Whisper of Freedom

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  José slowed his approach to the house when he noticed the lone figure sitting by an outcropping of rocks overlooking the ocean. Then he jogged forward, wondering why Michael left himself so unprotected. Surely, Michael must have guessed he would come.

  He noticed Michael folding a letter, which he returned to its envelope and tucked into his pants pocket.

  José rushed forward. "Where is she? Where is Ramona?"

  Michael smiled. "I guessed right, on two counts. First, that you had left her alone. And second, that you would eventually come to find her. What I didn't count on was that a blown tire would keep us from getting too far down the road or that Cesar would spot Calisto as he'd finished changing the tire."

  "I don't care about the horse. Where is my wife?"

  Michael patted the rocks beside him. "She is safe. There is no need to worry. First, we need to talk." He moved his hand to his waistband, where José spotted a pistol.

  "About what? I haven't been involved—" José remembered the photos and how he’d passed them on for Sophie. "At least it was never my intention—"

  He refused to sit, but peered down at Michael and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Michael pressed his lips together and placed a finger over his mouth, tapping it. Then he pointed to José. "Let me get this straight. I trusted you. I gave you a place to stay in Madrid. I asked you to care for Sophie, and then you got her involved"—Michael's voice rose in volume—"in spying on me? In turning on me?"

  Michael jumped from the rock onto the ground. "I refused to listen to those who told me you couldn't be trusted. I listened to your advice and faked my own death." He spat the words out. "The one thing Sophie can't forgive me for." He poked his finger into José's chest. "And it was all your idea."

  José took a step back. It was no use arguing whose idea it was or why he'd done it. There was only one thing that mattered now.

  "I did what I thought was right. Protected what I believed was worth protecting." He touched the scar on his neck. "I nearly died protecting Sophie. But none of that matters now."

  He reached forward and grasped Michael's shirt collar. "Where is my wife?"

  The pressure of the metal of the gun barrel against José's stomach caused him to release his grasp.

  Michael cocked one eyebrow, his penetrating gaze causing a weight to drop in José's stomach.

  This man was not the friend he knew. Too much had changed—although José couldn't imagine why. How had things come to this? Facing the war was hard enough, but this . . .

  "I am the one asking questions." Michael was seething with anger. "And only when I get the right answers will I speak to you of your wife." He nodded his chin toward the cottage. "Come, we'll talk like old friends. You remember this place, don't you, José? It was here that we met that first summer. Your father had come to care for the horses, and it was my first visit to Spain."

  "Yes, I remember." José's steps moved him forward. "Although it seems like a different life. Two different people."

  * * *

  José's stomach churned as Michael set a glass of cool water and a plate of fresh bread and cheese before him. Though anger coursed through him, his hunger won over. He guiltily ate and wondered how his father and Pepito fared with the little they had—not to mention his worry for Petra and Ramona.

  "It was my parents who asked me to search for the gold when I returned to Boston. They had friends, fellow collectors, who knew its location and its worth. They were worried about the numerous conflicts in Spain. Months before the civil war erupted, I befriended those inside the bank. And although the war was not good for the country or the people, the decision to move the gold benefited me greatly. What I thought would be at least ten years of work narrowed to a few months when the government decided to move the gold. They hastily made a plan, afraid the Fascists would take the city before they could get it out. Stealing a portion of the shipment was almost too easy." Michael took a long drink of water. "But of course you know all this."

  José acknowledged the statement with a nod. "I discovered it. Over time." He didn't mention that he'd also passed it on, much to Walt's appreciation. "So what do you want from me? We have the same information." He wiped his face with his napkin.

  Michael rubbed his leg and frowned. José refused to ask him about the injury or the pain evident on Michael's face.

  "I want to know where it is now." Michael pounded the table with his fist. "They tricked me. They stole the gold. I want to know where Sophie, Walt, and that . . . that volunteer . . . are hiding."

  José leaned back in his chair. "I do not know. I have not heard from them since Bilbao."

  "Maybe you haven't, but I am sure one of your contacts knows. Walt had a network of men and women throughout Spain. Walt was not a foolish man."

  "Listen to me, Michael. I speak the truth. I have not heard from anyone in the network since the incident in Bilbao. The network—it no longer exists. The bombings . . . the war . . . those things have effectively broken it down." José pushed the plate back. "I am sorry. That's all I know."

  Michael lowered his head as if defeated. Then with slow movements, he reached over and pulled on a bell rope.

  The echo of shoes tapped on the marble. But it wasn't a cheery kitchen maid who approached; it was Cesar.

  Michael lifted his gaze. "Kill the woman."

  José jumped to his feet. "No, wait." He pressed his hands to his forehead. "There is one thing. Walt gave me an address—in Paris. He said that if I were ever in trouble or if I could not get information to him, to go there for help. It was a last resort."

  Michael stood. "And you know this address?"

  José nodded, hoping it was enough to save Ramona—save them both. He recited the address that had been given to him on a small piece of rice paper.

  Michael repeated it, then approached the desk, taking up a piece of paper. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out an ink pen. Then suddenly he turned. "Wait. That cannot be correct."

