Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Sophie felt her stomach drop as she tried to piece together what Walt was saying.

  "Wait a minute." Philip leaned forward. "Are you saying Michael—"

  "Is your brother?" Sophie finished.

  Instead of answering, Walt continued. "For years I didn't know I was adopted. The teacher, Marge, and her husband, William, raised me. Their friend Camille would visit every summer. One summer, when I was twelve, I heard Camille and my mother fighting. Camille wanted to tell me the truth, but Marge wouldn't have it. I followed Camille to the train station and told her what I'd overheard. I didn't want to hurt my parents, so I didn't tell them I knew."

  Sophie's hand covered her mouth. She studied Walt's face, trying to convince herself that what he spoke wasn't true; but the more she looked at his features, the more she saw the resemblance. Michael was darker, due to his Spanish mother, but their build, the set of their eyes—even their noses looked similar. And the more she looked at him, the more Sophie was convinced. He resembled Michael's father—far more than Michael did, actually.

  "I wanted to know more," Walt continued. "William was an investigator for the Chicago police. He always came home with stories of gangsters—cops-and-robbers tales. I wanted to learn all I could from him, for one purpose—to find my father. After graduating from high school, I moved to Boston to go to college. It was the hardest thing I ever did. I saw the pain in my mother's—Marge 's—eyes as she realized I knew the truth."

  "And did you find her? Find Camille?" Sophie's fingers clasped together on her lap.

  Walt lowered his gaze. "No. Camille died of tuberculosis a few years before I moved to Boston. She'd never married. Never had any more children. She'd lost her heart completely to a Spanish dancer, and lived her whole life under a cloak of self-pity.

  "But in my search, I found a neighbor who'd kept some of her things. It wasn't much, but it was enough to lead me to my father. I remember the first time I saw his house. There he was with his beautiful wife and son. Michael was not much younger than I. They lived less than a mile from Camille in Boston, and I wondered how often she had witnessed their life and wished it were hers."

  "That's horrible." Philip scratched Badger's ear. The dog flopped to his side and fell asleep at Philip's feet.

  "Watching them, following them, became my obsession. Then one day everything changed. Michael's uncle approached me. He had been in town visiting his sister. He demanded to know who I was and why I stalked his sister's family. I suppose I hadn't been as careful as I thought. At first he was angry, rude; but then he took a closer look at me and figured it out. He said I looked just like my father."

  "Then . . . did you meet them? Does Michael know?" Sophie thought back, trying to remember if Michael had ever spoken of a brother.

  "Not as far as I know. Adolfo set up a meeting with my father. He thought it best he wasn't around—that it was something we needed to do without his presence. My father was kind enough, but his wife was a difficult woman. I was tossed out of their home before I had a chance to speak. Adolfo was distraught when he found out. He searched for three days until he found me. At the time he had no children, but desperately wanted them. He didn't understand how someone could allow his own flesh and blood to be turned away. And he never liked his sister's choice for a husband, so I think his care for me was half to fill his need and half to defy my father. Then Adolfo brought me to Spain. Though I never met his family, he paid for my schooling. I fell in love with the country. I studied languages and built friendships."

  "So when did you get involved with the gold?" Philip leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

  "It was on a different trip to Boston that Adolfo first heard about it. Michael asked him for advice. Adolfo looked into it himself; then he asked me to help him. Together, we learned the truth about the coins."

  Walt stood and strode to the window. He tucked his hand into his pocket and pulled out the coins, squeezing them in his fist. "Adolfo asked me to return to Boston. I learned about the meetings with investors and their plans for getting the gold. They wanted to sell the antiques to collectors, but they had no idea about the seven coins."

  "You were there? At the museum?"

  Walt turned and met Sophie's gaze. "Yes, Sophie. That day you met Michael. I saw you together . . . and I thought you were part of the plan, too."

  Sophie was glad she was sitting, for suddenly she felt her body grow weak. Her romance, or what she'd believed was true love, had been watched and scrutinized from the beginning. Nothing had been hers alone. Nothing.

