The Madagaskar Plan (48 page)

He turned up his sleeve and raised his forearm. For the first time Madeleine saw that it was dense with tattoos.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

He indicated the opposite side of the track, and she took a sharp breath. There was a single barred window in the barrack wall; three haggard faces peered through it. They stared at Salois’s indigo skin; then one of them whispered into the shadows behind himself. A fourth man appeared and pressed his own arm against the bars. There were a dozen numbers on it.

“The guards told us the Ark is gone,” he said.

“It’s true,” replied Salois. “And the synagogue.”

This news was repeated. Madeleine sensed men waking and climbing down from bunks, an angry, wounded energy bristling through the hut.

Salois seized her hand, and they continued into the main farm complex. Most of the buildings were raised several meters off the ground to keep them free of the monsoon rains. Floodlights created spiky shadows. They flitted among the stilts, hiding once to let a pair of soldiers blunder by, till they were opposite the radio hut. Rising behind the masts and aerials were the two water towers that marked the start of the railway tracks. Salois told her to keep watch, then darted across the open ground and up the stairs. Shortly, he signaled her over. Inside was a bank of transmitters and blinking bulbs; clocks showed the time in various locations across the Reich. He was twisting dials to find reception. Static soared, then faded like waves crashing on a shingle beach. There had been only one radio operator on duty; Salois had left him slumped in the corner.

He thrust a rifle into her hands. “Guard the door.”

There was a pot of pens on the desk in front of him. Madeleine grabbed one and a paper clip.

“What are you doing?” asked Salois.

“For Jacoba.”

He regarded her pale arms. “I’ll do it.”

She took up a position at the top of the stairs, squatting below the baluster so she had a view of all approaches while no one would see her till they reached the first step.

The static had given way to whining. “Dragonfly, do you receive? Over,” Salois said into the microphone.

Madeleine slipped the pen and paper clip into her pocket. She wondered about her babies: had the doctors at Mandritsara tattooed them? The idea of their unblemished skin pierced and soiled with ink brought a riot to her chest.

A group of men swayed into view. Madeleine’s fingers tightened around the rifle till they passed by, arguing and belching.

“Dragonfly?” Salois cursed the radio and continued trawling the frequencies. “Dragonfly?”

A few splats of rain landed around Madeleine, then stopped. Another figure appeared below, his pace steady and sober, the single stripe of an Untersturmführer on his sleeve. He walked erectly toward the radio hut.

“Salois.”

He glanced in her direction at the exact moment there was a burst of static and a voice came through, clear and confident: “Dragonfly receiving. Good to hear you, Major.”

At first Madeleine did nothing; then she shot up as if an electric charge had exploded through her heels.

She watched Salois’s lips move as he spoke into the microphone—but all she heard were the replies, filtered through crackling radio waves, penetrating her mind, the intonation crueler than she remembered.

The Untersturmführer reached the bottom of the stairs and stared up at her. “What are you doing, Jew? Get away from there.”

When she ignored him, he unfastened his holster and began mounting the steps. Madeleine was too stunned by Cranley’s voice to care.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Nachtstadt

20 April, 20:45

“I HEARD A nasty rumor about this place,” said Tünscher. Forming the words seemed to require an effort. He was lying down but kept twisting and rolling, as if no position was comfortable. His skin was sallow and damp, and the dark patches beneath his eyes were spreading like mold.

Music and carousing drifted up to them; in the distance, thunder.

“What rumor?” replied Burton distractedly.

They were on a hill across from the Totenburg. Burton had caught sight of Madeleine’s horse grazing beneath the towers and was now scanning the valley below through Tünscher’s telescope.

“I heard it belongs to Himmler.”

Burton lowered the lens. “It doesn’t look well guarded.”

Tünscher shrugged. He had fished out the locket from round his neck and was nibbling the end to ward off his pain. “Some of my liquor must have ended up here. It’s a Vit B post.”

Vitamin B boys were the sons of party officials who got safe placements for their national service. No frontline duty; instead a year in some dull garrison before returning to their place in the bureaucracy.

