The Madagaskar Plan (61 page)

She wasn’t listening. She straightened Abner’s glasses. His expression was rigid with shock and—was she imagining this?—shame. “Idiot boy,” she whispered and stroked his hairless scalp.

“I could tell you your sister is pregnant,” said Cranley, his breath in her ear. “That I can get her husband to South Africa if I choose. But I doubt it will have much effect. You’re harder than I imagined, Madeleine.” He put his arms around her from behind, enveloping her body. “What does he have? He’s a common soldier who’d have to kill to afford a ring on your finger. Or use one of the diamonds I paid him with.”

“If you let him go free, I’ll come back with you.”

A bark of mirthless laughter. “This is not a negotiation. Only one deed will put it right—”

Lumps of acid spouted in Madeleine’s throat.

“—and you have to do it.”

He forced her to stand and walked her across the room till they were in front of Burton.

“Dear God, you’re thin—even thinner than when we first met. We’ll have to feed you up when you get home.” There was affection in his tone and a hint of disgust.

She squirmed in Cranley’s grip, but he was too strong, clamped around her like she was the soft innards of a crab, he the shell and pincers. Burton stared up at her, still on his knees, wearing the fatalistic calm she’d seen in so many other faces on the island.

Cranley put the pistol in her bound hands and fastened his fingers over hers, raising the gun so it quivered inches from Burton’s forehead. The soldier guarding him watched uncomfortably.

“Where did it begin?” asked Cranley. “I know everything else: the hotel trysts, your promises to each other in Germania, fucking in the quince orchards. Just not the start.”

“On the beach,” replied Madeleine. “The Suffolk house.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Did you ever weep for me?”

“She did,” said Burton. “Betraying you was the hardest thing she ever did.”

Madeleine heard something trip in Cranley’s breath. Then he pushed her finger against the safety catch, flicking it off. “One shot and it will all be wiped away. I’ll forgive everything. Alice will be so happy to have you home.”

She fought against him. “I’ll never look at you without wanting to cut your throat.”

His voice dropped, became maniacal. “Your lover is not leaving here. What happens to him is the one concession I’ll grant you. So do it—or I shoot him in the gut and he’ll bleed to death for hours. It will be agony. His life will still be trickling out of him long after our plane is in the sky.”

“Please, Jared…”

He cocked the weapon with his thumb. There was a black crescent of mud along the nail. She had never seen his hands dirty before; even when he tended his prized alpine bed in the garden he always wore gloves. He inserted her finger into the trigger guard before slipping his own on top of hers. He put no pressure on her: he wanted her to do it herself. The warm steel of the trigger hummed millimeters from her skin.

Burton remained composed, his expression tremorless.

Madeleine sagged against her husband, her arms kept rigid in his grip. “I won’t … I can’t.”

“You should have accepted my offer, all those months ago, to stay. It wouldn’t have ended like this. It’s your own fault. There was no need for you to suffer. You or the twins.”

“You know about the twins?”

“Squeeze the trigger,” he coaxed. “Squeeze it, and three days from now you’ll wake up in your own bed. Think about that: your own bed.”

“My bed’s on the farm.” It was old and musty and sometimes gave her a backache; it was the only place she wanted to wake.

From far away came a deep boom that she felt in her heels. It was followed by another sound, like a long cry of pain drawn out until it vanished beyond the range of her hearing.

Madeleine focused on Burton, but the image of him distorted as tears brimmed in her eyes. He fractured and melted, the fragments of him catching the light, as she became aware of Cranley’s finger exerting a delicate pressure. Then she heard Burton’s voice from far away:
It’s okay, Maddie, it’s not your fault.

It was the same soothing voice her father used the last time she saw him. She was on a platform at the Westbahnhof, awaiting a train bound for Zürich. She had left a letter at home, not expecting anyone to read it until she was across the border. Papa had appeared through the smoke moments before she departed. He was out of breath; Jews were no longer allowed to ride the trams. Neither of them shed any tears, and he didn’t kiss her good-bye or embrace her. He simply laid his hand on hers—that creased, neat hand, parched from a lifetime of being scrubbed between visits with patients—and said,
A parent gives their child two gifts: Roots. And wings.
Und jetzt geh, meine Kleine …

There was a rumble beyond the window; it intensified, becoming a roar, like thunder below the ground.

