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  Ramona had first left Guernica behind, then Bilbao. But not the bombers. They came five at a time. Then four. Then three at a time. Even as she and the other doctors and nurses worked in the makeshift hospital to care for the wounded, their roar never ceased to make her heart pound.

  For safety, most of the women and children were taken to the railway tunnel—although dodging the infrequent trains provided its own risks. The planes bombed frequently, but never the center of town. In Bilbao she'd found it strange at first that the bombers never hit the Altos Hornos steelworks or the shipbuilding yards across from the train tunnel. Later, after more than one hasty retreat, she understood. The Nationalists thought ahead and refused to destroy the factories and rails they planned on using soon.

  The last of the patients had been taken care of, and Ramona returned to the large building that just this morning had been filled with the voices of dozens of children. She blew out a long breath, noting the blankets, shoes, and clothes left behind. She strolled to one row of cots and picked up a doll that lay half hidden under the bed. Her mind turned to the child who must miss this precious object. But at least that child, and the other orphans, would be safe.

  Earlier that day, she'd walked the short distance to the harbor, herding the little ones onto a large ship. One had caught her eye, little Cristiano. His mama had died in a bombing only a week ago. He must've been barely three, and her heart had been stolen by his mischievous smile and few words. She'd never forget how he hugged her when he said good-bye. "Mama," he'd said. And her heart broke. She wanted to keep him. She said a prayer for him.

  As she walked away, she heard two men talking. These were the last children they could take. The resources for saving the little ones had been exhausted.

  In all, over thirteen thousand children had been sent away—to France, Belgium, Switzerland, England, and Russia. Their safety mattered, but so did the fact that there would be more food for those who remained. Thinking of the young soldier she'd patched up last night, she was glad for the rye bread, chickpeas, and fish they ate for every meal, even though she was sick of eating the same things.

  Last night over dinner another nurse said she'd heard the chickpeas had come from Mexico. God bless the Mexicans.

  Even though this new town varied from the one she'd left, her routine had not. She'd lived with the other nurses in a house in the city center, and every time the bombers flew over they hurried down to the first floor where mattresses had been piled against the windows. It wasn't sufficient shelter, but it was all they had. And just as bad as the bombings was the moment when they stopped. That meant the Nationalists were in their midst.

  The Basque Ring of Iron had been pierced a few weeks prior. The Nationalists had gotten through by attacking at Larrabetzu, where their fortification efforts had not been finished. The Nationalists knew where to strike, she'd heard, because the key engineer for their defenses had defected to the enemy. Who better to disclose the weaknesses of their ring than the man who'd designed it?

  But when it came down to it, the concrete pillboxes and the wide and straight trenches had not been designed well in the first place. The Fascists would have figured it out sooner or later. Besides, what good was a single line of defense anyway? Once pierced, there was nowhere to fall back to.

  Thankfully the planes had not hit Bilbao with the same force used in Guernica. The hills of pine trees burned, but not in the area where she knew José had retreated with the horses.

  Ramona finished cleaning up the large room, even though it would never be used by the hospital. It went against her nature to leave a mess. She smiled, remembering how José had teased her during their last day in Guernica.

  "Wonderful. You did a fine job cleaning up for the invaders. I'm sure they will be thankful," he had teased.

  How she wished she could hear his voice now—see his face, touch his hand.

  She placed the doll on one of the straightened beds, then changed her mind. All she had was lost. Even the smile on her husband's face was now only a memory. She picked up the doll again and pulled it close. She needed the reminder that the peace she once knew in childhood could be hers again. That it was okay to hope for such a thing for her future, for her own children yet to come.

  By tomorrow, or maybe the day after, they'd be on the move again. She prayed José had found a safe hiding place in the mountains.

  Though she didn't want to leave her duties, Ramona knew the time would come when she had no choice. Tomorrow everyone would retreat to Santander, their next haven of protection. This time Ramona knew better than to give up her place on the truck.

