The Afrika Reich Page 7
‘If the British want fire,’ said Kepplar, ‘we shall burn them to the ground, just like Dunkirk. Thank you for your time, Señor Aguilar.’
He helped him into his car and watched as it disappeared towards Stanleystadt.
Kepplar strode back to the control room. An adjutant held out a field-phone as he entered. ‘Herr Gruppenführer, I have the British for you. The OIC of the Muzunga garrison.’
Kepplar snatched the phone and placed it to his left ear. He could still hear with the other one but it was uncomfortable to rest a receiver against the stump. ‘This is Gruppenführer Derbus Kepplar.’ He spoke in English. ‘I am the deputy to Governor General Hochburg. Was the deputy. The Governor has been assassinated.’
A hesitation at the other end of the line, then: ‘I understand, Herr Kepplar. On behalf of Her Majesty’s Government may I offer—’
‘We have reason to believe the criminals responsible are heading towards Doruma. Our plan is to apprehend them before they reach it. But as a safeguard I want you to close your side of the border.’
‘How can you be so sure they’re heading here?’
‘It’s the only place to cross.’
Another hesitation. The line crackled. ‘Herr Kepplar, I feel this is a diplomatic issue and should really be raised with Khartoum. I don’t have the authority to close an international border—’
‘The assassins are British.’
‘Surely not, sir.’
‘Germania will be making an official complaint to London later today, as soon as we have independent verification of the facts. In the meantime it would reflect badly on you if you were to let the murderers escape. One might see it as an admission of guilt.’
‘Let me reassure you that no British soldier would ever be involved in such an act.’
‘The only reassurance I want is that you will close the border. Immediately.’
The voice at the other end hesitated again. ‘One moment, please.’
The line went silent. Outside SS soldiers were loading up the trucks with MG48s, their faces robotic and grim. Kepplar turned his eye to the portrait of Leopold III on the wall and studied his graffitoed cock. The king’s great-grandfather had known how to run Kongo; pity the younger. He’d met the Führer in the autumn of 1940 and signed away his colony to guarantee Belgium a place in the Council of New Europe. The most expensive ‘cone’ in history went the joke at the time – one not shared by Belgium’s colonists.
The phone came to life again. ‘Herr Kepplar, the border will be closed straight away. No one will be allowed to cross over from Kongo until we get word from you.’
‘Good.’
‘If there is anything else we can do to assist—’
Kepplar terminated the call.
He beckoned the adjutant over. ‘Send a signal to the Schädelplatz that the border has been closed. Let them know I leave for Doruma immediately. The British won’t escape. I’ll string them up for what they’ve done, do it with my own hands.’
Aquatoriana
14 September, 17:30
BURTON slammed on the brakes, bringing the jeep to a complete standstill; he couldn’t take any more. It was late afternoon, the sun preparing for its nosedive towards the night.
In the back, Nares, who had been dozing, was suddenly wideeyed and awake. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded.
After separating from Dolan they had driven till noon, crossing the Bomu River (the natural boundary between Kongo and Aquatoriana) before stopping to hide up and rest. By then the fog had withered away; in its place a festering, moist heat. While Patrick and Nares slept, Burton took the first guard duty, dripping sweat and trying to think himself cold. As he watched the jungle, he daydreamed of his first Christmas with Madeleine, the memory playing over and over.
It was an icy evening, not long after they’d got together, and they were supposed to meet under the tree in Trafalgar Square. Burton was late and as he rushed through London he convinced himself she would have long since left. They always did. But when he arrived Madeleine was still there. She’d spent an hour in the frost, stamping her feet, her nose an icicle. Burton had wrapped his arms around her in surprise and delight, felt the rosy chill of her cheek seep into him. She’d stayed!
Later, when Patrick took over the watch and Burton was unable to sleep, there were no more thoughts of Madeleine. Only Hochburg visited his weary mind. He’d risked so much to discover the truth about his mother – and had left the Schädelplatz with no answers. Just more blood on his hands.
