The Madagaskar Plan (50 page)

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 in 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: they 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.”

“I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“We’ve got to save her.”

Abner squared his glasses and rubbed his throat again. He took the transmitter out of its canvas case and began filling the empty pack with dynamite.

Burton picked up a bundle, wondering if it could help; without a detonator it was useless as a brick. “I haven’t got time for this.”

“Salois needs the dynamite. He’s going to attack Diego”—he grinned—“to bring the Americans.”

As soon as Abner was finished, they went back into the rain. It was like wading into the currents of a swift river. The pigs had grown more agitated; they were scrambling around in the mud, knocking into one another, snarling, their fear contagious. Burton and Abner were bumped along as they headed for the gate, constantly driven off course. Beyond, the barracks had been set alight. The downpour was too heavy for a blaze to take hold; clouds of tarry smoke billowed upward. Not all the buildings had been torched. Workers stood on the remaining roofs, a few with rifles, and urged the rest to revolt. Remembering what happened on the Ark, Burton peeled off his tunic: it might prove helpful later but could get him killed now.

“Put this in your backpack,” he said to Abner.

“No. Why?”

“Just do it.”

Lightning bleached the sky for a second … then a cymbal crash of thunder that reverberated through the ground. The pigs’ panic intensified. They charged blindly, propelling Burton and Abner toward the gate. Burton had a slipping, drowning sensation; his boots skimmed the ground.

He smashed into the fence, the mass of pale bodies crushing, then bouncing him against the mesh. A din of squealing and ricocheting metal. Abner’s face was squashed into the wire. Through it, Burton saw the workers attack the railings around their compound and bring down a section. Farther into the farm, through the haze of rain and smoke, was the radio room, its windows throbbing red. The soldiers he’d spied earlier had abandoned it and were gathered around a water tower, crews swinging axes beneath its legs. The tower leaned over like an old man whose stick had been kicked away.

Clinging to the platform was Madeleine.

Burton climbed with a renewed determination. He grabbed Abner’s collar and pulled him up; the material ripped. He reached again, clenching his fingers around the straps of the backpack, and heaved. Abner clambered up the fence and gave a nod of resentful thanks.

They reached the top and picked their way over the rolls of barbed wire. The pigs continued to rush helplessly, battering the fence. It began to lean, the mesh sagging.

Burton and Abner jumped down and ran between the barns and barracks. Behind them the fence burst outward.