Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  “Hilda, ja, of course.” The man’s eyes brightened. “Come in. Would you like some coffee? Not as good as the stuff in the old country, but not bad.”

  For the next hour Kern told Ritter about his work in the Norden factory. Kern wasn’t his real name, of course, nor was Anderson—the name he ’d adopted when he came to the States.

  “I could get a better job if I wanted to,” Kern explained as he described the layout of the factory. “But I am of best use in the janitorial department. I’m allowed access into most areas, and no one pays me any attention.”

  “So you like living here?” Ritter eyed the small apartment.

  “The United States has treated me well, but my heart remains with Germany. Most of my family is there, you know. I consider myself on assignment for the Fatherland. My work isn’t for the money offered to me, but for the pure knowledge that I assist Hitler with his dreams.”

  “You are a fine German indeed.” Ritter rose and moved to the window, glancing down at the street below and noting a passel of thin boys playing kick the can. “On behalf of Adolf Hitler, I thank you for your service. Now, how many blueprints of the Norden bombsight can you get me?”

  The man laughed. “Why, sir, you waste no time getting down to business, do you?”

  Ritter smiled as he turned. “We both know patriotism wastes no time with niceties. And I can assure you that you will be nicely rewarded for your efforts. In fact, I believe Herr Göring has already set up a New York bank account for your efforts, courtesy of the treasury of the Third Reich.”

  “I will get them to you, but you will only have eight hours at most to complete your task. Meet me here tomorrow night. Do what you must; then return them to me before dawn. I work a double shift the next day—both closing the plant and opening it. I must have those plans returned before the first workers arrive in the morning.”

  “Of course.” Ritter turned and handed the man the cane he ’d been leaning on. “I think this will be of use to you. It has a hollow center. I’m just so sorry to hear about your bad strain to your ankle. You should be more careful about moving so hastily up and down these flights of stairs.”

  Sophie waited most of the day for Michael to return. She ’d put on her nicest clothes and fixed her hair just the way he liked. But from the moment she opened the door to his knock, she knew something was terribly wrong.

  Michael strode inside and slammed the door. Without looking at her face, he approached quickly and pushed her into a chair. She fell back, surprised, her head hitting the backrest as she fell.

  “So who is he, Sophie? The man you spent the afternoon with? Is he a lover? Or are you spying for the money? Is that it?”

  Sophie ’s hands shook as she pushed her hair back from her face. “I ha–have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Michael let out a gruff laugh and tilted her face to his. “The man in the hat. You should know. He was in your room most of the day.”

  She pulled her chin away. “Were you having my room watched?”

  “Yes. As I should have after the little incident in Bilbao. Tell me, did you set the bomb yourself that blew up the shed, or did you pay another?” Michael cursed. “You have no idea what you destroyed. Do you think this is only a game?”

  “I’m not going to answer any of these accusations until you calm down. Why do you suddenly think you can treat me this way?”

  Instead of answering her, Michael strode to the window. “Really, do you think talking to me like this is wise? Especially considering the fact that the man you love will be dead within thirty minutes . . . unless you tell me the truth—the whole truth.”

  “Walt’s a reporter, a friend. He ’s the man who helped me into Spain. We talked, that’s all. Surely you remember me telling you about him. We are just friends. I promise.”

  “No, not him. I figured out your friend Walt awhile ago. Hard not to when he seems to show up wherever I am. I’m talking about the man you love. I would have never known of your true affections if it hadn’t been for the little episode at the train station today. I could tell something bothered you, but I didn’t know what it was until our horse carriage rounded the corner and, according to one of my associates, the American volunteer started running after us.” Michael laughed. “He ’s quite fast, you know, and was determined to talk to you. But I don’t think that’s possible now. He ’s a little tied up at the moment.” Michael pointed to the street below.

  Sophie couldn’t help herself. She jumped from the chair and hurried to the window. As if watching the window and waiting for her to look out, a man . . . Cesar . . . pulled Philip, bound and gagged, out of the backseat. Sophie gasped as Michael grasped her arm.

