The Madagaskar Plan (21 page)

Spanish tourists were gathered around the pool. They helped him out, babbling excitedly. Pushing through them were the lifeguard and the man in the suit.

There was an explosion of water behind Burton.

The Nazi he’d seen at the door had followed him over the balcony. In the second their eyes had locked in the room, Burton had noticed that he only had one full ear, that his face was etched with wrath and accusation.

Burton seized the lifeguard by the wrist, twisting the other man’s arm, and brought his stump down on the elbow. He hurled him into the pool, then the man in the suit, then everyone he could grab. The one-eared Nazi fought through a logjam of thrashing limbs.

Burton ran, heading toward the ocean, through the leaves of castor oil plants.

Another suit stepped in front of him.

Burton rammed him off the path and into the bushes, kept running. From the direction of the pool came shouts, someone blowing a whistle.

The beach was busy, despite the lowering sun: swarms of kids, men with burnt bellies wearing shorts and sandals, women in black one-pieces; bikinis were considered subversive by the regime. Burton headed right, his soaked clothes weighing down every stride till he was panting. His long journey to DOA had left him more unfit than he’d realized. He steadied his breathing, drawing air deep into his lungs. At least the years in the Legion meant he was nimble over sand. He glanced over his shoulder: nothing but vacationers.

The foreigners’ block was at the southern end of the development, near the city itself, with its traffic fumes and sewers that needed refurbishing. Burton raced along the beach watching Block 2, then Block 1 pass: an unremitting wall of white stone and square windows. Finally, the buildings came to an end and he could see the row of palms that separated the hotel from the road.

Clutching his side, he hurried toward the trees. Cars were visible between the trunks.

“Stop!”

Several troops appeared from the gardens on Block 1. A warning shot zinged overhead.

Burton reached the road and chanced another look back. The front of Msasani glowed amber in the sunset. By the entrance was a police lorry and two BMWs; a figure in a soaked uniform was shouting instructions. Burton ran into the road, dodging cars, which swerved around him. It was a dual motorway, the traffic on his side heading out of the city. He crossed the central median—another palisade of trees—and stepped out in front of a taxi.

A squall of smoke and rubber.

The car slewed to a halt, behind it a cacophony of horns. It was a cream-colored Volkswagen, as were all taxis in Roscherhafen. On the door was a shield bearing a lion’s head and an eagle, DOA’s coat of arms. Burton yanked the door open and climbed in.

“Drive.”

The man at the wheel, in a turban, gesticulated angrily.

Across the road, the two BMWs were gliding out of Msasani. One joined the traffic and accelerated away, followed by the lorry: a hundred meters up the road was a turning point. The other drove straight across the motorway, navigating through the trees and onto the city-bound lane.

Burton stuck the Beretta between the driver’s eyes.

“Now!”

The taxi surged forward.

“What’s your name?” he asked the driver.

No reply, only a wail of prayers—then wretched fatalism. Like many of Roscherhafen’s cabdrivers, he was an Arab, his race tolerated by the authorities because they were prepared to work long hours for a pittance and gave the city that alien quality so many tourists wanted.

The first BMW was closing. “Faster!”

The taxi swerved around other cars. The interior was decked with golden trinkets and beads, which jingled violently.

“Where you go?” asked the driver.

Burton’s mind was racing. “The old town.” He cleared his eyes of sweat. “The Bazaar.” Its maze of streets would be the ideal place to lose his pursuers: he’d tell the driver to keep going, vanish on foot into the Indiamarkt.

They were approaching a yellow light. The driver reached for the gear stick. Burton slapped his hand away. “Straight through.”

The taxi flew across the junction, and the next, then slowed. There was a barricade across the road. A detour sign.

“Why is it blocked?” asked Burton.

“They close for harbor parade,” replied the driver. “It’s now. For Führer.” He risked a sidelong glance at Burton, nervously adding, “Blessed be his name.”

“Go right.”

The taxi veered off down a side street, the two BMWs pursuing. Burton leaned out the window to take a shot but was bucking too much in his seat.

Apart from a few students, the streets were mostly empty. They sped past the old Anglican church, now boarded up. Approached the Deutsch Afrika Expo, on Ringstrasse. Outside the hall were six flagpoles, each bearing the outline of its respective province in Nazi Africa.