  "Of course, at first I didn't care about the gold. I just needed an excuse to stay close to my family. By this time both Marge and William had passed away. Adolfo was all I had left. He wasn't family, but he was the closest thing I had. It was only later I came to believe the story was real."

  Walt folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. "I plotted with Adolfo until the gold became an obsession. Soon, I wanted the treasure house more than anything. It was my way to prove myself . . . to my father. I wanted to give him what Michael failed to find."

  "So you did all this out of revenge?" Philip stood and paced. "We 're here because you wanted to be the better son?"

  Walt straightened his shoulders. His voice deepened in anger. "Partly, but also for the honor of Adolfo, who took me in. He cared." Walt's features softened. He looked again to Sophie. "I thought you were in on it. I was sure Michael used you. It seemed too convenient that you worked at the museum. Then, when you came to Spain, I knew my theory was true."

  "Well, maybe I am in on it." Sophie bit her lip. "Maybe I've fooled you all." She threw up her hands.

  Walt chuckled, and his eyes brightened. "I wish. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so guilty for all the pain I've caused you. Especially since you were simply a woman in love."

  Philip stopped his pacing as Walt said those words, and Sophie saw the pained expression on his face. She lowered her head to her hands, wondering if they could ever get past this. Wondering if Michael would invade every conversation.

  Walt hurriedly continued. "That's when I knew I had to get you out of the country, Sophie. I talked to José, and he agreed to help. He convinced Michael to fake his death. We knew you wouldn't leave otherwise."

  "You helped?" Sophie lifted her face to his. "It was all your idea?"

  From the guilty look on Walt's face, Sophie knew it was true.

  "Wait a minute. There's something more important here," Philip said. "So now what's your motivation, Walt? If that's even your name. Is it wealth? Revenge? Approval?"

  Walt turned his hat over in his hands. "I don't know if you'll believe this, but like Sophie, I too have fallen in love with Spain. I honestly hoped to get the gold out of the country, sell it to collectors, and use the money to help the Republican efforts. Adolfo agreed we could use the money this way if I helped him find the coins he wanted. And, yes, my name is Walter. I'm named after my father. Michael's father."

  Philip approached him, peering down. "If that's so, and you just want to help the Republicans, why were you going to leave with the coins? Why leave us behind?"

  "Who said I was? Those were my orders . . . but I couldn't pull it off. For the first time, I questioned myself."

  "You grew a conscience?" Philip raised an eyebrow.

  Walt shrugged. "Yes, I suppose I did."

  "Where does that leave us now?" Sophie looked from one man to another. "This is an amazing story, but we're still stuck with millions of dollars' worth of gold."

  "I'm racking my brain to figure out an answer to that."

  Walt's face looked pale, and his voice was shaky. "I've always thought ten moves ahead. This whole thing has been like a chess game, as I moved the players around." He pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Not this time. I can only think of one more step. The next step . . . and I just hope it's the right one."

  Something seemed to die within Deion as he tossed the last shovelful of dirt over Jerry. He left a wooden cro
ss he'd formed with sticks as a marker and retreated to where the infantry was reforming after the bombing.

  "Men, this offensive could make or break us," the commander said to the group circled around him.

  He was shouting, but Deion could barely make out his words over the wobbling thrum of shells exploding in the distance. The flickering night clouds—the flashes of explosions—caught his attention.

  The commander talked on, and by the end Deion knew their tactic had not changed. They would march into the Guadarrama Valley. They'd seize Mosquito Ridge, which dominated the area as the high spot.

  After he'd dismissed the others, the commander approached Deion. "I heard about you. You're the one who carried your friend off the battlefield."

  Deion nodded. He didn't tell the commander his efforts had been in vain.

  "I need someone like you." The commander pointed to the first ridge. "I need you to deliver a message for me."

  Deion listened intently, but his mind and emotions were numb as they set out again, and he determined not to talk to anyone. The last thing he wanted to do was get to know any of the other men. The ache in his gut from Jerry's death grew stronger as he neared the battlefield.

