by Guy Saville
“On the understanding that you maintain order,” said the admiral. “This new rebellion is like wildfire.”
Globus responded furiously. “Are there Jews outside your door? Is Diego ablaze?”
“Not at present. But should the situation worsen, I remind you I have the authority to take whatever measures to defend my base. And the island.”
“That will never happen. I’ll deal with the bandits.”
“And if they do attack?”
“Then I burn them into the ground.”
“By then it will be too late,” said Dommes coldly. “You need to restore order now.”
“The Kriegsmarine needn’t worry; I’m tightening the noose. But can’t you see that this is the Jews’ plan: to set us against each other when we should be celebrating. What time shall I expect you and your officers later? You always enjoyed my birthday before.”
An incredulous pause, then: “I’ve too much to do here.”
The line went dead.
Globus leaned back in his chair again, teetering, daring it to give way. The walls of his office were covered with photographs of his many glories. At that moment, however, his focus was on a small picture of his father, hung in the space the door opened on to. His mother had given it to him when he became the gauleiter of Vienna; a reminder, she told him. At first he kept it out of sight, but after he was dismissed he started hanging it up wherever he was posted. His father had been a deserter during the Great War; Globus never wanted to shame the family like that again. Certainly not because of Jews.
There was a knock at the door, and Globus’s physician entered. He had the manner of a man with no worries in this world. This is how my subordinates live, thought Globocnik, thanks to the burden on my back.
He offered his arm (he was still in the short sleeves of his riding kit) as the doctor opened a small case and removed a syringe and a vial. Globus had requested a double dose of his regular tonic, with additional testosterone to boost the vitamins and amphetamine. His head was thumping like the hammers outside. He needed to stay fresh. His last proper night’s sleep had been on the Friday when Hochburg arrived and roused him early from bed. Ruin had threatened since.
Globus looked away as the doctor administered the injection—he hated needles—his eyes returning to the walls. Pinned among the photos were the architectural plans for the governor’s mansion he proposed to build in Ostmark. They were based on his own sketches, another of his neo-Mesopotamian designs. He intended to live out his final years there and afterward bequeath the building to the SS—assuming he got out of this shithole. He feared that as a punishment Himmler would make him the lifelong governor of Madagaskar instead of dismissing him. What a place for a man to die.
The doctor finished the injection, wished him a happy birthday, and left.
Globus was thinking of Hochburg again. In the space of forty-eight hours, he had tipped the island from challenging to a fucking calamity. What was his game? Why come searching for Jews? Perhaps Hochburg wanted to destabilize the island in order to bring it under his own control. On the phone to Himmler, he’d asked outright what Hochburg was up to. He’s in Kongo, replied the Reichsführer, winning the war. If only I could say the same for you.
Globocnik stood, screeching his chair out from his desk, and flexed his arm. It was time to pay his prisoner a visit.
* * *
Hochburg sat in darkness, hands cuffed behind him. Dull arcs of pain radiated from his dead eye, spreading across his skull like a map of shipping routes. The pain was aggravated by the noise outside: sawing, hammering, the cries of men at work. He took level breaths, each one flooding his nose with a fusty odor. The room he was being held in had the reek of a wardrobe stuffed with fur coats. It was too dark to see properly, but after he’d regained consciousness and his vision adjusted, he thought he could make out hundreds of eyes watching him. At his back he sensed a guard: a trunk of a man, trained in silence. Once Hochburg had spoken to him—but he made no reply.
From the corridor Hochburg heard bolts being snapped, then approaching boots and the ping of spurs. He was unconcerned: Globus had nothing to threaten him with; nor could he hold him prisoner indefinitely. Kepplar must be closing in on Burton, and once he captured the boy he would seek Hochburg. He cherished his release; his first act would be to court-martial Globocnik.
There were whispers outside the room, the door opened, and someone stood before him. He recognized Globus’s yeasty breath.