  "Yes, it is. I am certain. Please, do not hurt my wife."

  The color drained from Michael's face, and José thought he would faint. Instead he reached for the closest chair and sat.

  "That cannot be," Michael muttered. "It is my uncle's address. Uncle Adolfo . . . "

  * * *

  Cesar pulled on the rope that tied José's arms, cinching it tighter, and dragged José forward. The tall man moved with quickened steps, and José hurried to keep up. Cesar led him to the caretaker's cottage near the barn in the back. José let out a breath in disbelief. He would be killed in the very place he and Michael had played together as children. Since José was "the horse trainer's son," he hadn't been allowed into the main house, so Michael had come here, and they'd played in the meadows nearby. They'd climbed the trees at the edge of the property—played hide-and-seek in the small rooms of the cottage.

  They stopped outside the door. Cesar pushed José to his knees and kicked his back, forcing him to the ground. José's cheek hit the rough wood of the weathered porch. The wind was knocked out of him by the force of Cesar's foot, and he fought the burning need to suck in a breath.

  He heard the jingle of keys as Cesar worked with the outside lock. As he opened the door, Cesar pressed one boot into the small of José's back to hold him down, and José lay still, knowing it was useless to struggle. He stared at Cesar's dirt-caked boot. Beyond the boot, beyond the porch, José could see the large tree where he’d built a perch as a boy. It had given him a good view of the ships in the water. As a child, he'd spent days imagining he was a lighthouse owner whose lamps directed many to safety. José coughed again, trying to catch his breath. What foolish dreams. He hadn't protected anyone, not even himself.

  The door creaked open, and he struggled to his feet, using his elbows and bound hands to push himself up.

  A cry met his ears. "José!"

  He lifted his head and saw Ramona sitting in the dark room. The windows had been boarded up
, but for the most part it looked as if she were free to move around. He struggled to his feet, using his elbows and bound hands to push himself up.

  A kick from Cesar to his backside pushed him into the room the rest of the way, and he sprawled on the floor.

  "José!" Ramona scurried over to him, and he let out a low moan. He'd planned on coming to her as a hero, rescuing her. It was the second time he'd come to her broken and defeated; yet as he looked up and gazed into her eyes, he saw only love.

  He struggled to sit.

  "Let me help you." She eased him up, and he scooted to the wall, leaning against it for support.

  She took his face in her hands and kissed him. Her lips were soft and moist, and he wondered, not for the first time, why he'd ever left her alone.

  Then, without a word, she untied the ropes. Within a minute, he was free. He shook the rope from his wrist and embraced his wife.

  José considered all the one-sided conversations he'd had over the previous months. In his mind, he had begged Ramona to come with him. In his thoughts, he'd also told her how angry he was that she hadn't. It had always been her fault. He was justified, of course. He had to check on his father. And the horses were worth saving. But never in the months that followed had he thought about how his wife felt. As she tenderly touched the sore areas on his wrists, he saw that she was made to care for others. She'd needed to help those injured soldiers. It was something she couldn't walk away from.

  Their Creator had made her to care. God's nature, which reached out with love to the broken and the lost, had been implanted in her heart. By asking Ramona to leave, he'd asked her to cut off all her limbs in order to follow him. No, more than that, to dig her heart out of her chest and leave it behind.

  "I have been a fool. I didn't understand you. I only saw what I wanted." The words spilled from José's mouth as he embraced her. "I saw your love for me and didn't want to share it with the world."

  "No, José, it was me. I should have explained. I feel so alive when I'm able to hold a hand or bandage a wound. But you thought only of my safety. I should have followed my husband. My grandmother would have scolded me for the way I treated you. I knew deep down that you loved me more than horses. It was just an excuse. I wanted to do what I wanted to do."

  She curled her body next to him and tucked her head under his chin. "Will you forgive me?"

  She didn't have to ask twice. José kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of the smoke and the ashes from the most recent bombing. He could have lost her. He paused.

  He could lose her still.

  "You are forgiven, but will you forgive me? There is so much I have done. I—"

  "Shhhh . . ." Ramona stilled his confession with her whisper. "It is in the past. We are together now. We are two people at fault and two people forgiven."

  José blew a slow breath out and felt the tension knotted in his shoulders release with her words.

  "And the horses?" Ramona scooted back to look into José's face. "I saw Michael with Calisto."

  "I don't know. I didn't see them." He took her hands in his and looked around. The room was familiar but different. Yet being there again, he could almost feel his mother's presence. He could picture her sitting by the sink where she used to peel potatoes and urge him to read his poems to her.

  "José. Why did Michael do this? I don't understand. What does he want?"

  "He wants his honor back. It's been stripped away by everyone in his life, including me."

  "Do you think he'll hurt us? Will we have a chance to get out? The Fascists—"

  José didn't need her to continue. Even if Michael didn't harm them, who knew what would happen when the enemy troops entered the area? They'd already sent their bombers to knock out those who dared to fight. It was only a matter of days—if that.

  "Where there is life, there is hope." He swallowed down his emotion, then lifted his eyes to the ceiling, wishing a way of escape were written on the beams.

