Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Father Manuel knew one thing. Though these people had their every physical need taken care of—and much more—they needed the new hope found in Christ. A gift greater than any treasure. He would find the recipient.

  Father Manuel trusted God with the rest.

  As he rose, the front gate opened, and a man hurried in. He seemed surprised to see the priest, but continued along his path to the front door.

  He was a young man, wearing some type of uniform with a sharp-looking blue cap. He knocked firmly, and when the door opened he asked for Señor Vidal. Father Manuel noticed the telegram in the man's hand.

  The housekeeper answered and must have offered to deliver it, because the man spoke firmly. "What I have in my hand is for Señor Vidal, and him only."

  The servant ushered the young man in, and Father Manuel offered one last prayer—that the news the man bore would benefit his host, and bring hope and not harm to the generous Spaniard who'd opened his doors to a simple priest.

  * * *

  Though a spacious office spread around him, ornately decorated with the souvenirs from his numerous travels—a handmade drum from Africa, a beautiful wall hanging from South America, a wooden ship from Boston—Adolfo Vidal felt as if the walls pressed in. Perhaps the image of the priest on his knees in the courtyard added to his already unbearable burden. The image of the man, so humble and unassuming, had both drawn his interest and burdened his soul. How a man could abase himself so openly was something he would never understand. Yet the faith . . .

  He envied the clear trust on the man's face. So much so, he had to block the view from his vision, lest the priest cause him to question all he'd dedicated his life to for the past three years.

  The heavy drapes blocked most of the sunlight, but even in the dim room the volumes of books on the shelf drew his attention. History books, tales of adventure, diaries of Spanish conquistadors who had parted from family and homeland in hope of discovering treasure in a distant land. He'd read them, absorbed them, since childhood. Even as a young man, he'd often taken one of his family's white stallions and searched the hills in hopes of finding buried treasure there.

  He'd found nothing in those hills, no matter how many caves he ventured into or holes he dug. Yet the older he grew, the more a subtle knowledge grew—deep in his gut—that someday he would. Just as Columbus believed he'd discover a new land, Adolfo trusted he'd be the adventurer who'd unearth the discovery of all discoveries. He opened his desk, removed the large map, and spread it across the oak surface. The map was nearly as ancient as Cortés himself, and Adolfo knew it contained mysteries. Yet, if all continued to go well, the light would invade the dark obscurities, revealing long-awaited answers.

  The stolen gold in Spain was key to it all. The bankers of Spain found value in the weight of the gold alone. Michael and his parents, collectors and businesspeople, saw the value in the worth of the artifacts—knowing collectors would pay well for them.

  But only he saw their value not in their intrinsic worth, but in their ancient symbols, which could lead him to the unfound treasure still hidden in South America. While others looked at the surface, he, an adventurer and history lover at heart, searched deeper still.

  When he'd first learned of the maps and the symbols—which were all that remained of the travels of ancient adventurers—he dedicated himself to uncovering their truth even if it took thirty years. With the right people, he would eventually discover the secrets of the coins. But in the end, he found he needed only one man—the man he trusted with everything. The man he hoped hadn't turned on him.

  Three sharp knocks sounded at the office door, and Adolfo Vidal's heartbeat quickened. He strode to the door and took the telegram with a nod. He paid the delivery boy and added a generous tip.

  "Wait here. I might have a return reply.

  "For days he'd been unable to eat and had hardly slept. He only hoped the news was what he hoped for.

  GOLD SAFE STOP HIDDEN FOR NOW STOP TWO OBJECTS FOUND WILL SEARCH FOR OTHERS STOP GRANADA NEXT STOP SEND WORD OF NEPHEWS SEARCH IMMEDIATELY STOP HOLD HIM OFF AT ALL COSTS STOP WALT

  Feeling his legs grow weak, Adolfo sank into the chair. For a time he'd worried the gold was lost. Then, when Michael had arrived yesterday with an injured leg, he questioned what had taken place. He had prided himself on being the one person Michael could turn to . . . and he questioned why Michael held back this time. Had he successfully retrieved the gold? Had he brought it to French soil? Or had Walt somehow intercepted it as planned? From the anxious look on Michael's face Adolfo believed the latter had happened. He hoped that with time Michael would turn to him for advice as he'd always done in the past. But until that time he'd be forced to wait and wonder.

  Of course, if that was the case, what had become of the shipment? He'd replayed the questions through the night, coming up with a hundred different scenarios. And when morning dawned, he still had no answers.

  Walt Block was a resourceful fellow; he'd accomplished more than Adolfo thought one man could, but still . . . Adolfo questioned himself again for placing so much responsibility, so much knowledge, in one person's hands. After all, Walt could have taken everything for his own gain. He knew which objects—which coins to find amongst the boxes. He knew their use. The only thing he didn't have were the maps that led to the ultimate treasure, but Adolfo knew a man like Walt could find a way to get those, too.

  Adolfo had risked much. He'd left his home and his prized horses. He'd used up most of his family's wealth with hopes of finding more. And while the treasure had tempted, the puzzle—the adventure—drew him unceasingly. From the first moment Michael came to him for advice, Adolfo knew there was more to his sister's request. She asked much of her son, to steal what was safely locked away. No doubt she hoped the discovery of the gold would line their pockets, not to mention boost her social status.

