Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  What Jose didn’t tell them was that by a place where “we could sit out the war,” he meant “they.” For with every mile traveled, he made a promise to himself to return and find Ramona. True, she did not want to come, yet he should have forced her. For a time, his being apart from her had brought her safety. But now she needed his protection.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Philip counted up to the tenth day when it was his turn to travel from Alcala, on the outskirts of Madrid, into the city itself. Preparing for an afternoon of leisure in the city, he sifted through his things, looking for something halfway clean to wear. Under the stack of letters from his father, he came upon the navy blue windbreaker quite by accident. Olimpiada Popular stood out in a circle of white lettering, and he thought back to the days when he ’d come to Spain for the races. A second windbreaker had been tucked inside his duffel back next to the first, and Philip pulled it out and slid it on. He put his hand in the pocket and removed an empty cartridge. Attis’s souvenir, no doubt.

  Feeling his chest tighten, he removed Attis’s jacket, returned it to the duffel, and replaced it with his own.

  After cleaning up, he walked toward Madrid with a small group of guys. Charles chatted as they walked, keeping within five feet of Philip at all times. Antony was on the other side—his short legs stretching to match Philip’s stride.

  The outskirts of Madrid were similar to many of the villages around Spain. Grain fields filled the landscape, and on the edge of town was an ancient church. Next to the church, a group of women clustered in a pool shaded by poplars. They busily scrubbed their clothes on flat rocks, then spread them in the tree ’s branches to dry.

  As the men followed the tree-lined road, three burros tromped passed, prodded forward by an old man with a wide-brimmed hat. Following him, a woman lagged behind with a shawl covering her head, protecting it from the sun high overhead.

  “Adios,” the man called to the soldiers with a nod as they passed. His words came out of habit, Philip knew. Go with God.

  Around the woman’s neck hung a chain with a large cross. Philip had heard some of the other men talking about that very thing the previous night. Their Christ still ruled over the country, even though there were no priests. Even though their church had been refitted as a mess hall for foreigners. Their children learned songs from the Republicans, and they were taught to read and write in order to keep informed with socialist and communist papers. Still, their religion could not be pried from their hearts.

  The other brigade members considered their faith to be a weakness, but Philip wasn’t certain. During his time locked away in the jail cell, faith had helped him through. Finding Sophie again had also caused him to believe that God was watching over them both.

  And as the most recent days passed, and the fighting on the front lines never materialized as expected, Philip sometimes questioned if God had protected them, or if it was just dumb luck. Either way, a small measure of faith had served him well.

  As if reading his thoughts, Charles cursed under his breath. “Fools. Why can’t they use salud like everyone else? Don’t they realize the church has robbed them blind? If God does exist, then it is clear He only cares for the affairs of the rich.”

  Looking around, Philip could understand how the poverty of one-story adobe houses could seem like evidence confirming Charles’s words. So too the barefooted children with hungry, protruding stomachs. And the freshly dug graves in the cemetery near the church. Still, Philip wasn’t ready to stop believing just yet.

  When they reached the train station on the edge of town, Philip saw new volunteers sitting around the station, looking for a ride to wherever their next destination would be. Their clean, well-fitted uniforms and stiff boots betrayed the fact they hadn’t seen a battle yet. Of course, Philip’s ragged uniform and unkempt hair didn’t necessarily mean he ’d seen anything worthy of a story in the hometown newspaper.

  A line curled toward a building near the train station where steaming soup was ladled out of black kettles for the new troops. Philip fingered the pestas in his pocket, debating whether he should eat here or in town. He turned a questioning gaze to Charles to get his opinion and noticed his friend’s eyes fixed at the tree line near the church. A stone house stood there, fancier than the rest. Philip could see mixed on Charles’s face longing and disgust.

  “It’s a good thing the rich were killed. The people deserve better than to be treated like slaves by cruel masters.” Charles glanced at Philip, his eyebrows lifted as if waiting for Philip’s agreement.

  Philip didn’t comment, but instead moved to the lunch line. It was easy for Charles to talk about death. It was harder seeing things such as the destruction of Guernica and remaining as passionate.

  On just the other side of the lunch line, a speaker touted the communist cause, listing the many ways it could help the people. He spoke of a free government and reform, and his hands moved with his words as if he conducted an orchestra. The speaker’s voice rose above the sounds of a train whistle nearing. The only ones listening were the soldiers. Many nodded their heads in agreement.

  A few Spaniards settled under the nearby trees. They were given a free lunch in exchange for a listening ear. Yet with bellies now full, most pulled their wide-brimmed hats lower over their eyes and slept—their siesta coming a little early today.

  Unimpressed with the speaker’s words, Philip turned his attention to the train, wondering if more volunteers would spill out, and questioning if in the end their efforts would do any good.

  He eyed the windows of the train, and his attention settled on the front passenger car where men and women gathered their things to disembark. It was the dark hair that caught his attention first, and the simple way the woman brushed her hair behind her ear.

  Sophie.

