The Madagaskar Plan (62 page)

“You heard the recording. This island is under the emergency control of the Reichsführer. I have the paperwork here.”

“Where’s Hochburg?”

“Mandritsara.”

Globus stared out the window into the inky darkness and raised the detonator. “Call off your men.” He addressed the technician. “And I want the sluice gates left open.”

No one moved.

Globus held down the red button to the count of three. “The dam is rigged, Brigadeführer. A couple of clicks—and the whole thing goes.”

“Don’t be so rash. Think what the United States will do.”

“The Yankees can go fuck themselves.”

Kepplar made a signal, and the soldiers raised their weapons; a ring of muzzles was pointed at Globus’s head. He felt no alarm, only bubbling rage. Kepplar’s holster remained fastened. He demanded the detonator.

Across the room the radio operator raised his hand. “It’s Diego again.”

Globus ignored him.

A second operator raised his arm, then the one next to him and the one after—till they all had their hands in the air, like a line of schoolchildren. Every one of them had Diego.

The first operator cleared his throat. “It’s Admiral Dommes. He needs to speak to you urgently.”

Without taking his eyes off Kepplar, Globus stepped back, picked up the phone, and was assaulted by a barrage of accusations.

“You guaranteed the Jews wouldn’t attack,” said Dommes. “That you were restoring the situation.”

“So now the navy can’t deal with a few bandits.”

“The whole sky is ablaze.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Listen,” replied Dommes coldly and held the receiver away. Down the telephone line Globus heard a rapid series of bangs like the firecrackers his men used to toss at Jews in Vienna. Crumps and booms.

“We’re being attacked by an army,” said the admiral. “The air defenses are out. The southern quay is a fireball. Is this your promise of order?”

His voice remained as level as a calm sea, the same way Globus’s father’s used to before he horsewhipped him as a boy. It wasn’t the beating he hated the most or being punished by a deserter; it was the man’s lack of passion.

Dommes continued in his monotone: “If you can no longer control the island, Governor Globocnik, the Kriegsmarine will.”

The phone dropped from Globus’s ear. He let it settle against his chest, wondering whether Dommes could hear the furious thud of his heart. There was a din inside his head, a sense that his brain was being squeezed. First Hochburg wanted his island, now the navy; neither would get the better of him. He would prove to Germania who was the bloodiest of all. A speech came to mind that he’d given during his final days in the East. “We ought to bronze tablets,” he had told his listeners, “on which it is inscribed that it was we—
we
—who had the courage to complete this gigantic task.”

He buried his thumb into the detonator.

Once.

Twice.

Kepplar sprung forward as he depressed it. “Herr Oberst is down there—”

Globus shoved him away and listened. There was a faint tremor through the floor that reminded him of the war, when panzers rumbled past on their way to smash the Soviets. He peered through the window, expecting the dam to vanish at any moment.

Nothing.

Then the sound of rain whipping the opposite window, the one that overlooked the reservoir.

Globus and Kepplar spun round to see huge spouts firing into the sky. A wave rolled across the body of water, away from the dam.

“Fucking sappers!” bellowed Globus. He should never have trusted them; they’d set the charges on the wrong side.

Kepplar was ashen. “That’s just the detonation.”

They both turned to the view the front again. The ground was shaking now. Red lamps flashed on the control consoles. The overhead lights flickered and died. Parts of the ceiling dropped.

The dam was cast in a weak silver glow. From this distance Globocnik could make out the remainders of the graffiti the Jews had painted, a ghostly Star of David that his men had scrubbed off. Cracks were appearing, widening, splitting, coughing out streams of water. A great section fell away in the shape of a heart.

Then the entire structure collapsed, unleashing a mountain of black water.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Mandritsara Hospital

21 April, 05:00

THE BROWNING SLIPPED from Madeleine’s hands and clattered to the floor. The blast of the gunshot filled the room and took a long time to fade, as though it were a gas dispersing. Only when the last reverberation had ceased did Burton become aware of the rumble outside.