Burton put the telescope back to his eye. Apart from the celebrations in the far corner of the camp, the place appeared deserted. He moved from the buildings to the sties; the herd must number in the thousands. Alice had wanted some pigs in Suffolk, or sheep or cows.
It’s not a proper farm unless there are animals,
she had told him, crossing her arms. Burton glimpsed someone moving among the pens. He sharpened the focus: it was Madeleine’s brother. Abner dragged a piece of equipment into the open, then held something up to the clouds as if taking a weather reading. Burton couldn’t see properly.

“I’m going down there,” he said.

Tünscher was passing his last Bayerweed beneath his nostrils, inhaling deeply. He had smoked the other an hour before and vowed to save this final one till they found Madeleine. He dropped it back into the packet. “I’m coming with you.”

Burton helped his old friend to his feet. Tünscher grimaced as he got up, holding his side, and stood lopsided. The bandage round his midriff was soaked through, and now dark blotches were forming on his tunic.

Guilt tugged at Burton. He still carried the stain of Patrick’s blood; he didn’t need any more. “You should stay here.”

“I’m good.”

“You’ll slow me down.”

This was half-true. Riding through the night, Burton had hoped to catch Madeleine before she reached the glow of Nachtstadt, but Tünscher had to keep taking breaks, clutching his guts and folding so low his chin brushed his horse’s mane.

“I said I’m good,” replied Tünscher tetchily. “It doesn’t help me if you get caught. I’m looking out for my investment—”

There was a burst of automatic gunfire, the noise careering indiscriminately around the hills. The music didn’t skip a beat.

Burton squinted through the telescope again. He saw nothing but shadows and mud, pigs bumping into each other, agitated by the shots … then another muzzle flash outside a building crowned with radio masts; soldiers surrounded it. There was no sign of Madeleine.

“Wait here,” said Burton, handing his friend the telescope.

“Forget it.”

“You’re in no state, Tünsch.”

“This isn’t the Legion, Major. You can’t give me orders. Those diamonds don’t leave my sight.”

“There aren’t any diamonds.”

The words had come quickly, quietly, before Burton knew what he was saying.

“What?”

Burton’s eyes swept to the ground. “I lied. To get your help.” He braced himself. “There are no diamonds.”

“But you gave me one.” His friend let out a small laugh, trying to reassure himself. “I had it checked: five carats, from the Kassai mines.”

“It’s all I had.”

Tünscher rubbed his blood-spotted flank and absorbed Burton’s confession, shaking his head. He seemed to deflate.

Below, Burton saw a cloud of red smoke envelop the radio building. “I’m sorry, Otto.”

“How could you do this?” All of a sudden his voice was molten. “I need those diamonds.”

He reached for his Luger, prodding it against Burton’s chest. The movement was weak, without conviction. Tünscher’s eyes were tinged yellow, dull and exhausted. An expression of hatred spilled across his features, then desolation.

Burton brushed the pistol away. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Madeleine was everything. I had no choice.”

“I know…” Tünscher replied. “I know.”

His voice carried such understanding that Burton felt a deep plunge of regret. At the same time, he was aware that if Tünscher had betrayed him, his friend would have shrugged it off. How many times had he seen him flash his yellow teeth at some dupe and say,
You’ll be wiser next time
?

Gunfire swirled around the hills once more.

“What will you do now?” asked Burton.

“Does it matter?” He slipped his locket beneath his tunic; his jaw was tense. “Get to Nosy Be. Or find a patrol: say I was ambushed by Jews, hand myself over—”

“They’ll throw you in the brig. You know how much you hate bars.”

“They can’t connect me to any of this shit. I can be back in Roscherhafen by the end of the month, back to safari duties and smuggling till I’m rich.” Once more, loathing and devastation swelled in him. “I needed that money, Burton. More than you can know.”

“If I ever get it, Tünsch, I’ll find you.”

Tünscher emitted a bark of resentful laughter that caused him to flinch and press his wound. “Remember when it used to be you, me, and Patrick? He said you were the best of us. The only decent one.” He shook his head. “Stupid Yankee bastard.”

The clouds opened.

Rain beat through Burton’s hair. He wanted to part as they had met: with a pumping handshake and mutual bravado—two men who had once belonged to something. The zoo seemed an age ago. Burton offered an ashamed half salute and began sliding down the hill.

