Whisper of Freedom Page 15

  In his arms, Jerry moaned. Deion felt the warm, sticky blood seeping through the shirt and onto his skin. More gunfire erupted, and Deion held his breath, expecting to feel the sting of the bullet at any moment.

  Without stopping, he ran through an open door into a small house.

  "Medic! Medic!" he called. Yet he knew even as he said the words, there was no help. The emergency workers were still back with the infantry. Deion's group had been eager—too eager to move ahead, to claim new ground.

  What was I thinking? It's my fault. I shoulda said something. I shoulda stopped the advance.

  Deion laid Jerry on an old dining room table, praying it would hold under the man's weight. It creaked, but it held.

  He saw that Jerry was shot in the side, rather than the stomach as he first thought. His mind raced, trying to remember the medical training he had received when he first arrived in Spain.

  Stop the bleeding. Protect the wound. Treat for shock.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Deion had worked for over an hour to stabilize his friend. After the blood flow eased, he made a nest of old bedding and clothing on the floor for his friend. Dusk had come upon them when Jerry finally drifted off to sleep, and Deion did too.

  The droning of planes overhead woke Deion from his slumber. Morning light flooded through the windows, but the sound of gunfire outside told Deion that someone still battled.

  Though Jerry's face was pale, his breathing remained steady. Deion released the breath he'd held. He sat up, then crawled toward the window, hoping more than anything that he'd see Republican planes in the sky. Instead, the aircraft were unlike any he’d ever seen.

  "Italian," Jerry muttered. "I can tell by the sound of the engines." With slow movement, he tossed Deion a wayward shoe. "Here."

  Deion glanced at it, unsure.

  "Get down and stick that in your mouth," Jerry mumbled. "Now!"

  Deion didn't question him, but it almost seemed surreal that the near-dead man was giving him an order.

  With an earthshaking explosion, the first bomb hit twenty feet outside the small house, and one wall seemed to fold in, in slow motion. Deion felt as if his whole body was encompassed in the blast. Immediately, intense pressure hit his ears. He bit down on the dirty boot, and the pressure relaxed.

  Brushing debris off, he sat up and noticed Jerry didn't move. Deion thought what the bullet hadn't achieved, the blast had. He didn't have time to check on his friend, because for the next ten minutes one explosion after another shook the house.

  Eventually the explosions ceased and the droning disappeared. Deion was thankful the house still stood. He pushed the debris off himself, then brushed bits of plaster off Jerry.

  As if just waking up from a peaceful sleep, the man's eyes fluttered open. "How are yer ears?" Jerry mumbled.

  "Aching but good."

  "If yer mouth had been closed, you'da lost them for good. Now we're even. I saved your hearing. You saved my life."

  Deion nodded; then his face fell to the man's side where fresh, bright blood seeped through the bandages. He looked to Jerry's face and noticed the color draining.

  Realizing what was happening, Jerry's eyes narrowed and his forehead tightened.

  "Not yet, buddy. My job's not through, but I'm gonna save ya." Deion immediately applied pressure to the wound. "I'm gonna save ya."

  Sophie reached a hand to Philip. "You need to put down that gun." They were back at the small house, and Walt sat at the table. Philip still held the gun steady, pointing it at Walt's chest.

  Philip ignored Sophie. Instead he neared Walt, stretched his arm, and narrowed the space between the gun barrel and Walt's body.

  "I want you to know I consider you a friend," he said without emotion. "But I've already lost one friend in Spain, so that wouldn't be anything new."

  Sophie took a step back, her hands trembling. She looked around for something, anything to protect herself and Walt. "What do you think you're doing?" She reached behind her back for the tin pan used to hold wash water.

  Philip spoke to her, though his eyes were on Walt. "Sophie, I'm not going to tell you again…. I need to know the truth. If I have to lock you in the other room I will."

  "I've told you the truth." Walt's voice was calm.

  "You've told me part of the truth. I want to know all of it. If we are going to risk our lives for this gold, then we deserve to know why."

