The Madagaskar Plan (10 page)

“At the top of the mine,” replied Lampedo. “I left them out overnight, hoping it would make them more…”

“I believe ‘amenable’ is the current textbook term.”

She nodded.

“They must be soaked. Take me to them.”

Hochburg followed her out of the hut, Fenris at his side. The morning sun was shrouded in clouds. As they walked, he reached inside his tunic for Burton’s knife and began to peel the mango.

“How do you know they’re Americans?” he asked.

“I spent three months in New Jersey,” replied Lampedo. “A student exchange between Freiburg University and Princeton.”

Shinkolobwe was opencast. The avenue of barracks rose to a ridge and a gash in the earth’s crust hundreds of meters deep. Down the sides were terraces where minerals had once been mined. The rock was the color of butter toffee, with seams of something darker and occasional slivers of turquoise and gray.

Kneeling at the edge were three men stripped to the waist, arms bound behind them, their boots removed. Lampedo had chosen her spot well, noted Hochburg. Inside a hut the prisoners could have plotted an escape, but here they were entirely visible: a suicidal drop in front, rifles at their backs. To have trapped Burton in such a position! There would have been no brief agony for him—instead, an accretion of torment and hopelessness that Hochburg could have prolonged for any period he desired.

“You did this?” he asked. The men’s faces were swollen and crusted with blood.

“I wanted them to talk.”

“And your girls captured them?” Guarding the Americans were a pack of teenagers: grubby cheeks, wisps of blond hair. No BK44s, no grenades or flamethrowers, only the Karabiners their fathers had used a decade before.

Lampedo nodded.

Hochburg recalled his words to Zelman in the Schädelplatz:
Give me a battalion of girls and this war would already be won.

He paced behind the prisoners. Two of them had brawny torsos blasted by the elements, and he sensed they wouldn’t talk even if beaten with iron bars; endurance was a quality they wanted to parade. The third was much paler, with a band of sunburn around his neck and hair recently cropped at the back and sides. Hochburg peered over their shoulders: below, the bottom of the pit was flooded.

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,” he said, “I smell the blood of an Ameri-can … I am the governor-general of Kongo. Given your attire”—they were wearing camouflage trousers; nearby, Fenris sniffed three pairs of combat boots—“I will assume you are soldiers.”

They offered no reply.

“Unless I am mistaken, your 1940 Neutrality Act is still in force, which makes your presence here … unfortunate.” He contemplated this a moment. “And intriguing.”

He finished peeling the mango, cut a slice, and ate.

“Have they been given food, Oberhelfer? Water?”

“Nothing. I even taped their mouths so they couldn’t drink the rain.”

“You possess a cruelty, Fräulein, that should be exported.”

He cut another slice and offered it in turn to the three men. “Not the ripest I’ve had but refreshing all the same.” The first two stared ahead; only the pale one glanced at the fruit. His tongue darted over cracked lips.

Hochburg shrugged to himself, swallowed the slice, and finished the mango. He sucked on the stone and tossed it into the abyss. “I want your names, ranks, and why you are here in Kongo.”

Again, no reply.

Hochburg greeted their silence with laughter. “Good. I hate long introductions.”

“He’s called Nultz,” said Lampedo, pointing to the pale one. “He was the only one to talk last night. We also confiscated these from him.” She held up a pair of wire-framed spectacles, the ends curled to fit tight round the ears.

Hochburg stood behind the prisoner, studied the hunch of his spine. “I’m guessing that your background is academic, Herr Nultz, not military.” His tone was emollient, attentive. “Where do you teach?”

“Berkeley—”

“Shut up!” spat the soldier next in line.

“Ignore him,” said Hochburg. “Consider your position; think for yourself.”

Nultz curled his toes but said nothing more.

There was a rumble of thunder. The clouds were congealing. Fenris lifted his snout and inhaled the approaching rainfall.

Hochburg sighed deeply. An unexpected weariness took hold of him that had little to do with trekking all night or his gnawing eye. Its sluggish distemper settled in his stomach. Why wouldn’t they tell him what he needed? Why this defiance in the face of the inevitable? As if men secretly relished being the objects of violence. It was the only commonality he knew of that bound the races.