  He felt like he was wrapped in a nightmare as he once again found himself on the front lines. He hurried to the ridge, determined not to stop until he reached it.

  The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the dust from the explosions. A violent fit of coughing overtook him, and another bomb fell—a terrific blast as hot as a furnace. The sky around Deion flashed white, and then everything went dark.

  The earth rumbled again, and Deion felt his body flying through the air. He imagined the force of hitting the ground, but instead his body landed and was surrounded by a sweet coolness. His lips parted, and muddy water seeped into his mouth, and he realized he'd landed in the shallow river. He struggled to stand, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. He moved his arms to swim toward shore, but it was as if he were swimming in wet cement.

  As he struggled to hold his head above water, Deion thought of the piles of bodies. He remembered Gwen studying their faces. And he imagined her pain if she found his face among the others.

  He wouldn't let that happen. Maybe, when all this was done, he’d find her again. Renewed energy surged through him, and he struggled to the bank. He pulled himself to his feet, feeling suddenly tired. More than anything he wanted to lie back down and sleep. His eyelids grew heavy. The clay felt like a soft mattress under his body.

  The double thwack of the antiartillery pulled him from his slumber. Whether he'd been out for five seconds or five minutes he wasn't sure, but he awoke with the iron-tinged taste of blood in his mouth. His sore tongue told him he must have bit it hard.

  He touched his face, certain the blast had melted it off. Instead, he discovered his eyebrows were missing. Heat warmed his cheeks as it had when he was a child and spent too many hours in the sun.

  It was then Deion remembered, as bright and urgent as the flash of explosion, the message he was supposed to tell the others.

  "I gotta get to the machine-gun team on the hill," he whispered.

  He moved up the slope. Around him Spanish troops straggled back from the ridge.

  "Hold your position!" Deion gasped, unsure if they could understand his English words. He motioned to the others. A few paused and looked at him with a dazed expression. "The commander sent a message. Hold your position!" He pointed to the small ridge. "You can't retreat. Do not retreat!"

  Understanding flashed in one man's eyes, and he quickly spoke to the others. Without hesitation, they hurried back to the ridge.

  Deion hurried up the slope. A chaser whistled overhead and to the right, toward the town of Brunete. He struggled to give the message to the other Spanish troops. "Hold your position."

  Shrapnel bursts hit all around like fireworks at a Fourth of July celebration back home. Deion felt clumps of debris hitting his steel helmet and bits falling on his shoulders, but it wasn't enough to slow him down. He worked with the others to dig into the ridge of rock. Below them more explosives hit the oaks, causing dark shadows to bend and flex. Bullets caused the moonlit trees and vines to tremble, but he was safe. He was alive. And they held.

  Chapter Twenty

  Badger's barking interrupted Walt, Philip, and Sophie as they discussed their next steps. Walt peered out the window to see the man and his daughter from the small community down the hill approaching.

  "Señors, Señorita," the man said when Philip opened the door. "My daughter and I wondered if you were still here. If you need help or information." He approached the front door with a smile. "Of course, we did not ask the others if they knew. They have no idea you ever stopped here. Your secret is still safe with us."

  They stayed the morning, and Sophie enjoyed the female companionship, especially the small talk as they discussed simple things such as gardens and the Moorish outposts in the surrounding hillsides. It was nice not to focus her attention on stolen treasure and their duty to Spain.

  They sat in the shade by the creek, enjoying the food Sophie prepared. As Sophie talked and laughed with the young woman, she wished she could tell her about the food cellar, but now wasn't the time. From the way Walt stood and paced, he was counting down the minutes until the visitors left.

  Finally, when the sun was high overhead, the two yawned and headed home for their siesta. Only then did Sophie follow Philip and Walt back to the house, where they resumed planning around the table.

  Philip spoke first, but from the look on Walt's face he spoke for both men. "If what Walt says is true—and I trust it is—maybe we should escape with the gold coins only."

