The Madagaskar Plan (44 page)

Cranley’s assertion that the baby was his forced its way into Burton’s mind. It was a seed of wickedness, a doubt meant to torment Burton. He didn’t believe it; the proof was in the journey he’d undertaken … but the thought remained, hidden in the recesses of his brain like a tumor.

Tünscher finished his cigarette with an elaborate exhalation. “Once I get my diamonds,” he said, taking in the rot and the warped timbers, “I might get a pad like this myself.”

“You never did say what you wanted them for.”

“I told you: debts.”

“What kind of debts?”

His friend went to reply, then changed his mind and sat up. A sharp intake of breath. He was looking paler.

“Are you hurt?”

Tünscher peeled back his uniform above the belt: his midriff was sticky with blood. He reached into the medical kit for some gauze and swabbed the skin. In the Legion he’d had training as a
martin-pêcheur:
a kingfisher, their name for a medic. “I got nicked when you hit that hovercraft.”

“Is it bad?”

“What did Patrick used to tell us?
If it still hurts, it’s not that bad.
” He grimaced. “It hurts plenty.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

Another of those shrugs that had accompanied them to Antzu. “What would you have done?” His earlier anger was gone, replaced by resignation. “Handed over my diamonds and waved me
auf Wiedersehen
?”

He stripped off his tunic to reveal a hairless torso and a locket hanging from his neck. Burton watched Tünscher clean and bind the wound; it was no bigger than a ha’penny but still seeping.
I should have left him in Roscherhafen,
Burton thought. A catch-up drink, a few Legion stories—and nothing more. Or at least told him the truth about the diamonds. He’d seen men slowly bleed to death from less serious injuries.

To ward off the guilt, Burton patrolled the floorboards, picturing the shock and relief on Maddie’s face when she arrived home. He would see his child for the first time. A girl, like Madeleine had hoped for? It should have made him beam, but his thoughts kept drawing back to Patrick and the daughter he had failed to get home to.

The rhythmic creak of his boots was broken by a gunshot.

He went to the door and listened: the sound echoed over the corrugated roofs of Antzu. It had the unmistakable retort of a BK. He fiddled with the brim of his cap.

There was a second shot—then a barrage.

“It can’t be anything to do with Madeleine,” said Tünscher.

Burton was aware of the sloshing in his gut. “You’re probably right.”

He gripped his Beretta, descended the steps, and began walking in the direction of the gunfire. Soon he was at full sprint.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

AT THE COLONIAL Academy in Vienna, racial hygiene classes were mandatory. Because Kepplar had applied for Africa rather than Madagaskar (which technically remained under departments of the European SS), his instruction was in the dangers posed by the negroid. However, all recruits were given a basic introduction to Jewry. A famous Hauptsturmführer who had worked closely with Jews in the East warned about the spell a Jewess could cast. Kepplar was unconvinced: those who succumbed were looking to excuse their weakness or secretly craved pollution of their blood. Now he realized such witchcraft did indeed exist. That it was Hochburg, of all men, who had fallen victim caused him an ache of profound disappointment.

His skin felt dank, like he wanted to shed it.

Kepplar had watched Cole’s wife from the moment she identified herself. He immediately sensed the threat and wanted to warn the Oberstgruppenführer. The Jewess was too fast; she put her scraggy arms around Hochburg and defiled his mouth. It was repellent to witness, yet Kepplar was unable to avert his eyes, like in Muspel when he’d seen the blacks rutting in their barracks at night and been magnetized by the horror of it.

He thought of the sailors who had been killed on the patrol boat and, before them, the body bags of loyal SS filled in Kongo: what would these men have thought if they stood here now?

Cole’s wife revealed a dagger behind her back. Swung it at Hochburg.

Kepplar sprang forward, catching her wrist as the blade completed its arc. He wrestled her off, shoving her flimsy body to the ground; the knife clattered as it landed. Kepplar supported Hochburg as he emerged from the spell, and patted his superior’s uniform beneath the armpit where the blade had been aimed. His fingers came away dry. Hochburg swatted Kepplar away, a glint of loathing in his unbandaged eye.

Cole’s wife had reclaimed her blade. It had a serrated edge, Kepplar noted gratefully, and was meant for sawing, with no point to penetrate.

