by Guy Saville
‘I never meant her to get hurt.’
‘You know the worst? She wept for you. At Quimbundo. Wept for your wife back in Portugal, your children …’
Penhor turned away, wouldn’t meet her glare.
Neliah felt sick in her belly.
Silence.
From far, far away came the rumble of aeroplanes. Somewhere in the room Neliah smelt tobacco – like the charutos Papai used to smoke when there were times to celebrate.
Suddenly she understood everything. Everything. She went to speak – but couldn’t drag the words from her mouth.
‘So are you British intelligence?’ asked Burton. ‘Or part of the Resistance?’
Penhor glanced at the second door before he answered. ‘I work for the British … “encouraging” the Angolans. They’re bloody useless these people. Need constant prodding to keep the pressure on Kongo.’
‘And the diamonds?’
‘It’s true what they said at Dolan’s trial. The British have been bankrolling the Resistance. You see, once the Germans controlled the quarries in the south they had no interest in North Angola. Were never going to invade – unless they were provoked. I just gave a helping hand.’
‘But why would the British want the Krauts to invade? It doesn’t make sense.’
Neliah found her tongue. ‘It was you.’
Penhor turned from Burton. Fixed her with a look. ‘What?’
‘You. You killed them at the railway. Poisoned them.’
Penhor made no reply. He walked over to the thick curtains that blocked the window, parted them and stared at the street below. Neliah saw the ghost of his hand in the glass. Beyond the city was darkness.
‘It was Gonsalves’s fault,’ he said. ‘My plan was to return to Loanda with the troops. They would join the defence of the city, I would disappear: get back to the consulate and then Britain. Except Gonsalves wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. Kept arguing about the tunnel. How we must destroy it. That such a task should never have been left to a “nig-girl”.’
‘So you fed them poison.’
‘I wasn’t going to let Gonsalves balls-up our plans. They’d taken far too long for that. Were too important.’ Penhor turned back to the room. ‘He kept whispering, twisted the others against me. Convinced them they should go to the tunnel. I had a bloody mutiny on my hands! Those who didn’t eat the food I had to shoot.’
‘But we saw your body.’
‘You saw my uniform. Despite these barbaric times one still needs to exercise a certain caution … even if you’re working for the greater good.’ He ran his tongue between his teeth and top lip. ‘It was better to cover my tracks. I’m sorry you saw it.’
Neliah stared at him without blinking. The filthy reek of his lemon-water skin filled her nose. Made her want to spit.
‘Don’t pity them, girl,’ continued Penhor, ‘especially not Gonsalves. He died cursing me and your sister.’
She knew he was trying to win her to his side. Neliah felt as if dendes were burrowing under her skin. ‘They were Angolans!’
‘They served a higher cause.’
‘What about the dynamite?’
Penhor gave a little smile, nodded. ‘I knew you’d disobey my orders, go back to the tunnel. The detonators were faulty. Same as the first time I sent you.’
‘I still did it! Smashed it into the river.’
‘Yes, and nearly ruined everything we planned. I underestimated you, Senhora.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Burton. He was frowning. ‘What’s so damn important about this tunnel?’
Penhor rolled his eyes towards him, but didn’t reply.
In the end it was another voice that answered. ‘Everything, Major. Everything.’ It came from behind the other door. A man in uniform stepped out, blew smoke. ‘It’s why we sent you to Africa in the first place.’
On the sidewalk near the consular building was a palm tree, the lower half of its trunk painted white. Patrick limped over to it and slid to the ground. He was beat, his body like a sandbag that someone had split open and shaken loose. His ankle had been gnawing him since Barraca.
He put down the weapons he’d been entrusted with and checked the wound. His sock was soaked. He rooted through the medical kit, found some iodine and a bandage, applied them. The only painkiller was morphine: way too powerful.
Patrick rolled his sock back up and leaned his head against the palm. Fought the urge to close his eyes. Every time he shut them he saw Zuri again, reaching out, helpless. Accusing. Why didn’t you save me?
