The Afrika Reich

by Guy Saville

  Pain like he had never known. A searing red-white agony as a sliver of chilli spread its fire.

  This time Dolan screamed so loud his mam might have heard him. In the haze of his mind he pictured her: wearing her pinny, scrubbing dishes at the sink, looking up and muttering under her breath about all the racket.

  ‘Rougier!’ yelled Dolan. It was the only thing he could think of. ‘Rougier!’

  Next moment he was free.

  Dolan rolled off the table, crashed on to the ground. His leg roared. Crockery broke beneath him as he shrank himself up into a foetal ball. His groin was ablaze. He hoped he had held off long enough. Hoped it would allow Patrick and the major to escape.

  But most of all he hoped the agony would end.

  Stanleystadt, Kongo

  16 September, 08:00

  ROUGIER closed the door behind Burton and put his finger to his lips. The Frenchman had a face that looked as if it had been battered into shape by truncheons, bulbous nose, inscrutable eyes. He was wearing a cheap safari suit.

  ‘You know the rules,’ came a voice. ‘Guests forbidden.’

  Burton quickly took in the surroundings. They were in a vestibule of a lodging house. On the wall hung a copy of Lanzinger’s ridiculous portrait of the Führer clad in armour, gripping the banner of National Socialism; Hitler as Sir Lancelot! Standing beneath the picture was a tiny wizened lady, her arms crossed.

  There was no sign of Patrick.

  ‘Frau Gift,’ Rougier said to the woman, ‘this is a business colleague of mine, come to discuss mineral rights.’

  Frau Gift was unimpressed. ‘Mineral rights. Looks more like he’s been down a mine.’

  Burton straightened his shirt, aware of the stains on it.

  ‘We shall be no more than half an hour.’

  ‘If you want to talk business, go to your office. I’m trying to have my breakfast. In peace.’

  ‘Please, Frau Gift. Our negotiations are at a crucial stage, will be of great benefit to your Fatherland. Unless you’d rather the rights go to the British. Or maybe Americans …’

  The old woman scowled. Opposite the Führer’s portrait was a cuckoo clock, its hands just after eight. Frau Gift pointed at it. ‘Thirty minutes, no more. If he’s not gone by then, I’ll double your rent for the month. And keep it quiet!’

  Rougier made a curt bow and led Burton away. ‘Bitch,’ he muttered when they were out of earshot. They began climbing a steep staircase.

  There was a rap at the front door.

  ‘The sentry,’ hissed Burton. ‘From outside.’

  They hurried up to the first floor, leaned over the balustrade to listen. Burton reached for his Browning. Rougier’s eyes blinked with alarm.

  ‘Now what?’ sighed Frau Gift as she answered the door. Hushed voices. Burton couldn’t see who was standing there.

  Moments later the old woman stalked back across the vestibule. Alone.

  ‘Keep going,’ said Rougier.

  They went up three more flights to a landing at the top of the building. The place was cool, utilitarian, soulless; smelt of nylon carpets and vinegar. Rougier ushered Burton through a door and bolted it after them. They were in a bathroom. Standing in the corner, gun in hand, was Patrick. When he realised it was them he lowered the Mauser but didn’t put it away.

  Burton began to speak, ‘This is some—’

  Once more Rougier put his finger to his lips. He bent over the bath and turned on the taps. Water came gushing out. ‘The Nazis want as many foreign businessmen in the city as possible, but they don’t trust us,’ he said over the hiss of the taps. ‘I check my room for bugs every week, never find anything. But better safe than sorry.’ He settled himself on the toilet and gestured for Burton and Patrick to sit. His hands reminded Burton of Hochburg’s: big, murderous.

  ‘This is some place you chose,’ resumed Burton, perching himself next to Patrick on the edge of the bath. Opposite them was a mirror.

  ‘They’d never think of looking on their own doorstep,’ replied Rougier. ‘The SS aren’t half as smart as they imagine. You must be Major Cole.’

  Burton nodded.

  ‘Lazlo Rougier.’ Neither of them offered hands. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘We split up. Lapinksi’s dead. Dolan and Vacher were heading for—’

  ‘The others aren’t important now,’ said Patrick. ‘What matters is whether you can help us.’