  While the International Brigade had returned to the area surrounding Madrid, she hoped that someone, somewhere, would send the help they needed. Ramona hated to believe things could end this way—running and running until there was nowhere left to run.

  "Where are you, José?" she said into the empty room, clutching the doll to her chest. Are you keeping track of me? Do you know where we're headed? Will you come for me again?

  Then she turned to the door, exited, and made her way through the streets, knowing it was time to pack again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Good job, Badger!" Sophie scratched the mutt's ears, to his yipping approval.

  Sophie knew they'd never have found the root cellar if it hadn't been for the dog. Camouflaged behind a hedge of flowering bushes, it had been carved into the rolling hillside behind the house and secured with a solid wood door.

  This confirmed that the dog had belonged to the previous homeowner. He'd led Philip straight to the spot.

  Sophie noticed a hole dug in front of the door. "Why were you digging, huh?"

  Philip patted Badger's head. "There's not food in there, is there?"

  Dried meats and strings of garlic hung from the ceiling. They discovered a bin of potatoes, in addition to bags of flour and salt. They even found coffee—as close to the real stuff as they'd drunk in months. Numerous cans of food also lined the shelves.

  Sophie felt overwhelmed, as if God had provided a bounty of goodness for their journey. Philip must have thought the same.

  Like manna in the desert," he mumbled. "We can use what we need, then make a special delivery down the hill before we head out."

  Forgiving Badger for breaking the eggs, Sophie fried up some bacon and made American-style pancakes with the supplies. While she cooked, Philip gave Badger a bath in the river. They both came home soaked from head to toe.

  "Dumb dog. He's stronger then he looks. I had to tackle him before he allowed me to scrub him down."

  "Looks like you washed yourself and your laundry in the creek as well." Sophie winked. "I think you wanted to kill two birds with one stone."

  As Philip changed into dry clothes in the bedroom, Sophie leaned down and set a plate of food before Badger. She smiled as he wolfed it down, his scruffy tail wagging excitedly.

  When Philip sat at the table, his damp hair was the only hint of his morning "soak." His eyes widened as she placed a plate of food before him, and his enjoyment was nearly as obvious as Badger's when, after a quick prayer, he began to eat.

  Sophie took a sip of her coffee. She'd even used a little sugar to sweeten it and enjoyed the warmth contrasted with the crisp morning.

  Philip's smile broadened with each bite. Once finished, he leaned back in the chair with a satisfied look on his face. Then the smile turned into a serious gaze.

  Sophie felt the same angst. As her grumbling stomach now felt satisfied, their predicament roared back to the forefront of her thoughts.

  "Ever since we had that conversation about the gold, I've had a strange feeling about what Walt said," Philip began. "He kept talking about gold found in Mexico—Aztec gold. But personally, I think most of it comes from South America. I also think we have only a glimpse of the truth."

  "Do you think he lied to us?"

  "No. But maybe he didn't tell us the whole story. He says he wants to get the gold to collectors, then use the mo
ney to help the people's fight. His story is no different from Michael's, really. he only difference is that Michael wanted to line his own pockets, whereas Walt is concerned about helping the people . . . which is actually the thing that bothers me most."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Did you ever hear of El Dorado?"

  Sophie thought. "Isn't that a place where a warehouse of treasure is supposed to exist?"

  "Yes, but before that, there was a person named El Dorado. Not long after Columbus, a rumor circulated about a Muisca Indian king in what is now Colombia. He would cover himself in sap or oil and then roll in gold dust. That's where his name came from—El Dorado means 'the gilded one.'"

  Badger spun three times, then plopped at Philip's feet. Sophie could see that despite the struggle in the creek, Philip had found a new best friend.

  "The Gilded One was an image of god on earth. During ceremonies he would throw gold items into the lake as a sign of sacrifice. Sometimes he'd jump in himself."

  Philip's eyes brightened as he talked, and Sophie thought she was seeing a glimpse of what he must be like as a teacher. He shared his knowledge with such passion, she wanted to know more.

  "Wouldn't the gold wash off?"