Outside the consulate some of the marines were helping to load a truck. The rest scanned the street, kept giving him suspicious glares. Dogs scampered past. From somewhere came the sound of sawing. In the dark thoroughfares beyond, the city seemed to be holding its breath. He’d give Burton a few minutes more, then go find him.
Patrick reached for his pipe. Put it in his mouth, instinctively turning it upside down because of the blackout.
Pulled it straight back out again.
The bowl was cracked in half, part of it missing.
He’d bought it in Argonne during the Great War, a month before the Armistice. It had survived the trenches, the flu pandemic afterwards, the Legion, Spain, Dunkirk, the mercenary years in Africa – and never once a chip. It was his lucky mascot. As long as the pipe stayed in one piece, so would he.
He dropped it on the ground, shifted away from it as if it were a dead animal.
Don’t be a dumbass, Patrick told himself. It’s just a superstition. The port was less than three miles away, and afterwards – America, Hannah, a train west to Las Cruces. Father and daughter. In the years left to him he was going to take good care of her. She’d never want for anything.
At one of the consulate’s windows, the blackout curtains parted for an instant. Patrick saw a glimmer of sickly light, a hand. Then they closed again.
Something uneasy stirred in his gut.
To ward it off Patrick concentrated on Hannah. The dread of never seeing her again had been replaced by hope. He pictured her greeting him as he finally stepped back on American soil. Curls of blonde hair whipping in the breeze, laughter and tears. Silence. He had no idea what her voice sounded like now that she was a young woman. It might be warm and folksy like his wife Ruth’s had been. Or the leaden tone of his mother. What if he didn’t like it? What if she had the type of giggling laugh that made him want to grit his teeth?
He thought of something Ruth often said, that homespun wisdom she was so fond of and he couldn’t bear. Pat, you’re happy cooking the stew – but you don’t wanna eat it.
Something moved in the corner of his eye.
Patrick glanced down at his pipe. It was trembling, edging in his direction. He frowned. Reached out for it. Felt the ground vibrate beneath his hand.
Patrick stood, slung the medical kit and Enfield over his shoulder; put Burton’s Browning down his belt, gripped Neliah’s machete. The street was empty, even the dogs had fled. He began to walk away from the consulate, in the direction of the Governor’s Palace.
Then he heard it – a low, faint rumbling.
The sound was growing louder, inside it another noise. A squeaking: high-pitched and mechanical. Patrick walked till he reached a right turn, came to a standstill. In front of him was a pink-painted wall, daubed with graffiti urging Loanda’s citizens never to surrender:
DEFEND! FIGHT! WIN!
ANGOLA SHITS ON THE SS
SEE YA! I’M ON THE NEXT BOAT TO LISBOA
He could feel the vibrations in his feet now, rising up through the soles of his boots. His ankle recoiled.
Another sound: the growl of exhaust fumes.
He took a step back, his stomach tightening like a fist.
The wall in front of him collapsed.
‘Holy shit!’
Patrick ran.
Ran back towards the consulate, legs pumping. The marines raised their Sten guns as he dashed towards them. For the briefest instant he was tempted to
fly straight past to the docks.
‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ he said, skidding to a halt. ‘Let me in.’
The sergeant held up his palm. ‘We can’t do that—’
‘I haven’t got time to argue. Just let me through.’
One of the marines stared down the street, gun wilting in his hands. ‘God help us … It’s started.’
The others followed his gaze. Patrick saw his chance. Barged past them into the building.
‘Stop!’
The nearest marine tore after him. Patrick whirled round, swung the butt of his rifle against him, knocked him for a home run. In the street: the first gunshots.
He tore into the vestibule. Above him the chandelier was tinkling, glass against glass.
‘Burton!’ he shouted. ‘Burton!’
Patrick opened all the doors he could see. Found nothing but empty rooms and abandoned offices.
‘Burton! Where are you?’
He spun around desperately; raced to the top of the stairs. Found himself in a corridor: a dozen wooden doors, all identical.
Began to kick down every last one.
04:25
BURTON recognised him at once, had seen his image in newsreels and papers. The grey uniform and Knight’s Cross; pencil moustache and bald head, the ears. Der Elefant.
Field Marshal Hans-Jürgen von Arnim.
