The Madagaskar Plan (8 page)

The gunner whooped. A fireball shot past them.

Hochburg watched the Mozambican jet plummet from the sky. A shard of metal detached from its tail fin and spun toward them. It punctured the Focke-Wulf’s port wing and fuel tank. The plane juddered violently, Fenris howling.

Gasoline streamed from the aircraft. It caught the sunlight, stretching and separating into globules as it was whisked away, sparkling like a trail of diamonds.

Hochburg battled with the controls. “Where’s the nearest airstrip? We can glide down.”

“There’s nothing in this sector,” replied the copilot.

Empty savannah filled the bubble of the cockpit. Slowly the fuel gauge dipped toward zero.

CHAPTER SIX

Suffolk coast, England

29 January, 03:15

THE SEA AND sky were the deepest black. He couldn’t wait for sunrise.

Reluctantly, Burton pressed the bell. The second time, he let his finger stay till a procession of lights came on: the attic, the stairs, finally the lamps by the front door. Shivering, he squinted in the glare. His shoulder had grown stiff, the shirt plastered around it with blood.

There was a purposeful snap of locks, and the door opened. Burton found himself staring at the twin bores of a sawed-off shotgun.

“What do you want?”

It was Pebble, his aunt’s maid, wearing a greatcoat over her nightdress, scowling with sleep; she looked ready to pull the trigger. Her husband had been a gamekeeper before being killed at Dunkirk. Burton noted that the safety catch was off.

“Sorry it’s so late—”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve come to see my aunt.”

The barrels lowered. “Master Cole?” The maid checked herself: “Burton?” He couldn’t bear the servants calling him anything other than his first name.

Pebble, like her mistress, was a woman given to pragmatism. That her employer’s nephew had arrived on the doorstep at three in the morning with a split face left her unfazed. Her only task was to find solutions.

She stepped aside to let him in.

Burton half-jokingly called this place “the sanatorium.” This was where he came between bouts of carnage in Africa: a haven where he could let his wounds heal or lie in bed as tropical germs sweated out of him. Before he bought the farm, this was his imitation of home. With its white, colonnaded frontage, the house possessed a conspicuous grandeur; at the rear, the garden ran down to the North Sea. It had been built by his grandfather in the previous century and lost through brandy and bad adventures. His aunt had made it her duty to regain ownership of the house. Burton suspected that she’d endured years of sordid marriage, before being widowed, to inherit enough wealth to buy back the family property.

Pebble showed him into the drawing room. It was still warm, even though the hearth was dead. “I’ll wake her,” she said and slipped away.

All Burton wanted to do was sink into one of the chesterfields, but he ignored them. If he sat, the embers of his strength would desert him. Instead he patrolled the room, absorbing its familiarity: the deep carpet that smelled of ash and sea salt, the decanter half full of Madeira, the photograph on the mantelpiece that showed his mother and aunt before they were estranged—all legs, laughter, and Edwardian bathing suits, taken a hundred feet from this spot. In the corner a piano gleamed like a somber, polished sarcophagus.

Burton rested his hand on it. He became aware of how silent the house was. The first time he met Madeleine, she’d been playing this piano. That had been—what?—four or five years ago. He could never remember exactly: it was a chance meeting that foretold nothing.

It had been a blustery summer evening; plenty of cocktails and merriment on the lawn. Burton was at the sanatorium to shake off the last dregs of a bout of dengue fever. His aunt insisted that he show his face, so he came downstairs, planning to drift through the partygoers before returning to bed. In the drawing room there were calls for music. A slender, dark-haired woman volunteered to play. “‘Knees Up Mother Brown,’” called someone. “‘What’s the Use of Getting Sober,’” shouted another. Ginned-up laughter.

The woman ignored them and began to pick out a classical piece. Burton recognized it at once, even if he couldn’t name it. The music was mischievous, melancholic. He moved toward the piano and watched her. She was trying to play casually, a virtuoso tinkering at the keyboard, but he could see her knitted concentration. Her fingers were long and delicate. Every now and then a lock of hair would bounce into her face; he liked the way she flicked it behind her ear when the music allowed. Halfway through the piece, she gave up.

“Why did you stop?” asked Burton.

“Nobody’s listening.”

