Whisper of Freedom Read online

  "Are you telling me I should approach a German pilot, who once deceived you, and ask him to help ferry priceless gold out of the country?"

  "Anyone can be bought," Sophie insisted. "And he's hiding too. He used a different name, Hermann von Bachman. . . . I think he might be searching for the gold, too. I heard he plans to travel to South America. And while I don't completely trust him, I know there is a softer side to Ritter. I saw in his eyes he still considers me a friend."

  "Hmm." Walt scratched his head.

  "Of course, if you have a better idea, let me know," she added. "For now it's something to consider."

  Walt sighed. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt. I have no other answer." He placed a hand on her arm. "I'll be in touch. You better hurry back now."

  "Thank you, Walt." She reached to give him a hug, nearly knocking off his hat. "I'll meet you here tomorrow. Maybe we'll know something then."

  "Let 's hope so. It seems the stakes are rising with each day that passes." He sighed. "And just think—for so long I was only concerned about a few coins."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Walt ascended two flights of cement stairs, then used his key on the door of the studio apartment rented by James Kimmel. He knew there could be people still watching this apartment. James Kimmel had many enemies, but also many friends. Maybe in Granada the latter still outweighed the former.

  The room was nothing much to look at. Dark, dusty, dank smelling. Yet Walt tossed his suitcase on the sagging bed, hardly noticing the dimness as he strode to the small window and opened it, not appreciating the view outside.

  He moved to the mirror, almost not recognizing himself. He looked old and ragged. The gray that had appeared at his temples gave him pause. His eyes reflected his weariness. Had he come this far only to fail?

  He'd created a spider's web of people and layers of stories. For a time he'd kept each straight. He'd known who worked for whom and what they offered to him, and to Adolfo. Now Walt's mind was tired. He couldn't explain it other than that. He even questioned whether the treasure would be worth the cost. Maybe it too was as fictional as the personalities he'd created for his cover. Was it no more than a dream, an illusion he'd formed in hopes of gaining the approval of his family? In hopes there was something worth living for?

  He thought about Sophie and her trust that God protected them . . . protected him. The change in her hadn't happened overnight, but she had a deep inner peace he envied. And at this point in his journey, it almost seemed what Sophie possessed was greater than any treasure cast by man or forged by human hands.

  "I don't even know where to begin," Walt muttered to the reflection in the mirror.

  Just accept and believe.

  It was Sophie's voice that filled his thoughts. Surrender . . . trust.

  He laughed at the words she offered. To others that may seem easy, but for someone who'd spent the last three years controlling not only each move he made but those of the pawns he'd set in place, it seemed beyond his ability. He had created a life of second-guessing everyone, running from one end of Spain to the other to stay ahead.

  For years he'd campaigned to find the treasure that would cause this world—and his father—to take notice. When it was clear the Spanish conflict would erupt, he'd justified his work by arranging with Adolfo to make sure that the people of Spain would receive the majority of the stolen wealth. He hoped the funds the treasure promised could help the poorest among them.

  But maybe that was simply an excuse too. Because deep down Walt somehow felt he was on the wrong side—not in the fight of the Nationalists against the Republicans, but in the fight between light and darkness.

  He ignored his troubled gaze in the mirror and raked his fingers through his hair. Then he sat upon the bed, and his eyes focused on the few rays of light filtering into the room.

  * * *

  Walt had sent a message to the name Sophie had given him, and he was pleased to see the tall, blond German striding into the quaint café. The German's physical appearance could not be denied. Many women turned his direction when he entered, including a beautiful blonde at the bar. She quickly looked away when she noted Walt's gaze, blushing over the fact she'd been caught with a gaping mouth.

  Ritter nodded to Walt, then approached.

  "Herr von Bachman." Walt rose and shook his hand.

  A twinkle lit Ritter's blue eyes. "Sophie referred to you as James Kimmel, the Fascist reporter." He nodded. "I've been a fan of yours since you wrote that piece about the Reds burning Guernica from the ground. Of course, we both know that is only one of your covers."