  Sophie opened her mouth to speak, and Philip took her hand. With his free hand he pointed his thumb in the direction of the truck.

  "Getting the truck to Barcelona is a long shot. And maybe that's not even the reason we were caught up in this in the first place. I have to agree with Walt—the fact that he found the coins leads me to believe the story is true. I can't even imagine the impact a discovery like that would make."

  "I don't know." Sophie rubbed her tired eyes with her free hand. "I think you're missing the point. We're not doing this because we want fame or to make the discovery of the century. We 're doing it for the Spanish people, right?"

  She turned to Walt and focused her eyes on his. "That's what you told me when you asked me to return to Michael—you said that national security depended on it." She returned her gaze to Philip. "Weren't you the one who only a week ago talked about David seeing God as bigger than the problem?"

  She tried to stand, but Philip refused to let go of her hand. "Yes, I know what I said, but I'm worried—mostly about you, Sophie." He hesitated, weighing his words. "I don't think I could live with myself if somehow we made it out with the gold . . . and not each other."

  "I agree," Walt chimed in. "That's why I came back. Even if I pleased Adolfo, impressed my father, and discovered the gold of a lifetime, I'd never be able to live knowing I'd abandoned my friends."

  "If you're not going to listen to me, then never mind." Sophie stood and kicked her foot against the dirt floor. Her gut ached and, as if a veil were descending over her eyes, she suddenly didn't want to think anymore—she was tired of carrying the weight of Spain on her shoulders. "Forget it. If this is the fastest way to get out of the country, let's do it."

  She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. She thought of her last night in France before entering Spain. The soft bed and fresh, clean sheets. The tub filled with warm, perfumed water. Her hair, clean and styled. Clothes that made her look like a woman.

  She thought of waking without worrying that an enemy hid around every corner. Or behind every set of eyes. She considered setting up her easel in a park and painting for the mere joy of it. Oh, to hold a paintbrush in her hands.

  She also imagined phoning her parents and hearing their voices for the first time in over a year. Taking a stroll, her hand in Philip's
, without a care in the world, except for the desire to know each other better.

  Sophie opened her eyes and nodded her head. "Yes, I'm in. Let's figure out how to get those coins out of the country. Then maybe, from the outside, we can find a way to help Spain."

  "By getting the coins out, won't we accomplish both?" Philip released her hand and rested his elbows on his knees as he always did when he was deep in thought. "If these few items can lead us to an even greater treasure . . . then we do both. We accomplish much with so little."

  "Somehow that sounds too good to be true." Sophie sighed. "Even if Adolfo does take the coins to South America, how will he know what the clues mean? We have to trust him to find the treasure—if it's still there. Plus, will he really give the gold to Spain? And let's not forget that this man betrayed his own family—he took the information Michael gave him in confidence and found a way to steal the gold from his own nephew. He used Walt . . . and risked so many lives for his dream."

  As she spoke, the taste she had for all the good things she longed for suddenly soured in her mouth. "There are no easy answers, are there? Either way we are at risk. Who really knows what will benefit the people most? Who really knows if any of it will succeed? Or if we have the right motives? Or . . . if I'm just rambling because I'm tired? I don't know about you, but today I'm taking a siesta."

  "And maybe, like Jacob, God will speak to you in a dream?" Philip rubbed his brow.

  "Who knows? He can do anything He wants. Maybe we're thinking too far ahead. Maybe we just need to do the one thing He's asked at the present."

  Philip looked at her curiously. "And what's that?"

  "Trust that no matter how this thing turns out, God still has a plan. His love for the people of Spain, and for us, will never stop. And . . . though it's hard for me to believe sometimes, God can use even my failures for a greater good. So, no matter what tomorrow brings, I can trust—we can trust—we don't have to face it alone."

  And with that Sophie made her way to the old bed and fell asleep with the image of God's smiling face filling her mind. His smile was not due to anything she had done or would accomplish, but merely the fact that she was His. For the moment that was enough.