“Sophie, I see you didn’t get much painting done today. But the backyard looks better than I have seen it in years.” Though Hector’s words were kind, his gaze pierced her.
“I’m sorry; I should have asked first. I just got this crazy idea. . . .” She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. “Well, it seemed like a fun thing to do at the time, but, boy, does my back ache.” She rubbed it, feigning laughter.
Hector nodded and chuckled, but she saw him exchange a look with Michael.
“It was thoughtful, Sophie, but unnecessary. It appears we won’t be around much longer,” Michael said. “We’ll be leaving for Madrid in two days. Our friends here have found a way through the lines, to safety.”
“But your family’s home. I thought we were going there. Does this mean we will not get to visit?”
Michael sighed. “I am afraid not, and I did want to show you our family’s most prized possession.”
Sophie ’s eyes widened. “It sounds exciting.”
Michael lifted his glass of wine and sloshed it around, winking at her over the rim as he took a sip. “Tomorrow perhaps. I’ll tell you about it, about them, then. There are a few more arrangements for our trip we need to make tonight.”
Sophie smiled, then yawned. “I understand. I’m thinking about turning in early. This Spanish custom of one late night after another is leaving me ragged. Unless you need me for something?”
“Not at all. I see dark circles under your eyes. Get some rest, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”
She stood, kissed him on the cheek, and ran her fingers down his shoulder, giving his arm a squeeze. Michael gazed up at her adoringly, and she blew a kiss over her shoulder as she strode down the hall to her room.
Once inside, Sophie lit the lamp and acted as if she were getting ready for bed. She took the camera from her satchel and placed it in the window—a sign to the person who watched that she had a message she needed to relay. And instead of brushing out her hair, she twisted it into a bun and tucked it under a scarf. Then she climbed into bed and waited.
The window was open, and she could hear the low murmur of voices carrying from the back patio. Minutes ticked past, and although Sophie still couldn’t make out their words, the voices rose in volume. Soon laughter filled the air, and she knew they now drank the hard liquor—warming up for the night of relaxation after their serious conversation ended.
Usually, the laughter was her signal to join them. Michael always welcomed her to sit by his side once their talk of business ended. It was Cesar’s signal, too. Every night when the drinks flowed, he moved from his place near the front door and joined the others out back.
Sophie rose and slipped on her slacks and a sweater. Then she hurried out of her room and down the hall toward the front door. She hadn’t thought ahead to what she would say if anyone saw her. Perhaps that she couldn’t sleep after all, and hoped Michael would join her for a stroll.
She moved to the kitchen first, which offered her a view of the front door. Sure enough, the chair was empty, meaning Cesar had already joined the others in the back. Without hesitating, she exited the front door and hurried through the night, lifting her eyes to the church steeple that glinted in the moonlight. She kept her eyes on it as it guided her way.
Sophie was nearly halfway there when she heard footsteps behind her. She glanced back, but no one was there. Whoever was behind her hadn’t rounded the last corner. Her heart pounded, and she changed her mind about the meeting. She knew she needed to hurry back and get into bed. If she were caught, all she ’d learned would be lost.
She remembered Walt’s warning. Finding information wasn’t the hard part. It was getting it to the right people. She must turn around and play it safe for the time being.
Sophie looked around again, then moved in the opposite direction of the steeple. She jogged down a narrow alley behind a small business district, hoping she wouldn’t meet other threats in this part of town. When she was sure she ’d lost whoever followed her, she darted into a deep doorway and waited. Fear gripped her chest, and she closed her eyes—too frightened to peer out and see if she was indeed alone.
Sophie ’s fingers trembled as she pressed herself as tightly into the corner of the doorway as possible. She took slow, shallow breaths, questioning why she ’d taken such a risk. Maybe she should just forget it all—leave Michael and find Philip as planned. Who knew if anything she had found out could be of help to Walt? Perhaps she risked all for nothing.
Her ears were alert for any sound, but her pulse pounding in her ears made it hard to distinguish. Finally, after what seemed like fifteen minutes, she dared to peer around the doorway. But instead of a view of the moonlit street, a dark figure waited. Sophie gasped and turned to run. She ’d hardly taken two steps when a hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder. Someone pushed her against the wall, knocking the breath out of her. Sophie opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged as she struggled to catch her breath.
“I wondered when the little mouse would come out of her hole,” a deep voice growled in her ear. “It seems the little mouse isn’t as innocent as she lets on. Anyone sneaking out at this hour has something to hide.”
She recognized the voice. Cesar.
“Please, I do not have anything to hide. Let me explain.”
A warm hand that smelled of sweat and wine wrapped around her mouth. “Silence!” Cesar’s other hand cranked her arm behind her shoulder. “Did I ask you to speak? You’ll have your opportunity to talk, and I’m sure your lover will be quite interested in your words!”
He pulled her arm higher, lifting her slightly off the ground. Pain shot through her shoulder, and Sophie was certain her arm would tear from her body. Yet instead of fighting, she went limp, knowing it was over. Knowing she ’d been discovered. Knowing she ’d failed.