Burton grabbed the wheel, shoved it to the left, causing them to mount the pavement; pedestrians scattered. The BMWs followed, horns blaring. The taxi plowed through the poles, hitting them one after another:

Th-boom
.
Th-boom
.
Th-boom
.

With each impact, the Arab invoked the name of God. The poles tumbled onto the lead BMW, wrapping its windscreen in banners. It skidded and crashed into the steps that led to the exhibition. The second car smashed into its rear.

The cab braked to a standstill.

Burton was thrown forward, cracking the dashboard. The driver opened the door and fled.

“For fuck’s sake,” snarled Burton.

He watched the one-eared Nazi emerge from the flags flapping round the wreckage, his legs caught in Kongo’s ensign. He freed himself, took a step toward Burton’s vehicle, staggered, then righted himself and stumbled toward the curb. He held out his arm, as though giving the traffic a Führer salute. He must be concussed, thought Burton, before he realized that the Nazi was flagging down the lorry.

Guards emerged from the expo building, rifles at the ready. From across the city came the cry of a siren.

Burton clambered into the driver’s seat, fought to put the taxi in gear, and pulled away in third. The engine strained … and stalled. Beads shimmered around him. He tried to restart it. Nothing but the lifeless chug of valves.

In the rearview mirror, the lorry had stopped. The Nazi ordered the driver out of the cab and hiked himself behind the wheel.

Burton twisted the key as if he would snap it. The expo was reached by a plaza; the Ringstrasse was an open boulevard. If he got out and ran, he would make an easy target.

There was a snarl of exhaust fumes, and the lorry started toward him.

Burton screamed at the car, spittle flicking the windscreen. Engines had always hated him. One afternoon when he’d needed to get Madeleine home before Cranley, he had spent several minutes battling with his clapped-out Austin. They were running late, the windows misty with condensation. The frustration of being bullied by the clock, and of knowing he would shortly have to watch the door of Madeleine’s house close behind her, welled inside him. He beat the steering wheel, cursed useless British engines. Maddie took his hand and nestled it beneath her thighs. She waited, then calmly gave the key a single turn; he had dropped her off by nightfall.

Burton tugged the key loose, imagined Maddie pressing it to her lips, then slid it back in.

The ignition caught on the first try.

He stamped on the accelerator as the lorry bashed into his rear bumper. Burton was thrown forward but kept his foot down. The taxi lurched away. He left his stump on the wheel, let go with the other hand to change into second gear, then third.

On either side, open shopfronts flashed by: white tiles hanging with sausages, coconuts, sacks of coffee beans. Pharmacies, a taxidermist. There was a sign for the harbor.

At the next junction, the light was red. He squeezed harder on the gas, hurling the taxi through the intersection as if faith and willpower alone would protect him from collision. The lorry followed, pirouetting aside a mechanized rickshaw.

Burton’s foot remained on the floor: forty kilometers per hour, forty-five, fifty.

He darted through holes in the traffic, struggling to work out where he was in the city. There were so many shops, it had to be the Bazaar. He needed to cross what had once been India Street, then left at—

A group of students marched into the road. They were part of the recently formed 3K movement, carrying banners and placards.
TAKE THE WAR TO THE BRITISH! KENYA—KHARTOUM—KAIRO: VICTORY IN ’53!

Instinct forced him to swerve. As the VW hit the curb, Burton thought he should have plowed through them. He felt a tire blow, the chassis bouncing back onto the road. The lorry was inches from slamming into him.

Ahead was an alleyway. At the last moment he worked the clutch and yanked the wheel sharply toward it. The front of the taxi hit the entrance, rebounded, then careered down the passage.

The lorry shot past.

Burton kept both his hand and his stump on the wheel now. The alley was gloomy, barely wide enough for the car, and seemed to be narrowing. Halfway down was an intersection, then another stretch of alley, ending in a window of sky that shimmered red at the base.

Still the walls closed in. Burton eased off the gas as the wing mirrors pinged and vanished. He was sure he could just make it.

The taxi gouged itself into the walls. Ground to a halt. The engine died.

Burton glanced through the rear window: no sign of the lorry. He went to open the door and found it wedged tight against the brickwork of the alley. This time the car started the first time. He put it in reverse and, twisting to see over his shoulder, pressed the accelerator. The taxi didn’t budge.

