Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Ritter left out a few details—not about his job as a pilot— but about how easy it had been during the month he was stranded to foster friendships with the enemy.

  “You have done your job well. You even handled your time behind enemy lines with quick thinking and cunning.” Göring rose from his chair and heaved his massive frame across the office to the wet bar, pouring both himself and Ritter a scotch.

  Though usually not one to drink, Ritter swallowed it down, then watched Göring do the same.

  “I am impressed with your quick thinking. It not only saved your life, but ushered you into enemy headquarters,” Göring continued with a twinkle in his eyes. “Most airmen do a fine job following directions. Yet there are few who can work so well under pressure. There are few with quick enough wit and resourcefulness to turn the worst of circumstances into a win. That is why I have summoned you. I’ve been looking for a special man like you.”

  “You have another assignment for me in Spain?” Ritter leaned forward in his seat.

  “Not exactly. I wish for you to retire your pilot’s wings for a time. The wings, but not the knowledge of flying, nor the mechanics of the aircraft. Have you heard of the Abwehr, Germany’s secret service?”

  “A little. Aren’t they the secret security forces—spies, if you will? Spies for our country and our Führer.”

  “Spies? I like that, a man who says it like it is.” Göring rose and moved to the window, lifting the velvet curtain slightly to peer down into the Berlin street below.

  Even from two stories up, Ritter could hear the busy sounds of automobiles, the whistles of traffic cops, the jiggle of the trolley bells. So different from Spain.

  “Yes, Germans pride ourselves in our espionage efforts. And some believe that more has been done for our New Germany behind the scenes than will ever be accomplished on the front lines. And, in the matter I’m requesting your help with, I tend to agree.” Göring lifted one brow and locked eyes with Ritter.

  Ritter squared his shoulders, refusing to look away. He knew Göring was sizing him up, and he determined to prove himself worthy.

  “First, I must ask you,” Göring continued. “Are you willing to give up all you have and know for a time? To give up flying, all contact with your uncle and any other important people in your life?”

  “To die to all I know, is that what you ask?” Ritter leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “In a sense.”

  “And this mission, if you will—it will benefit you, benefit our Luftwaffe?”

  “More than you can ever realize.”

  “Then count me in. Nothing matters to me now, except serving our Führer and our great country.”

  “Good. That was exactly the response I hoped for.” Göring moved from the window and glanced at his watch. “But unfortunately, now is not the time to discuss this. My wife requests I be on time to dinner tonight. It seems she ’s having a dinner party for many important people.” Göring chuckled. “More brass will be seated around the table than amongst our serving dishes.”

  “Tomorrow then? Should I meet you here again?”

  “Pff, I will not consider such a thing. I wish for you to join me. Besides, there is someone I wish you to meet.” Göring glanced at Ritter with a twinkle in his eyes. “Someone who could be very useful to your next assignment.” Göring’s deep voice almost purred.

  “By the tone of your voice, I assume this isn’t some military commander or the like?”

  “No, not quite. But, son, I believe you won’t be disappointed. She is quite lovely.”

  Ritter nodded and walked side by side with Göring through the offices of the German high command and toward the shiny black sedan waiting out front.

  Ritter’s mind churned as he wondered just what Göring had up his sleeve. And even though he was on German soil, it was hard for Ritter’s mind to wrap around the fact that he wouldn’t return to Spain. As of tomorrow, he ’d have a new assignment.

  It both delighted and troubled him that a female would be involved. For while they gave him ultimate pleasure, those creatures also caused the greatest pain in inner places, pain for which even his military training could not prepare him nor from which it could protect him.

  The stallion moved under José’s body with power and agility. It felt like home—not this place, but this saddle. José knew that before he led the others up into the mountains he needed to see just what awaited them; much had changed since the start of the war, and places once considered safe were no longer so.

  With sure steps, Calisto moved up the hillside that José knew better than anyone. After ducking his head under low-lying branches, he came out of the forest to a small valley. The sun hit his face as they entered the area, and José flipped the reins ever so slightly to the right to bypass a fallen log.

  Calisto tossed his head as if denying José’s request and instead leapt over the log with ease.

  “Oh, so you want to play?”

  José clicked his tongue. Pressing his legs lightly against the stallion’s side, he gave the signal for one of the most difficult moves taught to the Lippizzaners, and one José had perfected with Calisto. He tried the passage first, which was similar to a trot. With a gentle grace, Calisto held one front hoof and the opposite back hoof in the air for a split second. With José erect in the seat, it seemed as if the horse below him floated upon the green meadow grass. José’s hair bounced against his forehead, and he closed his eyes, imagining he was in front of the adoring fans once again—just him and the horse dancing on the air.

  Next he tried the piaffe. He gave the signal, and Calisto pranced in one spot. José imagined music, and Calisto must have too, since his movements were in perfect rhythm.

  Finally, the pirouette. With grace Calisto lifted his forelegs and turned in a circle.

  Falling back to all fours, Calisto whinnied. José patted his neck. “So you miss it too, I see. Too bad things like war have to get in the way of poetry on horseback.”

