by Guy Saville
“What about after?” asked Burton when he was finished. “Once I’ve found Madeleine.”
“We fly you to Somalia.”
“South Africa* would be better.”
“And too far.”
Burton considered everything he’d heard. “It’s a good plan,” he said, handing back the map.
“Keep it,” replied Tünscher. “One last thing.” His tone became businesslike. “None of this is coming cheap. Seven stones gets you there and out. It doesn’t get me on the island proper. My skin’s worth more than that. I’ll help you find the records, but once you get them—you’re on your own.”
After Tünscher left, Burton took a cold shower in the communal baths, then returned to his stifling room. He unfastened the balcony doors to get a breeze and was hit by the commotion below. Five stories beneath him were landscaped gardens—palms, castor oil plants, violets imported from the colony’s interior—and the foreigners’ pool, radiating its tang of extra chlorine. A group of Spanish tourists played round it, laughing, yelling, the kids dive-bombing each other. The lifeguard’s chair was empty; he stood away from the water, conferring with a man in a suit.
Msasani had been built with an eye toward the future and wouldn’t reach capacity till the 1960s. Even when the massive KdF cruise ships were in port, occupancies were never more than three-quarters. To fill the empty rooms, Ausländer wings had been established—blocks where foreigners could stay at an all-inclusive rate of fifty reichsmarks per week, twenty more than Germans paid. These guests came mostly from Spain and Italy and were encouraged to marvel at the Reich’s experiment in vacationing—as bold as any of its military or engineering triumphs.
From the gardens, a path led to the ocean. The sky was turning from tangerine to gray, clouds darkening the horizon; Burton smelled thunder brewing. Some 450 miles to the southeast were the Komoros Islands, where the Nazis had a submarine base. Another 250 miles marked the first ring of mines that surrounded Madagaskar like a lethal coral reef. And somewhere beyond that, he prayed, Madeleine was safe and waiting for him. He was impatient to get there. Throughout his voyage to Africa, he’d pictured the moment when they met again. It stuttered in his mind, impossible to capture. Would she be shocked? Relieved? Furious at him? He yearned to slip his fingers between hers, to cup her face and kiss her. Every time he comforted himself with their reunion, she was as plump and happy as she had been the previous summer. He knew that couldn’t be true.
Burton retreated inside and opened the bedside cabinet where he had stowed Tünscher’s present. Next to it was a copy of Mein Kampf; every KdF room in the world held a cheap edition of the book. Hitler took no salary as Führer of the Greater Germanic Reich—but he was a multimillionaire author. What does that tell you about publishing? was one of Maddie’s favorite gibes. He picked up the present and ripped off the paper to reveal a box stamped BERETTA, MOGADISHU. Inside was a pistol, an M1951, Beretta’s latest model, the type used by the Italian African Police and recognized for its accuracy and reliability. Burton raised it to his nose: virgin gun oil. He missed his Browning.
He dismantled the weapon, holding it against the bedside cabinet with his stump as his other hand did the work. Once it was in pieces, he wiped off the packing grease, carefully reassembled it, then reached back into the box. Tünscher had included a spare clip and a case of ammunition. Burton felt another spasm of guilt.
The racket below was irritating him; he kicked the balcony door shut. As the din subsided, he thought he heard something from the corridor. The echo of boots stamping upstairs.
He stood and closed the balcony door completely to blot out the noise from the pool. The man in the suit was scanning his floor. It sounded as if someone was walking down the corridor toward him. Not a guest returning to his room, sandals flapping carelessly, but cautious, controlled steps. Hard soles against the tiled floor.
He crossed the room and put his ear to the door.
No one knew he was in Roscherhafen. It was probably some Jugenvolk playing a game … unless Tünscher had decided there was more profit in turning him over than in the Madagaskar job. Or he hadn’t paid enough for his entry visa.
There had been no opportunity to acquire a fake passport, so he used Patrick’s. It was less risky than his own, and he’d hoped that America’s neutrality would ease his passage through German customs. He had removed the dead man’s photo and replaced it with his own; scratched and inked the digits on the year of birth so that “1896” read “1916.” Presented it with a bland smile. When they detained him at the border with Mozambique, it cost thirty reichsmarks for each of the issuing officers, another fifty for their supervisor, and a thick donation to Rovuma’s Führertag kitty. Perhaps he hadn’t been generous enough.