  Burton spoke. ‘We need you to contact Ackerman, get us out of here.’

  ‘Ackerman’s gone.’

  Patrick flashed Burton a look.

  ‘Back to Rhodesia?’

  ‘Angola. It will take at least twenty-four hours for me to get a message to him. Same again for a reply.’

  ‘Two days?’ said Patrick. ‘We could be dead in two days.’

  ‘What’s he doing in Angola?’ asked Burton.

  Rougier looked at him, a puzzled expression on his battered face. ‘You don’t know?’ When he got no response, Rougier stood and turned to look out of the window at the city below. From his angle on the bath all Burton could see was sky.

  Rougier moved back to face them, his eyes serious. ‘You’d better tell me what happened.’

  ‘We were double-crossed,’ said Patrick. His voice was a growl. ‘We got to the RV and the Nazis were waiting for us. Nebelwerfers, Waffen-SS troops—’

  ‘You were followed?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Somebody betrayed us. I say it was Ackerman. To keep from paying us.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘If not Ackerman, then who? One of us? Impossible. The aircrew? Blown to bits. The Negroes at the training camp? Hardly closet Nazis.’

  ‘The Germans have spies everywhere.’

  Patrick skewered him with a dangerous look. ‘What about you?’

  Burton went to speak but Patrick held up his hand.

  ‘If Ackerman wanted to get rid of us, why not you too? You supplied the jeeps, the weapons – that must have cost. Unless the two of you were in it together. Or Ackerman is innocent and you’re the rat.’

  Rougier shifted uncomfortably. Dug his hands into his pockets.

  ‘You sure seem safe enough here,’ continued Patrick, ‘next door to your SS buddies.’

  The movement was so fast Burton didn’t have time to stop him.

  Patrick leapt up, drove his fist hard into the Frenchman’s sternum. Rougier doubled over, collapsed to his knees. Patrick grabbed him by the hair, forced his head into the toilet bowl and pulled the chain. La leçon de la cuvette. A favourite punishment of the Legion.

  ‘Patrick!’ said Burton. ‘This isn’t going to help.’

  Rougier struggled wildly as his face was engulfed in swirling water. There was a smell of carbolic acid.

  Patrick’s eyes were white. He held fast, plunged Rougier’s face deeper. ‘I was supposed to be with my daughter!’

  The cistern emptied. Patrick let go of the chain, snapped Rougier’s head back until his Adam’s apple was bulging.

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  Rougier was struggling to speak, his mouth foaming with water. ‘Not … spy … Angolan … camp …’

  Patrick shoved his head back into the bowl.

  ‘Quiet!’ said Burton. Over the water and Rougier’s choking he thought he heard something.

  Patrick pulled Rougier back out, clamped his hand over his mouth. The Frenchman bit hard but Patrick ignored it, a trickle of blood oozing between his fingers. Burton pulled out his Browning and opened the door. How much noise had they been making?

  He looked down the landing – nothing – then crept to the stairs. He could see right down to the vestibule: it too was empty. The building creaked around him. Outside he could hear the hum of traffic.

  He moved silently back to the bathroom. ‘Nothing,’ he said, locking the door behind him. The taps were still running.

  Patrick sat slumped on the bath staring at the floor, his fury spent as fast as it had erupted. The lines on his
face seemed deeper. Rougier watched him warily from the corner. ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he said coughing, slicking back his hair. ‘I swear it, on my kids’ lives. And I can’t believe it was Ackerman either.’

  ‘How are you so sure?’

  ‘It’s like you said: if it was him I’d already be face down in the river. He’s more ruthless than he seems.’

  Burton’s head was throbbing. ‘Can you help us?’ he asked.

  Rougier threw a look at Patrick. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because if we’re captured, the only thing we’ve got is your name.’

  ‘I don’t even know what you did.’ He sounded resentful. ‘Ackerman never tells me.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘There are rumours going round the city. An attack on the Schädelplatz. Tell me.’ When Burton said nothing he continued, ‘My job was to organise the Zieges and weapons. That’s all. It wasn’t safe for me to know anything else.’

  ‘You know our names.’