  Handing his bowl and spoon to Charles, Philip darted toward the train, relief flooding over him. She was safe. She was here. And in a moment, she would be in his arms again.

  At first Sophie thought she was seeing things. The tall man in the white and blue jacket couldn’t be Philip—it just couldn’t be. It wasn’t until she focused on his face, the way his eyes lit up, his smile, that she knew it was. She paused as he lifted a hand in greeting. A sea of men separated them.

  Sophie lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgment, and then Michael’s hand tightened around her waist. Philip’s eyes darted from Sophie to Michael, and a look of confusion filled his gaze.

  Her feet refused to move forward. And her heart started to ache, remembering their time together. Philip.

  More than anything, Sophie wanted to push Michael’s hand away and rush into Philip’s arms. She could see in his eyes he wanted the same thing. Unfortunately, this thing was much bigger than she was. As it was, she barely held on to Michael’s trust by a thin thread. If she left now, he would know she had double-crossed him. Not only that, she still had no idea if her protector was near. She needed Michael. Needed to stay by his side. Needed him to survive the mess she ’d gotten herself into.

  And so she turned away. Sophie grabbed Michael’s hand and quickened her footsteps, praying Philip wouldn’t follow. And when she climbed into the horse cab that waited for them, she glanced back one last time. He hadn’t followed. But even from this distance, she saw pain in his gaze that cut her to the core.

  “Is that someone you know?” Michael spoke, glancing back also.

  “I think so. I’m not sure. There were dozens of men I cared for—so many injuries. And I’m sure they remember me better than I remember them. Funny, how the faces of men in pain all seem to look the same.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Michael sat next to Sophie and placed his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sure there is more than one soldier out there who has feelings for you, Divina. Maybe a few who would even say they are in love. The beautiful painter who shows the world what they fight for, who is also a compassionate nurse—their own angel of mercy.” Michael squeezed her shoulder. “And I don’t blame them.�
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  Sophie chuckled. Her laughter was a little too loud, but it was all she could do to keep from crying. “Yes, perhaps that could be the case.” She quickly changed the subject. “So tell me, Michael, what will we be doing now that we are in Madrid—safe from the fighting, at least for a time? I saw you received a telegram at the station in Bilbao. Will you be off on another assignment?”

  Inwardly Sophie hoped that would be the case. If he left soon, maybe she ’d have a chance to find Philip and explain. Besides, what more could Walt ask from her now? She hoped she had given him the information he needed to find the gold.

  Michael cleared his throat. “The telegram was nothing like that. Just a note from my editor saying he received the most recent batch of photos. It’s dangerous for the couriers, you know—risking their lives to make sure the photos get to the press offices.”

  The sun was high in the sky, different from the clouds that had been over Bilbao. Sophie felt beads of sweat on her brow and hoped Michael believed they were due to the hot rays of light.

  “Who are these couriers?” She unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it off, as if this was the most casual conversation in the world.

  A shout rang out from behind them as the horse carriage continued on. A man’s voice, but Sophie couldn’t make out the words. Her stomach ached, and she forced herself not to look back.

  “The couriers? Just men who want to help the cause. They get paid for their work, of course. But more than that, they get the satisfaction of knowing they are helping our efforts.”

  Michael helped Sophie with her jacket. Then he folded it and laid it over his lap.

  Sophie stared straight ahead at the cobblestone streets the horse cab carried them across. It was the same Madrid, but she saw it differently now. And though Michael was again by her side as she entered the city, she knew nothing would ever be the same.

  “Sophie, are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She sighed. “I never could hide my feelings very well, could I? It’s just seeing those soldiers . . . it brought so many memories of the hospitals I worked at during our months apart. The men— their shattered bodies and cries for help. The way they faced so much on the front lines . . .”

  The image of Philip, and how she first saw him in the foxhole as she ran to him, seeking his help. His arms around her. His caring smile as she painted. His sad eyes as they parted . . .

  Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she thought her heart would split open. “I saw things, felt things I never thought I’d face. My heart breaks just thinking of all those men lost, all their pain.”

  Her hands covered her face, and Sophie felt Michael’s arms wrap around her, pulling her toward him. She allowed her cheek to rest against his chest as sobs overtook her.

  “Oh, dear girl, there is so much inside you that you don’t let on. Did you think I would not understand? Go ahead and cry. I will not think any less of you.”

  And so she did. Sophie cried until weariness overtook her and she melted into Michael’s arms. Only he did not know that she wasn’t weeping for all those soldiers, but simply for one. One whose broken heart she saw in his confused gaze.

  Sophie lay in the hotel room bed, feeling as if all energy had drained from her. The desire to head back to the train station and find Philip overwhelmed her. She had to explain to him why she was with Michael, and hope he would understand. If she let her thoughts spin long enough, she could almost convince herself that she should.

  Surely the key to finding the gold wasn’t all on her shoulders? There had to be someone else who could get any additional information for Walt. Did God really want her to live under false pretenses? He was the One who brought Philip into her life, after all. Would He be so cruel to show her what her heart desired most and then keep it from her?