The light from the street dimmed as the troop lorry trundled back.

Burton pressed harder on the accelerator, the wheels howling as they spun—but the car was stuck solid.

The lorry rolled into the alleyway. Sparks flared from its side as it grazed the walls. It stopped, blocking any possible escape. The one-eared Nazi climbed out. At the tail of the vehicle, Burton glimpsed boots landing on cobbles.

He scrabbled at the door, trying to force it open.

A voice called out, the sound funneled and amplified between the canyon of the walls: “You cannot escape, Major Cole. Turn off the engine, put your hands on your head.” Soldiers with BK44s were squeezing past the lorry. “You will not be harmed.”

Burton reached for his Beretta, its weight and balance unfamiliar in his hand. He fired a random shot at the Nazi, then emptied the clip into the windscreen. He kicked through the remnants of the glass. Dragged himself through the hole, slid off the bonnet, and ran.

Bullets ricocheted along the walls, spitting clumps of brick.

“Keep your aim low!” shouted the Nazi.

Zigzagging, Burton sprinted across the intersection and into the next alley, toward the flowing red street. Ahead he heard the beat of drums, mechanical cheers; behind him, boots closing in, the one-eared Nazi demanding that he halt, his voice frantic.

Burton burst onto the Von Lettow Esplanade. In front was the harbor where Albrecht Roscher had landed in 1859, claiming the territory for Germany. Farther along the road was the memorial to the soldiers who died in the 1914–18 East African Campaign. During British rule it had been the statue of an
askari,
a native black warrior. After the colony was returned to the Reich, the bronze was melted down and a more domineering figure fashioned, complete with pith helmet and whiskers.

Rolling past the memorial, filling the entire length and breadth of the road, was a procession for Führertag. Troops in the bleached khaki of the Afrika Korps and ranks of SS in ceremonial uniforms. Horses drawing artillery, panzers and Pfadfinders, a band keeping a martial beat. And everywhere banners of red, white, and black. The pavement thronged with families enjoying the spectacle; kids waved flags.

Halt!

Burton pushed through the crowds, slipping into the procession. Moments later, he had vanished into a forest of swastikas.

*   *   *

Kepplar returned to Cole’s room at
zum Weissen Strand
.

The corridor was crisscrossed with tape; at the door was a guard. Kepplar dismissed him and stepped inside, trousers chafing around his groin; it was too muggy for his uniform to dry. There was a cut on his temple from when Fregh crashed into his BMW. The furniture had been righted, but everything else appeared untouched. His inspection revealed a doctored American passport and an empty haversack. In the wardrobe: shirts, spare socks, underwear. Impulsively, he lifted the garments to his nose; they gave away nothing. On the bed were a discarded Beretta box and some kind of chart.

Why was Hochburg so determined to catch Cole? He had plenty of enemies, from every Negro on the continent to the highest ranks of the SS, with their shifting, petty jealousies, so why was this one man paramount? Kepplar realized that his master’s obsession had become his own.

A furious, frustrated sob threatened to overwhelm him. He had been so close, could smell Cole in the room despite the open balcony doors, his personal miasma of breath and sweat. The faintest hint of cigarettes. That surprised him; he hadn’t thought of Cole as a smoker. Perhaps Hochburg was right: Kepplar wasn’t worthy of the task. At no point in the pursuit had he unbuckled his holster.

He picked up the chart. It was from the SS cartography department, a map of Madagaskar folded in four. Facing upward was the northwest quadrant of the island. A ruse? No, he had taken Cole by surprise: the map wasn’t meant for his eyes. Kepplar angled it toward the light.

The laminate revealed a cluster of fingerprints running from Nosy Be to Lava Bucht.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Western Sector (South), Madagaskar

18 April, 10:30

AS HE’D STRIDDEN from the helicopter, Hochburg had demanded two things of the Untersturmführer: some hot food and all his men’s shaving mirrors.

Now he stood in the rain while the work gang was assembled. He had followed a trail from the Ark to this punishment detail, though there was no guarantee the Jew he sought was here or even alive. Hochburg wore a black leather mac, the collar wrapped around his ears. The bandage covering his wounded eye was sodden. When a guard came forward with an open umbrella, he waved him away.