  “I’m not sure what surprises you most,” he said. “To see your . . . Philip, is it? . . . or to see Cesar. You thought he was dead, didn’t you? Cesar said that Luis knocked him out, but didn’t kill him. The old man has too much of a soft heart, if you ask me. It doesn’t fit with this work at all.”

  “Luis?”

  “Surely you did not forget Benita’s husband. He volunteered for the job—to live on the street as a homeless man in order to watch over you. Isn’t that sweet? But thankfully Cesar got free and got my photographs back.” Michael came close again, forcing her into a corner of the room. “So tell me, how did you know which were the important ones? Did Walt tell you?” He signed to Cesar, who shoved Philip back into the car and slammed the door.

  Instead of threatening her again, Michael turned back toward the window.

  Sophie placed her hands over her face, trying to think . . . think of anything to get out of the middle of this. Anything to save Philip.

  Michael sighed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to speak. But unless I walk to that car in fifteen minutes, your Philip will be shot and dumped into some alley. My friends have done it since the beginning of the war, and they are quite good.”

  “And what if I tell you . . . then what? Will you let him go? Somehow I doubt it.”

  “I will let him go . . . let both of you go. I never got into this to hurt people, only to help. And if you tell me what you are in the middle of, and what exactly your friend Walt knows, I’ll make sure you both live to see tomorrow.” Michael glanced at his watch. “But you’d better talk fast. You only have thirteen minutes now.”

  Sophie took a deep breath and began. “We figured out where you have the gold . . . in a cave near Algeciras. I was going with Walt to find it. But if I don’t, I’m sure he ’ll go alone.” Sophie took a step toward Michael and placed a hand on his arm. “But you have to know that what he ’s doing is for the best. Walt is trying to get the gold into the hands of those who can protect it. Otherwise it will be lost for good.”

  Michael laughed. “And you believe that? How do you know?”

  Sophie squared her shoulders. “And how do you know that what you’re doing is best? Do you really think helping the Fascists is the best thing for the people of this country?” She strode to the window. “We can debate this later. I told you what you want to know.” She pointed down to the street. “Go get Philip, will you? Make sure he ’s not hurt.”

  “Fine. And then you and I—we will take a little trip.”

  Sophie ’s jaw dropped. “But you said you’d let us go!”

  “I will. I’m a man of my word. But I never said when. I’ll let you go when I find my gold safe . . . and it is shipped off to my buyer.” Michael shrugged. “This works well for me, actually . . . that the simple girl I fell in love with has become an important pawn.”

  Deion woke to find himself in some type of field hospital. A sharp pain radiated from his gut, but when he looked down, he saw no open wounds. No blood.

  “You are lucky.” It was a woman’s voice, and it was soft despite the frantic cries from other men around the room. “It was the concussion of the artillery that knocked you out, soldier. You’ll be up and back into the fight in a few days.”

  The woman wore an ordinary nurse ’s uniform, but he
r presence said it all. She was in charge of this field hospital, no matter what anyone said.

  She reminded him of Roberta—a singer he ’d known in Chicago. She was beautiful, to say the least, with skin the same color as his. Yet she did not carry herself as one caught up in her own looks.

  Deion sat up in bed, watching her. His head hurt slightly, but other than that it was as if he was waking from a night’s sleep.

  The nurse was using all her energy to turn over a mattress on another bed—most likely to hide a large bloodstain.

  “Ma’am, that looks difficult. Do you think I can, uh, help you with that?”

  She shrugged. “If you’d like. I’d appreciate it. But only if you feel up to it, soldier.”

  Deion rose, forcing his legs to stay steady under him. He grabbed one side of the thin mattress and helped turn it. His eyes stayed on the woman the whole time. She smiled under his gaze and didn’t look away. Her slim figure looked attractively feminine, even in the drab uniform. She wore a revolver on the belt of her nurse ’s uniform, and it seemed to fit her somehow.

