The Madagaskar Plan Page 6

  Then Hochburg’s pen hesitated over the document that would have made it law. He looked at the city’s new name stamped on the thick, lion-colored paper of official documents. Above it was the eagle-and-swastika seal. He meant it as her memorial:

  Eleanorstadt

  Minutes passed. A drop of ink ran down the nib and splashed onto the paper. Hochburg laid down his fountain pen, folded the sheet in half, quarters, eighths; later he burned it. When the bureaucrats puzzled over the change, Hochburg fended them off: George VI won’t always be on the throne. In the years ahead, the British will be reassured to hear their monarch’s name so close to the border.

  He would offer Eleanor more than Elisabethstadt.

  The whole of his Afrika Reich would be her immortalization: every stone that was laid, every garrison, town, city; the ports, the white roads cutting through the jungle, the babel of a million copper threads connecting the continent. A mausoleum of such glory that her name need never be written on it. That’s why he’d been so impatient to invade Rhodesia: to consecrate more lands for her. Of course, they understood none of this in Germania. To the ministries on Wilhelmstrasse, Africa was a trove of mines and timber forests, its plantations existing solely to fill the bellies of the German hordes. But to Hochburg, Africa was a kingdom of temples. The only way of keeping Eleanor present. So long as his heart drummed, the British and their ragtag allies would never prosper.

  He would find a way to crush them yet.

  His dreams were marauding. From Elisabethstadt … to his lack of troop numbers … to General Ockener’s war without the weak souls of men, such an army will always be victorious … to a vision of the entire continent ablaze … Then the soothing lap of waves and the river by which he and Eleanor had lived together.

  He was gliding with her in water as warm as amniotic fluid, below them a fathomless indigo black. A splash, a laugh … and they were lying naked next to each other in the mud, the sun filling their skin with light. He counted the freckles around her nose, which were as tiny as banana seeds. This was all he craved: this peace. If she hadn’t chosen Burton, if she hadn’t left Hochburg and been murdered, he would have watched the Nazis raise their edifice in Africa with indifference.

  He took her hand, felt it so vividly: each silky finger, the creases of the palm. He traced his thumb along the life line till it came to an abrupt halt—

  “Oberstgruppenführer!”

  A roaring sound.

  Hochburg dragged himself from the banks of the river. He rarely dreamed of her anymore and wished he could sink into the moment. His heart wrenched to let go of her hand …

  “Oberstgruppenführer!” It was the gunner at the rear of the aircraft.

  There was a flash of aluminum and olive-green paint.

  “It’s a Meteor,” said the copilot. He strained in his harness to identify the plane in front. The cockpit bucked in the wake of its jet engines. “British markings. RAF.”

  Fenris was yelping.

  Hochburg reached behind to soothe the dog. “Are there any others?” he asked the gunner.

  “Sky’s clear.”

  The Meteor was banking, ready to circle round.

  “We can’t outrun it,” said the copilot.

  “It’s coming back!” shouted the gunner. “What should we do?”

  The Meteor slowed till it was tailing them from above. A hundred meters of sky separated the two aircraft.

  Hochburg shook off the last of his dream. “Is it armed?”

  “Four guns.”

  “No British planes should be up here.” Hochburg took hold of the controls and eased back on the speed. “We give it the air ahead,” he said to the gunner. “If it returns for another pass, blow it from the sky.”

  “But, Oberstgruppenführer—”

  “Or would you rather it be us?”

  The Meteor overtook them. Banked sharply again.

  “He’s coming around. Five hundred meters. No sign of engaging.”

  “You have your orders.”

  “Five hundred,” counted the gunner. “Four. Three…” He fired, blasting the British jet.

  Hochburg’s seat rocked. The Meteor streaked over, blinding them with smoke. As it cleared, he watched the plane plummet toward the grasslands below. The cockpit vanished; seconds later, the white poppy of a parachute appeared.

  Suddenly the air around them was electrified with bullets.

  The copilot slammed the stick forward, sending them into a dive. The propellers screamed.

  The gunner was yelling into his mouthpiece: “There’s another plane!”

  A second Meteor whooshed overhead.

  Hochburg caught a band of red and green on its fuselage: the Mozambique Air Force. Numbering twenty aircraft, it was considered more a vanity project than a threat, though recently Hochburg had seen intelligence reports that the British were training its pilots. So far Mozambique, Portugal’s other African colony, had stayed out of the war and not supported Angola.

  The gunner pursued the Mozambican jet. Clipped its tail wing. Then it vanished from view as it arced back through the clouds for a second run at them.

  The Focke-Wulf was level again, the movement so abrupt that Hochburg’s head bounced off the cockpit glass.

  “Give me the controls,” he said to the copilot and forced them into a steep climb.

  More tracer fire flickered past.

  “We’ll stall,” said the copilot.

  They were rising almost vertically now, the whole structure of the plane shuddering. The sky above was bleached of color.

  “Is it in range?” Hochburg asked the gunner.

  “He’s following. Four, five seconds to contact.”

  “Get ready,” said Hochburg, straightening them out.

  He drove the lever forward.

  They dived—a lurching, bowel-flattening sensation—and in an instant were level with the belly of the Meteor. The rat-tat-tat of their cannon was louder than the rushing air.

  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 t
ask 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 sh
e’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.”