The Madagaskar Plan by Guy Saville

noise deadened by the fog. He knew these types from his mercenary days: in Congo and the French colonies, they thought the garden parties and cocktails round the pool were going to last forever. Every shout of laughter tightened his gut.
    It would have been too suspicious to linger outside, so he kept walking round the streets, passing the house every ten minutes, like he had done on Christmas Eve two years before. Madeleine had lit a pair of candles for him: two flames in the window that promised they wouldn’t spend another Christmas apart. Burton’s plan was to watch the place for several nights, establish the household’s routine, and strike early one morning.
    Then he saw Cranley, and his hatred overflowed.
    It was past midnight when he appeared, his figure distorted in the fog. The windows remained bright, though the house was silent now. Burton had stationed himself behind a tree on the opposite pavement. Once he sensed someone nearby, but when his eyes searched the gloom there was only empty, shifting vapor.
    He watched Cranley guide a woman in a full-length fur coat to a waiting Rolls-Royce. There was a slight wobble to their steps. They exchanged a few words, and Cranley threw back his head, laughing. He kissed her good night, then signaled to the driver with a rap on the car’s roof. That gesture—so genial, so carefree—caused Burton to clench the crowbar. Cranley would go to bed full of expensive bubbles and relaxed cheer; he’d fall asleep as soon as his head sank into the pillow.
    Burton darted across the road as the Rolls drove away but not fast enough to catch Cranley. The front door was shut before he reached it and too solid to kick down. He prodded the doorbell with his stump; there was a musical clanging. Through the obscure glass, he saw Cranley return, heard the sound of locks.
    Burton dropped.
    A weal of pain expanded from the base of his neck, causing his limbs to sag and eyes blur; his teeth felt as if they were going to scatter. The crowbar vanished from his grip. Next moment, the air in his lungs was warm. He heard Cranley’s voice— close the door … the dining room —and was dragged through the hallway, up a short flight of stairs to the mezzanine level. Tie his hands. Burton was dumped in a chair, his neck lolling. The chandelier streaked in the murk of his consciousness.
    Frozen fingers snatched at his arms. “Sir,” said a woman’s voice close to his ear, “what should I do?” His stump was forced into the air.
    “What was Rommel’s valediction when he retired? ‘ Ein Teil von mir wird für immer in Afrika bleiben .’” Cranley spoke with the precise accent of a diplomat: I leave a piece of me forever in Africa. “Bind him to the armrests,” he said, loosening his tie. “Use this round his feet.”
    While he was being bound, Burton was aware of Cranley crossing the room to fetch a telephone. He brought it back and placed it on the dining table, the cable taut.
    “That will be all, Mrs. Anderson,” he said. “I’m expecting some callers shortly. When they arrive, show them in here, but keep it quiet. I don’t want to disturb Alice. Meantime, warm yourself. You did well tonight.”
    Burton pulled at his arms, but the rope was too tight. His mind was scrambling, sluggish. He heard the door lock behind him; the housekeeper’s footsteps faded. Nausea blurred his thoughts.
    Cranley clicked his fingers close to Burton’s eyes. “Are you with me?”
    When he got no reply, he tossed a glass of champagne in Burton’s face. The liquid made Burton focus; with it came a surge of alarm. He scanned the room for any means to free himself. A coal fire hummed in the hearth. There were empty bottles and clusters of glasses everywhere; the table was laden with the remnants of a buffet.
    “I expect your full attention,” said Cranley, “especially since I’m going to thank you for what you did in Kongo.” There was a quality to his voice, something affable and golden, that