He stared into Madeleine’s face. Every muscle was straining, the light in her eyes frozen. Then her expression relaxed, her jaw loosening and her tongue sneaking between her lips. She offered him a brief, watchful smile like when they used to return to London by train. As they approached the city they sat apart, in case they were spotted, and she would flash him crafty grins from the other side of the carriage. Burton experienced an infinitesimal moment of hope that hidden beneath her dress was a steel plate that had protected her from the bullet.

Madeleine remained in Cranley’s grasp. He was blank with shock. He let go, and she dropped away from him, landing on her side. There was no exit wound; Cranley patted his torso in disbelief.

Burton watched a spot of burgundy expand around Madeleine’s stomach. She had shot herself in the same place that Patrick had taken shrapnel at Dunkirk. His friend had cursed and bellowed, lost pints of blood—but Burton had managed to sew him up in the basement of a bombed-out building. He had survived. Madeleine was lying in a hospital; they were surrounded by rooms of cotton batting and bandages and drugs.

The rumble outside was deepening.

Burton looked at his Browning: it was trembling across the floor toward him. He snatched it up before Cranley could.

The walls started to shudder.

There was a cracking, buckling sound from the fabric of the building.

The skeleton in the corner toppled over. Microscopes and centrifuges crashed to the floor. The soldier who’d been guarding Burton looked round in bewilderment. Behind him, through the frosted glass, Burton saw the trees in the courtyard bow and vanish. A black wall surged upward, filling the window. Filling his entire view.

The glass exploded inward.

All the breath was punched out of Burton. He was underwater, pinned against the far wall by a bone-flattening force. Bubbles detonated around his face. There was nothing but deafening noise in his ears. Next instant his mouth was in the air again. He sucked in choking gulps of oxygen.

The whole hospital shook. Fissures ran up the walls as the torrent churned through the room. The air was thick with the roar of water and stinking, stinging brine. Burton was whirled around. He refused to let go of his Browning and buried it under his belt. The soldier crashed into him, then vanished. Seconds later he saw Madeleine, semiconscious, jerking like a broken doll. Somehow he caught her, looping his arm through her bound wrists.

A section of wall disintegrated. The water level dropped several feet, sucking them out of the room, into the corridor beyond. Burton felt as if he were running; then his feet hit the ground and he was splashing forward, the water frothing at his waist. His arm was still caught around Madeleine. There was no time to check her. He heaved her onto his shoulder and staggered forward.

They were in a windowless passage, the water surging as it pumped from the room they had just been washed out of. A terrible sound—stone-screeching, disemboweling—rocked the air. So far the lights were unaffected; Burton feared trying to escape in pitch blackness. He waded to the end of the passage, the level rising the whole time, and turned into another corridor where the water was lower. There were doors on one side, a bank of windows on the other. At the far end, a sign indicated an emergency exit.

Burton carried Madeleine toward it as another ominous rumbling began to build.

He was halfway there when the windows darkened and burst inward. They went one after the other, as though detonated in sequence. Burton had a flash of memory: Tünscher idiotically drunk in Marseille; he’d gone to an aquarium and fired at a tank.

He was swept off his feet, clutching Madeleine, positioning her body so she was knitted into him. They rolled and banged down the corridor, streaking past the emergency exit, one moment submerged, the next inches from the ceiling.

Submerged—ceiling—submerged again—

A plunging sensation … and they were dumped onto the floor. They bounced to a halt. Another corridor, the water inexplicably at knee height.

Burton lifted Madeleine up. She was limp, her eyes closed. He pressed his fingers beneath her jaw and detected a weak pulse. He crushed his mouth against hers, blowing all the energy from his lungs. Her chest expanded; water flared from her nostrils. He breathed into her again: another lungful of life.

A new roar rebounded through the corridor—elemental, unstoppable.

The ground shook as if from an earthquake. Burton secured his Browning, hugged Madeleine tight into his arms. Braced himself.

The wave broke over him as it had done on board the Ark. He cartwheeled, his nose and mouth charged with bubbles. There was no memory of Germania this time, no sweet ice cream breath or Maddie clambering on top of him. No whispered talk of the life they were going to share.