With all her effort, Madeleine sent the gun in her hands toward the ceiling.

Cranley was too fast and too strong. Even as she lifted her arms he forced them down, aiming the pistol at Burton’s chest. She released her muscles, and in an instant Cranley’s exertion drove the pistol toward the floor. Madeleine squeezed the trigger, the bullet flaring on the tiles, and then their hands were fighting for control of the weapon.

She tried to aim at his foot. Another blast, sending out a burst of sparks. The muzzle rose again toward the center of Burton’s body, Cranley overpowering her limbs. In the narrow space between trigger and guard, his finger curled around hers.

Madeleine used the last of her strength to twist her arms—not up or down but the last place he expected. She buried the pistol into her belly, a spot where once her babies had kicked and bounced to be let out into the world, and crushed the trigger.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Sofia Dam

21 April, 04:45

“I WANT MORE,” said Globus. “Every last stick you’ve got.”

The sapper swallowed, as though he had mumps. “It’s not necessary, Obergruppenführer.”

They were inside the Sofia Dam, two levels from the top. A relentless dull pounding, like the headache above Globus’s eyes, filled the air. The floor was painted in bottle-green gloss.

“The detonation is a triangle,” explained the sapper. “The base explodes first; gravity and the force of the water do the rest. You need less ordnance on the higher levels.”

Globus remained unconvinced. He tried to picture what the sapper had said, but he was struggling to focus; the injection he’d been given in Tana had worn off. He squatted, checking the cables that ran from the TNT, along the passageway, and out of sight to the control room, though he had no idea what he was looking for. He swayed as he stood.

“I don’t trust gravity. Double the charges here and on the level below. Then get your men out.”

He strode to the metal staircase that led to the surface. His boots had been cleaned on arrival, and his spurs were singing again. He adored that sound: it made him think he was a cavalry officer.

“This is a precaution, isn’t it, Obergruppenführer?” said the sapper. “You’re not really going to detonate.”

“That’s up to the Jews.” He pulled on his suspenders. “We’re carrying out the Reichsführer’s orders. I should have done this months ago.”

He mounted the stairs and emerged on the road that ran along the top of the dam. The night was deafening, thick and cool with spray. Globus dredged his sinuses and spat over the side.

Beneath him, the sluice gates were open.

Great chutes of water thundered from the dam. “Globusfalls” he’d called it in the control room; the technicians had laughed unconvincingly. He had ordered them to calculate the volume of discharge necessary to give the Yids a fright. His plan wasn’t to wash the reservation away (at least not tonight), merely to wet their ankles. To remind them who controlled their fate.

It should have cheered him, and yet, watching the water gush out, Globus was left uncertain, dejected.

He thought about his birthday last year, when the governorship of Ostmark wasn’t a dream but a reality in waiting. Just this morning, on this very spot, while Hochburg and Nightingale conspired against him, he’d remained confident about his future. He remembered birthdays as a boy: it was impossible to imagine being fifty-three, but even then he was sure he would become one of the emperors of his age.

In the valley below, some of the barracks were ablaze; he could make out Jews with torches on either side of the new river. They must be the same bandits who defaced the dam the previous night. The Mandritsara garrison had failed him. After they helped mine the dam, he’d sent them into the reservation to maintain order, but unless he supervised every last man, weakness prevailed—while the blame rested on him. It was so unjust. At first light he would fly a squadron of Walküres low over the valley floor.

He would earn back Himmler’s favor.

*   *   *

The control center for the dam was a large, subdued space. There was a bank of what looked like kitchen cabinets with dials the size of plates and, behind them, desks set with levers and buttons where technicians were at work. Because of the silting and the defunct turbines, most of the equipment was redundant and used only to alter the water flow or for communications. A map of the island’s northern electricity grid was behind a dust sheet. Two huge viewing windows, at opposite ends of the room, showed the valley and reservoir. Despite millions of liters cascading through the sluice gates every minute, the level of the reservoir had not perceptibly dropped.

