The Madagaskar Plan (46 page)

Madeleine!

She kicked hard against the horse, thundering past two SS soldiers who were spattered in a palette of colors. One of them was missing a hand; he signaled at her, rushing to block her path. On the wind she heard Burton’s ghostly cry again.

Madeleine! Madeleine!

She glanced behind to see the soldier wave frantically, then turn and sprint in the direction of the stables. Above, the helicopter reached the city and followed the Mazunka road, roaring overhead.

“Now we’re done for,” cried Jacoba.

The helicopter came round and swooped low before patrolling the sky above Antzu. It circled the burning synagogue, then descended on the governor’s villa.

The horses skirted the city walls. As they passed the southern gate the Jupo wardens they’d seen earlier rushed out, pelting them with rocks.

“Get ahead of the others,” Abner said in her ear.

Madeleine bent into the wind with a sense of freedom she’d never felt before on a horse. As soon as she overtook Jacoba and Salois, Abner told her to leave the highway.

Their horse stumbled as it hit the soaked grass, then found its footing, hooves tossing up fragments of turf. They charged across a plain toward a ridge several miles away. The horizon was tinged mauve with the approaching sunset. They galloped till they reached the ridge; once they were riding down the other side, Madeleine slowed to a canter. Salois drew level.

“This is the way?” he asked. “To the explosives.”

Abner nodded.

“You’re sure?”

“Leni’s thrown my lot in with you.”

They crossed another hill, passing into a landscape of rolling, rocky peaks and grass so high it skimmed the horses’ bellies. The animals were tiring. Another ridge, and then a wide, stony riverbed with only a trickle of a stream.

“Because of the Sofia Reservation,” explained Abner. “It should be a torrent at this time of year, but they control the water supply.”

When they reached the water’s edge, they dismounted and let the horses drink. Night was beginning to gather. The muscles in Madeleine’s thighs were stretched and sore. She associated the sensation with soaking in a tub and wondered if she’d ever have a hot bath again, or if she could: the thought of pampering herself, of any luxury, seemed immoral after what she’d witnessed. Far away there was a rumble of thunder.

Abner scooped up a handful of water and splashed his face and neck. “You should have stayed in Antzu; you’ll regret it.” He sighed, full of grudging magnanimity. “But I promise to help … not that you’ve given me much choice.”

Madeleine wasn’t listening.

She stepped away from him, searching the empty landscape behind. In the twilight Antzu was a distant sickle of fire. Her voice trembled. “Where’s Jacoba?”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Antzu

20 April, 17:15

THERE WAS A swing to Hochburg’s stride, a sense of renewal. He moved energetically through the villa, hoping to use the shortcut to beat Burton to the stables, but he felt a languid urgency. It was like chasing the boy round a concentration camp: where could he go? If he didn’t apprehend him today, then tomorrow; his pursuit was drawing to an end. The chandeliers trembled and chimed from the helicopter coming in to land. From the dining room he heard Quorp’s dogs barking and the cheering of children:
It’s Uncle Globus! Uncle Globus!

Hochburg reached the tack room to see Burton and his comrade galloping past on horses, toward the front gate. Globocnik’s Walküre positioned itself above the stables, whipping the air. Hochburg closed the door on the noise and flicked his tongue over his lips. Madeleine’s daring, her fealty to a man she believed dead, had stirred Hochburg. He wished Eleanor had possessed a little more of the same—and immediately regretted the thought. It let in the one thing he never wanted to admit: that her love for Burton had been stronger than for him.

From behind came a soupy squeak of boots: Kepplar, doused from head to toe in paint, the colors running into one another as if on an abstract canvas. A walking exhibit of the degenerate art so detested by the Führer.

“We can still catch Cole,” he said. The fading clatter of hooves was audible over the helicopter.

“No, Globus will see us. He must not have my prize. For now, you must continue the pursuit alone.”

“And you, Herr Oberst?”

“I shall smooth things over.”

“Globocnik will be furious. I’ve heard tales of his temper.”

“There’s one less pip on his shoulder than mine. Let him foam at the mouth for all I care.”

“He could report you to Germania.”

“Your concern is touching, Derbus, but you needn’t worry: the Reichsführer is a stickler for rank. Commandeer whatever means you can, track down Burton—and bring him to me.”