“I am.” He moved closer and smelled her perfume; it was a musky barrier around her. “It’s familiar—what is it?”

“Schubert,” she replied. “The Hungarian Melody.”

He nodded to himself. “My mother used to play it.”

“She was a pianist?”

“On the gramophone,” he said absentmindedly. “It makes me think of kerosene lamps and crickets.”

The woman raised her eyebrows; they were finely plucked.

“I grew up in Africa. She liked to play her records in the evening…” Burton fought away the memory and studied the woman.

She was younger than he’d first thought, about the same age as him. Her eyes were blue with a tinge of pewter; he noticed that instantly, as he did the wedding ring. Her expression was bright, but beneath it he sensed something else, something forlorn, unconsoled; or maybe he was seeing himself. The mercenary in him noted the pearl earrings and expensive dress. Burton didn’t know what else to say. They appraised each other for a moment that lasted too long.

She held out her hand: “Mrs. Cranley.”

He took it. Her grip was assured, the skin soft, and yet in the palm he felt calluses that no amount of cream could smooth away.

“Burton,” he replied.

“Ah … the famous nephew, back from Africa.”

He let go, unsure whether she was mocking him. Her eyes gave away nothing. He searched for something to say and saw that her glass was empty.

“Another?”

“No. I don’t much like parties. I only came because of your aunt.”

“How do you know her?”

“We’re neighbors. I have a house along the coast.”

“But you’re not from here.”

“It’s a country home. The rest of the time I live in London.”

“I meant the accent. You’re German?”

Her expression darkened. “Viennese.” She replaced the lid of the keyboard and stood. “I left before the war.”

“Es waren die guten Leute die gegangen sind.”

She looked alarmed and, glancing around, replied in English: “My husband says it’s best not to speak German. Or to men I don’t know.”

Sometimes Burton took pleasure in provoking his aunt’s friends, with their settled, swanky lives, but watching Madeleine walk away, he was irritated with himself. “I enjoyed your playing,” he called after her—in English this time. His father had been German and he grew up speaking both languages. If she heard him, she didn’t turn round.

Twenty minutes later, exhausted by small talk, Burton retreated to his room. He stood by the window, ignoring the shouts of laughter from the garden, letting the sea breeze cool him. Then he closed the shutters and pulled the curtains tight. At once the air took on a hot, oppressive quality—he drew comfort from that. As for Madeleine Cranley, he didn’t give her another thought. It was more than a year till they met again.

The piano was cold and lifeless beneath Burton’s palm. His aunt couldn’t play, and he wondered if anyone had sat at it since Madeleine. A deep quivering sob rose in him; he stifled it and blanked his mind. The minutes passed. Burton was beginning to wonder if Pebble had failed to rouse his aunt when she glided into the room. She was wearing an emerald dress, her face fresh with foundation, the white-and-blond curls of her hair tied tight.

“Poor Pebble is getting too old to be woken in the middle of the night. So am I.”

Somehow she was never as stately or attractive as the image Burton kept in his mind. “I need your help,” he said.

“Couldn’t it have waited till morning?”

Burton parted his jacket, showing her the blood-soaked material beneath.

Without another word his aunt escorted him to the kitchen, where Pebble had put a kettle on to boil.

“I was going to make tea.”

“That won’t be necessary, dear. Check that Burton’s room is made up, then get back to bed.”

Burton was told to sit at the table. He peeled off his jacket and shirt, revealing the stump of his wrist. Above it, the forearm was burnt and disfigured where he had been branded in Kongo. Another scar from his failed mission.

“Good God, Burton!” His aunt tapped her breastbone. “What happened?”

“I need you to look at my shoulder first.”

She reached for a tea cloth and dabbed the wound. “You’ll live,” she said. “But it’s deep. You should see a doctor.”

“No doctors.”

“It needs stitching.”

“Can you do it?”

Whereas Burton’s mother had gone to Africa to save souls, her sister, always the more practical, wanted to save bodies. During the Great War she had volunteered as a nurse.

“Watch the kettle,” she replied, heading for the door. “And find more tea towels.”

She returned with iodine, liniments, a needle and thread, a spare shirt; she wore an apron over her dress. After cleaning the gash, his aunt took the needle and bent low. Burton felt her breath warm his neck. He shifted forward.