Cesar took two steps back, pulling her along. Then suddenly a loud cracking sound filled her ears. Cesar lurched and released his grasp. Sophie felt herself falling backward, but another set of arms caught her. She turned to look, but a hand moved up to hold her face forward, still toward the wall.
“No, don’t look. Just run home.” She recognized the voice from somewhere but couldn’t place it. “Run, Sophie, and don’t look back. Pretend this did not happen. Whatever news you had to deliver is not worth your life.” The man cleared his throat, trying to disguise his voice, and then he continued.
“Tomorrow night, a visitor will come for dinner. A man with a moustache and a cleft in his chin. He will ask to see the painting you are working on. Tell him what you know, and he ’ll advise you what to do next. Now, go—run. And don’t look back.”
He let go, and Sophie didn’t hesitate. She propelled herself forward, down the alley and through the empty street. The sound of a struggle arose from behind her, and the cry of a man roaring in pain. Sophie didn’t know if it was her defender or assailant whose scream of pain filled the night air. But she refused to look back, instead urging her feet forward.
Within a few minutes she reached Hector’s house. As quietly as possible, she hurried inside and down the hall to her room. Quickly undressing, Sophie slid on her nightgown and crawled into her bed. Then she pulled the covers over her head as the sounds of the struggle replayed in her mind. Had a man died tonight because of her? Had she done something wrong to cause such a thing?
Suddenly a soft knock sounded at the door, and Sophie nearly jumped from her skin. She placed a hand over her pounding heart, trying to still its wild beating. Then the knock sounded again.
“Hmmm . . . ” She mumbled as if being awakened by the knocking. She pushed back the covers and slowly walked to the door. She opened it a crack. Light flooded into the door, and she blinked, then peered outside. Michael stood there, and he seemed surprised to see her there.
“What’s wrong? Is something the matter?” She yawned and rubbed her eyes.
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be asleep already.” He pushed the door open slightly and eyed
her bare feet.
Sophie wiggled her toes under his gaze.
“I was just checking to see if you needed anything. I’m sorry for waking you, Divina.”
“You don’t look well.” She glanced up at him. “You have me worried.”
He took a step back and smiled. “No, everything is fine. I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “I should have remembered that you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. Sweet dreams, Sophie.”
“Michael, wait,” she called to him, and he turned.
“Since I’m up, I might as well have one last kiss good night.”
Without a word he approached and pulled her close, and Sophie hoped he ’d mistake the pounding of her heart as excitement over being in his arms.
He leaned down and offered her a kiss.
Sophie accepted it, then she let out a groggy sigh. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“No, thank you,” Michael said as he held her close. “Thank you for giving me another chance. I have a wonderful feeling that with you by my side everything will turn out as it was supposed to. Man isn’t made to work alone, to live alone. I understand that now. And thank you for helping me to learn to trust again . . . so much more than you’ll ever know.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next day Sophie laid out her canvas, opened her paints, and prepared her palette. While she gracefully painted in the garden, her hand captured the colorful flowers and the branches of the olive tree as her mind replayed the horror of the night before.
Cesar did not appear. And the weight in her chest confirmed he ’d lost the fight in the streets. She was thankful her unseen hero had won.
She ’d nearly finished the landscape when Michael approached and placed his arms on her shoulders. “Your talent never ceases to amaze me. I remember the first time I saw your work. I had that meeting at the museum.”
“A meeting? I thought you were there for a story.” She placed her brush on the palette and turned to him. “Or did you just make that up?”
Sophie noted a hint of red rising to his cheeks. Her jaw dropped in surprise. “Michael, your look exposes you. Did you really lie when you told me you were writing a story on the place?”
He raised his hands in surrender. “You have pulled the truth from me. I was standing in the museum at the end of a boring business meeting when I saw this beautiful woman across the room. You were giving a tour to a group of schoolchildren, if I remember correctly.”
“You were there that day? I thought you came the next day . . . for your story. You even told Hector the same thing a few days ago.” The breeze moved the leaves above her head ever so slightly, causing the sun to filter through, blocking her view of Michael’s face. Though Sophie didn’t want to admit it, her heart warmed at the thought that he ’d gone out of his way to meet her.
She stood, placing her paints and brush on the stool. “Now that I think of it, I never did see that story in the paper. I think you made up some excuse at the time, but now I know the truth. So,” she added nonchalantly, “just what type of business deal were you working on at the museum anyway?”
Michael shrugged. “Nothing important. I can hardly remember it now. The important thing is the appreciation of art that I acquired.” He glanced at the painting. “Just lovely. Will it be dry before we catch the train tomorrow?”
“The train? I thought it was too dangerous.”
“Well, I have a friend who is trying to arrange it for us, but I will not bore you with the details.” Michael took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “But come, we have a guest for dinner. He ’s a fellow English-speaking correspondent. From Britain. It should be a nice surprise.”
Sophie ’s stomach tensed. She swallowed hard, remembering what her rescuer had told her the previous night. Sucking in a deep breath, she followed Michael into the house.
Seated in the living room was a man with a moustache and a cleft in his chin.