At some point a jet-fighter streaked over the horizon but apart from that they saw no one. It was hard to believe they were being pursued. Indeed it was hard to believe that anything – beyond the legions of insects and howling monkeys – inhabited the continent at all. The lack of chase was disquieting; Burton hoped it didn’t spell trouble for Dolan and Vacher. At 15:00 he started the engine again. For the last hour his eye had been fixed on the fuel gauge.
‘What’s happened?’ repeated Nares.
‘You get back to sleep,’ said Burton. ‘You’re going to need it tonight. Me and the major need to talk.’
He turned to Patrick. He had spoken barely a word since they had been on the road. Simply sat there cradling his rifle, face impassive. Even his pipe failed to console him.
‘Go on,’ said Burton, ‘say it.’
Patrick loosened the grip on his weapon. ‘Say what?’
‘You know exactly what.’
Patrick shook his head.
‘“Told you so,”’ said Burton.
‘I’m not going to say that.’
‘But you’re thinking it.’
Patrick turned to stare at him; the skin around his eyes was a mass of crow’s feet. ‘Right now, Burton, in fact for the past hundred miles the only thing I’ve been thinking is how we – how I – get out of this.’
He had said the same thing three weeks earlier, in prison.
Patrick had been arrested on the Night of the Red Flag. With Hitler’s victory over the Soviet Union in 1943, Britain found itself flooded with Communist refugees. They would arrive in liceridden ships having made the long journey from Krasnoyarsk, the Red Army’s last fisthold of resistance. For a while their presence was tolerated, as long as they kept to the tenements of Tyneside and Aberdeen, but when newsrags began appearing in Cyrillic to demand better conditions, when Geordie and Scots were drowned out by Russian dialects, public opinion swayed. There were demonstrations and riots; banners demanding: immigrants out! The government acted. The lucky few were allowed to continue westwards; the rest were shipped back east, to a Greater Germany that now stretched beyond the Urals.
Soon the merest whiff of Communist sympathy – past or present – was like reeking of the plague. Stalin and his warmongers had almost brought catastrophe to Europe, what might their ilk do if allowed to poison Britain? Patrick was interned along with thirty thousand others on May Day 1950. ‘Crazy thing is,’ he told Burton, ‘I was never a Commie, not a proper one. And definitely not after Spain or the Red Terror. How could anybody be?’ All his requests to be repatriated to America were denied, his homeland refusing him back. Anyone against isolationism was deemed too subversive, old war heroes in particular.
At the beginning of Patrick’s incarceration, Burton visited several times. Then his affair with Madeleine took a more serious turn and the visits became less frequent till they stopped altogether. Burton liked to fool himself this was because he’d rather be in Maddie’s bed than reminiscing about best forgotten battles. The real reason, however, was embarrassment. Embarrassment that he could do nothing to help his friend.
Then Ackerman had come jangling his diamonds. Burton was at the internment camp two days later.
It was one of a series on the Norfolk coast: a defunct, windbattered army base. Burton was ushered into a Nissen hut with a row of tables, chairs on either side. There were a few other visitors, mostly wives in shabby coats. The air smelt of sour mops. It was more depressing than he rememb
ered. Burton hadn’t seen Patrick in over a year but did not expect the time to have changed him; he’d seen plenty worse. The prisoner who was led in, however, had a slight stoop, looked as if the smell of potato soup had seeped into his veins, whittled his muscles. His hair was thinner and grey. For the first time he looked like a man in his late fifties.
They stood separated by the table, appraising each other. If Patrick was self-conscious about his decline he made no show. Burton offered his hand.
Patrick brushed it aside. ‘For chrissake, boy,’ he said and reached across to hug him; their embrace was brief but warm. Patrick’s body felt bony. ‘It’s been a long time. Too long.’
‘I’m sorry I stopped coming,’ said Burton ruefully.
‘No, you’re not.’
Burton grinned, this was more like the Patrick Whaler he knew.
‘I guess it was that dame of yours,’ continued Patrick.
Burton nodded.
‘Don’t blame you. Given a choice between this dump and some Sheba I know which I’d choose.’ There was no bitterness in his voice; he seemed glad that Burton had finally found someone. ‘I bet she’s a brunette, right? Real tough cookie.’