  ‘I’m just a businessman. I help Ackerman out from time to time – but that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It must be his Rhodesian charm,’ said Patrick, still looking at the ground.

  Rougier ignored him. ‘My family never signed up to Vichy. We lost everything, had to flee France. I hate the Nazis. So my motives are … ideological.’ His voice became bitter. ‘I guess I was ripe for Ackerman’s picking. I haven’t even been paid yet.’

  ‘You mentioned an Angolan camp,’ said Burton. ‘What did you mean?’

  ‘If anyone betrayed you it’s them.’

  ‘Why? We’re nothing to do with them,’ said Burton. He sat down next to Patrick and glanced at himself in the mirror. With their shabby clothes and filthy matted hair they looked like a pair of tramps. At least he was free of the SS uniform. The thought of Madeleine seeing him like that had made his stomach retch. Now he felt human again. The stubble on his chin was also a relief.

  ‘Of course you are! They’re the ones that hired you.’

  This time even Patrick looked up.

  ‘We work for Ackerman,’ said Burton.

  ‘And he works with the Angolans. The Resistencia. Is their middle man.’

  ‘Middle man for who?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Burton studied the Frenchman’s face: despite his dripping hair he appeared to be enjoying himself. For once he held the secrets. ‘LMC,’ said Burton. ‘The mining syndicate in Lusaka.’

  ‘You’ve been misled,’ replied Rougier.

  ‘I checked him out.’

  ‘You didn’t look hard enough.’

  ‘Who is he then?’

  ‘Oh no, Major. You want to know who Ackerman is, I want to know what you did. If I’m going to help it’s the least you can offer.’

  Burton turned to Patrick. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I can’t see it matters any more,’ replied the older man. He sighed. ‘We’re assassins.’

  Rougier nodded.

  ‘Our mission was to remove the Governor General,’ said Burton, leaning in closer.

  ‘Remove … remove how?’

  ‘With extreme prejudice. I killed Hochburg with my own hands.’

  ‘You strangled him?’

  Burton saw a flash of silver. ‘Knife. He was taking a percentage of Ackerman’s diamonds, wanted the lot.’

  ‘What on earth would Hochburg need diamonds for? I hear the man lives like a monk.’

  ‘To pay for slaves.’

  Rougier looked at him for a moment, then guffawed. ‘Pay for slaves!’

  ‘There’s a labour shortage.’

  ‘Of course there’s a labour shortage. Has been since Windhuk; deporting the blacks was a stupid idea. But you don’t declare yourself master of Africa, then fork out for slaves on the sly. What do you think the Unterjocher is for? Or POWs? I hear they’re even shipping in Jews now, from Madagaskar. Anyone to work the fields.’

  ‘Why does he need the diamonds then?’

  ‘How the hell am I supposed to know?’

  ‘But you do know who Ackerman is,’ said Patrick.

  ‘He’s nothing as grand as LMC, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’ Rougier paused, relishing his moment. ‘Ackerman is British intelligence.’

  Silence except for the rush of the taps.

  Burton and Patrick looked at each other.

  ‘British intelligence …’ said Burton. His throat felt slack. ‘Why didn’t he tell us?’

  ‘Most intelligence officers prefer to keep it quiet,’ replied Rougier. ‘He works out of Loanda. The British have a consulate there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Burton absently, ‘I know it.’ He’d been there once before on a trip back from DSWA. It was in the old part of the city, a white building with green shutters and a view of the bay. He tried to picture Ackerman there with his sombre suit and Rhodesian accent but the image kept slipping. All he could see was him standing in the orchard back home laughing at him. What about your quinces …

  ‘You see,’ said Patrick. ‘He didn’t play us straight from the start.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove he set us up.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Rougier. ‘Whatever his reason for lying, I still can’t see why he’d betray you. It must have been the Angolans. The Resistencia is riddled with spies. Ackerman knew as much.’

  ‘Then why trust them?’ demanded Patrick. ‘Why set up the mission? Why come all the way to England to find Burton?’

  Rougier stepped back into the corner, raised his hands. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And why, for fuck’s sake, would British intelligence want to kill Hochburg?’