“And the Jewess?”

Hochburg imagined Madeleine as his guest in the new Schädelplatz, saw himself spoon-feeding her rich stews and trifle till her cadaverous cheekbones were no more, while Burton suffered in the dungeons below, impotent to stop his wife from growing healthy.

“Burton is your priority; then his bride.”

“She’s a danger.”

“If you find her, she is not to be harmed. Neither of them is.”

Outside, Globus’s helicopter touched down.

“Cole is a wanted terrorist,” said Kepplar. “I don’t understand why we can’t tell Globocnik. It would make our task easier—”

“And then he would know my business,” Hochburg replied irritably, “and shortly after, so would Himmler and Heydrich, and every last telephonist from here to the Baltic.”

Kepplar’s nose dripped yellow and blue. He wiped it with his sleeve. “Oil paint.” He looked at what had once been black cloth. “It’s ruined.”

“We shall have another cut for you.”

“But first I have to find Cole?”

A solemn nod. “We both understand what it means if you fail.”

“And when I succeed?”

“Kongo again. Your rank and privileges restored. Now go, my friend.”

Kepplar beamed … and then his smile faded. “The British defeated us at Elisabethstadt. What if they continue north? What if they take the whole colony?”

“I have the matter in hand.”

Hochburg thought of his parting words to Feuerstein:
Muspel can be harsh; I trust the sun won’t put any foolish ideas in your head.

Jews are a desert people,
the scientist had replied.
Leave us be, Oberstgruppenführer, and we will deliver.

Kepplar bowed his head, stepping backward, and departed.

In the stable yard, the rotor blades were slowing. Hochburg stood meditatively, thinking of Madeleine once more; perhaps he could feed her till she burst. He filled his lungs with the tack room’s smells of leather and steel and the rich aroma of wax.

The door was flung open. Globus. Still in his riding kit.

“I told you,” he roared, “I fucking told you not to come here!”

He was shaking, the ruptured veins around his nose purple. Behind him came the mocha-skinned girl Hochburg had seen when he first arrived in Tana. She swirled a burning coconut shell, like a priest blessing the air with incense.

“Who’s the nigger?”

“She’s Malagasy, not one of your blacks. I can’t stand the mosquitoes here. The smoke keeps them off.”

Hochburg snorted. “Shamanism.”

“You led a patrol into town. You torched the synagogue!” He could barely get the words out.

“You’ve wanted the same for years, except Heydrich wouldn’t allow it. See it as a favor, from one governor to another. An early birthday present.”

“Nightingale will have me by the balls.”

“You didn’t seem troubled by the Americans this morning.”

Globus was frantically twisting his two wedding rings. He stalked across the room, spurs
ching-
ing like a cowboy’s, till they were nose to nose.

“All this on Führertag! When word spreads what you’ve done, the whole island will erupt. Even with a thousand Walküres I wouldn’t be able to stop them.” His face and neck were in spasm; a hank of his hair came loose and swung across his forehead. “Everything I’ve worked for will be ruined.”

“Calm yourself, Obergruppen—”

Globus punched him in the stomach, hard.

Hochburg dropped to his knees thinking he would never breathe again. A second blow, to the back of the neck, and he was on the floor.

Globus squatted on his haunches, and hissed: “You think you can come here and fistfuck me on my own island…” He bounced the Oberstgruppenführer’s head and stood.

Next instant his boot contacted with Hochburg’s bandaged eye. The darkness burned with stars—bright, intense supernovas—that slowly faded. The agony was nothing compared to losing Eleanor, or the decades he had endured since. Physical pain, for all its immediacy, was insipid. Hochburg became aware of more boots rushing in, men shuffling around him, Quorp and Globocnik conferring like two Carinthian gangsters, their voices dim, subaqueous … He was briefly searched, then his hands were yanked behind his back and he felt cold metal against his wrists. The click of cuffs.

Oberstgruppenführer Walter Hochburg was dragged away.

*   *   *

Tünscher spotted the horse by chance. It was riderless, resting beneath the bowers of a solitary mango tree that was as broad as an oak. They had followed Madeleine’s tracks off the road into the wilderness. Several times Burton caught sight of her party—a swiftly moving blotch of chestnut and piebald against the green hills—till the sky darkened and he lost them.