  She sighed as she glanced around at the other rows of bed already filled. “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” she said to no one in particular. “Any idea what we can do here? I have more injured men than beds.”

  Deion wasn’t sure the nurse was talking to him until she looked directly into his eyes.

  “Well, I think the problem is these bed frames,” he finally responded. “They limit you to one person per bed. If we take the mattresses off and lay them on the floor, we could put three injured men to every two mattresses.”

  “Excellent idea. Can you help me with that, soldier?”

  Deion felt his lips curl into a smile, forgetting why he stood in the aid station. The ache in his head increased, but he paid it no mind. “The name ’s Deion, and I’d love to,” he said to the nurse, “if you’ll tell me who it is I’ll be helping?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  There were more dark faces in Algeciras than Walt had ever seen. It made sense. This city on the southern coastline in Spain, had been founded by Moors in 713. And now they returned as paid killers.

  Legionaries filled the streets. They spoke in excited, loud voices like boy scouts on a campout as they moved among their tents set up along the streets. Walt could tell from their eager movements they were ready to fight. Though the Moors had been unwelcome in Spain for many years, they now came for a distinct purpose—to fight for the Nationalist side and gain a fine payment for their efforts.

  Of course, if the mercenaries actually received the money they were promised it would surprise Walt. The Nationalists said a lot of things they didn’t do.

  And if Walt had his way about it, the gold they planned to use to fund some of their efforts would soon be under his control . . . and he could send it to those who really cared for the concerns of the Spanish people.

  It had taken two days to travel from Madrid to Valencia. From there he had taken a boat to Gibraltar. Now he dark-haired women, hoping against odds one of them might be Sophie. He had returned to the hotel only hours after he ’d talked with her to find her gone. The clerk said she ’d left in a hurry with a dark-haired man, and Walt had a feeling she was in trouble. The best case was that Michael had brought Sophie to Algeciras. He didn’t want to think about the worst case.

  Walt hurried through the streets, then slowed as the bodies pressed tighter around him. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a figure with a hat pulled down low over his face. Walt slowed even more and moved closer to the nearest building, a small clothing store filled with Moors.

  Walt paused at the window, pretending to look at the bolts of fabric displayed there. Instead, he looked at the reflection and got a closer look at the man who trailed him. Though he couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he knew that firm jaw and crooked nose anywhere. Cesar.

  Walt removed his long coat and folded it over his arm. As cautiously as possible, he removed his revolver from his pants pocket and hid it under the folds of his jacket. He moved back into the street, realizing there was no way he could continue until he shook his tail. Seeing a group of schoolchildren ahead, Walt returned the gun to his pocket, knowing what he had to do. He took a deep breath and moved their direction.

  Walt removed his camera from its case and approached the teacher. “What beautiful children. Are they enjoying an outing?” he asked in Spanish. “Such beautiful, smiling faces cannot be ignored. Do the children wish to pose for a newspaper photo?” Walt gently touched the heads of a few of those closest to him. “The people should be reminded again that the fight for our grand country is not for men who desire power, but for the future of the next generation, don’t you agree?”

  Immediately the group of children circled up and smiled his direction. Walt focused his camera on them; then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, the sun is too bright. It is right in their eyes. Is it okay if we turn the other direction?”

  Obediently the teacher and her students turned, and Walt noticed Cesar standing near the door of a small café. Walt hunkered down, focusing the lens on the children, and captured a perfect frame of Cesar at the same time. Before he could snap the shot though, Cesar figured out what was happening and hurriedly moved behind a throng of Moors in order to hide himself. Seeing his chance to escape Cesar, Walt quickly snapped the photograph, then rose, glancing at his watch.

  “I’m sorry, children. I have to run. I’m late for a meeting.” And before his tail could see him leave, Walt hustled into a side street, then followed a path of small twisting roads until he glanced back and was sure he ’d lost Cesar for good.

  Walt hurried out of town, then slowed again as he neared the docks. It was here that some of the poor in town gathered to beg for alms. One woman, who appeared to be crippled, called to him in a whiny voice.

