Michael cursed as he paced in front of the cargo plane, waiting for his parents. He had sent a telegram ahead telling them to meet him at the airfield. And what did he have to show for it? Rocks. The white ammunition boxes held nothing but rocks.
In the distance, the lights of Paris caused the night sky to glow above the city. He used to love this place, but not anymore. He'd do anything to be back in Spain, and not have to face the fact that he'd been made a fool.
Across the landing strip, he saw his father walking toward him. That tall frame, those stiff shoulders. And just a hint of gray hair peeking out from under the fedora he always wore.
"Your mother couldn't make it. You know how stress weakens her heart."
"It’s better that way." Michael lifted the lid showing the rocks where there should have been gold. He didn’t need to explain. The disappointment in his father's gaze was clear.
"They tricked you, didn't they?" The older man shook a fist in the air. "I told you to stay away from that woman. From the first I thought she was a distraction. But I had no idea it would come to this."
"I'm going back. We'll find them. Get the gold." Michael remembered Sophie's look the last time he'd seen her. She'd been hurt. And she was determined to stay with the volunteer, Philip. Obviously she believed she cared for the man. But her eyes had shown no trickery.
"I imagine she thinks she will be rich. She’ll use the gold for her own gain!" his father’spouted.
Michael didn’t argue. But he knew, deep inside, that Sophie believed he had flown away with the gold in the cargo hold. She was just a pawn in the hands of that man, Walt Block. He'd targeted Sophie even before she’dcrossed into Spain. It was because of Walt that the gold would again be at the bidding of the Republicans—to be sold to Communist Russia and melted down into gold bars, despite its value.
Foolish woman . . . open your eyes to what's happening!
"I'll make sure we get the gold back. Nothing will happen to it," Michael repeated. His voice was firm, but he knew better than to raise it in the presence of his father.
"Who will ensure this? You and your bodyguard? Do you have the ability to cover the entire country in your search? I thought I could trust you, Son. Your mother . . . what is she going to say? Can you imagine how she’ll feel to know that the priceless artifacts are once again lost?"
Michael didn't want to think about that. His mother could be the kindest person on earth if she got what she wanted. And when she didn’t . . .
A new emotion came over him—pity for his father. Pity for any man forced to face his mother’s wrath.
Weariness also washed over Michael. Pain from the wound to his leg and weakness from losing so much blood. His father hadn’t even asked about his bandaged leg. Didn’t he care about his son’s injury?
No matter how hard Michael tried, nothing changed. His parents were concerned about what mattered to them. They cared for their son . . . if he shared their concerns. Never a day passed that he didn’t strive for their approval, long for their praise. But whatever he accomplished never seemed to be good enough.
"How could this happen?" His father paced, throwing his hands in the air. "When did they make the switch?"
"At the airfield. That reporter, or spy—whatever he is—must have more connections than I realized. I thought the guards loaded the gold, but they were on his payroll instead."
"Which makes reclaiming our booty even more difficult. Who knows who else is under his control! The gold is most likely at the port right now, being shipped to line their pockets. Shipped to the melting pots." His father’s face fell. "What will I tell the collectors?"
"Tell them nothing." Michael limped closer to his father. "Not yet. Simply say that the war in Spain is making transport more difficult than we thought."
Michael could not tell his father that half the gold had already been claimed by Franco, even before they had a chance to rescue it from its "safe" place in the tunnel. To his father, Franco was Spain's savior. Telling him the truth would only shame the older man and feed his anger. Michael’s only hope was that the collectors would be so enthralled by the beauty and worth of the ancient treasure remaining that they’d forget that what he offered was far less than first promised. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Perhaps he'd been doomed from the start.
Pain shot up Michael's leg. He caught himself on the door of his father’s automobile, using all his strength not to crumple to the ground. Then he straightened, forcing himself to be strong in his father’s eyes.
His father looked toward the bloody shirt wrapped around Michael's leg but still did not ask about the wound. "You have two months to find the gold. Two months to get it to France. And to get rid of that woman, Sophie." He spat her name. "And finish off her friends. Nothing less will do." He wiped a drop of sweat from his lip. "What will I tell your mother?"
"Tell her that . . ." Michael's voice caught in his throat. His words escaped with a heavy breath. "I am sorry, and I will not fail again."
"Fine, but if I were you I wouldn't show my face until that promise comes to pass." His father looked away. "Her words can slice deeper than any knife."
Walter opened the door, climbed into the automobile, and started the engine. Michael hobbled two steps back, then watched him drive away without another glance.
