The Madagaskar Plan (20 page)

“My office will sort out some transport. After that, I don’t expect to see you again.” He strode up the steps. “Find your precious Jew, Hochburg. Then get off my fucking island.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Roscherhafen, DOA

17 April, 16:30

EVERY ROOM WAS as cramped as it was identical: a basin, sofa, wardrobe, and two metal-framed single beds, the soft furnishings done in cream and brown. A holiday cell, thought Burton when he first walked in. He was on the fifth floor of KdF’s gargantuan Msasani Beach hotel.

If Kraft durch Freude was to offer package holidays to all, it would need accommodations, and so a program of resort construction began. The first had been in 1936 at Prora, on Germany’s Baltic coast, and it became the prototype for future developments. Designed by Clemens Klotz, a favorite of Speer’s, the architecture was martial, uniform: continuous blocks of rooms on a megalithic scale. On the clearest of days, you could stand at one end of the building and not glimpse the other. At the center was a grand hall used for dancing and indoor sports and to celebrate the sacred days of the National Socialist calendar. There were bowling alleys, cinemas, heated swimming pools—one with a wave machine. Every guest was guaranteed a sea view.

After peace in Europe, an expansion of KdF building led to nine resorts around the globe, from Danzig (another Baltic favorite) to Gothenburg, on the Black Sea; the latest was in Argentina.

KdF Msasani, in DOA, was second only to Prora: a slab of white concrete six stories high that stretched unbroken for four kilometers and could house fifteen thousand guests. Originally it had been called KdF
zum Weissen Strand
—White Sands—but regardless of ideological concerns, Germans wanted something more African, something that conjured up exotic adventures when they returned to the factory. Eventually the beach’s native name—Msasani—took over, despite “
zum Weissen Strand
” continuing to hang over the entrance in cankered Gothic lettering.

Burton sat on the bed. He had always found hotels depressing, even after he and Madeleine were lovers and they became secret places of promise and release.

I don’t want to die in a hotel room,
he’d told her that time in Germania; they were lying exhausted in bed.
Spare me that.
The walls smelled as impersonal as sand, the linen boiled.

She stroked his cheek.
With all my heart.

There was a knock on the door. Burton got up and let in Tünscher. Under his arm was a box wrapped in shiny Führertag paper. He was glassy-eyed, in good spirits.

“I took your diamond to a jeweler,” he said, chucking the present on the bed. “It’s genuine, five and a bit carats, oval-cut, from the Kassai mines no less. With the other six it’s a good deal, will pay off my debts.”

Burton nodded. They had an expression in the Legion: “the corvus.” Promising the world, delivering dust. Self-loathing squirmed in his gut. He made himself think of the time Tünscher conned him out of his water ration on a desert march. Or the fight he got into in Marseille when Tünsch waited till he was on all fours, drooling blood, before throwing his first punch. Or when he’d sworn Tünscher to secrecy about the black girl he’d lost his virginity to at the orphanage; by nightfall even the camels knew her name.

Most of all, he thought of Maddie and the baby.

Tünscher took out a chart of Madagaskar, opening it to the northwest quadrant of the island. “This is Nosy Be,” he said, tapping the laminate. “You’re in luck. My usual people are flying in tomorrow night, one last sortie before Führertag. You’ll be bringing in two hundred cases of Krug for the celebrations.” He traced his finger south. “And this, Major, is how we find your woman.”

“Lava Bucht?”

“The Jews keep their records there on a junked KdF liner. They call it the Ark.”

Burton had a faint memory of some deal struck between Heydrich and the Americans after the first rebellion to protect a registry of Jews. By then Madagaskar had been off the mercenary trail for years; he was yet to meet Madeleine. The island meant nothing to him; it was one more beacon of misery on the periphery of the new German empire.

“How do we get on board?” he asked.

“It’s not well guarded,” replied Tünscher. “We’ll serve up some bullshit.” He explained the rest of his idea, smoking a cigarette to the stub, vague but confident.

“What about after?” asked Burton when he was finished. “Once I’ve found Madeleine.”

“We fly you to Somalia.”

“South Africa
*
would be better.”

“And too far.”