  "The truth." Walt stared at the gun barrel directly. He sighed deeply. "Though I truly doubt, Philip, that you would use that gun on me, I do owe you the whole story. You and Sophie both. Can you put it down?"

  Philip lowered the gun slowly; then he moved to sit across from Walt. Sophie returned the dishpan to the counter.

  "So." Walt crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you want to know about the gold first . . . or why I got involved with it?"

  "Why you got involved," Sophie blurted.

  "The gold." Philip leaned one arm against the table.

  Walt shrugged, and then glanced at Sophie. "I'm sorry, Señorita. The man with the gun wins." He took a deep breath. "since the conquistadors, treasure hunters have journeyed into the mountains of South America searching for a great treasure, never to return again. My employer is such a treasure hunter. He had also given up trying to find the treasure when he heard about the special pieces."

  Sophie pressed her fingers to her temples. Philip had been right. There was more to the gold than Walt had first told them.

  "My employer told me about a region where they think a great treasure, greater than anyone can imagine, is hidden. The craggy Llanganati Mountains are rugged beyond belief and cloaked in fog. In addition, they seem to be alive with electricity and earthquakes. Perhaps that is why there are so many legends surrounding them."

  "What type of treasure?" Sophie dared to ask.

  "To understand the treasure, you need to know about their ruler—the Lord Inca, who they believed descended from the sun. Everything belonged to the Sun King—the gold and silver, the land, the people themselves. Gold was considered 'sweat from the sun.' It was not treated as money, but as religious symbols. They fashioned it into ornaments, plates, utensils—all in honor of their Sun King.

  "Amazingly, the Inca land was ruined by its own civil war of sorts," Walt continued. "Two brothers wanted to be king. They had a five-year war, and just when the winner, Atahualpa, defeated his brother and was about to become king, the Spanish conquistadors arrived in Peru. The goal of the conquistadors was to seize the gold and silver, claim the land for the king of Spain, and convert the Indians to Christianity."

  Goose bumps rose on Sophie's arms. "Am I the only one who thinks this story sounds like something from yesterday's newspaper instead of something that happened four hundred years ago? The same war is happening around us."

  "And the same fight for the gold and silver," Philip added with a sigh.

  "What happened after that?" Sophie sat on the dirt floor, her focus intent on Walt.

  "Well, there were so few soldiers that the Incas considered them more a curiosity than a threat. Pizarro invited the Inca King to meet with him in the village square. The king met him, considered it a peace meeting."

  "How many Spaniards were there?"

  "Sixty-two horsemen and 106 foot soldiers. The Inca king showed up with six thousand armed guards. Before the end of the skirmish, thousands of Indians had been killed and the Inca ruler captured. From his prison cell, King Atahualpa bargained for his life. He told the Spaniards he would fill two large rooms—one with gold and the other with silver—if they would let him go free. They agreed."

  Walt paused and he leaned back in the chair, seemingly pleased by their curiosity. He turned to Philip. "You're the history teacher. I'm sure you know what happened next."

  "Remind me." Philip leaned forward in his seat.

  "The king called to all his land, asking for a ransom. The people obeyed and brought ceremonial gold and silver from the temples of the sun and moon. For the nex
t few months, treasure poured into Cajamarca. The Spaniards melted down most of the objects into ingots to be transported back to Spain by ship."

  "What a waste! Did they let him go?" Sophie scooted closer, anxious to hear what happened next, eager to know the connection with the gold they carried.

  "Even after the people fulfilled the request, Atahualpa was not freed as promised. Instead the Spaniards decided to murder the Inca king."

  Sophie felt anger stirring within her. "But why?"

  "First, they feared General Ruminahui would attack from the north. Second, they wanted to ransack all of the temples—the gold the people brought wasn't enough for them."

  Philip shook his head and snorted.