  Before leaving for Madrid, José had worked with Calisto on and off for eight years, mastering some of the most difficult moves. José had planned to go further, teaching the stallion tricks that few horses, even the best, would ever achieve. Yet instead of moving forward with training in the battle leaps, or what they called “airs above the ground” in Austria, he ’d left Calisto behind, moving to Madrid and renewing his friendship with Michael.

  “Beautiful, my friend. You perform just beautifully. You have not forgotten—nor have I,” José whispered as he urged Calisto on through the mountain passes.

  José knew that the moves he ’d taught Calisto were actually moves of war. Centuries earlier, when a rider was attacked, his stallion would leap into the air over the enemies’ heads. Some stallions even learned to strike out with their hooves from midair. José had only trained one other horse in such a way, and was thrilled by the raw power and control.

  If only men could be trained and controlled as easily. If only their actions were as sure, he thought.

  It took most of the morning for José to plot out their route to the pastures in the mountains beyond their property. Endless mountains that he hoped would provide them safety. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would save the horses for a while.

  Now, if he could only find help to get the horses up into the safe places where armies didn’t fight. Depending on his father and Pepito was out of the question. Both were too old to walk very far, let alone guide the sometimes-temperamental stallions. He thought about traveling to Bilbao and finding Ramona, but he doubted his wife would leave the patients to care for a half-dozen horses. Though he loved her, and she loved him in many ways, she didn’t understand his passion for the horses. Besides, he still wondered if danger would find him, even here. Once his motives for getting close to Michael were discovered, there would be many who wanted him dead. For his wife ’s safety, it was better she remain where she was.

  If he had to, he ’d do it alone, somehow
. Anything to keep the horses from falling into Nationalist hands. He would not lose them to war . . . or dinner.

  The sun was high in the sky by the time José made his way through the back pasture of their property toward the house and stables. He knew something was wrong when Pepito and his father met him at the door to the stables.

  Calisto stopped before the door, and José dismounted. “Well, what is it? The Nationalists haven’t broken through, have they?”

  “No, nothing like that.” His father glanced toward the house as if expecting to see someone there.

  “You were out late last night.” It was Pepito who spoke this time, removing his hat from his head and twisting it in his hands.

  “I was burying a dead horse. Not an easy task to do by one ’s self.”

  “Sí. And you left early this morning,” Pepito responded. “Juan and I didn’t know where you were.”

  “Off to check out the mountain pastures. You should have guessed. My father should have guessed.”

  Pepito nodded. José knew he understood.

  “We have company.” José’s father met his gaze, and José saw compassion there.

  “A young girl,” Juan continued. “She was in Guernica during the bombing. She came here looking for help.”

  José released the girth and pulled the saddle off Calisto. “A kid? What are we supposed to do, open an orphanage?”

  José heard a whinny behind him and turned to see a señorita—not really a girl—leading two of the horses toward the stable. She chatted with the horses as they walked along, and José was awed by the way the two young horses had taken to her. Their shiny tails swung gently as they walked, and to José it looked as if they actually smiled at the feminine attention lavished upon them.

  José’s jaw dropped. “Now why is she here?” Then he crossed his arms and tilted his chin. “Don’t tell me she came looking for Edelberto.”

  Pepito nodded his answer. Then he pointed to Juan. “Sí, and he said she could stay. He ’s as softhearted as a hen with her chicks.”

  “She has been with the horses all morning, asking all types of questions about their care,” his father cut in. “She is a natural, as you can see.”

  José met his father’s gaze, and though neither spoke, they José looked for.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was rather a dull evening, one filled with pomp and circumstance, in which little men in pressed uniforms boasted of the strength and skill of their troops and training. As if these officers were the ones flying across the skies or developing and using the new machines that would protect and provide for Germany.

  Most disappointing was the fact that, even though Göring made sure Ritter was by his side at all times, he said nothing of Ritter’s time in Spain or his exploits. This confused Ritter, especially when he knew Göring usually was eager to share news of the Luftwaffe with anyone who would listen.

  It doubly confused Ritter when Göring introduced Ritter as an international consultant. But he just nodded his head in agreement and allowed Göring to do all the talking.

  Ritter’s questions of his new assignment fell into the back of his mind when Göring introduced him to Monica Schull. Though she was similar to Isanna in coloring and physique, she carried herself quite differently. Her eyes held an unusual intelligence, and she seemed bored with the prattle of the women around her. She eagerly engaged Ritter in conversation.

  “So, Ritter Agler, ja. I’ve waited weeks to meet you. General Göring can speak of no one else.”

  She spoke with a smooth accent, which Ritter first thought to be English; but from the way she stood with a relaxed stance and nonchalant attitude, he quickly changed his mind and guessed she was visiting from the States.

  “So how does it feel to have a perfect stranger thrust upon you like this?”

  Her gaze traveled from the toe of his shined leather shoes to the top of his head. “Humph. I have a feeling you’re far from perfect, stranger.” She chuckled. “Although my uncle Hermann seems to think so from the way he speaks.”