It was like that moment at Mupe when the plane had exploded. Burton felt as if he were dropping into some bottomless black vortex, limbs flapping. Was almost overwhelmed by disbelief, confusion. A primal urge to run.
Neliah seemed to sense his disquiet, edged closer. ‘Who is he?’ she whispered.
Burton spoke so the whole room could hear: ‘His name’s Arnim.’
‘He’s a Nazista?’
‘No, a soldier. Commander of the Afrika Korps.’
There was a cigar in Arnim’s mouth. He took a contemplative drag on it, the tip flaring red; held the smoke in his lungs. ‘And you must be Major Cole,’ he replied.
Burton turned to Ackerman, unable to hide his contempt. ‘You were working for the Krauts all along.’
‘Not for them, Major. With them.’
‘Same fucking difference.’
‘No. This was never about Britain or Germany. It’s about Africa. The future. We’ve been at this together.’
‘Together …’ Burton suddenly felt an unspeakable weariness. He wanted to sit down, let his head droop. Couldn’t even remember what had driven him to Africa in the first place. He tried to fit the pieces. ‘Against Hochburg?’
‘Precisely,’ said Arnim. ‘The man’s a danger to us all. Is – how do you British say? – “a loose cannon”. He won’t be happy till the whole continent is drowning in blood.’
‘But I thought he had Germania’s blessing.’
‘The Führer’s mind has been twisted,’ replied Arnim, his lips puckering. ‘By Himmler, Hochburg. They’re hoodlums. Crooks, murderers. The Führer has no idea what’s going on in Africa.’
‘No one cared for the last ten years.’
‘Believe me, there are those of us in Germania, in the Wehrmacht, who have worried for a long time. Same with you British. Then came the news that forced us to act.’ Arnim paused, took another deep draw on his cigar. ‘Six months ago an officer of the Abwehr approached me about Hochburg. An intelligence report about the twenty per cent cut he was taking from LMC. Of course I already knew about that, but the officer had something else. Something the SS wanted kept streng geheim. Top secret. Do you know what Hochburg has been doing with his diamonds?’
Burton shook his head.
‘He’s been buying bodies.’
‘Bodies?’
‘Of fallen soldiers, German soldiers. Despite Hochburg’s proclaimed mastery of Africa, we’re still losing plenty of men. To the insurgents, disease. Here’s a fact Herr Goebbels always omits from his weekly broadcast: eight thousand dead since 1950. Almost three thousand this year alone. And that doesn’t even include the “ethnics”.’
Arnim threw his cigar on the floor, crushed it under his boot. The bitter stench of ash.
‘Meanwhile Hochburg has been using the diamonds to bribe officials. Bribing them to sign off empty coffins as they arrive in the Fatherland while the corpses remain here. To be defiled. Ground up into his autobahn.’ Arnim’s lips narrowed with disgust. ‘He has this lunatic notion of “Aryanising” the soil of Africa. Making it white.’
Burton considered the Schädelplatz, the vista he’d been forced to admire. ‘The man’s a fanatic. What do you expect?’
‘It’s not ideology, it’s madness. Desecration, pure and simple. I couldn’t sit by and let this happen. A commander’s duty is always to his men, and their memory. Hochburg had to be stopped.’
‘But I failed,’ said Burton. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Of course you failed,’ retorted Arnim. ‘What would Hochburg be to us dead? Another martyr to National Socialism? Another name to evoke on Heldentag? I don’t think so! The plan was to destroy his myth, not build a new one. We always wanted you to fail.’
Burton looked from the field marshal to Ackerman. ‘Then why send me?’
Neither replied.
Arnim flicked away the cigar butt with the toe of his boot.
‘A lot of people have died for this,’ said Burton. ‘Dolan, Vacher, Lapinski. Nares. Men under my command.’ His eyes pierced Ackerman’s. ‘Your “special” Zuri. The least you owe me is an explanation.’
For a long moment he was met with silence.