  "They fastened the Inca lord to a pole and strangled him. And before the Inca king's troops could attack, they set out to raid the empire. But what the Spaniards didn't realize was that at the very hour of the murder, a caravan of sixty thousand men was on its way to Cajamarca. They transported all the gold from every temple and place in Quito. It was their last-ditch effort to free their king. Leading the caravan was the general himself."

  "Oh, my." Sophie placed a hand over her heart—not only at the unimaginable worth of the gold, but at the dedication of the people to their king.

  "Our dedication seems to pale in comparison, doesn't it?" Philip mumbled.

  "So I assume the gold wasn't delivered?" Sophie asked.

  "No, it was hidden in the mountains by the general. He'd grown up in a mountain hamlet and knew the area better than anyone. The general was later captured and tortured, but he never revealed the location.

  "Yet . . . there is a story about one Spaniard, years later, who discovered the location after he befriended some of the people. Once he had the information, he realized three things. First, if he turned over the information, others would become rich—not him. Second, once he disclosed the location, he too would most likely be killed. He also knew he would not be able to retrieve the great amount of gold alone. His plan was to travel to Spain and assemble his own group of men to return and retrieve the treasure."

  "So did he?" Philip moved the gun to the other hand, and Sophie now knew he had no intention of using it.

  "This man was very wise. He took some of the ingots and had them fashioned into special coins. There were seven of them, and each one held one clue that would disclose the hiding place. He hid them amongst the Inca treasure being shipped back to Spain. In this shipment they transported Inca artifacts, too—not just ingots—so no one realized their worth. His plan was to retrieve the coins upon arriving."

  "Let me guess." Sophie sighed. "He never made it."

  "That's correct. Unfortunately, he died on the journey. My employer believes the coins made it into the treasury, where they have languished for hundreds of years."

  "And was he . . . or she . . . right?" Sophie asked.

  From his pocket, Walt pulled out his fist and opened it to display five coins. "I don't have them all, but this is more than I expected. I'm not sure when the others were lost, but these . . ." He blew out a breath. "These are the key to a greater treasure than anyone thought possible."

  "I don't believe you." Philip's words were sharp, and Sophie turned to him. Her jaw dropped at his response.

  "What about Valverde's Guide? It seems you forgot that part."

  Walt's eyes widened in surprise; then he broke into a smile. "You seem to remember more of the story than you let on."

  "Valverde's Guide?" Sophie looked to Philip. "You've completely lost me."

  "Yes, well, a few years before this incident, a poor soldier—another Spaniard—married an Indian woman. She was from the same town as the general. Her father was an Indian priest—"

  "A cacique" Philip interjected.

  "Sí, a cacique." Walt nodded. "It is said that the priest led him to the treasure and he became a rich man. Later he returned to Spain. On his deathbed he wrote El Derrotero de Valverde. Valverde's Guide. It describes in detail how to reach the treasure. There are many copies of it in print."

  "So if there is this guide, why are the coins needed?" Sophie's head throbbed as she tried to soak up the information.

  "For four hundred years men have tried to use the guide, but they all have failed. They all reach a point where they get lost in the dense jungle and the strange mists. They come to a point on the journey where the guide no longer makes sense."

  "As I was saying before Philip interrupted, the man that I spoke of—the one who discovered the gold and fashioned his own coins—did so in such a way that the coins only work with Valverde's Guide. You see, even though the guide is very clear at the beginning, it gets more confusing toward the end. The coins are symbols that begin at the confusing part. These—" He shuffled them in his hand, causing the coins to clink together. "These are . . . well, priceless. I cannot even begin to describe their worth."

  "Wait a minute." Sophie stood. "Okay, first of all, you pulled me into this mess because you thought I was working with Michael. Then . . . you used me—you asked me to return to him—because of the gold. You said that he was involved in a plot to steal it. You said the gold could be sold to collectors and used to fund supplies for the people. . . . And now . . . " Sophie placed her hands on her hips. "And now, it's not just the value of the gold, or the value of the artifacts, but it is the value of those five coins that matters most. Those five coins are what this whole thing is about? Those are why I was pulled into this?"

  Walt nodded.