“Why am I being held here?” Hochburg demanded. “On what charges? When Heinrich learns of this—”
“There are no charges, Oberstgruppenführer; otherwise you’d be in a prison cell. You’re here for your own safety. You’ve had some kind of … nervous breakdown.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s no shame in it,” said Globus. “I had one myself in forty-three. All those things they made me do. It’s easy to give orders when you’re in Germania, far from the ice and offal. We’re decent men, but sooner or later these things take their toll. You must be under immense stress with Kongo.”
“I haven’t had a breakdown.”
“How else can I excuse your behavior? I told you not to go to Antzu, or the Ark, yet both times you defied me. Now there’s chaos. So you must be out of your mind … unless you have a better explanation.”
Globus switched on the lights and moved to a liquor cabinet while Hochburg took in his surroundings. A guard was pointing a BK44 at his chest.
“Impressive, no?” said Globus, pouring himself a glass of schnapps. He knocked it down his throat. “We’re deep in the palace; down here no one can hear us.”
The room was an Aladdin’s cave of taxidermy. A stuffed crocodile, tortoise, dozens of species of lemurs, some kind of bizarre big cat. Perched on the wall opposite, from floor to ceiling, were shelves of birds, their glass eyes reflecting the light.
“My private collection,” said Globus. “I shot each one myself, not just in Madagaskar but before.” He indicated behind Hochburg. “I had them brought with me from the East; they’re like old friends.”
Hochburg twisted in his seat, the cuffs digging into his wrists. Rearing up behind him, paws held out in attack, was a black bear, three meters tall. Globus served himself another schnapps and stretched out on a chaise longue. Dotted around the room were sofas and armchairs; in one corner was a gramophone. Not a single book, noted Hochburg.
Globus swilled his drink. “You’ve caused me untold trouble. The rebellion is spreading, like I said it would. If the Jews believe even Antzu isn’t safe, what control is there? I’ve got farms rising up, plantations ablaze. Livestock slaughtered. That’s revenue and profit lost. But it’s no longer the Pig Rebellion. It’s the Hochburg Rebellion: you’re the spark.” He leapt to his feet, screaming, “Is that why you’re here? You want Madagaskar for yourself?”
In the silence that followed, the only sound was the construction outside and Globus puffing. He took something silver and sharp from his pocket and pressed it against Hochburg’s remaining eye.
Hochburg didn’t flinch. He’d sooner be blind, with Kepplar as his fool leading him around Africa, than divulge a word. Globus smiled and revealed a key in his hand. He undid the cuffs around Hochburg’s wrists.
“You want this island,” said Globus, “you’re welcome to it. It’s nothing but grief.” He returned to the cabinet, his voice suddenly obliging. “Let’s have a drink.”
“Water.”
“I forgot; you don’t touch the booze.” He was incredulous, as if talking to a man who didn’t breathe or shit. Globus handed over an Apollinaris and paced the room. “Do you remember the first time we met, Walter? It was at Windhuk. I thought, There’s a man like me. A man I can do business with.”
Hochburg was thirsty but sipped his water, reluctant to wash away the last taste of Madeleine. “We’re nothing alike.”
“We’re both ambitious, do a dangerous job for a people who don’t care, up to our necks i
n the racial sewer. When we succeed, no one notices; it’s only when things fuck up that they’re on our backs.”
“You’re just a thug,” replied Hochburg, “who enjoys the power of killing.”
Globus flushed but managed to curb his temper. “This from the master of Muspel. You’ve burned enough blacks to bury this island in ash.”
“From which I took little pleasure. I’m a utopian, not a murderer.”
Globus broke into a hearty crow of laughter, which lasted until he realized Hochburg wasn’t joking. He paused next to a lemur and stroked its fur as though it were a cat. “Let me tell you about utopia, Oberstgruppenführer: 16 June 1992. The Führer and I speak of it often. A day that will live as long as men walk the earth. The date we calculate the whole world will be Jew-free.”