Burton considered everything he’d heard. “It’s a good plan,” he said, handing back the map.

“Keep it,” replied Tünscher. “One last thing.” His tone became businesslike. “None of this is coming cheap. Seven stones gets you there and out. It doesn’t get me on the island proper. My skin’s worth more than that. I’ll help you find the records, but once you get them—you’re on your own.”

After Tünscher left, Burton took a cold shower in the communal baths, then returned to his stifling room. He unfastened the balcony doors to get a breeze and was hit by the commotion below. Five stories beneath him were landscaped gardens—palms, castor oil plants, violets imported from the colony’s interior—and the foreigners’ pool, radiating its tang of extra chlorine. A group of Spanish tourists played round it, laughing, yelling, the kids dive-bombing each other. The lifeguard’s chair was empty; he stood away from the water, conferring with a man in a suit.

Msasani had been built with an eye toward the future and wouldn’t reach capacity till the 1960s. Even when the massive KdF cruise ships were in port, occupancies were never more than three-quarters. To fill the empty rooms,
Ausländer
wings had been established—blocks where foreigners could stay at an all-inclusive rate of fifty reichsmarks per week, twenty more than Germans paid. These guests came mostly from Spain and Italy and were encouraged to marvel at the Reich’s experiment in vacationing—as bold as any of its military or engineering triumphs.

From the gardens, a path led to the ocean. The sky was turning from tangerine to gray, clouds darkening the horizon; Burton smelled thunder brewing. Some 450 miles to the southeast were the Komoros Islands, where the Nazis had a submarine base. Another 250 miles marked the first ring of mines that surrounded Madagaskar like a lethal coral reef. And somewhere beyond that, he prayed, Madeleine was safe and waiting for him. He was impatient to get there. Throughout his voyage to Africa, he’d pictured the moment when they met again. It stuttered in his mind, impossible to capture. Would she be shocked? Relieved? Furious at him? He yearned to slip his fingers between hers, to cup her face and kiss her. Every time he comforted himself with their reunion, she was as plump and happy as she had been the previous summer. He knew that couldn’t be true.

Burton retreated inside and opened the bedside cabinet where he had stowed Tünscher’s present. Next to it was a copy of
Mein Kampf
; every KdF room in the world held a cheap edition of the book. Hitler took no salary as Führer of the Greater Germanic Reich—but he was a multimillionaire author.
What does that tell you about publishing?
was one of Maddie’s favorite gibes. He picked up the present and ripped off the paper to reveal a box stamped
BERETTA, MOGADISHU.
Inside was a pistol, an M1951, Beretta’s latest model, the type used by the Italian African Police and recognized for its accuracy and reliability. Burton raised it to his nose: virgin gun oil. He missed his Browning.

He dismantled the weapon, holding it against the bedside cabinet with his stump as his other hand did the work. Once it was in pieces, he wiped off the packing grease, carefully reassembled it, then reached back into the box. Tünscher had included a spare clip and a case of ammunition. Burton felt another spasm of guilt.

The racket below was irritating him; he kicked the balcony door shut. As the din subsided, he thought he heard something from the corridor. The echo of boots stamping upstairs.

He stood and closed the balcony door completely to blot out the noise from the pool. The man in the suit was scanning his floor. It sounded as if someone was walking down the corridor toward him. Not a guest returning to his room, sandals flapping carelessly, but cautious, controlled steps. Hard soles against the tiled floor.

He crossed the room and put his ear to the door.

No one knew he was in Roscherhafen. It was probably some Jugenvolk playing a game … unless Tünscher had decided there was more profit in turning him over than in the Madagaskar job. Or he hadn’t paid enough for his entry visa.

There had been no opportunity to acquire a fake passport, so he used Patrick’s. It was less risky than his own, and he’d hoped that America’s neutrality would ease his passage through German customs. He had removed the dead man’s photo and replaced it with his own; scratched and inked the digits on the year of birth so that “1896” read “1916.” Presented it with a bland smile. When they detained him at the border with Mozambique, it cost thirty reichsmarks for each of the issuing officers, another fifty for their supervisor, and a thick donation to Rovuma’s Führertag kitty. Perhaps he hadn’t been generous enough.