“One hundred and twenty kilometers from here, Elisabethstadt is close to capitulation. I need to get there with all haste.” He straightened his spine. “How long till the helicopter arrives, Fräulein Lampedo?”

“Thirty minutes, Oberstgruppenführer.”

“You see, Americans, time is short. So tell me what I need.” He prowled behind them, his boots squelching in the mud. “I implore you, for my sake as much as yours.”

Silence.

He cocked his eye toward Fenris. The dog was tense, staring at him keenly.

Hochburg kicked the first American with all his force.

His boot landed square between the shoulder blades. The man tumbled over the edge. A scream filled the air for a second. A second and a half. Then a wet, ripping thump.

Hochburg skipped to the second soldier.

“No, wait! I—”

Another kick. Another plummeting scream.

He rounded on Nultz. In Germania there was a worming paranoia that one day the United States would declare war on the Reich—despite the reassurances of presidents from Roosevelt to Taft. Hochburg had never shared the concern. The American below him was hyperventilating, a wet patch spreading from his groin.

He clamped his fingers around the man’s neck, held his head over the precipice.

“What are you doing here?”

On the terraces below, his two compatriots lay buckled and snapped, outlined by rock pools of blood.

Nultz’s stomach heaved.

Hochburg levered him farther over the edge. “You’re with the British?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“The mine.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’m just a geologist.”

“Look.” Hochburg forced the prisoner’s head down. One of his comrades was still alive, his arm held toward the heavens. Twitching. “If you’re lucky, you’ll land headfirst.”

“Uranium,” bawled Nultz. His beaten face dripped tears and mucus.

“It means nothing to me.”

“It’s a heavy metal,” said Lampedo. She was standing well back from the edge. “They use it in X-rays.”

“You came ten thousand kilometers for hospital equipment?” Hochburg dragged him to the very rim of the pit, the mud crumbling beneath his boots.

“Another use,” said Nultz.

“What?”

“Can’t say … please…”

“Tell me!”

When all he got was sniveling, Hochburg whistled to Fenris. He gave the dog a flick of his head, and the animal bounded to the terraces. He began picking his way down, moving with the agility of a famished belly.

“There was only breakfast enough for me,” said Hochburg. He grabbed Nultz by the ears, locked his head in position. “Watch.”

Fenris reached the first American. Began to gorge.

“Stop! Please…” Nultz was sobbing.

“Why uranium?”

“A weapon … a bomb.”

“Tell me more.”

For several moments, Nultz did nothing but quail; then he sagged. “I’ll talk.”

Hochburg dragged him away and threw him at the feet of the guards. One had turned away, her shoulders shuddering. The rest of the girls stared at the American with contempt. A few were peering into the mine, their eyes chasing Fenris.

“Give him some water,” said Hochburg.

A canteen was tossed at Nultz. Hochburg squatted by his side, unscrewed it, and helped him drink.

“I want to know about this bomb. Why your government sent you all this way.”

Nultz spoke in a babble: “Because of the Jews … as insurance … against Madagaskar.”

“Jews don’t concern me. The bomb.”

“It’s fifteen kilotons.”

Hochburg possessed only a rudimentary knowledge of these things. He did the calculation in his head. No:
impossible!
Did it again. “Kilotons. Are you sure? A single bomb could—”

“Destroy an entire city.” Even drenched in his own piss, sullied with snot and mud, Nultz couldn’t keep a tremor of a boast from his voice. “American big talk and orgies of numbers,” Goebbels called it.

“You’ve developed this weapon?”

“It’s only theoretical.”

“Why the uranium?”

“It’s needed as fission material. That’s where it gets the power. We’re looking for a source.”

“Oberstgruppenführer, urgent news!” said Lampedo. Next to her, one of the radio-hut girls was panting, a scrap of paper in her hand.

“It can wait.” Hochburg already knew what it said.

He snatched a handful of Nultz’s hair and hauled him back to the edge of the pit. Fenris looked up, disturbed from his feasting.

“You’re lying to me,” he said.

“I promise, no. You were developing one, too.”

“Then where is this miracle?”

“All research was stopped. Your Führer’s orders.”

“Why?”

“You can check.” He gabbled a roll call of half-recognized names, some of Germany’s most eminent scientists.

“These men were working on it?” said Hochburg.