“And how do you plan to achieve this ‘miracle’?”
“You saw the reservation, the bulldozers at work. We’re building a new phase for Argentina’s Jews. President Perón has agreed to it with the Führer. It’s secret; they start arriving in September.” He rubbed his face. “Another reason I need to stamp out this rebellion. Brazil will follow. By the end of the decade, South America will be as rid of Jewry as Europe.”
“You forget the United States.”
“Eventually, they’ll submit, too. Once the rest of the world is cured of the Jewish pathogen, it will stride forward with us, leaving America to lag behind. Decay. Eventually, the Yankees will realize their mistake; sometime in the seventies is our prediction. After that, they won’t be able to ship them here fast enough. A generation of monsoon and malaria”—he made a triumphant click, like a neck being snapped—“and the Jew will be no more.”
“You believe this fairy tale?”
“It breaks the Führer’s heart to think he won’t live to see it.”
“The Jews have power in Washington. Influence.”
“I discussed it with their previous envoy. After a bottle or two, he agreed that this was the future.”
“But not Nightingale.”
“Don’t talk to me about him. He’s been pissing in my ear since I got back from Antzu.” Globus put on a surprisingly realistic American accent: “I have reports that you destroyed the synagogue. That you’re interning more of the population. The reservations are already at bursting. Now you’re clearing Antzu. I insist that you stop.”
Hochburg shifted on his seat; he wanted a breath that wasn’t mangy with fur. “Is it true?”
“Your meddling left me no choice.”
“Nightingale’s right. Remember what he said at the dam: they want to send a warship. Since Taft was elected, things have shifted. You must see that.”
Globus picked at his ear.
“It will hamper my efforts in Kongo,” said Hochburg. “I’ll need more of your troops. Your own position will suffer.”
“Then I liquidate the Jews, and I won’t need any men at all.”
Hochburg’s reply was severe: “Don’t even think it. You’ll drag the United States into the region, maybe the war in Africa.”
“Americans draw their red lines … then do nothing.”
“You’ll never see Ostmark.”
“Or maybe the Reichsführer will sit me on a golden throne. He’s not intimidated by America, either. But I’m bored of this. I want to know why you’re here. Last chance.”
When Hochburg remained silent, Globus finished his schnapps. “Then I’ve something to show you.”
They left the trophy room, Hochburg prodded at each step by the guard’s BK44. He watched Globus’s fat back and royal swagger as they climbed a staircase and emerged into the garden Hochburg had seen when he first arrived. He sucked in gulps of air tinged with damp vegetation and sleeping flowers. On the terrace, a gang of carpenters were at work beneath arc lights. They were building a gallows.
“For my birthday celebrations,” said Globus. “A tradition I started in the East.”
“Who’s the drop for?” asked Hochburg, impressed by the size of the construction: there were places for at least twenty nooses.
“That depends on whether you talk.”
Globus led him to another staircase. “This is the north side of the palace,” he explained as they descended. “It’s where my offices are, and, at the bottom, the dungeons. They were the only part of the original building I kept.” They reached the lowest level, and he shot Hochburg a pointed look. “This is where the queen of Madagascar used to lock up traitors.”
They passed through a series of locked doors that were heaved open by guards till they reached their destination. “Perhaps now you’ll tell me.”
Globus unbolted the door and thrust Hochburg inside, the ceiling forcing them both to stoop. The room was dingy and packed with stinking, shuffling prisoners. The stench of human excrement was thick as fog.
“I couldn’t see the point of plumbing down here,” said Globus, covering his mouth. “Lights!”
An electric lamp illuminated the cell.
At first Hochburg didn’t understand what he was seeing. Then the anger surged through him and, for the first time, a tremor of fear.
From the corridor came the nick of boots on stone. An adjutant appeared at the door. “Obergruppenführer—”
“Not now.” He was watching Hochburg’s reaction intently.
“It’s an emergency.”