Cesar approached, and Michael saw the pity in his gaze. It was the last thing he wanted.
"We need to return to Spain as soon as possible."
"And find help from where?" Cesar questioned. "It's obvious we can’t trust the police or Franco’s men. Besides . . ." He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Michael’s waist. "We're going nowhere until you get that leg looked at and find your strength. Many have already died in search of the gold. Let's not add your name to that list."
Ritter settled on the stool in front of the bar and rested his weight on his arms. He was happy to be back in Germany. Happy that the plans for the Norden bombsight had been delivered and that Göring had been generous in his reward.
The strong smell of beer caused a weary smile to curl on Ritter's face, and he knew that its numbing warmth would soon spread its wings over his anxious mind.
The bartender acknowledged his presence with the faintest of nods. He offered Ritter a tall glass, filled to the top with frothy cold beer, and then turned back to a man who claimed he'd just arrived from Thuringia.
"You should see what the fuehrer has planned for the enemies of the Reich." The man's words slurred, and his eyes were bloodshot. Ritter wondered how much longer the man would be able to sit at the stool at this rate.
"I was asked to come and tour the place myself—a new concentration camp that will be opening in a month," the man continued. "They have plans for a thousand inmates, maybe more. Some prisoners are already there, building the very walls that will confine them! It is not a good time to be an enemy of the Reich." Laughter spilled from the man's lips.
Ritter opened his mouth to ask more questions, but another man spoke before he had the chance. This man spoke German, but with an American accent.
"Perhaps if such a cleansing of one's enemies had been done in Spain, their civil battle would not have escalated as it has." He spoke with the slow, even tone of a politician.
"I’ve been in Spain," Ritter said, hoping to impress. "The people are mad—both sides. And the ideas they die for pale in comparison to those of our new Germany."
The American raised one eyebrow. "The Spanish war is only an outward indication of the disease that is inflicting mankind—it is not the disease itself. The fault lies in the Treaty of Versailles. Upon signing it, those conquered in the last war were labeled second-rate. It robbed them of any hope for a better future."
"Germany was one of those nations, but not any longer," Ritter replied. "And though it seemed as if we were robbed, that is no longer the case. We have grand hopes, grand dreams." He leaned toward the man. "Dreams many are willing to fight for, die for."
"Ja, because you have a great leader. Hitler has emerged at the right time, with a message that twenty years of despair has primed the people for."
Ritter studied the man s face, surprised that the American’s views matched his own.
"Men and women living as second-class citizens, due to the mistakes of an earlier generation, will embrace the first opportunity to free themselves." The American turned to the man who had spoken of the building of the camp. "And in this case, their freedom hinges on locking up those they feel threaten that freedom. It's a step." He took a long drink from his tall stein of beer. "Only a first step."
Ritter nodded his agreement. "Better to lock them up than blow them up. I’ve seen the destruction bombs and artillery can do to a country."
The men drank in silence.
"So where does that leave us?" Ritter finally asked.
"I, for one, am returning to my country to relay my thoughts to any who will listen. I’ll urge my country to stick to the treaties, but also understand those who do not. In my opinion, the conflict in Europe—that which is already happening and that which is to come—will right the wrongs the other nations have imposed. Yes, there will most likely be more battles, more deaths, and more camps . . . but when the dust settles we’ll discover a greater peace than we’ve ever known."
"I hope you are right." Ritter ran his finger along the droplets of water pooling outside his glass. "I can think of nothing greater than to settle down with a good mate and live a good life." He took another drink as his brooding thoughts turned back to Isanna, who was doing just that—with someone other than himself.
The first man rose and staggered across the room to tell another table of his news, and the American ordered another drink with a flick of his finger.
Ritter did the same, and as the bartender approached, he peered over Ritter's shoulder toward the door.
Ritter turned and nearly fell off his stool as he saw Monica Schull approaching.
"Ritter, darling." Her voice rose excitedly. "Your uncle said I might find you here. He's disappointed, actually, that you didn't choose to spend the evening with him. But he was pleased and excited to know that I d come—that I just couldn’t bear to stay away."
"Monica." Ritter opened his arms for a quick hug. "You've followed me home, like a puppy looking for its master."
"I’m not sure about that, but I am here. New York was boring without you, darling." She gazed up at him with large blue eyes and adjusted the red hat that perched on her blonde curls. "I hope you don't mind."
"Mind?" Ritter patted the barstool next to him, motioning for her to sit. "You are far more entertaining than the politics these men prattle on about. And far more appealing to the eye as well." Ritter let out a long sigh. "Why ever would I mind?”