Wilson, author of The Best of Evil ,

  Expiration Date , and Dark to Mortal Eyes

  Tricia Goyer has done it again . . . this time by setting her latest novel during the Spanish Civil War, a regional conflict that was a warm-up to the main event—World War II. Highly interesting and highly readable.

  —Mike Yorkey, coauthor of the

  Every Man's Battle series

  The real heroes of war aren't the soldiers but the character of its people. A Valley of Betrayal speaks to the heart when deceit threatens truth.

  —DiAnn Mills, author of the Nebraska

  Legacy novels and Leather and Lace novels

  This "wow" novel will delight Tricia Goyer's fans. She takes an unfamiliar, murky war and paints vivid portraits of individuals caught in the contradictory conflict. Tricia addresses the desperation and horror redemptively, allowing the reader a hard-fought hope. Prepare for a surprising adventure.

  —Dr. Rebecca Price Janney, historian,

  author of Great Stories in American History

  A Valley of Betrayal is a haunting depiction of the autocracies of war and the triumph of faith. Through the power of story Tricia brings history alive so that we never forget the battles that have been fought and the brave men and women who have gone before us.

  — Amy Wallace, author of Ransomed Dreams

  Air battles of the Spanish Civil War were responsible for rapid improvement of aircraft fighters and bombers flown in World War II. Tricia Goyer, unfortunately no relation, has enriched the world of aviation history. In addition, I have always enjoyed reading a good action novel and getting a little history as a bonus.

  —Norm Goyer

  Aviation Editor, Author, and Historian

  © 2007 by

  TRICIA GOYER

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version.

  Cover Design: Gearbox, David Carlson

  Cover Image: Walter Bibikow / Getty, Hulton-Deutsch Collection / Corbis, Veer

  Interior Design: Ragont Designs

  Editor: LB Norton

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Goyer, Tricia.

  A valley of betrayal / Tricia Goyer.

  p. cm. —(Chronicles of the Spanish Civil War)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8024-6767-6

  1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Spain—History—Civil War, 1936—1939—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.O94V35 2007

  813'.6—dc22

  2006034523

  ISBN: 0-8024-6767-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8024-6767-6

  We hope you enjoy this book from Moody Publishers. Our goal is to provide high-quality, thought-provoking books and products that connect truth to your real needs and challenges. For more information on other books and products written and produced from a biblical perspective, go to www.moodypublishers.com or write to:

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  To John and Darlyne Goyer, my parents-in-love

  Your prayers seventeen years ago pointed me to Christ.

  Your prayers today strengthen me for the journey.

  Thank you.

  Dear Reader,

  A few years ago when I was researching for my fourth World War II novel, I came across a unique autobiography. One B-17 crewmember I read about claimed to make it out of German-occupied Belgium after a plane crash due, in part, to the skills he picked up as a veteran of the Spanish Civil War. Reading that bit of information, I had to scratch my head. First of all, I had never heard of the war. And second, what was an American doing fighting in Spain in the late 1930s? Before I knew it, I uncovered a fascinating time in history—one that I soon discovered many people know little about. This is what I learned:

  Nazi tanks rolled across the hillsides and German bombers roared overhead, dropping bombs on helpless citizens. Italian troops fought alongside the Germans, and their opponents attempted to stand strong—Americans, British, Irishmen, and others—in unison with other volunteers from many countries. And their battleground? The beautiful Spanish countryside.

  From July 17, 1936—April 1, 1939, well before America was involved in World War II, another battle was fought on the hillsides of Spain. On one side were the Spanish Republicans, joined by the Soviet Union and the International Brigade—men and women from all over the world who volunteered to fight Fascism. Opposing them were Franco and his Fascist military leaders, supported with troops, machinery, and weapons from Hitler and Mussolini. The Spanish Civil War, considered the "training ground" for the war to come, boasted of thousands of American volunteers who joined to fight on the Republican side, half of whom never returned home.

  Unlike World War II, there is no clear line between right and wrong, good and evil. Both sides committed atrocities. Both sides had deep convictions they felt were worth fighting and dying for.

  Loyalists—also know as the Republicans, were aided by the Soviet Union, the Communist movement, and the International Brigades. If not for the weapons and volunteers from these sources, their fight would have ended in weeks rather than years. While many men fought side by side, their political views included those of liberal democracy, communism, and socialism. The Catholic Basque Country also sided with the Republic, mainly because it sought independence from the central government and was promised this by Republican leaders in Madrid.

  Nationalists—or Francoists, were aided mainly by Germany and Italy. The Nationalist opposed an independent Basque state. Their main supporters were those who believed in a monarchist state and Fascist interests. The Nationalists wished for Spain to continue on as it had for years, with rich landowners, the military, and the church running the country. Most of the Roman Catholic clergy supported the Nationalists, except those in the Basque region.