  "Where there is life, there is hope," he said again, and kissed his wife's forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sophie sat next to Walt on the soft ground outside the cave. Across the open area, she noticed an armed man guarding the truck. Philip was on patrol with some of the others, getting a sense of the vastness of the mountains controlled by the guerilla fighters. The sun had set an hour ago, and the air had cooled drastically. She rubbed her hands on her arms to warm them.

  "So what changed your mind—about my heading into the castle instead of our trying to make it to Barcelona?"

  "It just seemed like the right thing to do. These men offered help and protection. Emanuel found us again when we needed his help. All the pieces seemed to just come together."

  Sophie cocked her head and looked into Walt's face. Now that she knew he was Michael's brother, she wondered how she hadn't seen it before. The shape of their noses was the same. And their hands. Her stomach turned as she looked at his hands, remembering all the times she'd held Michael's.

  Pushing those thoughts out of her mind, she bumped Walt's shoulder with hers. "So are you saying that maybe you could believe God had a hand in all this . . . and perhaps He sent Emanuel to us?"

  Walt looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. "I didn't say that. But the more I thought about it, I also realized that you could help us get the information we need—about the right roads to take to Barcelona. And maybe send messages from there to my contacts." He shrugged. "I don't know. The benefits far outweigh the risks."

  "I hope you're right. I feel totally unprepared."

  "We're not sending you in yet. There are a few things you need to know."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as, some of the history of the area."

  She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. "History—one of my favorite subjects as of late. Okay, since I am a visiting niece, what history would my uncle have told me?"

  "He'd probably have told you this story to start." Walt lowered his voice to sound like an old, wizened storyteller. "In the hills there is an old Moorish castle. In the time of the Moors it was said this fortress could house forty thousand men."

  Sophie swatted at his arm, laughing. "Oh, that will make the story so much more authentic."

  Walt continued. "Rulers came and went, never staying for long. There was even a time when lawless invaders called this place home. This was their base for smuggling and thievery."

  Not unlike today, Sophie thought.

  "One great king lived there during the wars of Granada. It is said that the armies of Queen Isabella came to claim the land. The Moor king had no worries, for he knew he was safe from their reach. The path to the castle was unknown to outsiders."

  As he spoke, Sophie thought of the outpost high in the hills near the cottage they'd recently left. And although she knew it wasn't the same one, she'd wondered more than once how the Moors had ever got up there—let alone built a large structure in the high peaks.

  "The story goes that the Virgin Mary appeared to the queen and guided her and her army up a mysterious path in the mountains—a path that had never been discovered before this time. The Moors had no time to escape, and somewhere under that castle the Moorish king buried a great treasure. Until this day, it has never been discovered. Everyone believes it is there, and they think that when the Virgin comes again she will disclose the location."

  Walt's voice trailed off, and he studied something over Sophie's shoulder. She turned to see Domingo exiting from the cave. He approached and sat by them. His gray hair had recently been trimmed, and when he sat he folded his legs as easily as a young man.

  "Anything interesting in those maps?" Walt asked.

  Domingo lowered his head. He picked up a round rock from the ground and moved it from hand to hand. "No. I am afraid not. The information was at least a few weeks old." He lifted his gaze, and his dark eyes met Sophie's.

  She could read his question there—he wondered when she was heading into
Granada."

  I was just telling Sophie of the Moorish treasure."

  "Really?" Domingo's normally calm expression brightened. "Yes, it only makes sense that if you are familiar at all with this area you should know about it. I myself first heard the stories before I was able to walk. My father always dreamed of finding it."

  Domingo spoke of various people who claimed they found the treasure. Every one of them, he insisted, had been killed in a tragic accident before they were able to disclose the location or retrieve any of the booty. What amazed Sophie is how similar the stories were. Whether in Spain or South America, they seemed to develop a life of their own.

  Sophie yawned and glanced up at the moon high in the sky. "Yes, well, all this is interesting," she said. "But can you tell me about the castle itself?"

  Walt nodded. "You, Sophie, have been given permission to occupy one of the vacant rooms in the Moorish palace. I am sure you won't be bewitched by the place, but I want to warn you all the same. The legendary halls almost seem to have a life of their own . . . as if a drama is being played out there."

  Sophie nodded, noticing how Domingo's eyes widened with Walt's words, and she wondered if Walt spoke so flamboyantly because of their guest.

  "The fortified wall is flanked by thirteen towers. The river Darro foams through a deep ravine in the north."

  Sophie sighed. "It sounds beautiful."

  "The name of the castle is Alhambra," Walt said. "It means red in Arabic—the color of the clay from which the bricks were made. Alhambra is now controlled by some of Franco's most faithful men. They have supported Franco for years, and are now rewarded."

  Domingo's face returned to its bored state, and he rose and waved good night as he retreated inside the cave.

  "Just like America," Sophie commented. "If you have trouble sleeping, just start discussing politics. It will either put you to sleep or fully wake you up—depending on whom you're debating with."Sophie laughed, but Walt's expression didn't change.