Burton reached inside the bedside cabinet and took out the copy of Mein Kampf. Dropped it with a thud.
The footsteps stopped at once.
He stilled his breath. Four, five, six seconds passed.
Then the steps again, consciously keeping quiet this time. Burton grabbed the Beretta’s magazine, wedged it into his armpit, and began pressing in bullets.
* * *
A thud.
Kepplar raised his hand at the two men behind him; both were carrying BK44s with the safety catches off. They were halfway along the corridor, approaching Cole’s room at the end. The fire escape was covered by armed troops, as were the main stairs, lobby, and gardens.
When Kepplar arrived at zum Weissen Strand, a moment of boyish excitement took hold of him. Every time he stood beneath its walls, the immensity of the place made him feel like a child transported to a world of giants. It was claimed that when Peenemünde put the first National Socialist into orbit—soon, promised Goebbels, soon—the building would be visible from space. Then he went to work: organizing the men he had so there was no chance of Cole escaping. If only he still commanded the resources that were his in Kongo.
Kepplar lowered his hand and continued along the corridor, treading lightly so his boots wouldn’t squeak on the floor and its diagonal lines of yellow tiles. From outside came the screams of children. His own offspring would never dare make such noise, but then scientists had proved it was the Mediterranean blood that made its people constitutionally rowdy.
They reached the door. In a whisper he repeated the instruction he’d given the men outside: “He must be taken alive.”
Kepplar watched the troops level their rifles. Before he’d left the Zollgrenzschutz building he had unlocked his safe and retrieved his pistol, a Walther P38; its holster was heavy and ungiving against his hip. He felt no need to unbuckle it. His heartbeat was in his ear, his stomach spongy with exhilaration. All that separated him from Cole and deliverance were a few centimeters of plywood. He would hand him over to Hochburg, then bask in his former master’s contrition.
Kepplar raised his jackboot.
Seven months earlier, on the morning he’d returned empty-handed to the Schädelplatz, Hochburg had raged at his failure, ordered him bound to a stake, threatened to burn him alive. It was the stake originally meant for Cole’s execution. Kepplar recalled the smoke clogging his nostrils and the sparks that danced around him; his legs were buried in tinder.
“Herr Oberst, please,” he yelled as Hochburg strode away. “Herr Oberst!”
Hochburg crossed half the square before he stopped and sauntered back. At his command, Kepplar was cut free, his uniform already singed. He crawled over to Hochburg and clutched his master’s boots, splattering them in tears.
“Give me one final chance,” he pleaded. He was on his hands and knees, arse in the air. “I won’t fail you again, I will find Cole. I promise.”
“You didn’t really think I’d burn you?” asked Hochburg, his voice mellow and contemptuous.
“No, Walter, no.”
“Of course not. Can you imagine the fucking paperwork!” He roared with laughter. “It’s time to send you home, Derbus.”
Now Kepplar kicked the door with all his feroc
ity. It buckled in the frame but didn’t give. He smashed his jackboot into it again.
There was a crash from the other side.
“He’s barricading it,” said Kepplar.
One of the soldiers opened fire. Kepplar swiped the muzzle to one side: “No shooting!” Outside, the kids round the pool had fallen silent. He grabbed the rifle and used it to batter down the door. It gave way, shunting open enough for him to see that a wardrobe had been toppled across the entrance.
Kepplar squeezed his face into the gap and saw a figure retreating through the room to the window, upturning the bed and sofa as he went, to block his path.
“Burton Cole!” he shouted.
His quarry spun round—for the first time they were face-to-face.
It was impossible to know why Cole obsessed the Oberstgruppenführer so much. He seemed a man—just a man—a feeble threat to the world Hochburg ruled over. He was more haggard than his photograph, with longer hair, the skin around his eyes ringed and drab, the left side of his face mottled with scars. Kepplar knew those features so well it was like seeing an old comrade; part of him wanted to raise his hand in greeting. Later he realized that he had paid no attention to the shape of his skull.
Cole aimed his pistol, fired once, and threw himself off the balcony.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BURTON HIT THE water hard, the impact concertinaing his body. Bubbles roared in his ears. He bumped the bottom, kicked to the surface.
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.