  ‘I don’t know! You’d have to go to Loanda, ask him yourself. You’d—’

  The sound of wood splitting.

  An axe crashed through the door.

  It was prised out, came crashing down again, breaking open a hole. Through the gap Burton saw a swarm of black uniforms and BK44s. Heard Frau Gift screeching: ‘I told you they were in there! I told you!’

  Burton pulled his Browning and fired at the door. In the enclosed space of the bathroom the sound was ear-bursting. The lead blackshirt tumbled back, blood spraying the tiles. The old woman screamed.

  Patrick tugged at the window. ‘It’s locked.’ He got out his own pistol and aimed at the glass. Another deafening retort. Glass flew everywhere.

  Beyond the door Burton heard breeches being pulled on machine guns.

  ‘No,’ came a voice. ‘We need them alive.’

  Patrick flipped his gun in his hand, used the handle to smash out the jagged teeth of glass still left in the frame. Then he was pulling himself up and out.

  The axe smashed into the door again.

  Burton turned to Rougier. All the blood had drained from his face. ‘Move!’

  ‘I’ll hold them off.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Burton, shoving him towards the window.

  The Frenchman gingerly stood on the toilet and began to heave himself out.

  The axe came down again. A few more blows and they’d be through. ‘Quickly!’

  Rougier’s legs disappeared upwards.

  Burton leapt to the window, moved himself into position. He looked down: a three-storey fall on to concrete. Below, a brownshirt stared up, gawping.

  The door burst inwards.

  Burton aimed the Browning again. Pulled the trigger: once, twice. Another two soldiers dropped in an explosion of blood. A spurt of gunfire came back, bullets ricocheting off the tiles and enamel bath.

  Burton fired one more round and hauled himself out of the window.

  THEY were on the roof.

  It was terracotta tiled, led to the next building and the one after that. To the east and west the city sprawled towards the jungle; north was the river. Looming behind them was SS headquarters. From this higher elevation Burton could see the top of it: there was a landing pad and Flettner helicopter. It was armed
with twin MK108 cannon.

  Rougier looked as if he were about to be sick. ‘I hate heights.’

  ‘Which way?’ said Patrick.

  ‘Towards the river,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘If we can make it to the Börse we’ll be able to get back down. Disappear.’

  ‘Go!’ said Burton. He was still perched on the edge above the bathroom window. ‘I’ll catch up.’

  Patrick and Rougier began running along the spine of the roof, their arms held out like tightrope walkers.

  Beneath him Burton heard someone climbing out of the window. A hand appeared on the eaves, then another. The type of hand that had shoved and slapped Madeleine before she fled Austria. Next moment an SS trooper heaved himself on to the roof.

  Burton kicked him hard in the face.

  The trooper tumbled backwards, screaming. Seconds later there was a thud on the street below. A car braked sharply.

  Patrick and Rougier had already leapt on to the next building. Burton raced after them, willing himself not to slip. He couldn’t see the ground from here – just the pitch of the roof and a drop into nothing. The soles of his boots felt as if they had been sheened. What he wouldn’t give for his ones back home: they gripped like glue.

  He heard shouts from behind. Two other blackshirts had managed to scale the roof. A volley of bullets sparked around him.

  Burton approached the edge at full speed. He jumped and came crashing down on the next building. His ankle buckled, almost toppling him, but he regained his balance. Patrick and Rougier were just ahead. Burton spun round, pulled his Browning and fired twice. Both shots missed, the troopers ducked down.

  Opposite them, several black figures had appeared on the roof of SS HQ. One of the troopers was spinning his hand at them. ‘Los!’ he shouted. ‘Fahren Sie Los!’

  Burton saw Rougier struggling to keep pace with Patrick. He caught up with him. They jumped to the next building. And the next. And the one after that. Then the one sound Burton had dreaded.

  Rougier looked behind them, almost lost his balance. His eyes were giddy.

  The whirr of rotor blades. Getting faster and faster.

  The helicopter was preparing to take off.

  Burton grabbed Rougier’s arm, steadied him. ‘Keep moving!’

  ‘We have to get over there,’ said Rougier, motioning to the roofs on the other side of the street. Otherwise we’ll hit 25 Mai. It’s too big to jump.’