Guy Saville - The Afrika Reich

‘I’ve already told you, I’m not interested.’

‘An assassination.’

‘Assassination? What are you talking about?’

‘Come, Major. You have a certain reputation – Dunkirk, Tana, Stanleyville to name but a few. Why do you think I’m here?’

Definitely not about Madeleine. If she were here she’d already be yelling at Ackerman, her fists in balls, black hair flying.

‘Mr Ackerman, I suggest you leave. Now.’

‘You will of course be paid…’ again he searched for a well-prepared word, ‘“handsomely” for your services.’

Burton laughed. ‘There’s nothing you could pay me.’

Ackerman didn’t reply. Instead he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small leather box. He handed it over. ‘My business,’ he said.

Burton opened the case and fought the urge to gasp.

‘That’s just a down payment. To secure your interest. You’ll get the same again on acceptance of the job. Double if you complete it… “satisfactorily”.’ He made it sound like homework.

‘How do I know they’re not fakes?’

‘You don’t.’

Burton looked at the diamonds. There were five of them, each the size of peas.

Five plus five plus ten. A fortune.

He could pay off the loan on the farm. There’d even be enough for new furniture. No more making love on that mildewy mattress for him and Maddie. And he could buy her a dressing table, something antique, French, none of that imported German kitsch. And chesterfields for the drawing room. And a pony for Alice so maybe she wouldn’t hate coming here so much…

Burton closed the box and handed it back. ‘It’s a very generous offer, Mr Ackerman. A few years ago I’d have taken you up on it quick-flash. Not any more.’

‘It’s not enough?’

‘My life is here now, no more killing. At any price.’

The Rhodesian chuckled to himself. ‘You’re going to give mercenaries a bad name.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint.’

‘Nevertheless, I still expect you to head up our team.’

‘I’m not heading up anything. I want to stay here, work the land.’ Burton suddenly thought of his former comrades and the ribbing he’d have got for declaring that. ‘Maybe even settle down.’

‘That’s all very endearing, Major Cole. But I think marriage is perhaps a fantasy too far.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Madeleine. I’m sure her husband won’t give his blessing. I hear he’s a very jealous man.’

Burton clenched his hand together until the knuckles stung. In his mind he saw himself grab the Browning. Force the gun hard against the Rhodesian’s gullet. Cock the trigger. Demand to be told how he knew. Instead, he remained impassive except for a slight tic in his jaw.

‘So that’s why you’re here.’

‘No,’ replied Ackerman. ‘The Kassai diamond fields, German Kongo.’

‘Kongo? I don’t want anything to do with Africa. Not any more.’

‘How very British of you.’

‘The Nazis fucked it up… and we let them.’

‘Exactly why your talents are required now.’

‘You want me to kill someone,’ said Burton. ‘Why? There are a thousand men out there who could do it.’

‘But none so good.’

‘There are plenty better. Pulling the trigger was always my last resort, not profession.’

Ackerman snorted. ‘Now you’re just being modest.’

‘No cold blood. Ever.’

‘Hot blood, cold blood. It’s still blood. Besides, we feel you’d be more “committed” to the task than anyone else, especially when you learn the target.’

‘I told you: I’m done with all that.’

‘You’ll change your mind.’

‘Mr Ackerman,’ said Burton, struggling to find some gritted patience, ‘I don’t want your diamonds. And Madeleine and me is my business. I want you to leave. Now. I’m not going to tell you again.’

But when the Rhodesian failed to move, it was Burton who turned and strode away. The Browning felt sweaty against the small of his back.

Ackerman called after him: ‘I’ve got news of an old acquaintance of yours, Major. A friend.’

‘They’re all dead.’

‘Not this one.’

Burton ignored him.

‘The man we want you to kill is – Walter E. Hochburg.’

Burton stopped solid.

It was as if his entire body – every muscle, every sinew, every pulsing vein and nerve – had turned to stone. Although the sun was continuing its ascent everything suddenly seemed darker: the fields, the trees, the farmhouse he so desperately wanted to make a home for Madeleine. The thought of her in front of the fire, toasting crumpets, flickered through his mind; they were both looking forward to their first autumn here. He pushed the image away. As far away as he could. So help him, God.

Very slowly he twisted to face Ackerman. ‘What did you say?’ He spoke as if his breath had been stolen.

‘I think you heard me well enough.’

From close by came the croaking of a raven.

Burton tried to laugh. ‘It can’t be. Hochburg died years ago. In a fire.’

‘Let me assure you, Major, he’s still very much alive.’

‘No.’

‘Alive and now the Governor General of Kongo—’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Burton. There was the slightest catch to his words.

‘Don’t you want the details? What we’re proposing is danger itself. And what about your quinces?’ He might have been joking with him now. ‘And Madeleine? She’s arriving later today, isn’t she? I rushed to get here first.’

But Burton was deaf to everything Ackerman had to say.

‘I’ll do it,’ he repeated.

This time his voice was unflinching.

Schädelplatz, Deutsch Kongo

14 September 1952, 01:14

NINE minutes. He had nine minutes to exorcise a lifetime.

Burton Cole sat at Hochburg’s desk, sweat trickling behind his ears. He was dressed in the uniform of a Sturmbannführer, an SS major: black tunic and breeches, Sam Browne belt, jackboots, swastika armband on the left sleeve. His skin crawled beneath the material. To complete the look his hair had been cut short, beard shaved; the skin on his cheeks felt raw and exposed. Chained to his wrist was an attaché case empty except for two items: a pouch fat with diamonds and concealed inside that, a table knife.

The knife had been his mother’s, from a service used only for best. He still remembered the way she would beam as she laid the table for visitors; the flash of silver. That was – what? – when he was eight or nine. Back then he used to struggle to slice meat with it, now it was as deadly as an ice pick.

He’d spent years sharpening it to a jagged point for this very moment, never once believing it would come.

But just as Burton opened the case to grasp the knife, Hochburg held up his hand. It was an immense, brutal paw that led to an arm straining in its sleeve and the broad shoulders of a swimmer. The movement itself was languid – a lazy version of Hitler greeting the ranks.

‘The diamonds can wait, Sturmbannführer,’ he said. ‘First I must show you something.’

Ackerman warned him this might happen. Hochburg had shown all the previous couriers, showed everyone, no matter what their rank. It was his great pride. Indulge him , Ackerman advised. Do nothing to arouse his ‘suspicions’. There’ll be plenty of time for the kill.