The Madagaskar Plan Read Online Free Page A

desert war against Rommel.
    He redoubled his work, swinging the pickaxe with a fury, vigilant of the skull at the dead center of the square. The tank swiveled in his direction, fired, the shot reducing his study to a smoking wound. More SS troops emerged onto the square.
    Zelman appeared at his side, clutching a Luger that reeked of packing grease. “Oberstgruppenführer, there’s no time for this.”
    Hochburg shoved him away. The Leibwachen were a corona of gunfire around them. The pickaxe struck the ground again—and the skull at the center was free.
    Fenris edged forward and sniffed as Hochburg carefully picked it up. He brushed flakes of cement from it, never believing that it had been disturbed, and stared into the hollows of its eyes. After Eleanor had chosen Burton over Hochburg, she’d fled into the jungle and been murdered by savages. Hochburg had hunted them down. The skull in his hand belonged to the first black he’d killed, a deed that saw the beginning of his mission to transform Africa. He had laid the square in Eleanor’s memory.
    His dreams, his ambitions for the continent weren’t supposed to end like this.
    Hochburg wrapped the skull in the sack he had taken from his study. He would defeat these insurgents: drive them into the jungle till the trees dripped scarlet. Then raise a new Schädelplatz, grander, more awe-inspiring than anything before.
    The square was being overrun by Belgians.
    “My garden,” said Hochburg. “That can be our escape.” He made a chivalrous gesture to his deputy. “Show us the way, Gruppenführer.”
    Zelman remained within the huddle of Leibwachen, unblinking.
    Hochburg ran from the center of the square, Fenris at his heels, the Leibwachen struggling to keep pace. They reached the cloisters as another tank broke through the far wall. It trundled toward them, shielding more guerrillas, the Belgians concentrating their fire on the small band of Nazis beneath the colonnade. Hochburg’s Leibwachen were falling around him. He fired his BK44.
    “Save a bullet for yourself,” said Zelman. “You mustn’t be taken alive.”
    Hochburg ignored him: his final rounds would be for blacks. He grabbed Fenris by the leash and raced toward the garden gate. Close behind he heard the slap of Zelman’s boots.
    The second Crusader was armed with a flamethrower. A jet of orange and ebony roared through the quadrangle. Skulls that had been gathered from all six provinces of German Africa were reduced to cinder.
    Shielded by the cloisters, his lungs charred, Hochburg reached the archway that led to the garden. It was his sanctuary. He tended it personally: dug the soil till his back ached, propagated every plant with his own fingers, the way Eleanor had taught him.
    Now it writhed in flame.
    He barely registered the intensity of the heat. Fenris broke free of the lead and galloped through the foliage to where cultivated land and jungle merged. For a long moment Hochburg stood motionless, his jaw listing and feeble; then he chased after the dog, into the inferno.

 
    CHAPTER TWO
    Suffolk, England
    28 January, 15:30
    “STOP THE CAR.”
    “We’re not there yet.”
    “Just stop!”
    The taxi driver braked sharply.
    “Now back up. I saw something.”
    The driver went to reply, then thought better of it. He put the car in gear and reversed down the empty lane. On either side was a wall of dank woodland: oak, ash, elm. Fading sunlight cut through the bare canopy.
    “Here.”
    The car came to a halt again.
    Burton Cole climbed out and stared at the gap in the trees. He felt a tightening in his throat. Above him, branches creaked in the wind. He never should have sent the telegrams.
    “It’s well hidden,” said the driver, following his gaze. “Yours?”
    Burton shook his head. He had wheat-blond hair and eyes the color of an autumn afternoon, calm but alert, hard as a rifle butt. Concealed among the trunks was a black Riley RME. He put his hand—his right hand, his only hand—into