“It’s been a long time since I had to do this,” she said. “It won’t be the prettiest of things.”

Burton glanced at his stump and wondered what Maddie would have made of it. They’d once seen a legless beggar on the street, a veteran of Dunkirk, and she’d been horrified. “Doesn’t matter.”

The needle pierced his skin.

“So are you going to tell me?”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“I haven’t heard from you since the summer. Then you turn up in the middle of the night like this.” She tugged the thread. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

Burton jigged his foot: blood was trickling down his back. “When did you last see Madeleine?”

“You mean Madeleine Cranley? Not in months, the poor dear. I didn’t think you knew each other.”

“What happened to her?”

“There have been all sorts of rumors, silly talk mostly. But what’s it got to do with you?”

“Tell me.”

She was taken aback by his intensity. “Madeleine is very ill. Had some kind of breakdown. I heard she’d been sent to an institution—though it’s been hushed up because of her husband.”

“What about him?”

His aunt paused to dab the wound. “He came to their house for Christmas with his little girl—”

“Alice.”

“They hardly stirred. After the New Year they returned to London and haven’t been back.”

“Did you see him?”

“Only once, at the Vieux-Moines’ and their Boxing Day drinks.”

“How was he?”

“He’d had a glass too many but seemed in good spirits. I’m sure it was for show. Do you know him, too? Charming man; he’ll do his best for Madeleine.”

“She’s dead.” Traveling from the farm, he had warded off the thought; now he was sickened by how easily he spoke it. “Cranley had her killed.”

The needle stuck.

“Burton! How can you say such a wicked thing?”

“It’s true.” He hesitated before continuing, glad that his head was dipped toward the table. “Madeleine and I were having an affair. She was going to leave him—that’s why I borrowed the money to buy the farm. He found out about us: sent me to Africa, I don’t know what he did with Maddie … except she’s dead.”

“I don’t believe it,” his aunt spluttered. “He works for the government, is highly respected. When I saw him at Christmas, I told him how sorry I was. He brushed away a tear.”

“He took this.” Burton raised his handless arm. “And the lives of the men I led.”

“But killing his own wife, the mother of his daughter! He even has a CBE, the king pinned it on him.”

“If a lord of the realm can call Hitler our friend, you can have a CBE and blood on your hands.”

Somewhere a clock chimed: one, two, three, four, the sound dissolving into the cold. His aunt folded a tea towel and pressed it against his shoulder to absorb more blood.

“You have to believe me,” said Burton.

“If it’s true what you say, why did you go to Africa? You told me you were giving up that life.”

“Cranley tricked me. Tricked me with the one thing I couldn’t refuse.” Burton hesitated again. “The chance to kill a man.”

“Who could have mattered so much?”

He had waited till after his twenty-first birthday before writing to his aunt; any sooner and he feared he might be shipped to England and her custody. By then Bel Abbès, the Legion fort that made him a soldier, had been home for five years. Patrick offered him his quarters for some privacy. Outside, the dunes hissed as the wind beat across them. The sky was a dirty pink; Burton remembered the blush of the sunset on the paper. He wrote a simple letter, omitting the terrible details, and informed his aunt that his parents had passed on.

“I never told you the truth,” he said, fixing his eyes on his scarred, misshapen arm. “There was no consolation in it. Mother didn’t die; she left—vanished—years before, with no explanation. The man I went to Africa for, the one I wanted to kill, knew why.”

“Who was he?”

Burton hadn’t spoken his name since Africa. Now he came vividly to mind: his ogre’s frame and bald head, those eyes—black as the devil’s hangman. “Walter Hochburg. He was a pastor when he came to us; I was just a boy. Now he’s the governor of Kongo. He vanished the same day as Mother.” He had imagined countless possibilities for her—all of them foul. “We offered Hochburg kindness and charity, and he repaid us with misery. I wanted revenge.”

“Revenge is vanity. Did Madeleine know any of this?”

“Everything.”

“And what did she say?”

“She told me I was chasing ghosts, pleaded with me not to go.”

“But you did, Burton.” His aunt tossed the tea towel onto the table; it was soaked the color of wine. “If it’s true about Cranley, you left her when she most needed protecting.”