The adjutant spoke into his ear. Hochburg didn’t catch the news—but the air crackled around Globus. “Radio back,” he said. “Tell them to use maximum force. I’ll be on my way soon.”
Hochburg stared at the prisoners’ terrified faces and kept his voice indifferent. “I’ve no idea why you’ve brought me here.”
Globus waded among his captives. “You think I’d let you leave my island without first checking your cargo?”
Crammed inside the dungeon were the scientists Hochburg had gathered for his superweapon. He searched desperately for the most important.
As if reading his thoughts, Globus said, “I know one of them is Feuerstein; I learned that much on the Ark. But you’ve trained your monkeys well: none will talk, even when encouraged.” On the floor lay several bodies with bullets through their skulls, one stripped naked.
Hochburg spoke in a whisper: “This is beyond anything you can understand. If you want Ostmark, you mustn’t harm another of them.”
“Does Heinrich know you’re such a Yid lover?”
“It won’t be just the ruin of your career, or mine; it will see the end of everything in Africa. Possibly the Reich itself.”
“For a few stinking Jews?” Globus screwed up his face in disbelief. “You’re lying. Talk—or I swear I’ll shoot every last one until you do.”
Hochburg said nothing.
He refused to allow his secret to fall into the hands of a man like Globocnik. He kept checking the prisoners and found Feuerstein hunched at the rear of the cell. Their eyes met for the briefest moment.
“Or I could shoot them for fun,” suggested Globus with a leer. “Or just because they’re yours.”
He snatched one of the guard’s pistols and waved it carelessly into the crowd. When Hochburg didn’t react, he grinned, but there was frustration in his face.
“I must leave—important work for the Reichsführer. We’ll talk more later.” He turned to a guard. “Take him back to the trophy room.”
As Hochburg was led away, he glanced at Feuerstein. He had discarded his suit and was in a tattered, soiled uniform, his face streaked with filth. The scientist didn’t return his gaze; he retreated into the shadows, an animal again.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Nachtstadt
20 April, 21:15
BURTON FOUGHT HIS way through the herd of hogs. The animals were restless, squealing, disturbed by the gunfire and thunder. A rippling lake of blond flesh and bristles. Between gunshots Burton heard another sound, one he couldn’t identify. It stirred memories of chasing through the jungle as a boy and stumbling across loggers. Hochburg had warned him to avoid them: the
y were wicked men; felling trees killed the spirit of the forest.
Burton slapped pigs out of his way, working out where he had last seen Madeleine’s brother. As he’d slipped down the hillside, sore with regret about Tünscher, he’d kept his gaze fixed on the spot, but now, among the pens, he was lost. He began checking every sty, poking his head inside. Blasts of ammonia stung his eyes.
Behind him he thought he heard a voice.
Burton doubled back, trying to locate the sound, and ducked beneath a corrugated roof that drummed with rain. Abner was on his knees, surrounded by open boxes, cradling a piece of equipment. He saw Burton’s uniform and lunged for him.
They tumbled to the floor, crates breaking under them, rolling in shit and straw. Burton took a blow to the eye; another landed on his sternum, firing acid into his throat. He retaliated cautiously, wary of knocking Abner unconscious. He wedged the stump of his arm against Abner’s throat and jabbed the Beretta into his kneecap.
“I’m not going to shoot,” he said. “My name’s Burton Cole, I’m Madeleine’s—” He felt coy, unsure how to describe himself; lover seemed inappropriate. “I’ve come to find your sister.”
He released the Beretta and held it wide. “Where is she?”
Abner rolled away, rubbing his neck, and flashed him a furious stare. There was a squeak to his voice from when Burton had pressed against his windpipe.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“She went with Salois. To the radio hut.” He revealed the piece of equipment he’d been holding. “I found it in the boxes. They could have used it instead.” It was a field phone and transmitter pack, the type used by the British Army.
“Why did you let her go? It’s too dangerous.”