The Madagaskar Plan Read Free

lapse in control, swore it wouldn’t happen again as he filled the house with enough lilies to make her nauseous. She never told Burton about it.
    “It should make your decision easier.” His tone was businesslike, the civil servant briefing his minister. “I presume you’ll be staying. I’m sure we can put this silly little affair behind us—”
    She leapt at him, clawing his face. Her nails came away red.
    Cranley shoved her back. Madeleine stumbled and fell; the baby bounced sickeningly inside her, like a stone.
    Her husband stepped forward, treading on the lists of drowned sailors. His fingers bunched into a fist. She caught the glint of his wedding ring: it would break her front teeth.
    “All the scorn I endured for you,” he said. “Jared Cranley, the man who could have had any woman he desired, yet married a Jewish domestic. Did it for love.” He reached for his handkerchief, let out a snort. “I’ve heard it said that I’m the most romantic man in London.”
    With a sob, Madeleine stood up, grabbed the case, and opened the door. She’d find Alice, flee to the farm.
    “This is Mr. Lyall,” said Cranley.
    A man with a squashed nose and thick beard barred her way. He was dressed in a black suit that looked as if it had been slept in. The stench of cigarettes around him was enough to make her wince.
    She tried to pass, but he blocked her path. Tried again, this time swinging the case at him. The clasp came loose, showering the room in clothes. Madeleine shoved past—then was on the floor, the small of her back stinging. She had no strength to stand up; she was crumbling inside with grief.
    Lyall brandished a truncheon. He prodded it against her mouth.
    “You always had a beautiful smile,” said Cranley. He looked at the garments strewn around the room. “Forget the case,” he said to Lyall. “I just want her gone.”
    As Madeleine was yanked to her feet, she heard her pajamas rip. “What about Alice?” she asked.
    “She’ll have everything she needs: a beautiful home, a doting father. I know Mrs. Anderson will make an excellent governess.”
    “Promise?”
    “You might be a Jewish whore, but Alice is still my daughter.” He dabbed the blood on his cheek with the handkerchief. “It would be better if there are no hysterics as you leave. I don’t want her upset.”
    “And me?”
    His tone brokered no reasoning, no pleading: “Better than you deserve.”
    “Come on, Mrs. Cranley,” said Lyall, gripping her arm.
    He dragged her into the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, the front door was open to the fog outside. Waiting below, also in a black suit, was a pudgy man pacing back and forth. Over his arm was one of Madeleine’s fur coats; in his fist, a revolver.
    “Where are you taking me?” she asked.
    A memory shrieked in her mind: the time the Nazis came for her father in Vienna. The pounding on the door, the house swarming with uniforms and weapons. Her mother had asked the same question. Just some forms to fill out, soothed one of the brownshirts. Papa returned two days later, his tie missing, shirt filthy, unable to stop shaking.
    “It’s all arranged,” said Lyall. “Won’t take long to get there.”
    Madeleine dug her feet into the carpet. Made her legs rigid.
    Lyall forced her to the edge of the staircase. “My wife had a miscarriage once, silly old thing. Fell down some steps.”
    She struggled a moment longer, then went limp, hugging her stomach. As Madeleine was led away, she twisted round for a final look at her husband.
    Cranley was framed in the doorway of her room. He glanced at her for a second, then went back to examining the blood on his handkerchief. At his feet were the names of the dead.

 
    PART I
    BRITAIN

All that he held dear—hearth and family, belief and belonging—had been taken from him.
    —ELEANOR COLE
Letter to her sister, 1930

 
    CHAPTER ONE
    Schädelplatz, Deutsch Kongo
    26 January 1953, 06:30
    PANZER CREWS CALLED it Nashornstahl: rhino