  Walt approached, and the women’s eyes warmed as she held out her fingers. Her dark hands were rough, and her fingers curled like talons. They were dirty hands and covered with sores, evidence of the woman’s meager existence.

  Walt reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “I imagine, dear lady, you have lived here most of your life, have you not?” He placed one of the coins in her hand, but withheld the others.

  “Oh, yes, sir, I was born in this town, as were my father and my father’s father.”

  “Then you know this place better than any other, do you not?”

  She patted her legs. “Before these limbs grew tired, I ran these very streets and knew every inch by heart.”

  Walt offered her a few more coins and a small bottle of water he pulled from his jacket pocket.

  The woman’s face was wrinkled and dark from the intense rays of the sun, and she eyed the water with even more eagerness than the coins. “I get mighty thirsty waiting under the sun for enough to purchase a bite of bread.” She ran her tongue over dry lips. “But if I stay home where it is cool, I cannot eat.”

  Walt handed her the bottle of water; then he turned the conversation back to what he needed. “It’s a shame that you are not able to get around now. I’ve heard rumors of a tunnel dug under the channel—a link to Africa. If you were still young, perhaps you would be able to show me around. Together, perhaps we could discover if such a thing existed.”

  “Are you a reporter?” she asked. She took a long swig of the water.

  “Indeed I am, and it would make a wonderful story for my publication if such a tunnel truly existed. Some people think I’m a fool for believing that some of the Moors being brought over here have come to work in this tunnel—and not to fight.”

  “The Moors.” She cursed under her breath. “I’ve lost two brothers in fights to keep the Africans out of our country, and then what happens? Franco declares our salvation will come from the Army of Africa . . . and not only that, but he shuttles thousands of them to our shores.”

  She finished the water and handed back the empty bottle and looked at him sharply. “I may not be able to run as I used
to, but I have eyes and ears. I can’t tell you exactly where the opening to the cave is, but if you can find it in your heart to fill that bottle with wine and bring it back, I’ll point you in the right direction.”

  “Then it’s not made up? Franco is really trying to build a tunnel underground to connect Spain with Africa?”

  “Made up? I’ve visited the place myself. My mother used to have a cart and donkey, and we ’d take lunch to my brothers who worked on that very tunnel. The donkey’s name was Rosita, if you do not believe me.”

  “Oh, I believe you. It is wine you wish for? Give me three minutes and I’ll be back.” Walt handed her another coin—a silver one, and probably more than she usually saw in a month. “I think, señora, you have found a new best friend.”

  As promised, three minutes later, Walt offered the woman a bottle of wine in exchange for the information he needed.

  “I do not like the tunnel,” she told him, accepting the bottle. “There is enough Africa here without such an easy path. It is hard enough for those who have lived here their whole lives to find work; do we need to support the whole world? Besides, the Moors are not nice.”

  Then, as Walt listened intently, the beggar spoke of the railroad tracks on the outskirts of town. “Beyond the spur line is the road to the tunnel. You can’t miss it. It is heavily rutted due to the large trucks that travel down.”

  “Thank you. That is exactly what I needed to know.”

  The old woman shrugged. “I am still not sure that information is worth a bottle of wine. There is no way you can get in, even when you find it. The compound is heavily guarded. No one gets in uninvited.”

  Ritter gazed at the New York skyline. So different from Spain, he thought. Then he took a cab to Kern’s neighborhood, and walked the last block to the janitor’s apartment.

  As promised, Kern waited for him in the apartment with the blueprints hidden inside the cane. It was then the hours ticked down.

  Instead of returning all the way downtown, Ritter rented a room in a seedy hotel. Locking the door, and pushing a chair against it for good measure, he spread the blueprints on the wobbly table next to the bed. His heart pounded as he copied them, taking time to trace each minute part. Yet, hours later as dawn approached, Ritter was discouraged to see he still had far to go, and he wondered how big the bank account would need to grow in order to make Kern willing to replay the same scheme during his next double shift.