‘How d’you figure that out?’
‘After all those helpless blondes it makes sense. Got a ring on her finger yet?’
‘No.’
‘Smart. Kids?’
Burton allowed himself a secret moment of pleasure. ‘No. But we do own a farm. Quinces and apples mostly. It’s a beautiful place.’
Patrick looked at Burton for a moment, then shook with laughter. ‘Burton the farmer. Never thought I’d see that.’
‘That’s Maddie for you – she found the decent side of me.’
They sat and Burton produced a tin of baccy from his pocket. ‘It’s your favourite, Brindley’s.’
Patrick’s eyes danced. He reached for his pipe, stuffed the bowl till it was brimming and lit up. A billow of molasses smoke drifted between them. It was the smell Burton always associated with his old commanding officer.
‘I got news of my own,’ said Patrick tonelessly. ‘Ruth’s dead. Pancreatic cancer.’
‘Who’s Ruth?’
‘My wife.’
Burton looked away, he always forgot that Patrick was married. He’d abandoned his family a decade before, rarely mentioned them. ‘I’m sorry. How did you find out?’
‘My daughter wrote me. She’s fourteen now.’ He reached inside the pocket of his prison uniform and withdrew an envelope. It looked worn as if the heat from Patrick’s body was eroding it. From the envelope he took a black and white photo. A portrait.
‘Her name’s Hannah. She wants me home.’
‘I thought she never—’
‘It’s was her mom’s dying wish. She’s living with Ruth’s sister now. In Baltimore. Hates it.’
Burton took a closer look at the picture. He saw a girl with slightly malnourished features, blonde hair in pigtails. There was an emptiness to her smile. He could see nothing of Patrick in her. ‘She’s beautiful.’
He slid back the photo. A silence descended between them again, disturbed only by the murmur of the other prisoners and their visitors. One man occasionally erupted into bitter laughter.
The movement was so fast Burton didn’t see it coming.
Patrick lurched over the table and grabbed his cuff. Across the room, a guard hurried towards them; Burton waved him off. Patrick’s grip could have crushed steel.
‘You have to help me. You’re the only friend I got. I need out of here. Need to get back home. To America.’ He let go, all the strength sagging out of him, and sat slumped in the chair.
Burton leaned forward, his voice dropping. He felt the tingle of conspirators. ‘You’re in luck, old friend. Remember that retirefor-good job we used to talk about? It found me.’
‘North Angola,’ said Patrick with excitement. ‘The warders keep saying how the Lebbs are going to invade.’
‘Not Angola. Kongo.’ Burton explained about meeting with Ackerman. His plan to kill Hochburg. Their escape. The team: Lapinski, Dolan, Vacher. ‘He’s C Squadron, SAS; you’ll like him.’ Ten days of training in the Rhodesian bush. ‘I’ve got transport,’ he said, ‘munitions, firepower. Everyone speaks German. What I don’t have is someone salty. Someone to watch my back. What do you say?’
Patrick had listened intently to everything, sucking on his pipe. When Burton finished he rolled his head and looked out of the window at the far end of the Nissen hut. Burton followed his eye, waiting for him to say, ‘How much?’ After Dunkirk the only thing that mattered to Patrick was the money; if governments no longer cared about rights and wrongs, if the man on the street didn’t, why should he? Through the window Burton glimpsed grey barracks and an even greyer sky. Sidi Bel Abbès hadn’t offered much more, but at least it had a vigour, that contrast between the mustard-coloured rocks and endless blue sky. He remembered how much he wanted to bludgeon Patrick back then. But that was the esprit of the Legion, its baptism of sand and blood: you had to hate your superiors before you could learn from them.
‘I have full authority to get you out of this place,’ continued Burton. ‘Ackerman’s got more contacts than we’ve had cold, miserable dinners.’
‘No.’
‘You can leave straight away. Tonight. Then we fly to Lusaka to meet the others.’
‘Burton, you’re not catching me. No.’