  But inwardly she knew she had done the right thing. Like Esther in the Bible, God had placed her in this position for such a time as this.

  She also knew the Philip in her thoughts wasn’t complete perfection, as she set him up in her mind—just as she knew Michael wasn’t complete evil. Instead, they were two men who loved her, each with strengths and weaknesses. It was just that she believed in Philip’s cause, and despised the choices Michael had made.

  Yet, Sophie also realized, if she had believed in the Nationalist side, Michael’s choices would seem honorable to her—brave even.

  Sophie rose and tried to press the wrinkles from her skirt with her palms. Michael had gone to a meeting and given her no time for his return. She washed her face with a towel that had been left with the pitcher of water and basin in her room. She didn’t want to have to explain her tears. And she wasn’t willing to lie to him about one more thing. She had lied so much that sometimes she forgot the truth.

  Sophie pinned up her hair, and a nagging feeling came over her, reminding her that somehow even spotting Philip had a purpose. As she unpacked her satchel, looking for clean stockings, she came upon the Bible. Could it be that she was so focused on these men in her life, and the numerous emotions that stirred within, that she had forgotten about the most important relationship—her relationship with God?

  It was easy to complain to Him. To question why she was the one put in this position. It was easy to ache for Philip, to grow angry with Michael. All those things were simpler than confronting her weaknesses. Or accepting her part in God’s overall plan and trusting He indeed knew best.

  A knock on the hotel room door startled her. Michael had said he was heading to the Telefónica building, and she knew he couldn’t be back this soon. Instead, Sophie hoped that somehow Philip had found her.

  Quickly wiping the tears on her cheeks, Sophie hurried to the door. But the tears came again, even faster this time, when she opened it to find not Philip, but Walt.

  “You,” she spouted, trying to keep her voice from rising. “What are you doing here? What will you ask of me this time?”

  Without hesitation, Walt entered and closed the door behind him. “I am sorry, Sophie. I hate to think of all you’ve been through. . . .”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through. Who I just saw.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I saw Philip . . . and he saw me with Michael. Can you imagine what that was like, not being able to explain?”

  Walt only nodded, and Sophie noticed he didn’t seem one bit surprised by the news.

  “I need you to do something for me. I need your help . . . again. But this time we ’re close. In fact, it was your help that made the breakthrough.”

  “I’m sorry, Walt.” Sophie shook her head. “I’m not going to do one more thing for you until you tell me the truth—the whole truth. You got me in the middle of this, and you owe me no less.”

  Instead of protesting, Walt moved to the window and glanced out, scanning the city street below. “Yes, I will. And I hope you’re a quick study, because there is much you need to know. You’re right. To continue, you need to understand the whole story. And once you do, you’ll understand why I’ve asked so much of you.”

  Walt motioned for Sophie to take a seat on the small sofa in her hotel room; then he pulled out the chair from the desk and placed it in front of her, sitting down and leaning forward for emphasis.

  “Sophie,” he said with a sigh. “It all started the day Michael saw you in Boston.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  For the next hour Walt told Sophie a tale she found hard to believe—one that started years before the war with a group of men who wished to get their hands on the priceless gold artifacts previously held within the bank vaults deep under the city streets of Madrid.

  “So you’re telling me these men were interested in the gold before the war even broke out? Before the threat of losing it was real?” Sophie rubbed her temples, wishing her headache away and attempting to focus on his words.

  “Spain has been unstable for a long time. And many of the generals have been unhappy with the influences filtering into their country. With the rise of numer
ous antifascist groups, and the election of a Republican government, they knew it was a matter of time before a civil war erupted.”

  “So these Fascists planned to steal the gold . . . in order to fund their cause?”

  “As did many other groups . . . any leaders who wanted funds considered the gold their answer. Of course, the generals could not tell the people working for them they simply wanted an easy source of income. In fact, many involved in the plot believed the purpose was simply to protect the priceless treasures.”

  “Michael,” Sophie mouthed. “Is that what he believes?”

  Walt nodded. “Yes, Sophie. It is.”

  She stood and paced the small hotel room. “Why doesn’t someone talk to him? Tell him the truth? I can talk to him. . . .”

  Walt shook his head. “Some have tried. Michael didn’t believe them . . . especially since the request to help was brought to him by his own parents.”

  “His parents? But you said it all began the day he met me at the museum.”

  “Michael’s father called a meeting there. Other businessmen joined him to plead the case for the precious gold artifacts. The museum was just a cover, of course, a front for Fascist sympathizers.” Walt removed his hat, setting it on the armrest of the chair. “Of course, they had no idea that Michael would see a lovely young American that day and fall in love . . . or that his fiancée would find her way to Spain and become the greatest hindrance to their goal.”

  Sophie blew out a heavy breath. “So what’s next? I assume the missing gold includes those valuable pieces you’ve talked about, right? Are you any closer to finding the lost truckloads?”

  “Yes. The photographs you stole seem to be just what we needed.” Walt lowered his head. “Unfortunately, they were compromised. That’s why I need you to tell me what you saw on them. To sketch it if you will.”