A sapper met Globus as he entered and presented him with the detonator. It was the size of a cigarette lighter, with a fat red button on the top. “Press and hold for three seconds,” he said. “That creates the circuit. Same again to disarm. Once it’s live, two rapid clicks will set off the charges.”

Globus’s worn-out brain absorbed the instructions:
one long … two quick.
He tugged the cord to make sure it was connected.

Five radio operators sat monitoring the airwaves; Globus had assembled them so he could communicate with the rest of his island. The situation was not good: the rebellion was spreading wider and farther than ever before. One of the operators had a swollen lip and the beginnings of a black eye. Earlier, he had shared the news of Hochburg’s broadcast.

Globus stood behind him, hands resting on his chair. “When will the others be here?”

He had summoned the regional commanders to the dam. It would play well with Germania: while Hochburg was grandstanding in Tana, he was in the thick of the Jewish threat, battling to restore order. Word had also been sent to Diego Suarez, informing the Kriegsmarine command that he, and he alone, remained in charge of Madagaskar.

“Governor Quorp is en route,” replied the operator. “We’ve yet to contact the rest.”

“It’s chaos out there. They must be out in the sectors, crushing the Jews.”

In truth, they had all been invited to his party. If Hochburg had taken over the palace, they must have been detained. Perhaps Hochburg had exchanged them in the dungeons for Feuerstein and his pestilent crew.

Globus prowled the control room, his chest crammed with frustration, theatrically clicking the detonator on and off.

Arm/disarm
.

The dam technicians and radio operators kept their heads down, working in silence or whispering into headsets. An unappreciative audience. He should have brought a couple of his secretaries with him; he chose them for having a good sense of humor as well as their typing skills.

One of the technicians had a box of sandwiches by his work station. Globus helped himself, white bread and pork, and ate by the window, looking out on the valley. A pair of blinking lights appeared from where the river curved out of sight toward Mandritsara and its hospital. They skimmed above the reservation like fireflies. It must be Quorp: fat, loyal Quorp. There had been several fits of unrest in Antzu during the night; he had quashed them all. Globus felt a shift of guilt for the time he invited Frau Quorp to see his trophy room. He liked her flirtatious manner and girlish ringlets, but afterward her immense girth left him revolted.

The lights became a gunship and troop carrier. The helicopters landed and men disembarked, one of them standing at the edge of the landing pad to observe the open sluice gates.

The radio operator with the busted lip cautiously raised his hand. “Diego Suarez is on the line, Obergruppenführer. They’re under attack. From Jews.”

“More likely drunken sailors, setting off fireworks for Führertag.”

“I … I think you should speak to them.”

He made a dismissive gesture and waited for Quorp and his men.

A dozen troops entered, forming a perimeter around the room. They were equipped for a showdown: helmets and BK44s, grenades clinking on their belts. Globus recognized some of them; they stared through him, their faces steely. An officer followed, dressed in the black uniform of Kongo, half an ear missing. He glanced at Globus, then asked who was in charge of the dam.

After a pause, one of the technicians stepped forward. “I am the chief engineer.”

“Shut the floodgates.”

“Leave them,” said Globocnik. “My island, my dam. I built the thing.”

The one-eared officer repeated his command, and when the technician remained undecided he moved to a radio operator and conferred in whispers. A switch was flicked, and Hochburg’s voice filled the room:

 … I am taking control of Madagaskar with the full agreement and authority of the RSHA and Reichsführer-SS … Governor Globocnik has been temporarily relieved of his command …

Globus looked forward to stuffing Hochburg’s mouth full of Feuerstein’s ashes. He killed the recording.

The technician began issuing commands to shut the gates.

“You must be one of Hochburg’s girl Fridays,” said Globus. “Who are you?”

“Brigadeführer Derbus Kepplar. I am placing you under arrest.”

Globus detected a slight distaste in his tone, and forced a chuckle. “On whose authority?”