“Call the others,” he yelled at the groom guarding the door.

Hochburg addressed the woman, his voice emollient: “Put down the knife, Madeleine.” The only time Kepplar had heard that tone before was when he was speaking to Fenris. “I mean you no harm.”

She retreated. There was sorcery in her eyes, inviting Hochburg closer so she could slit his throat.

From the balcony came the bang of the door being flung open. Panicky, raring-to-go faces stared down. Kepplar saw the groom who had shot the woman in Boriziny Strasse. When Hochburg had given him the order, Kepplar removed his Walther P38 and pressed it into the lad’s hand, as if such a task were beneath his rank; he feared that his expression betrayed him. The groom dispatched the woman as efficiently as a vet administering a vaccine, pleased with the opportunity to show that he was more than just a stable hand. Now he aimed his BK44 at the scene beneath him and fired a warning shot. It smacked into one of the old Jews gathered round the tables. Kepplar heard a wail and indignant shouts. Then a second shot, followed by a stream of bullets as the rest of the stable staff joined in. Another of the Jews threw over a table, ducking low behind it as a shield, and reached inside his rucksack.

“Hold your fire!” shouted Hochburg, putting himself between the rifles and Madeleine.

There was a blinding pop and a fountain of sparks; Kepplar shielded his face. The synagogue began filling with billows of thick red smoke.

*   *   *

Someone grabbed Madeleine’s arm—cruelly, angrily—and dragged her into the smoke. She pried herself from Abner’s grip, searching for Salois. Jacoba was huddled on the floor, arms covering her head, as the councilmen scattered and fell. Shots flashed in the scarlet murk despite Hochburg ordering his men to stop.

She yanked Jacoba to her feet and raced after Salois, calling him. He headed toward an exit at the rear, rucksack bouncing on his back, a bundle of loaves in each arm.

“The main entrance is the only way out,” said Abner as he followed.

The firing stopped; boots thudded down the stairs.

Madeleine ran in the opposite direction, chasing Salois along a passageway till he reached some steps and stopped. He broke the bread he was carrying into pieces and stuffed it into his rucksack. Behind them the corridor was empty except for creeping fingers of ruby mist.

Abner clasped Madeleine and shook her. “What were you thinking?” he shouted in her face, his mouth so wide she glimpsed his rotten molars. “You could have been killed.”

The moment Hochburg had announced his name, Madeleine had been possessed by what she must do, almost as though she heard Burton urging her to strike. As though the knife could lance her grief for him. If Abner was right, she’d never reach Mandritsara or find the twins; Cranley was thousands of miles away, protected from her hatred by locks and walls and his position in society. But she could finish this part of the story: it would be an act of devotion to the man she had lost. The night before Burton left, he’d showed her the silver dagger he planned to end Hochburg’s life with. She had hidden her horror, at the same time remembering the abuse her father had endured and feeling a shiver of satisfaction. Now she understood the full lure of revenge.

When Burton had described Hochburg, she’d pictured a man forged from the shadows, with coarse curls of hair and the reek of the jungle. Instead, he was merely flesh. As she’d stepped toward him, the bandage covering his head made her think of Claude Rains. He loomed over her; if she lunged directly at his heart he had the strength to snap her arm. Then she read the expression on his face, was sickened by how tender his desire appeared, and understood his weakness. Her mind was numb as their lips touched, as if she were below the ocean kissing Burton’s cold, dead mouth farewell.

There was a narrow, glassless window by the steps with a view of dirt: they were still below street level. Salois lobbed a smoke cannister in the direction they had come, and climbed the stairs, the others following.

They reached the next floor; halfway along was a door to a classroom. Inside there was another window. Salois opened the shutters onto banks of earth. He ran his fingers around the frame and seemed satisfied. From below Madeleine heard the baritone ring of Hochburg’s voice calling her name, queasy with his familiarity. Salois threw another smoke grenade into the corridor and secured the door.

“We have to barricade it.”

The classroom smelled of sap and damp, its walls made of rough timber. Around the edge, piled to shoulder height, were sacks of rice. At the front was a blackboard chalked with words:

Mein Name ist ______

Ich bin ein Jude

Ich werde gehorsam und ehrlich sein

Education was banned on the island, with the exception of arithmetic to five hundred and German lessons—“an elementary kind of mimicry” as Hitler described it—so Jews could comprehend their masters.