  "Yes, but the next day he'd just apply more gold."

  "Seems like an expensive costume to me!"

  Philip smiled. "I agree, if it is true . . . and many people believe it is. Around 1520 the Spanish tried to drain Lake Guatavita in Columbia to recover the gold. They didn't succeed, but I've heard that gold artifacts have been found in various lakes."

  He reached down and scratched Badger's ear as he talked.

  How nice this is, Sophie thought, taking another sip of her coffee. To be here together, well fed, with our devoted dog, talking about things we've read and heard about, wondering if more secrets are yet to be revealed.

  And she knew it wasn't going to last.

  "Since then people haven't stopped hunting for the treasure," Philip continued. "In fact, that's why so many Spanish explorers traveled to South America. They could care less about the continent. They wanted the gold. They found some, mostly religious or architectural objects."

  "And let me guess . . . they melted it down into ingots and brought them back?"

  "Yes, that was the fate of most of it," Philip answered. "But some survived . . . some of which we have today."

  "Surely people still can't believe in such a place as El Dorado—a treasure house?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. But even if there is no treasure house, there has to be a mine. They got that gold from somewhere. And many believe the mine still exists."

  Philip paused and rose to take his dishes to the sink. He pumped water and put them in the basin to soak, then turned to Sophie and took her dishes too. "I keep asking myself why Walt would get so involved in all this. Sure, an employer may pay him, but what happens when the gold is delivered? Will he just fade into normal life, happy with the money paid? Even if they sell the gold and help the people, it seems he and his employer would want some benefit. Since Walt seems sincere in wanting to help, my only guess is that he could use the gold for something else before selling it. I think they must believe the gold itself holds clues to . . . something. Maybe a mine, or maybe the treasure house? If that were the case, Walt could get the information he needed, save antiques—making collectors happy—and help the people, too. It's a way that everyone wins, except the Fascists."

  "Do you think the gold has clues?"

  "It doesn't matter what I think, Sophie. The people we 're involved with—on both sides—mean business. How long did you say Walt has been keeping track of all the players? Three years?"

  Sophie nodded.

  "If they are willing to finance Walt's work, what else do they have invested? The truth is, it doesn't matter what they believe. What matters most is they'll do anything to follow it."

  "So now what? Should we continue on as if we don't have questions? Or when Walt gets back do we tell him we want to know the truth?"

  "Oh, we'll find out the truth, all right." Philip finished washing the dishes; then he took the basin and tossed the dirty dishwater out the open window. "But we won't ask about it—we'll watch for it. The truth is the truth, no matter what someone shares. Also, Walt's actions will follow his beliefs. If he believes the gold treasure leads to something greater, we should be able to see it—by the way he talks, acts, and reacts."

  Sophie stood and placed her hands on her hips. "You have thought a lot about this, haven't you?"

  Philip stepped closer, reached for Sophie's waist, and pulled her toward him. "I used to try to figure you out. But that was too much work. I've moved on to deciphering Walt's mind and the mystery of the gold. It's much, much easier."

  Sophie frowned and playfully punched his arm as laughter spilled from Philip's lips. She reached her arms around his waist for a hug, and her hand felt the pistol he'd stashed there. She jerked her hand back, and the playful moment dissipated as the seriousness of their situation struck her. This was not pretend. They could not afford to let down their guard. Sophie knew that getting the gold out of the country would bring more danger than she'd faced so far.

  From the moment Ritter received the invitation to Göring’s dinner, he knew he shouldn't attend. Seeing the little men in their ornament-covered uniforms made his stomach turn. The only thing that forced him to accept was Göring’s handwritten note on the back of the invitation.

  Meet me in my office after dinner. New venture to discuss.

  Ritter wasn't sure if he wanted a new venture. His reward for stealing the plans for the Norden bombsight would tide him over for a while. Still, the intrigue of the general's request clung to him, and so he found himself seated at one end of a long table. Göring sat on the other end, but it made no difference. The conversation never changed. Men and women who'd never traveled to Spain, nor knew anything other than what they read in the paper, rehashed the same stories with the confidence and bravado of Franco himself.