Burton sensed that they were accelerating. Objects bobbed and battered around them; he tried to protect his head as best he could. He felt cuts along the length of his body. Every time he broke the surface, he could make out nothing except lights and rushing walls and the sheer force of the water. He heaved Madeleine into him in an effort to pump her chest and keep her airways open. She was as heavy as a corpse. They disappeared below the water.

Burton became aware of black clouds and humidity. They were fluming through trees.

He caught hold of one, his fingers digging into the bark. The trunk was bending against the flood. He struggled to get a better grip. If it had just been him, if he had two hands to anchor himself, he might have held on.

He saw the hospital behind them. Water surged and foamed around the building, blasting wide every opening, crumbling the structure, snatching up trees like they were matchsticks. The waves carried a cargo of flotsam. Burton glimpsed movement on one of the pagoda roofs. He thought it was Cranley: a huge black gecko, skittering over the tiles to the main building. With its deep foundations and solid walls it stood steadfast. Beyond, the night was black: every light in the Sofia Reservation had been extinguished.

Burton’s grip weakened … and broke.

The current dragged them away. All he could do was hold Madeleine as they were spun and whirled and ducked.

Gradually the ferocity of the water began to subside, and they drifted through a steep-sided valley. Debris bobbed around them: timber, pieces of torn corrugated roofing, the broken spines of trees.

And bodies.

Hundreds of bodies: floating facedown, some with their clothes ripped free of their skin. The naked flesh was grotesquely white in the darkness.

Burton grabbed hold of a wooden joist and used it to keep them buoyant. Madeleine spluttered and moaned. He used his good arm to beat against the waves, in the direction of the shore. Ahead, on top of a hill, was the Totenburg he’d spied earlier. A powerful searchlight illuminated it from behind, turning the granite towers into silhouettes.

He aimed toward them, landing on a muddy bank. Burton heaved himself out of the water, then Madeleine. He leaned close, a grateful laugh exploding from him when he felt the tickle of her breath.

He placed his hand on her forehead. “Maddie…? Maddie, we got out.”

She opened her eyes; they were drained of color. “I’m cold.”

He lifted her dress and examined the wound. It was a perfect circle, washed clean but pouring blood again. He pressed around it to feel how deeply the bullet had entered. Madeleine had fired at such close range that it hadn’t gained velocity: the shell was lodged close to the surface.

Tears of relief speckled his eyes. He should be able to pry it out.

It would be an excruciating procedure, but so long as he stanched the bleeding he could save her. More scars for them to compare one day. He bolstered himself with a glimpse into the future. They were in bed—goose down and warm, dry cotton—caressing each other’s war wounds, Burton insistent that a bullet to the belly was worse than losing your hand. And a lot more reckless.

The water continued to rise. Madeleine’s calves were submerged.

Burton glanced above at the Totenburg; the light gleaming from it had a serene, celestial quality. It would be a good place to shelter her. Then he would find a guard tower, an outpost, anything that had medical supplies, patch her up and get her back to Antzu. When he and Tünscher had first arrived at the city, they passed a primitive hospital. Burton wished his old friend were with him now, and not only for his medical training. He hoped he’d gotten away safely. Perhaps he was already in Nosy Be, being fussed over by nurses, smoking a Bayerweed.

“I’m going to have to move you, Maddie. I’m going to carry you up top.”

She nodded weakly.

He scooped her into his arms and trudged upward through the mud, struggling not to slip. The water chased him the whole way, lapping at his boots. Once he stumbled, and Madeleine let out a shriek of pain. He fought his way on. There was a rushing in his ears like the great rivers of Africa he had known: the Niger and Limpopo, the cataracts of Congo.

Each step he took caused Madeleine to wince. He kept murmuring apologies until she placed her finger over his lips. Her hands were still bound.

Burton managed another twenty feet before he had to stop. The slope was too steep now, slippery with mud and grass. His strength was deserting him. He laid her down and settled next to her, panting for breath.

“You’re going to have to climb on me,” he said. The crest of the hill was a sickle of light.