  Only when Adolfo himself started digging deeper did he discover that though the treasure itself contained value, seven unique pieces had far greater worth than all the gold in Spain. They were the coins that would usher him into greatness. They would ensure he left his mark not only in the elite circles, but in the history books. When men spoke of great Spaniards, Picasso's name would be listed beneath his own.

  Adolfo rose and scribbled the message for the return telegram on a piece of paper.

  KEEP ME AWARE OF MOVEMENT STOP NEPHEW IN PARIS WILL KEEP HIM FROM SOUTHERN SPAIN STOP WILL SEND RESOURCES TO GRANADA STOP SACRIFICE ALL TO RESCUE OBJECTS OF GREATEST VALUE STOP A. VIDAL

  Adolfo rose, opened the door, and handed the paper to the telegram delivery boy.

  "Send this as a reply quickly. No delay."

  As the young man rushed away, Adolfo gathered his coat and hat, moving down the polished hallways with quickened steps. He had a visit to pay. A doting uncle should apologize for missing his nephew at dinner. He should also be there to care, to offer advice, and to listen to the poor soul who worked so hard for his parents' approval, yet rarely found it.

  He would help his nephew see that he'd done all he could, and perhaps it was time to count one's losses and walk away from the gold lest he lose more than he already had—his time, his resources, his fiancée, and his health. Surely a doting uncle would offer no less.

  Chapter Twelve

  Though it wasn't even lunchtime yet, Michael poured himself a glass of wine and settled into the plush armchair. The house was simple, but when he'd seen it, he'd known at once it was perfect. Not only was it situated next to a large park, it also had an enclosed back porch—a rare thing in France, but perfect for Sophie's art studio.

  He took a sip from his glass and rubbed his aching leg. The doctor hadn't asked Michael how he'd received the wound; he simply removed the large chunk of metal and stitched the gash. And Michael didn't offer an explanation.

  Even more than his leg, his heart ached to think it was Sophie who'd betrayed him. Who'd stolen the photos. Who'd chosen to stay with those she hardly knew instead of leaving Spain wit
h him.

  His eyes darted to the painting on the wall—the self-portrait she had done for him as a wedding gift. Hoping to surprise her, he'd retrieved it from the hotel near the border where Sophie had stored her things before she'd crossed into Spain.

  In the painting, Sophie's dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she wore a light blue dress. The softest smile curled on her lips. She'd painted the eyes so intricately, it almost seemed as if she stared down at him.

  He'd made many mistakes. He knew that now. He should have spent more time with her when she'd first arrived in Madrid. He'd chased information. He'd made friendships with key people and used others to do his bidding, in hopes of obtaining what his parents had wanted most—not that it mattered now.

  The gold was lost. Sophie knew him as a liar and a thief, and he sat in Paris alone.

  Michael rose and moved to the kitchen, slicing himself a piece of fresh bread he'd picked up from the market and thinking again about the priest. At the market, he'd skimmed through a half-dozen newspapers, reading the stories of the towns that people had abandoned in the Basque country, leaving them free for the taking. He wondered if the priest knew what had happened to his home. More than that, Michael wondered if the priest still prayed, even though his God refused to answer.

  Michael didn't understand the Basque people. Maybe if they took the war seriously, they would not have lost everything. He'd read that Basque officials had let some of the Nationalist prisoners go before the officials fled town. In other places they'd protected the Fascist prisoners still locked up until the invading troops arrived. It made little sense. Did they not understand that when it came to a war they shouldn't protect those who in the end could hurt them? They shouldn't place food in hands that could chop off their heads?

  Yet the Basques were mainly concerned for themselves. Whether one side or the other held power seemed to matter little to them, as long as they were not affected. Let them keep their language and their president, and all would be well. The problem was that things would not work that way. The Nationalists anted total control. Total. And this meant, Basque or not, Franco's troops would take what they wanted.

  Michael limped across the back patio, ignoring the pain from his injured leg. Also ignoring the easel and paints he'd purchased. The ones that waited. The ones that would always wait. He moved to the backyard. The sky held not a cloud, and the day appeared peaceful, unlike his soul. Unlike the soul of Spain.

  In his opinion, the war had been lost long ago. The swing in the Nationalist favor had started with Italy and Germany sending support to Franco. Then, when the Army of Africa arrived on the mainland, it became just a matter of time.

  Truth be told, the winner of the fight mattered little to him either. His one concern remained the gold artifacts. He knew either side would sell the gold if that meant more money for their cause. Anger boiled within him at the thought that Franco had done just that—taking what Michael had promised to share with him for a little help in hiding it, protecting it, and getting it out of the country.

  Fools. They had no idea the treasure they possessed. That's why his plan had been to take as much of it as he could as quickly as possible. And at first he had succeeded.

  In the Republicans' haste to get more supplies from Russia, they had become sloppy with their plan to export the gold. They had two men per vehicle; that was all. Why, it hardly dented Michael's bank account to pay off the drivers to unload a few boxes from their loads. After all, they believed they were transporting weapons. Better to line their pocketbooks. What were one or two boxes? No one would even notice.