Michael shook the man’s hand, then turned to Sophie. “Sophie, this is a friend of mine, Lester McGovern. He ’s been chasing all the right stories, and sometimes I find myself envious of his work.”
“Lester,” she said, hurrying forward to shake the man’s hand. She recognized the name immediately. She remembered what Walt had told her about the agent who was onto something, then disappeared. “What a nice treat, having you here.”
Lester wasn’t very tall and was rather plain looking. His perfectly trimmed, dark moustache and large cleft in his chin were indeed his two most prominent, and handsome, features.
“It’s wonderful I caught up with Michael here in Bilbao. And he did not know we have a common friend.” Lester turned to Hector. “How many years have we known each other, amigo? Four, maybe five?”
Hector nodded his head enthusiastically. “Five at least . . . you wrote many stories about my bullfighting.”
Lester smiled at Sophie. “You are a talented young woman. I have seen some of your art in pro-Republican publications— very moving, if I say so myself. The one of the International soldiers in the hospital brought tears to my eyes.”
Sophie ’s mind filled with the emotions of pain that had been in that hospital room, and so many others like it. Yet her face also warmed as she thought about Philip at her side during those times and the strength he ’d given her.
“It was a hard painting to work on—all the ones that I have done in Spain have really taken a toll on me. So much pain and heartache.” She glanced at Michael, who nodded his head in agreement. “That’s why this morning I decided to paint the flowers outside. Flowers are much easier on the mind and heart.”
“Is that the easel set up out back?” Lester pointed out the window.
“Yes. It’s not my best work, but—”
Lester turned to Michael, who had just settled onto the sofa. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to see her work.”
“Not at all,” Michael said.
Lester clicked his tongue. “We’ll only be a moment.” He waved his hand toward the door. “After you, Sofía.”
“Yes, of course, but it’s nothing much, only something I started this morning . . . of the freshly pruned garden,” she said, winking at Michael, hoping playful banter about the pruning would help him forget her mistake.
Sophie took slow steps to the doorway. “I think you will like this painting, Lester—with the olive trees and flowers, I feel it captures the complexity and beauty of Spain.”
The door closed behind him, and Lester walked to the painting. He nodded. “It looks as if the colors in this garden were absorbed into the canvas. Beautiful. Now, do you have a message for Walt?”
Sophie ’s eyes widened, surprised by his forwardness. He did not waste time with small talk. “Yes, but . . .”
“Your guardian sent me. He said it must be urgent for you to have tried so hard to get it to us. Please, hurry now; we don’t have time.”
She sucked in a breath, then blew it out, hoping she was doing the right thing. “First, I think Maria Donita, Michael’s friend from Madrid, is somehow involved. She ’s married now to a banker.”
“From the National Bank of Spain? That would help her with inside information, now, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m not sure if that’s the bank, but it sounds a little too convenient to me. After all, what type of vital information might one share with a wife that he wouldn’t think of sharing with a friend? The banker’s first name is Emilio, if that helps.”
“Consider the information passed on. What else?”
“Photos. I found photos, in the back shed.” Instead of turning to look at the shed, Sophie focused on the canvas and moved her hands as if explaining the painting it to him.
“Are there any of tunnels, ships, or a harbor, perhaps?”
“Yes, I believe so. Are those important?”
“Very. I need you to steal them for me.”
“Steal them? But if they—Michael, Hector, or Paulo—find out they’re missing? Then they’ll know I’m involved. They alread
y know I’ve been in the shed.”
“Do you not think I can take care of that? Tomorrow, an old friend will show up. Have the photos ready to pass off—anything that has to do with shipments especially. I’ll make sure that what you’ve done will be covered up.”
“But . . . an old friend. Really?”
“You must trust, Sofía. Tomorrow you will see him, and you will know. Just make sure you have those photos ready. Think of a creative way to pass them off. You can do it. I know you can.”
Walt set down his satchel on the floor as he entered the room of the Gran Hotel in Salamanca. Yesterday he had been another person in another city. As Walt Block in Barcelona, he had walked by the central Plaza de Cataluña, near the Telefónica, the telephone exchange. It had saddened him to see that the classlessness that the volunteer soldiers had fought so hard for in the first months of the war had all but disappeared in that city. Men called to each other with the more formal term of señor, and he wondered what had happened to the friendlier term of camarada. The blue monos were nowhere to be seen. Businessmen in suits had replaced them. Beggars had returned to the street, calling out to those who walked by for mercy and a pesta or two. Even more evident was the tension in the air, and it was clear the insurrection of one of the antifascist groups weeks ago had not ended to everyone ’s satisfaction.
Today, he was another man.
After his freelance contributions, which were published in numerous papers and were always on the side of Franco, James Kimmel was a welcome fixture to the pro-fascist groups that hadn’t left Salamanca since the war began. In fact, the generals and businessmen he mingled with all thought of Kimmel’s numerous travels as exotic and daring. They even envied the freedom he had to explore the country and witness the success of Franco’s soldiers for himself.
A knock sounded at the door, and Walt opened it.
“Mr. Kimmel, there is a request for you to join the generals in the caudillo’s apartment on the first floor of the palace, sir.”
Shadow of Treason Page 18