The four of them worked to block the entrance with the rice bags. When they reached the top of the frame, they began a second layer.

“We’re burying ourselves,” said Abner.

Madeleine lugged a sack with Salois; she refused to let the strain of the weight show. “Will you let me on your boat?” she asked him.

“What about the Oberstgruppenführer?”

“He’s nothing. I wish I’d killed him.”

“You’ve got guts, more than the whole council—but if he’s after you, that’s bad for me.”

“Then let’s get as far from Antzu as possible.” They dumped the sack; the barricade was already at waist height. On the other side of the door, she heard men coughing in the smoke and Hochburg issuing commands. “What do you need?”

“I’m going to Diego Suarez, to destroy the base.” He said “Diego” as if it were a person he knew and hated. “I can do it alone but will have more chance with two”—he glanced at Abner—“or three. I also need explosives. Your brother knows where they are.”

“She’s not going with you,” replied Abner. “Neither of us are.”

There was a burst of gunfire from the corridor, the bullets thudding harmlessly into the sacks. Then the
bang-bang-bang
of rifle butts against the door.

Madeleine grasped her brother’s hand. “You’ve got to help him.”

“What about your babies? How are you going to get from Diego to Mandritsara, all in time to catch a boat? Assuming it’s not torpedoed.” He sounded choked with frustration. “If he blows Diego the sea will be teeming with patrols.”

“It’s the only hope I’ve got,” she replied. “That or give up. What else can I do?”

“You can stay in Antzu: you’re safe here.”

The battering stopped, then started again with renewed ferocity. Something heavy was pounding the door.

“Safe?” She almost laughed.

Abner appealed to Salois: “It’s too far to Nachtstadt. You don’t have time—she’ll slow you down.”

“You could ride,” said Jacoba. She was shaking with fear and had to force the words out. “Take some horses from the governor’s stables.”

“And new boots and breeches,” snapped Abner. “A hamper for the journey.”

“When I worked there, they weren’t well guarded. Who would dare steal a horse?”

“You were going to stay with your daughter.”

“I want to help Madeleine first.”

Salois faced her brother. “It’s your decision. Our fates are in your hands.”

“You’re just using her.”

“The fate of the whole island.”

Abner swore; he removed his skullcap and tossed it away.

They finished stacking the rice, Madeleine keeping close to Salois. Normally when she was next to an islander, she recoiled from the odor of their body or filthy clothes or whatever was churning in their stomach. Salois was scentless. He took a hand grenade from his rucksack and told them to build another wall of bags to shield them from the blast. Then he pulled the pin and lodged it beneath the window frame. Madeleine ducked behind the sacks, pressing her face into the burlap.

“He’ll get you killed,” whispered her brother. “Stay here, it’s what Mutti wants. Papa too—you always listened to him.”

“This is the only chance I may get.”

“Not now. Please. It’s too dangerous.”

Madeleine covered her ears and heard her next words from inside her head: “If not now, when?”

The grenade exploded, punching a hole in the wall. The classroom was scattered with flames. Salois stood and bundled them outside.

Madeleine jumped, landing on the slope of the crater in which the synagogue sat. The climb was steep: scree and rubbish tumbled to either side of her, her hands digging into the mud till she was back on Nabi Daniel Strasse and the road that led to the docks. A column of smoke rose from the synagogue, its wooden walls sighing and cracking.

A soldier emerged from the hole in the classroom and aimed his rifle. Another, dressed in the same black uniform as Hochburg, leapt into the crater after them.

“We can still hide,” Abner said to her. “I know a place.” He grasped her arm, tugging her away from Salois and Jacoba.

She broke free and ran with the others toward the heart of the city. Rising above the roofs, green through wisps of fog, was the governor’s house.

“We can get in through the garden wall,” said Jacoba.

Salois released a smoke canister to conceal their direction and they dashed through the narrows of the Spanish quarter, weaving beneath scaffolding and past the alleyways that led to Boriziny Strasse. Madeleine didn’t think she’d ever see her house there again. If she died finding the twins, would her spirit haunt it? Or the house in Hampstead? Maybe eternity would grant her the farm. Was Burton waiting there? For an instant she thought she heard his voice, the cry so real it sent ice rippling down her back.