He dismounted, patted the animal’s shoulder, and began to search around the tree, moving in wider circles till he caught sight of a body half-hidden in the undergrowth. He recognized the old woman he’d seen with Madeleine in Antzu. She emitted a desperate mewling as he approached but made no effort to escape.

Burton knelt. The grass around them was dotted with boulders. “Are you hurt?”

She said nothing. In the thickening purple light, her skull seemed luminous.

Tünscher checked her body. There was no blood, no sign of any wound. “She landed on a rock,” he whispered. “I think her back’s broken.” He twisted the skin on her hand and spoke loudly: “Can you feel this?”

The woman remained silent, fearful.

“Forget the uniforms,” said Burton. “I saw you with Madeleine. My name’s Burton.”

“Burton’s dead.”

“I survived. I came to find Maddie and take her home.”

“How did you meet?”

“What?”

“Madeleine and I were the only civilized people in that awful place, the only people worth talking to. We shared our lives.”

Burton understood: she wanted proof. “At my aunt’s house. A party. She was playing Schubert.” He thought back to that chance encounter, and their second random meeting on the beach. Then he recalled something Hochburg once told him: there are no coincidences of the heart. The wounded, the incomplete, seek each other out. Was it true? Was that how it had been with him and Maddie?

A smile warmed the woman’s face, and she hummed a few bars. “The Hungarian Melody.”

Tünscher pinched her again. He was looking feverish, his eyes dull.

“Nothing,” she said. “The horse stumbled and I came off.” She was full of self-rebuke. “I wasn’t strong enough without a saddle.”

Burton took her limp hand; the skin was cold. “What’s your name?”

“Jacoba. It’s fate you found me.”

“I need to know where Madeleine’s headed.”

“Mandritsara. To the hospital.”

“She’s sick?”

“Mandritsara’s not that kind of hospital,” said Tünscher, dodging his eyes. “But this is the wrong way. Mandritsara is to the southwest.”

Jacoba spoke again: “We were going to Nachtstadt first.”

Tünscher tut-tutted, a sound that could have conveyed anything: disbelief, irritation, despair.

“Where is it?” asked Burton.

“I don’t know. Abner was taking us—”

“You mean her brother?” Of course: the bald-headed man he’d seen with her earlier. He felt a foolish relief and looked across at Tünscher. “Any ideas how to get to this Nachtstadt?”

Tünscher reached in his pocket for his Bayerweeds. “Maybe.” He didn’t light one; he had to ration them.

Burton clasped Jacoba’s hand for a few moments longer, then removed his paint-splattered tunic and went to cover her. His thanks were too immense to express. When she told him she didn’t want the uniform on her, he rolled it into a pillow and eased it beneath her head. He took Tünscher to one side. The hills reverberated with approaching thunder.

“We can’t leave like her this,” he whispered.

“You should be more worried about Mandritsara. Your woman’s crazy if she’s going there.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s a bad place.”

“We’ve seen plenty of those.”

“Not like Mandritsara.” In the fading light he appeared gangrenous. “They turn people inside out there. I mean literally. Experiments in flesh, like some kind of sick joke. You need to stop Madeleine from getting there.”

“And Jacoba?”

“Same as the Viking.”

“The Viking” was a soldier whose name was part of the Legion’s mythos. His comrades had rescued him under fire but been unable to save him; all they could do was end his suffering.

“I haven’t got the stomach for that shit anymore,” said Burton.

“Why should you care? She’s nothing to you. Shooting her would be kindest.”

“She’s Maddie’s friend.”

“Well, don’t look at me, Major. Seven diamonds isn’t enough.” He stalked off toward the horses. “Seven diamonds isn’t enough for any of this.”

Burton felt a sudden urge to confess and wondered if during the years of their affair Madeleine had experienced something similar. Tünscher was looking rough. Burton swallowed his guilt and returned to Jacoba; she was struggling to say something.

“My pocket…”

He reached inside and found a photograph of a woman. Elegantly dressed, with a serious smile, she was the same age as Madeleine.

“My daughter,” said Jacoba. “I went to the synagogue, to the wall of faces, to fetch her. I want her close.”

“What happened to her?”

“My poor girl, she left me during the typhoid epidemic. At least she wasn’t the only one; death is easier when you’re surrounded by it.” She was calm and resigned.