  Walt shrugged. "What can I say? The truth always comes out."

  Ritter sat and ordered a drink, then turned his attention back to Walt. "So, your note said you had a proposal for me?"

  "First, I want to know how much you know about Spanish gold."

  Ritter pursed his lips. "I know there is word of a hidden treasure in South America . . . or maybe that is just a fairy tale. I have come here to discover more about that very thing."

  Walt felt the weight of the five coins in his pocket. "Yes, I've heard that too. But as I've checked into it . . . well, I personally believe it is legend. Nothing more." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table in front of him. "But there is another treasure—closer and more precious. One already discovered. The problem is, I need a way to get it out of the country. I'm looking for someone to help me. How hard would it be for you to secure a transport plane?"

  "And what would I receive for my efforts?"

  "More wealth than you could imagine."

  Ritter cleared his throat. "And you think I can be trusted? How do you know that I wouldn't take it all for myself?"

  "I don't. But I do know you're hiding something. You've already turned over your key to the room at Alhambra. It would only take one phone call from me to let Göring’s office know you aren't dead, as they assume."

  Ritter chuckled. "You've done your homework. I'm impressed!"

  "I wouldn't have made it this far without my research skills. Besides, for some reason Sophie believes there is a good soul beneath that tough exterior."

  Ritter ran a hand down his face. "She said that?"

  "Yes, she did."

  "Sophie is a dear girl, but as we all know, friendships change with the tide of war and the needs of the players."

  "Sí, you are right. So how much will it take for you to consider rekindling those embers of friendship?"

  "Enough that I will no longer be at the bidding of others. Enough to be in control of my own destiny and support a future wife and children." He lowered his gaze. "And enough to walk away. To start over."

  "Fine. That can be arranged." Walt leaned close. "Now . . . here is what I need from you."

  * * *

  Sophie hurried down the tunnel with eager steps, hoping that Walt waited at the end with good news.

  When she rounded the last corner, she saw him standing in the tunnel opening. He held a rifle in his hands as he scoured the area with his eyes.

  "Did you talk to Ritter? I didn't see him today around the castle grounds. I was hoping—"

  "He's considering it," Walt interrupted. "Actually, more than considering it. He likes the idea. He's going to check out a few of the airfields in the area to see what he can find. It's a heavy load—one larger than most transport planes can handle. But he's hopeful."

  She studied Walt closer and noticed dark circles under his eyes. She patted his hand. "Are you okay? You don't look so well."

  "Tired, that's all. Ready for this thing to be over."

  "Me too. I miss . . . well, that 's not important now." She thought of Philip and considered asking about him, but changed her mind. "Get some sleep. We'll have plenty of time to catch up on the latest news in a few days."

  "I hope so." Walt offered a tired smile. "You can't imagine how much I hope so."

  Sophie watched him walk away; then she turned to head back up the tunnel. She'd only gone a few s
teps when she heard footsteps behind her. Someone touched her arm.

  Sophie sucked in a breath and turned, then relaxed when she saw who it was. "Philip!" She smiled as he swept her into his arms.

  "I'm sorry, Sophie. I know you have work to do. But I had to come. I miss you." He placed a kiss upon her head.

  "I miss you, too. I just talked to Walt. . . . I think I've found a way for us to escape—"

  The sound of a rifle being cocked interrupted her words. She turned to see a soldier with a rifle pointed at them. Philip released her and reached for his gun.

  The soldier lifted his weapon. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, señor!"

  Three more men, all wearing Nationalist uniforms, emerged from deeper in the tunnel.

  One man looked familiar; in fact, Sophie was sure she'd danced with him on one occasion.

  "We have watched you, señorita. When our papers and maps started disappearing, we knew we had a traitor in our midst." He motioned for the men, and they grabbed her arms, pulling them behind her back and snapping handcuffs in place. They did the same with Philip.