Burton reached inside the bedside cabinet and took out the copy of
Mein Kampf
. Dropped it with a thud.

The footsteps stopped at once.

He stilled his breath. Four, five, six seconds passed.

Then the steps again, consciously keeping quiet this time. Burton grabbed the Beretta’s magazine, wedged it into his armpit, and began pressing in bullets.

*   *   *

A thud.

Kepplar raised his hand at the two men behind him; both were carrying BK44s with the safety catches off. They were halfway along the corridor, approaching Cole’s room at the end. The fire escape was covered by armed troops, as were the main stairs, lobby, and gardens.

When Kepplar arrived at
zum Weissen Strand
, a moment of boyish excitement took hold of him. Every time he stood beneath its walls, the immensity of the place made him feel like a child transported to a world of giants. It was claimed that when Peenemünde put the first National Socialist into orbit—
soon,
promised Goebbels,
soon
—the building would be visible from space. Then he went to work: organizing the men he had so there was no chance of Cole escaping. If only he still commanded the resources that were his in Kongo.

Kepplar lowered his hand and continued along the corridor, treading lightly so his boots wouldn’t squeak on the floor and its diagonal lines of yellow tiles. From outside came the screams of children. His own offspring would never dare make such noise, but then scientists had proved it was the Mediterranean blood that made its people constitutionally rowdy.

They reached the door. In a whisper he repeated the instruction he’d given the men outside:
“
He must be taken alive
.”

Kepplar watched the troops level their rifles. Before he’d left the Zollgrenzschutz building he had unlocked his safe and retrieved his pistol, a Walther P38; its holster was heavy and ungiving against his hip. He felt no need to unbuckle it. His heartbeat was in his ear, his stomach spongy with exhilaration. All that separated him from Cole and deliverance were a few centimeters of plywood. He would hand him over to Hochburg, then bask in his former master’s contrition.

Kepplar raised his jackboot.

Seven months earlier, on the morning he’d returned empty-handed to the Schädelplatz, Hochburg had raged at his failure, ordered him bound to a stake, threatened to burn him alive. It was the stake originally meant for Cole’s execution. Kepplar recalled the smoke clogging his nostrils and the sparks that danced around him; his legs were buried in tinder.

“Herr Oberst, please,” he yelled as Hochburg strode away. “Herr Oberst!”

Hochburg crossed half the square before he stopped and sauntered back. At his command, Kepplar was cut free, his uniform already singed. He crawled over to Hochburg and clutched his master’s boots, splattering them in tears.

“Give me one final chance,” he pleaded. He was on his hands and knees, arse in the air. “I won’t fail you again, I will find Cole. I promise.”

“You didn’t really think I’d burn you?” asked Hochburg, his voice mellow and contemptuous.

“No, Walter, no.”

“Of course not. Can you imagine the fucking paperwork!” He roared with laughter. “It’s time to send you home, Derbus.”

Now Kepplar kicked the door with all his ferocity. It buckled in the frame but didn’t give. He smashed his jackboot into it again.

There was a crash from the other side.

“He’s barricading it,” said Kepplar.

One of the soldiers opened fire. Kepplar swiped the muzzle to one side: “No shooting!” Outside, the kids round the pool had fallen silent. He grabbed the rifle and used it to batter down the door. It gave way, shunting open enough for him to see that a wardrobe had been toppled across the entrance.

Kepplar squeezed his face into the gap and saw a figure retreating through the room to the window, upturning the bed and sofa as he went, to block his path.

“Burton Cole!” he shouted.

His quarry spun round—for the first time they were face-to-face.

It was impossible to know why Cole obsessed the Oberstgruppenführer so much. He seemed a man—just a man—a feeble threat to the world Hochburg ruled over. He was more haggard than his photograph, with longer hair, the skin around his eyes ringed and drab, the left side of his face mottled with scars. Kepplar knew those features so well it was like seeing an old comrade; part of him wanted to raise his hand in greeting. Later he realized that he had paid no attention to the shape of his skull.

Cole aimed his pistol, fired once, and threw himself off the balcony.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BURTON HIT THE water hard, the impact concertinaing his body. Bubbles roared in his ears. He bumped the bottom, kicked to the surface.