  Ritter took a bite of his herb-crusted duck, enjoying the flavor that filled his mouth, and tried not to let the dinner conversation spoil the enjoyment of the fine food before him. He grew tired of the fact that whenever people talked about Spain, they spoke of Guernica. Of course, those at his table did not know of his personal involvement in the bombing raid. Even Monica, seated on his left and as beautiful as ever in a red satin dress, remained unaware.

  An older woman in a silver evening gown, with shiny gray hair that matched, lifted one thinly drawn eyebrow and raised her voice. "I just returned from Paris myself, and I could not leave without a look at Picasso's newest work. It disturbed me deeply, I tell you. As do the news reports. They say children were among the casualties. Can you imagine?" She lowered her voice, and leaned in so close that her necklace grazed her duck. "And some say we were involved?"

  Ritter placed his fork and knife on his plate and wiped his mouth. "It's a painting . . . done by someone who wasn't there. But didn't you ever consider that war brings death—even of the innocent?"

  Her eyes narrowed and her mouth opened into a wide circle as if she couldn't believe he would speak to her in such a way. Instead of hindering him, her look of anger mixed with incredulity urged Ritter to continue.

  "So what if hundreds were killed? So what if Guernica was bombed as they say? Does anyone ever talk about the Reds' bombardment of the public gardens of Valladolid, which killed many children? Or about the Republicans bombing Saragossa, killing over a hundred women and children? War means war. You cannot control rebellion unless you show your fighting power."

  "Well said," the man next to Ritter chimed in.

  Ritter picked up his fork and knife again, but suddenly the finely displayed food on his plate no longer appealed. He knew the arguments. And he spoke with conviction, but it didn't help him sleep at night.

  Monica touched Ritter's hand, as if feeling his anxiety. "I too wouldn't put any weight on one painting done by a Spaniard who doesn't live
in Spain. Personally, I don't think a bombing happened at all. How convenient that the newspaper people were brought in at night after the city was already in rubble," she continued. "Or rather, burning. They were simply told what had taken place. Of course it was also convenient that witnesses were brought forward to confirm these stories. Like that priest, supposedly from Guernica, who was all over the newspapers? I saw his photograph. He didn't look like a priest to me. Too young. Too handsome. Besides, why should anyone believe he'd even been there? He was interviewed in France. Then there was the young boy who said he was sure he saw the pilots leaning out of planes tossing hand grenades . . . ."

  Ritter chuckled at this. "Truly. Ask any airman, and you will know this is nonsense."

  Another gentleman spoke up, his voice building with excitement. "I have a correspondent friend, and he entered the town himself—as he'd done with other bombed Spanish towns, like Burgos and Valladolid. He said when those towns were bombed, the roadway was scarred and pitted, and the houses had collapsed. At Guernica there were houses burnt out, but they were not pitted by bomb fragments. And the roadway was just fine. My friend saw it himself. And he had photos. I wish I had copies."

  Ritter was about to comment again—he was actually enjoying the foolish banter—when Göring rose.

  "If you will excuse me. I will meet everyone on the patio for drinks in no more than thirty minutes. But first, I have a pressing meeting that I must step out for." Göring’s eyes met Ritter's. "Herr Agler. Would you join me in my study?"

  Ritter nodded and rose, feeling all eyes on him. He couldn't help but feel his shoulders straighten and his steps lengthen with a sense of importance as he left a crowd of murmuring guests in his wake—great men who realized just then that they'd been in the presence of someone important, unaware.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sound of the front door opening with a loud squeak drew Sophie from her sleep. She sat up with a start, straining to see in the dark. In the night she'd dreamt of Michael. In her dreams she had been there when the plane touched down. There when he’d discovered the gold was missing . . . replaced by heavy, worthless Spanish rocks. Hatred had filled his gaze. Murderous eyes peered from the face she once loved.