‘Once the job is done you’ll be free to return to America—’ Burton stopped as if he were hearing Patrick’s response for the first time. ‘What do you mean, no? You can’t possibly want to stay here?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘All you’re giving me is la main en bois.’ La main en bois, an old Legion expression: the wooden hand. A suicide mission.
‘You said the same about Dunkirk.’
‘And I was right. We just got lucky that day.’
‘That was more than luck.’
‘Tell that to the poor sonsofbitches who didn’t make it. You remember afterwards? I never saw the sea so red.’
Burton watched Patrick’s hand drift towards his stomach. Beneath his prison uniform was a poorly stitched, half-moon scar. His Dunkirk scar.
‘Sounds like prison’s given you too much time to think,’ said Burton.
‘Maybe you’re right. Or maybe I figured out that’s all war is. Luck. And you only got so much.’
‘Trust me. Kongo will be a pip. Quick and safe.’
‘Safe?’ Patrick snorted. The gesture could have signified amusement or derision.
‘What we did ten years ago, saving all those fat Frenchmen and their mistresses, that was much worse.’
‘And the poodles,’ said Patrick, laughing suddenly. ‘You remember the guy with the poodle?’
Burton joined him. ‘Ten thousand francs for a dog. Fat days for mercenaries. I never did know what you did with that money.’
‘Same as you: wasted it.’
‘Not me. I kept enough to buy the farm – or at least half of it.’
‘I used to have a mattress stuffed with cash …’ Patrick’s mood plummeted again. ‘And I never sent anything to Ruth or Hannah. Not a single dime.’
‘Now’s your chance to give some back.’
‘Don’t twist this, Burton. There’s nothing I want more than to see my girl again. She was five last time we met. But you’re talking a one-way job.’
‘Ground time will be less than four hours,’ said Burton. ‘You’ll fly commercial to Stanleystadt, pick up the jeeps from Ackerman’s man there, drive to the RV. I do my bit. And we’re home. What can go wrong?’
‘When was the last time you were in Africa?’
Burton shrugged. ‘Not since Madeleine.’
‘It’s a whole new ball game. The Afrika Korps have been dumped. The SS are in charge now and they’re …’ He raised his fist and squeezed it till his knuckles cracked. ‘Life don’t mean shit to them.’
‘Since when did you care about what they were doing?’
‘You can’t tell me this place is preferable.’
‘They’ll let me out in the end. They have to. For chrissake I was a Communist twenty years ago, when it still mattered. Before we all shacked up with the Nazis and convinced ourselves we were saving the world.’
He’s getting old, thought Burton, old and scared. That’s what this was really about. ‘You’re still a soldier, Patrick. The best shot I ever knew.’
‘Don’t give me all that baloney. You’re twisting things again.’
‘Then help me.’
‘Since when did you play the dice? You were always the cautious one. Not me. Can’t you see what this job is?’
Burton leaned forward. ‘Patrick – Chef – I need you on this. What do I have to say to convince you? You can spend the next ten years in here. Or you can be out tonight. A month from now you’ll be on a flight to New York.’
‘You know I hate planes.’
‘Boat then, the Queen Mary. Luxury all the way.’
‘It’s easy to make promises to dead men.’ But his voice gave him away, something was shifting.
Burton pushed on, dredging every memory he could. ‘You’ll be able to buy that house. You know that one you always used to talk about. In New Mexico.’
‘In Las Cruces? You remember that?’ Patrick seemed touched. ‘I still think about it every day, walk the rooms in my head.’
‘That’s your toss-up. Another fifteen years of this or you and Hannah on the terrace, sipping cool drinks. Watching the sun go down over the mountains. Besides—’ Burton shifted awkwardly ‘—you still owe me.’
‘I wondered when you’d bring that up.’
‘I never called in that favour. Never. You know that.’
‘Just feels as if you did,’ said Patrick. ‘Every time you need something.’ He put down his pipe, linked his fingers behind his head and looked down at his uniform. It was a size too big – or maybe he’d become a size too small – and threadbare, nothing like the perfectly fitting legionnaire’s capote and kepi he used to wear with such pride. His boots were all spit, no polish. ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ he said. ‘Guess I don’t have a choice.’