  “Your uncle, really? I didn’t know our general had American relatives. Does the Führer know?”

  The woman’s burst of laughter surprised him. “Please, sir, you surely know he ’s not really my uncle. He ’s an old family friend, one my father has worked with often.”

  “Really? In what fashion?”

  “As a consultant like yourself, of course.” The coyness in her answer suggested she rather enjoyed membership in Göring’s inner circle.

  Ritter cocked one eyebrow and tilted his head, hoping she ’d expound.

  Monica leaned in close and whispered to Ritter over her champagne glass. “He ’s interested in aeroplanes, like yourself. In fact, he works at a manufacturing plant in New York.”

  “Really?” Instantly he was intrigued.

  In Spain Ritter had spent his first months helping ground crews assemble their planes from a stack of boxes, joining piece by piece. Yet he knew better than to mention anything of Spain, or what his international consulting involved. He also knew better than to tell this woman how much her mannerisms reminded him of another American woman—one he ’d lied to and should have killed when he had the chance, to keep her from helping the enemy. And, perhaps, to keep Sophie from haunting his thoughts.

  “As I told Uncle, I’m sure my father would love to meet you. You have a similar passion. And a similar goal.”

  Ritter knew in due time he ’d learn exactly what this goal was, but for now he knew better than to waste such an opportunity. “That would be nice. I’m eager to meet your father. But honestly, do you think we should waste the best part of the evening on talk of work?”

  “The best part?”

  Ritter took the woman’s hand and spun her slightly, causing her champagne to slosh over the edge of her glass. She turned a full circle, and he still held her hand as she stopped before him. “Such a beautiful woman and an empty dance floor.”

  Without a word, the American placed her glass on the nearest silver table and allowed him to lead her to the floor.

  As Ritter led her around the room, he thought again of Isanna, wishing she could see another woman in his arms. Wanting her to feel the same ache he felt. Yet also wondering how closely his new assignment would allow him to work with this American, and just what personal benefits he ’d receive.

  José breathed a heavy sigh as he led the last horse to the corral. And though his footsteps were quick, the young woman, Petra, stayed by his side.

  He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache start to radiate just above his ears. Did the girl’s questions never cease?

  “When did it all start?” she asked. “How was it that these horses were chosen?”

  He pondered her question, then took in a breath. “Well, in 1562 the emperor of Austria was looking for good horses. He found them in Spain. The Spanish horses were fast. They were strong enough to carry a soldier in heavy armor. They could jump high and make quick turns in small places. So he bought as many as he could and took them back to Austria.”

  “Where to?” The soft breeze blew strands of Petra’s hair into her face, and she brushed them away.

  “The emperor bred them at his farm at Kladrub. After ten years, he started the Spanish Riding School in Vienna.” Then he hurried on, anticipating her next question. “The point of the school is to learn how to handle horses and how to fight on

  horseback.”

  “So you know German?”

  “Ja,” he said with a smile. “And you?”

  “No, only English and a little French. Languages bore me.” She ran her hand down the horse ’s thick mane. “You’re not planning to use these horses for battle, are you? It seems like the sound of fighting grows louder every day.”

  “No, of course not—even though that is what they were originally bred for. They are too valuable—”

  I’d rather die than see them killed, he wanted to add.

  “I’ve heard of the horses from Austria, t
hough I never imagined seeing one,” she continued, kicking at a pinecone in her path. “What is Lipizza like?”

  “I’ve only been to the school in Austria, not to Lipizza, but I hear the land around the farm has rocky limestone. This actually helps the horses develop strong hooves and bones. Lipizza also has a harsh climate. They say it produces a hardy horse.”

  “Are you saying that hardship strengthens us?”

  José cocked his head as he peered at the young girl, amazed to hear such wisdom coming from one so young. “I was speaking of horses and not men,” he said after a minute.

  “Of course,” she commented, rushing ahead to open the gate.

  Though José had considered getting to know the girl a little better before asking her for help, the pounding of the artillery caused his chest to tighten, and he knew he didn’t have time to wait.

  He also knew that heading further into the mountains meant journeying farther away from Ramona. With each step he felt his anger toward Michael build. If it hadn’t been for Michael, José would have more time with his wife. And perhaps Ramona would have spent more time with the horses and learned to love them as he did. Perhaps she would be by his side even now.

  Instead of giving voice to his anger, José shoved it down deeper, hoping it would remain there. Yet the small pricks of heat at the back of his neck told him his emotions remained too close to the surface.

  Despite that, he focused on the task at hand.

  So as they headed back toward the house, he turned to Petra, digging his hands into his pants pockets. “I need your help.” He hoped she understood the urgency in his voice.

  “What do we need to do? I can clean out the stalls if you’d like.”

  “I have to move the horses. We need to lead them away from this place. It’s the only way to keep them safe.”

  “I agree. I remember my tutor telling me about how the Lipizzaner horses were protected before the Great War. The royal family saw that the Lipizzaner herd was in danger, and they decided to split them up. They knew if the enemies captured the horses at one place, others would be saved somewhere else.”