“Find them—they’ll tell you.”

“Do the British know?”

“Not from us.”

“And this wonder weapon. It is as powerful as you claim?”

“I swear!”

Could it be so? Could one device, free from the limitations of men, obliterate an entire city? He would need only a dozen to rule the whole of Africa.

His eye flared, radiating needles of pain across his skull. He cupped the wounded socket, then held out his hand to Lampedo. She passed him the message with an ashen expression. There were three words on it. Hochburg read them and crumpled the paper in his fist.

If what the American said was true, perhaps it no longer mattered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hampstead, London

31 January, 00:20

WHY DOTH THE
wicked prosper?

It was his father’s nightly howl after they had been abandoned. Burton had asked the same question in the Schädelplatz as he was escorted between the colossal gilded lions that guarded the entrance, on his way to assassinate Hochburg.

As he watched Cranley’s house, Job 21:7 tormented him once more.

Burton was enveloped in a thick cobwebby fog, the streetlamps above him fuzzy orbs. Even though he’d fastened all the buttons of his sheepskin jerkin and turned up the collar of his jacket, the cold squeezed his chest. Hidden in his sleeve was the crowbar he’d taken from the farm; his Browning was in his haversack.

Cranley was hosting what Madeleine used to describe as “one of his soirees” (she always laughed at the phrase). The windows were oblongs of peach light, and through them Burton glimpsed guests swilling champagne, heard shrieks of hilarity and swing music, the noise deadened by the fog. He knew these types from his mercenary days: in Congo and the French colonies, they thought the garden parties and cocktails round the pool were going to last forever. Every shout of laughter tightened his gut.

It would have been too suspicious to linger outside, so he kept walking round the streets, passing the house every ten minutes, like he had done on Christmas Eve two years before. Madeleine had lit a pair of candles for him: two flames in the window that promised they wouldn’t spend another Christmas apart. Burton’s plan was to watch the place for several nights, establish the household’s routine, and strike early one morning.

Then he saw Cranley, and his hatred overflowed.

It was past midnight when he appeared, his figure distorted in the fog. The windows remained bright, though the house was silent now. Burton had stationed himself behind a tree on the opposite pavement. Once he sensed someone nearby, but when his eyes searched the gloom there was only empty, shifting vapor.

He watched Cranley guide a woman in a full-length fur coat to a waiting Rolls-Royce. There was a slight wobble to their steps. They exchanged a few words, and Cranley threw back his head, laughing. He kissed her good night, then signaled to the driver with a rap on the car’s roof. That gesture—so genial, so carefree—caused Burton to clench the crowbar. Cranley would go to bed full of expensive bubbles and relaxed cheer; he’d fall asleep as soon as his head sank into the pillow.

Burton darted across the road as the Rolls drove away but not fast enough to catch Cranley. The front door was shut before he reached it and too solid to kick down. He prodded the doorbell with his stump; there was a musical clanging. Through the obscure glass, he saw Cranley return, heard the sound of locks.

Burton dropped.

A weal of pain expanded from the base of his neck, causing his limbs to sag and eyes blur; his teeth felt as if they were going to scatter. The crowbar vanished from his grip. Next moment, the air in his lungs was warm. He heard Cranley’s voice—
close the door … the dining room
—and was dragged through the hallway, up a short flight of stairs to the mezzanine level.
Tie his hands.
Burton was dumped in a chair, his neck lolling. The chandelier streaked in the murk of his consciousness.

Frozen fingers snatched at his arms. “Sir,” said a woman’s voice close to his ear, “what should I do?” His stump was forced into the air.

“What was Rommel’s valediction when he retired? ‘
Ein Teil von mir wird für immer in Afrika bleiben
.’” Cranley spoke with the precise accent of a diplomat:
I leave a piece of me forever in Africa.
“Bind him to the armrests,” he said, loosening his tie. “Use this round his feet.”

While he was being bound, Burton was aware of Cranley crossing the room to fetch a telephone. He brought it back and placed it on the dining table, the cable taut.

“That will be all, Mrs. Anderson,” he said. “I’m expecting some callers shortly. When they arrive, show them in here, but keep it quiet. I don’t want to disturb Alice. Meantime, warm yourself. You did well tonight.”