  During the Spanish Civil War, terror tactics against civilians were common. And while history books discuss the estimated one million people who lost their lives during the conflict, we must not forget that each of those who fought, who died, had their own tales. From visitors to Spain who found themselves caught in the conflict, to the communist supporters, Basque priests, and Nazi airmen . . . each saw this war in a different light. These are their stories.

  Tricia Goyer, October 2006

  Prologue

  MARCH 7, 1936

  BERLIN, GERMANY

  One Reich, One Folk, One Füehrer

  Nazi motto

  Adolf Hitler, chin set and chest forward, stepped up to the podium at the Kroll opera House. Ritter Agler hardly cast the Führer a full glance. Instead, he riveted his eyes on the round, balding man sitting in the third row from the front and contemplated the best way to get his inheritance without resorting to murder. . . .

  Keep your mind on the task at hand, Ritter told himself, straightening in his carved wooden chair. Hitler's gaze swept across the crowd, and Ritter wondered again how such a homely little man could rise to such greatness. He possessed more good looks and charisma in his small t
oe than Hitler had altogether. Of course, Ritter had considerably smaller goals. He wasn't concerned about ruling the world—just capturing and keeping Isanna's heart.

  The ornate walls and golden columns of the opera house set the ideal stage for the puppet parliament assembled. Red velvet curtains. Pristine paintings with gilded frames. Suits, uniforms, hats, white or black gloves. Fake, all of it. A theater of little men acting as if they actually had a say in things. At least Ritter's uncle still had enough clout to get his nephew into the building under the guise of being his assistant. That should impress Isanna—or at least provide enough conversation to perk up her dull father during dinner.

  Ritter ran a finger around the collar of his starched white shirt, feeling strangely uncomfortable without his military uniform. His week of leave from the air force was nearly over, yet Uncle Oswald had insisted Ritter join him for the Führer's unexpected announcement. And if he'd learned one thing, it was never to disappoint his uncle. Soon I'll be back in the air—away from this nonsense. Just me, alone in the cockpit.

  After two minutes of drivel, Hitler's voice rose in volume, and Ritter noticed for the first time the brooding looks and thin layers of sweat on the brows of Hitler's generals. It was a simple meeting of the six hundred deputies of the Reichstag, but perhaps Ritter was in for a treat, after all.

  The Führer's voice quavered slightly as he announced the dawning of the movement of three German army battalions across the Rhine, and their entry into the industrial heartland of Germany. Ritter leaned forward in his seat.

  The demilitarized area included territory west of the Rhine River, extending to the French border. It also included a portion east of the river including the cities of Cologne, Düsseldorf, and Bonn. The mobilization was a flagrant violation of the Treaty of Versailles. Enough to set France and its allies on edge.

  Ritter glanced down the row of men to his right. Not fear, but excitement tinged with greed gleamed from their Aryan eyes. They knew too well the benefits of Hitler's bold moves. Construction boomed in Germany. Handsome new autobahns connected the major cities. Factory smokestacks billowed. Unemployment had dropped, while national income doubled. Why argue with Hitler's motives when the results spoke for themselves?

  Yet this march into forbidden territory also meant that war loomed on the horizon. To Ritter, war meant flying. Not the drills they'd performed ad nauseam, but real combat.

  He lifted his hand to hide his slight smile, and a realization hit. Maybe it wasn't a grand inheritance that would be the final draw of Isanna's favor, but his status as a war hero. At least it would give him more time to persuade his uncle to open his purse strings.

  Perfect. First the glory, then the money.

  The Führer leaned into the podium, his silver tongue wooing the crowd as he offered his assurances that he'd no longer endanger the German people by keeping their border with France unprotected. France, after all, had signed a defense pact with the Soviet Union, and it was the Communists who posed the new and immediate danger. So the French, in a sense, had signed their own death warrant by joining with communist ideals. The fools. Ritter pitied the country—the people—that got on Germany's bad side.

  The Führer's hands flailed and his voice rose. "I will not have the gruesome communist international dictatorship of hate descend upon the German people!"

  Cheering, the deputies rose to their feet.

  "In the interest of the primitive rights of its people to the security of their frontier, the German government has reestablished, as of today, the absolute and unrestricted sovereignty of the Reich in the demilitarized zone!"

  By "the German government," Ritter knew the Führer spoke mainly of himself. Hitler made the decision. Hitler's hand. Hitler's troops. Despite this, the parliament leapt to their feet once more.

  "Sieg Heil!"

  The frenzied voices rose around Ritter. His mind filled with the images of German troops marching into forbidden lands—and soon flying over their horizons.

  "Sieg Heil!" Ritter joined in, raising his voice above them all. "Sieg Heil!"