  But someone had noticed. His closest friend served the enemy.

  He had trusted José. And instead José, his childhood friend, chose to support Walt—a foreigner who appeared out of nowhere. What Michael still didn't understand was who funded Walt's venture. Who else knew about the gold? Michael had been assured that only a few—those he trusted with his life—knew his deeds. He had been sloppy to let José get too close, and Sophie too. But that still didn't answer who knew about the gold from the very beginning. His father and mother had presented the idea to Michael. And other than his parents, only a few art dealers knew of the treasure hidden within the Bank of Madrid.

  Not only did he not know the traitor, Michael questioned how he'd ever find the gold again. He considered his options. He could travel to southern Spain and find nothing. Searching for them over the miles of roads and in the numerous villages would be, to use the common phrase, like hunting a needle in a haystack.

  Or he could travel to Bilbao, in the north, and find José.

  The last Michael heard, José had left—taking the horses to the mountains. He likely thought he did a good thing by protecting the beasts, but Michael wondered if José was also trying to save his own skin.

  Michael strolled down the rock path to the flower garden. He plucked a rose from a bush. He'd thought Sophie would enjoy painting a flower garden . . . instead she'd become a thorn in his side.

  When he first saw her in Boston, he thought she'd be a pleasant temporary distraction. Instead she'd found her way into his heart—which made him even more angry at her betrayal. He'd loved her . . . how could she support everything he opposed? Perhaps he should show her just what she had chosen—prove to her that she'd made the biggest mistake of her life by choosing Walt over him. She'd pay—that he knew. She'd pay.

  "Women," Michael muttered to himself. "How they complicate our lives. At least I didn't marry her." He looked at the flower again. "José, on the other hand . . . "

  Yes, José had left, but as far as Michael knew, José's wife, Ramona, remained at the hospital. He knew if he could find her, he'd get to José.

  Michael dropped the rose to the ground and crushed it under his heel. It made sense. José had taken all that was most precious to him. Michael's pride. His plan. His worth. And he'd helped to further alienate Sophie. Now it was Michael's turn.

  He knew he could hire people to help him find the truck, but that would make too many people curious. He'd send his key people to watch the ports and airfields, but he'd put his efforts into undermining the core of the betrayal. He would journey to northern Spain, perhaps to write a few articles about the field hospitals there and take photos of the dedicated nurses.

  Michael limped to his house, moving as fast as his leg would take him. His mind was racing with thoughts of how to return to Bilbao when a knock sounded at the door. He paused, and then moved to the window in order to get a closer look at who waited on the front step.

  He released the breath he held when he saw his uncle. His uncle, Michael knew, would always be there for him, always help—no matter if he achieved great successes or equally great mistakes. Unlike his mother.

  Everyone said Michael and Uncle Adolfo were similar in looks and temperament. That is what perhaps first built their bond.

  Michael opened the door. "Uncle, please come in. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

  His uncle laughed. "I just came to apologize. I wasn't feeling well last evening, and I wanted to give my regrets in person." He entered and settled comfortably in the armchair. "Besides, Berto said you had your own house. I wanted to see for myself. It is beautiful, wonderful. Something I'd choose for myself if it weren't for your aunt's extravagant tastes. But I have to say I'd hoped you'd stay with us. The summers just don't seem like holiday without my favorite nephew brightening my day."

  Michael laughed. "Sí, although I'm not missed by everyone. I see Berto has already filled my bed. At least this time the guest room has a worthy occupant." Michael sat in the chair, facing his uncle, feeling a peace settle over him, knowing again that the older man provided unconditional care.

  "The priest? Well, maybe his presence will bring a special blessing upon our home." Adolfo winked.

  Michael nodded. "It can't hurt. Besides, I won't be there long . . . . I'm heading back to Spain."

  His uncle sat straighter in his seat. "Are you sure? You are no
t well. You should wait until your leg heals."

  "I thought I'd return to the north and check on the horses. And see how my friend is doing, of course."

  "José? I remember him. Juan's son—the horse trainer. Northern Spain, you say?" The features on his uncle's face softened. "You never were one to stay away from danger. Are you sure you don't want to go to southern Spain? I hear there are not as many battles there. Most of the area is in the hands of the general."

  From the look in his uncle's face, Michael knew his uncle remembered José better than he let on. And there was something else in the older man's gaze . . . a piqued interest that Michael didn't understand. Why would it matter to his uncle where he traveled?

  "No, I really need to check on things in the north. I'm thankful my press clearance allows for that."

  The pinched expression on his uncle's face seemed to relax. Adolfo leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. "Make sure you give yourself a few days to rest. And you might need help—a driver and bodyguard—don't you think? I know a few people who might be willing."

  "Really, uncle, I don't think that would be—"

  His uncle raised his hands, halting Michael's words. "No. I won't hear otherwise. I insist." Adolfo rose and strode over to where the painting of Sophie hung, studying it closely. "Besides, it is the least a devoted uncle can do for his favorite nephew. The least."