  "But look here," the soldier exclaimed. "Today is our lucky day! For it seems we caught not one, but two foxes in our trap."

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Walt approached the waiting truck, but his steps slowed when he noticed an automobile parked to the side. Two men stood beside it under the light of a street lantern. It was obvious they wanted to be seen.

  Walt's heart pounded, and he stopped in his tracks. Michael. He pulled his rifle closer to his chest, tightening his grip.

  Michael approached Walt. He narrowed his gaze and studied Walt's features. Then he nodded, as if in recognition. "I hear you've been following me."

  "I was."

  "But not now?"

  "I have no need."

  "I know. Maybe that's because you have what you were after." Michael looked at his own hands, then Walt's. "I always wondered how you kept up with me. I never understood it. It was as if you could read my thoughts."

  "Maybe I could. Or . . . rather, maybe I just pondered what I would do if I were in your shoes."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, I imagined how I would steal the gold. Where I would go. Who I would seek help from."

  "And it worked?"

  "I think the results prove so."

  "Until the end. You surprise me, Walt . . . Walter. I thought you'd be long gone by now. I read about the seven coins. Five of which you have. My uncle kept detailed notes. You could have left long ago. You have what you wanted."

  "My focus changed."

  "Because of Sophie. And Philip." He spat their names. "I would have left—"

  The sound of a man's hurried footsteps interrupted Michael's words.

  Salvador approached. "Walt, come quick! They've been captured!"

  "Who?"

  Cesar lifted a pistol and pointed it at Salvador's chest.

  "Sophie and Philip," Salvador continued.

  Walt cursed. "Philip? What was he doing? I thought he had a mission tonight."

  "He canceled. He said he had to talk to Sophie—convinced me to bring him."

  Fury flashed in Michael's gaze, and he turned to Cesar. "Let's go."

  "Where to?" Walt asked.

  "To save Sophie, that's where."

  "It's not going to happen."

  Michael and Cesar climbed into their car, and Michael started the engine.

  "Wait! We need to talk!" Walt called. "To figure out a plan."

  "Talk? We don't have time to talk," Michael shouted through the open window. "Do you know how these soldiers operate? They worked hard to take control of this part of Spain. And even harder to keep it."

  "Yes, but—" Walt took a step back. "I know what to do. Leave Sophie to me. It's the only way!"

  Walt watched as Michael sped away. He lowered his head in defeat.

  * * *

  Instead of heading to town, the truck wound up a steep mountain hill through the dark night. Clouds covered the moonlight, and Sophie strained to see Philip's face.

  "Where are we going?" she asked. Her body tossed from side to side on the wooden bench in the back of the canvas-covered truck bed.

  "Silence!" The young soldier pointed the gun her direction. He looked like dozens of other soldiers she'd seen, helped, painted. Only the uniform was different—and his allegiance.

  She bit her lip, and her eyes met Philip's. She could see the apology in his gaze.

  The truck pulled over, and Sophie stood.

  "Not you." The soldier pushed her to the floor of the truck.

  Two others yanked Philip to his feet and pulled him out of the truck.

  "Sophie, I love you. No matter what happens . . . remember that!"

  "Quiet!" One of the soldiers slammed the butt of the rifle into Philip's face. It gave a horrific crack, and blood spurted from his mouth.

  She yanked on the handcuffs in front of her, but it did no good. They were locked securely and held together by a thick, heavy chain. She rose again and tried to push past the soldier in the back of the truck. "Where are you taking him? What are you doing?"

  "I said quiet!" The soldier pushed her back. Her head cracked against the bench as she fell, and Sophie fought to keep consciousness. The light faded even more, and then the soldier neared. His angry face distorted her view. He gave her a quick kick in the ribs.

  Sophie gasped as pain shot up her side. A moan escaped her lips. Through her blurry vision, she watched in disbelief as another automobile sped up the winding road and stopped. The guards looked at each other. Surprise registered on their faces.