  SUMMER

  And the glorious beauty, which is on the head of the fat valley,

  shall be a fading flower, and as the hasty fruit

  before the summer;

  which when he that looketh upon it seeth,

  while it is yet in his hand he eateth it up.

  —Isaiah 28:4

  Chapter One

  JULY 18, 1936

  SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE

  Hoy se ven las nubes de la lluvia de mañana.

  Today we see the clouds of tomorrow’s rain.

  Spanish proverb

  The man wouldn't stop staring, and every one of her mother's warnings about traveling alone in a foreign country assaulted Sophie Grace's mind like the heavy rain pelting the train window. Fumbling for her leather journal, she quickly sketched the man's image. That way, if she showed up missing, they'd at least have a clue to lead them to her abductor.

  She didn't need to turn around to remember his long, narrow face. Thick sideburns and equally thick eyebrows set above two small eyes. His hat sat too low on his brow to distinguish his hairline, but his smile reminded her of Benjamin Franklin's on the statue in the courtyard of the Old City Hall in Boston. Slight, yet knowing. And unchanging as if the man were as stiff as a statue himself.

  Ten minutes later, a sketch of the man's narrow face, beady eyes, and black fedora filled the page. She glanced back once more. He looked up and offered her a bigger, crooked smile over the masthead of a French newspaper.

  Nice try, buddy. But I'm not biting.

  Receiving complimentary looks from strangers wasn't something new, but feeling nervous to the point of hearing her heart beating in her throat was. Maybe the fact that she didn't know a soul for hundreds of miles had something to do with it? Yes, that was it.

  Ginny, her dearest friend, had labeled Sophie's trek The Great Spanish Adventure. And through weeks of packing they'd discussed bullfights, gypsies, music, flamenco dancing, sunshine, and afternoon siestas. Yet what Sophie hadn't confessed to Ginny was that the journey had nothing to do with Spain and everything to do with Michael.

  Sophie flipped to the first page of her journal and brushed an ink-stained fingertip over the edges of the photo she’d taped there. In fewer than twenty-four hours she would arrive in Madrid, and she'd be with him again. Michael, the international correspondent who had swept twenty-five-year old Sophie off her feet. Michael, who danced divinely and lived life with passion. Michael, who used his camera to transform everyday life into art, yet who also grew bored if there wasn't a bit of blood and guts, or politics, to capture on film. Michael, who once dared her to travel to Spain, and who would be both delighted and shocked to discover she’d gone and done it.

  My trip to Europe is a kaleidoscope, and every new color shift brings a deeper understanding of him, Sophie now wrote on the page opposite Michael's photograph. She lifted the journal and read the words again, smiling—the train's rocking had added a gentle wiggle to her typically flawless penmanship.

  She closed the book and focused on the luminous mountains ahead and the symmetrical clouds poised above. Both were slightly out of focus due to the film of water on the window—like an Impressionist painting, hinting of form and color without real definition.

  Almost there.

  In less than an hour she'd be at the Spanish border. In a day she'd be in Michael's arms. And in a few days she'd truly be his for a lifetime, which meant she’d never have to think again about men like the one behind her.

  Shabby old buildings passed her window as the train began to slow for Hendaye, the last French town before the tracks entered Spain. But as she looked out the train window, Sophie realized something was terribly wrong.

  CATALONIA, SPAIN

  Philip Stanford flung his red-white-and-blue exercise jacket over his shoulder and strode out of the stadium onto Ramblas Avenue. He and the other members of the American track team had arrived in
Barcelona two days before and had enjoyed the food, wine, and especially the flamenco dancers. As an undistinguished high school teacher from Seattle, Washington, Philip never expected to travel overseas, much less visit an exotic place like Spain. In fact, he only had two great talents. One was his ability to run fast. The second was to train others to do the same. And it was this role as trainer that had brought him to Barcelona.

  "Tomorrow's the big day." Philip reached up to pat the shoulder of his companion, sprinter Attis Brody. Though Philip was six feet tall when he stood straight, he felt short and squat next to Attis's six-foot-four-inch frame. And now that the day's practice was over, it was with a slow stride that he and Attis headed back to their hotel by the globed streetlights' yellow illumination. The light danced on the slightly damp cobblestones and filtered into the breeze, which carried the scent of burning olive oil, flowers from the shrubbery they passed, and the sweat from Attis's tall, lean body.

  "Tomorrow you'll be introduced to the world," Philip continued. "Did you see those other guys working out? They ran as if someone had tied twenty-pound weights to their legs."

  Attis laughed and said something, but honking automobiles made it hard for Philip to hear his comeback. The noisy vehicles seemed to be moving faster through the streets than should be allowed, weaving through the throngs of people, the horse carts, and men on horseback. Philip shouldered up to Attis, nudging him closer to the edge of the buildings they passed.