Tünscher called after him: “If you find her, don’t go to Mandritsara. Make for those fishing boats at Varavanga. It’s your only chance off the island.”

“I’ll try.”

“
Bon courage,
Major.”

Burton went to wish him the same—but Tünscher was already limping away, obscured by sheets of rain.

*   *   *

Salois heard boots climb the stairs. He told Cranley to stand by and crossed to Madeleine. She was gawping at the radio, her eyes hazy, as if someone had struck her across the face. Halfway up the steps was an Untersturmführer. He froze when he saw Salois, staring at his rolled-up sleeve and indigo arm.

The Untersturmführer ran back down. Salois grabbed the rifle from Madeleine and aimed it between his shoulder blades. He thought of Steinbock, where the prisoners wore uniforms with X’s painted on the backs to make it easier for the guards if they tried to escape. He lined up the shot—then relaxed the weapon, calculating that the report would bring others more rapidly than the Untersturmführer could rouse them.

Salois returned to the microphone. “Cranley?”

“What’s going on? Over.”

“Nothing.”

“Are you in position?”

“Heading for train RV. I’ll be at Diego by zero four hundred. Where are you?”

Madeleine joined him, bending close to the speaker to hear every word. She pestered Salois to say something, but he blocked her.

“Mazunka,” replied Cranley. “Radar station in view. We’re all set.”

“How many are you?”

“Three, including Corporal Manny from your team.”

So they had made it ashore. Exhilaration surged through Salois. “Do we proceed?”

“Have contacted Rolland: weather all clear for bombers. Mission is go. We’ll do our bit; the rest is up to you. Copy?”

“Affirmative.”

“Good luck, Major. Out.”

As soon as Salois relaxed his grip on the microphone, Madeleine snatched it up: “Jared? Jared?” Only static replied. “Bring him back,” she demanded Salois.

“He’s gone.”

“You’re with him?” Her face was ashen. “He sent you to find me?”

Salois didn’t understand. “I’m here to destroy Diego.”

“But with Cranley … Where is he now?”

“Mazunka, on the west coast. You know him?”

“We were married.” She looked at Salois in a daze of incomprehension. “He’s a civil servant … swore to look after Alice…”

Salois was equally confused. “He can help find your children—”

She let out a shout of laughter, so vehement it stung.

An alarm began to ring.

Salois secured his rucksack and reached for Madeleine. She refused to be pulled away; she was gripping the microphone as if she expected Cranley’s voice to come through it again.

Salois left her for the stairs. Soldiers were converging on the radio hut from every direction. They ran in crooked lines, stumbling and chortling, some wearing party hats. All were armed—but this was sport, not a serious security threat.

“Take the rifle,” he shouted at Madeleine. “Open the hatch.” In the ceiling was an access point so that engineers could maintain the aerials on the roof.

Salois had two smoke canisters left. He tossed the first down the stairs, shrouding the legs of the building in mist, then toppled over a filing cabinet to block the door. Madeleine levered down an aluminum ladder built into the hatch. She fastened it and climbed, Salois following her. He tore the pin out of the final smoke grenade, dropped it into the room below, and slammed the hatch shut. He still had green canisters in the pocket of the rucksack—but these were for Diego and as precious as the explosives.

They were on the roof, surrounded by radio masts that rattled and moaned in the wind. Red smoke wafted up on all sides. Salois saw the water towers clearly for the first time: one was new, made of steel that had yet to tarnish in Madagaskar’s climate; the other was wooden, rotting, no longer in use. The railway line started at the base of the metal tower, curving its way out of the farm before vanishing into the darkness of the hills. On the far side of the tracks, camouflage netting concealed two helicopters.

“Is it Cranley’s boat?” asked Madeleine. The light on top of the highest aerial flashed down on her, casting her face red—black—red—

“Yes.”

In the alternating shadows, a hopelessness swept across her. He had seen that expression—the hanging of the mouth, the emptying of the eyes—many times before. In the hours that followed it, men often died: too lazy or despondent to care for their lives anymore. As much as he desired the same, his own features had never been marked by it.