  Two men jumped from the car. She recognized both of them.

  "Michael?" Sophie spoke his name. She could see Philip looking at her, pain in his expression.

  "Silence!" The same soldier covered Sophie's mouth with is hand.

  One of the soldiers holding Philip's arm seemed to recognize Michael.

  "Señor Michael. I haven't seen you—"

  "In months, I know, but I need a favor. I want the woman." Michael's voice was firm.

  "Sorry. I have a direct order. I will lose my own head if I do not bring her in. She made a fool of all of us—passed on vital information."

  Michael refused to meet Sophie's gaze. "If you can't grant that request, I ask another."

  "Sí, Señor." The soldier's head bobbed, hoping to please.

  Michael pointed to Philip. "This man has harmed me. He's taken what was most precious to me. I want revenge." Michael opened his hand to Cesar, and Cesar passed him the pistol with a smile.

  Sophie shook her head, trying to free the man's hand from over her mouth. His grip was too strong. She struggled harder and felt tears springing to her eyes.

  Michael, no!

  Michael motioned to the shovel in one of the soldier's hands. "Cesar, grab it. I've learned never to leave my dirty work unfinished."

  Cesar approached, lifted the shovel, and forced the handle into Philip's back.

  Philip cried out, then crumbled to the ground. Sophie looked away. She couldn't watch—couldn't believe what was happening. It was all her fault.

  Hatred coursed through her like she'd never felt. Hatred greater than any love she'd ever felt for Michael.

  Michael grabbed one of Philip's arms, Cesar the other.

  She closed her eyes but could still hear the sound of Philip's feet being dragged into the forested area beside the road.

  A minute later, the sound of three gunshots split the air.

  "Sophie!" Philip screamed once. And then silence.

  Sophie's whole body trembled. She fell to the bed of the truck and curled up in a little ball. More than anything she wished her hands were free so she could cover her ears. Worse than the gunshots were the sounds of the shovel's head penetrating the ground.

  * * *

  The guard pushed her into the tiny, dark cell, and Sophie collapsed to the ground. Sobs shook her body.

  Philip.

  The tears came
, and she couldn't stop them. The sound of those three gunshots rang in her head. Over and over.

  "Why, God? Why did You bring me here?" She curled up in a ball and tried to block out the world. "I never wanted this. I never asked for this."

  She thought about Michael and swore to herself she'd hate him until the day she died, which she knew might be this very day. She worried about Walt and wondered what part he'd played in all this. She wondered if he too had been captured. If he too had died like Philip. Or if he would.

  Nothing mattered anymore. Not the gold. Not Spain. Not her life. She glanced around at the small cell and considered her fate. She'd come for Michael . . . she'd tried to give all she could to help. And now . . .

  Sobs shook her body. "Why, God, why?"

  The answer that came to her soul wasn't what she expected.

  Why not?

  Why not her? Many had lost so much. Who was she to think she deserved anything different? Jesus had offered her salvation, but He never promised an easy life.

  Sobs shook her shoulders again. She held her ribs, sure they were broken. She gasped for a breath of the filthy air.

  Images filled her mind. Of Philip when she first saw him in the foxhole, and the surprised look on his face when he noticed a woman on the battlefield. The tenderness as he'd carried injured José. Their talks. Their laughter and the way he had watched her as she painted the soldiers at the field hospital, months ago.

  And finally she thought of the last kiss he'd placed upon her head only hours ago.

  The cell had no bed, so she curled in a ball on the filthy floor that smelled of urine. The shouts of guards carried down the halls. From somewhere a man's pained screams split the air. It was the most horrific cry she'd ever heard.

  Sophie drifted off in a fitful sleep, not caring if she ever awoke. Not caring about anything. Knowing all was lost.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The sound of the solid metal door opening pulled Sophie from her fitful sleep. She'd woken throughout the night to the sound of the tortured man's screams, but they were no worse than the demons that danced in her nightmares. No worse than the memory of Philip's last cries.