  Sophie closed her eyes and tried to will away her frustration. Then she opened them, took a step closer, and gazed down at the coins. "May I touch them?"

  Walt nodded. "Yes, of course. I wouldn't have them without you."

  Sophie ran her finger over the face of one. On it was imprinted the image of a waterfall splashing into a narrow valley.

  Philip's gaze was still fixed on Walt. "Do you believe it? Do you think the story is true?" he asked.

  "Well, before I found the coins I wasn't so sure. Now . . . well, they seem like evidence that the story is true."

  "Yes, but how did you keep going when you didn't know for sure?" Sophie looked at another coin that showed a mountain. The peaks were an odd shape and almost looked like a woman lying on her side.

  "Like anything one chooses to believe in," Walt continued. "I came to a point when I had to make a decision. I've seen people . . . friends . . . killed because I put them in harm's way. And soon I knew the only way I could continue was to have faith." Walt removed his fedora and rubbed his forehead.

  "Faith?" Philip eyed the man, then glanced at Sophie.

  Walt shook his head with a laugh. "No, no. Not that kind of faith. At least now I can see the gold and touch it. Your faith is based on anything but reality. A man dies, and thousands of years later He's supposed to help me. It's foolish."

  Sophie glanced down at the third coin, which showed a log bridge crossing a stream. She felt warmth spreading through her chest, urging her to speak.

  "Jesus is the greatest treasure, Walt, but He's not just something you obtain—He is the way to the greatest treasure of all—our salvation."

  Philip glanced up at her with a smile, but he didn't speak.

  Sophie handed back the coin. "Jesus is like this symbol. He's a bridge . . . crossing to the other side, from death into life. Jesus is that bridge for us, Walt. Remember that transporter bridge? The one in Bilbao?"

  "Yes. There are very few like it in the world."

  "Exactly. There are other bridges you drive across. Or you walk over. You use the vehicle's power, or your own, to carry you. But that one—it is different. You trust in its power to take you. You climb on, and that is enough. The bridge, under its own power, carries you to the other side."

  She took Walt's hand, wishing her faith could flow into him with one touch. If only it were that easy.

  "That is what faith in Jesus is," she finished. "It's knowing that your efforts, your strength alone, cannot take you to the other side. But b
elieving in Him and climbing on that promise can. In fact, it's the only thing that can."

  Though Walt said nothing, she could see in his gaze that he was considering her words. As he always did, Walt was taking in the information, filing it, and tucking it away for a time when it would be useful. Sophie only hoped that time was sooner rather than later.

  He slid the coins into his pocket and turned to Philip. "So now that you know, I suppose you can guess what I've been asked to do."

  Philip nodded. "Leave the rest of the gold behind—and us with it. Which, of course, I'm not going to let you do."

  Walt seemed almost relieved. "Yes, I figured you would say that." He stood and moved to the window, cocking his head as if scanning the yard for Badger. "I suppose we need to figure out another plan then."

  "We'll get to that." Philip returned the pistol to the waistband of his pants. "But there's another part of the story, one you haven't told us." He approached and placed a hand on Walt's shoulder. "Who is your employer, Walt, and how did you get involved?"

  Walt turned, and there was pain in his expression—pain that cut Sophie to the core. "Okay, I'll tell you. But Sophie, you better sit down for this."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Walt insisted they eat breakfast before he told them the rest of his story.

  Sophie ate her bread and omelet. Walt picked at the food on his plate. His eyes appeared clouded over as he moved his eggs from one side of the tin plate to another. After Philip cleared the dishes, Walt leaned back and entwined his fingers behind his neck, staring at the ceiling.

  "I've never told anyone this story. And I'm not even sure I should now." He looked at Sophie. "But I guess you could say this whole thing started before I was born."

  He let out a low breath. "Before Michael's father traveled to Madrid, he was engaged to another young woman, also from Boston. She found herself pregnant and didn't want anyone to find out. She turned to a former teacher for help and traveled to Chicago, where the teacher lived. That's where I was born."