Then Arnim spoke: ‘Very well, Major, as one soldier to another.’ He straightened the Knight’s Cross at his throat. ‘It should all have ended in ’43, at Casablanca. The treaty was a good one. Returned the colonies we’d lost after Versailles, extended our territories; guaranteed yours. Brought stability to us all. Prosperity. But Hochburg never thought so. He believed Africa was Germany’s by right. Was so obsessed with the blacks that he wanted dominion over them all, the whole continent. Worse still, he’s cunning, patient—’
Yes, thought Burton, like he was with my mother.
‘—won over Germania with his so-called achievements: the mineral wealth, new cities. The Windhuk Decree, what he did in Muspel.’ A derisive snort. ‘Helped build up the SS till its tentacles were curled around everything: trade, agriculture, labour. Created an army to rival the Afrika Korps. Then he bided his time. It’s no coincidence that all this is happening now – in the same year that the German sections of the PAA have been completed. When he can finally move his forces with ease.
‘But it’s hubris. What with the insurgencies in Aquatoriana and western Kongo we can barely maintain the territory we have, let alone further conquest. And exactly who is going to settle all this new land? Or work it? Peace is the only viable future.’
‘You still found enough men to invade Angola,’ said Burton.
Arnim made a dismissive gesture. ‘What’s going on here is a necessary sideshow. Nothing on the scale Hochburg envisions. His war will plunge us into chaos, destroy everything we have in Africa. North Angola is merely part of our strategy.’
‘And how do the British fit into all this?’
‘Forget the charade for the cameras, all those joint communiqués and Halifax’s smiles. Secretly, your Colonial Office has been fearful of Hochburg’s territorial ambitions for years. The whole of southern Africa could be drawn in. Imagine the destruction, how many would be killed – and I’m not just talking about the blacks. It might even spark new hostilities in Europe.’
‘So Ackerman came knocking on your door.’
‘There are others who share my views in the Wehrmacht, in Germania. Discreet men. Men with the right channels to London. When we learned that LMC wanted rid of Hochburg, and that British intelligence was prepared to do the dirty work, we saw an opportunity for us all. So we devised a plan together: stage Hochburg’s assassination, let it be a disaster. Then leave a trail back to Rhodesia and Britain. Pander to his paranoia,
his ridiculous sense of destiny. Provoke him to invade like he so desperately wanted.’
Burton put his hand to his face, felt his calloused fingers against his eyes. This was insane! ‘What if I’d succeeded?’ he said. ‘Killed him instead of his decoy.’
‘Why do you think there was a decoy in the first place? Or that the Waffen-SS were waiting for you at Mupe?’
‘You warned him.’
Ackerman answered. ‘That Vichy shit Rougier. I knew he was Gestapo, so used him to arrange the jeeps and weapons. It followed he’d expose the plot.’
‘But they might have arrested us as soon as we arrived in Kongo.’
‘No. They needed to catch you red-handed. Only that would give them the full … “justification” to act.’
‘I saw panzers along the PAA,’ said Burton. ‘Waffen-SS markings.’
‘Hochburg’s army,’ replied Arnim. ‘Ready to roll into Northern Rhodesia.’ He glanced at Neliah, smiled at her the way he might a kitten he was about to drown. ‘Which is why we needed the tunnel left intact. Which is why engineers from the Afrika Korps have already built a new bridge across it.’
‘And when they reach the border?’
‘Four squadrons of Typhoons have been flown in from Britain. They’ll pick off Hochburg’s panzers one by one. Afterwards, your 8th Army is waiting in Solwezi. They bloodied our nose at El Alamein, this time it will be a knockout punch. Hochburg doesn’t expect any resistance. We can stop him before he starts.’ Arnim smiled again. ‘It will be a personal pleasure to watch him limp back to the Schädelplatz, bowed by his own ambition.’
Burton was struggling to make sense of it all. He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘You really think this will finish him?’
‘For fifteen years the Reich has known nothing but victory. Defeat will taste all the more bitter. They won’t be able to pin this one on Versailles.’
‘It might rally them to the cause.’
‘I doubt it. More likely those plumped-up pheasants in Germania will be falling over each other to blame someone. Who better than Hochburg far away in Africa? If I know Himmler he’ll gladly offer him up to save his own worthless hide.’
‘But you won’t have got rid of the SS.’