Burton struggled not to like. “It played out exactly as I hoped. We baited Hochburg with Rhodesia, his hubris did the rest: he overstretched himself. Elisabethstadt surrendered yesterday.” He rummaged through Burton’s haversack till he found the Browning. “The only shame is that Madeleine wasn’t here. She always enjoyed parties.”
“She hated them.”
“I think I know my wife better than that.”
The circulation was dying in Burton’s arms. He tugged at the ropes again; there was the tiniest give around his stump. “What did you do to her?”
“I used to carry an HP myself,” said Cranley, aiming the pistol at Burton’s chest. “During the Spanish Civil War. It’s lighter than I recall”—he weighed it in his grip and depressed the safety catch—“but a fine weapon. Very accurate, never jams. You were going to shoot me in my sleep?”
Burton knew it would be better to say nothing but couldn’t contain himself. “I’m only here for Alice.” His plan had been to snatch the girl, flee to America, and vanish. Cranley, with his wealth and prestige, his strings of power, would be left impotent.
“Then you know nothing of me. Take my daughter and I’d hunt you for the rest of your days.”
“It was the least I owed Madeleine.”
Cranley scrutinized Burton, running his eyes from his boots to his beard. Burton stared back. Neither of them blinked. Previously, he had only seen photographs of Cranley. Up close, Burton was struck by the symmetry of his face, the unblemished skin, the beauty of his mouth; he could think of no other description. There was also an itchy, repressed quality to his features. He remembered something Madeleine once said: first class was never good enough for him. The whole time, Burton kept trying to worm his arm free.
“I can’t imagine what she saw in you.” Cranley’s eyes remained fixed. “She was from good Viennese stock. Though I confess it is intriguing to meet you, Major Cole. Is one’s rival the same as oneself, only in more … ‘concentrated’ form? Or the complete opposite.”
Finally he glanced away, a smirk parting his lips as if he had intended to avert his gaze all along. Near the fireplace was a liquor cabinet in the shape of a globe. It was antique: Russia stretched from Europe to the Pacific. Cranley poured himself a brandy, never letting the gun waver.
“Shall I tell you what distressed me most?” he said, perching himself on the table. “It’s those things the Nazis say about Jews. That they’re rodents. Unclean, conniving.” He inhaled the bouquet of the brandy. “Claptrap, of course. But when I discovered what she’d done to me … Propaganda is most hateful when it’s true.”
“You killed her.”
“What would you have done if it was your wife?” His jawline erupted in scarlet pinpricks. “If you’d given her a life beyond her imagination, then found her fucking some menial.” He was calm again. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Like you didn’t kill Patrick or the rest of my men in Kongo. You gave the order; that’s enough. Russell told me everything.”
“I doubt it.”
Cranley picked up the telephone from the table and dialed the operator. “Scotland Yard,” he said, specifying the extension number. While he waited to be connected, he examined the point of his shoe as if it were the most fascinating object in the world. Burton gave his arm another tug; the skin was chafing, but the rope felt slacker.
“One thing I am curious about. How did you escape the Ibis ? I received confirmation that you were on board when it left Angola.”
“A day out to sea, we passed a freighter headed for Cape Town. Even half-dead on morphine, I reckoned someone would hit us. If not you, then Hochburg. I changed ships.”
“You are a remarkable man, Major.”
“Then up the east coast to Suez.”
Cranley nodded but was no longer interested. With a sardonic detachment, he watched Burton fight the rope before his attention returned
“She hated them.”
“I think I know my wife better than that.”
The circulation was dying in Burton’s arms. He tugged at the ropes again; there was the tiniest give around his stump. “What did you do to her?”
“I used to carry an HP myself,” said Cranley, aiming the pistol at Burton’s chest. “During the Spanish Civil War. It’s lighter than I recall”—he weighed it in his grip and depressed the safety catch—“but a fine weapon. Very accurate, never jams. You were going to shoot me in my sleep?”
Burton knew it would be better to say nothing but couldn’t contain himself. “I’m only here for Alice.” His plan had been to snatch the girl, flee to America, and vanish. Cranley, with his wealth and prestige, his strings of power, would be left impotent.
“Then you know nothing of me. Take my daughter and I’d hunt you for the rest of your days.”
“It was the least I owed Madeleine.”
Cranley scrutinized Burton, running his eyes from his boots to his beard. Burton stared back. Neither of them blinked. Previously, he had only seen photographs of Cranley. Up close, Burton was struck by the symmetry of his face, the unblemished skin, the beauty of his mouth; he could think of no other description. There was also an itchy, repressed quality to his features. He remembered something Madeleine once said: first class was never good enough for him. The whole time, Burton kept trying to worm his arm free.
“I can’t imagine what she saw in you.” Cranley’s eyes remained fixed. “She was from good Viennese stock. Though I confess it is intriguing to meet you, Major Cole. Is one’s rival the same as oneself, only in more … ‘concentrated’ form? Or the complete opposite.”
Finally he glanced away, a smirk parting his lips as if he had intended to avert his gaze all along. Near the fireplace was a liquor cabinet in the shape of a globe. It was antique: Russia stretched from Europe to the Pacific. Cranley poured himself a brandy, never letting the gun waver.
“Shall I tell you what distressed me most?” he said, perching himself on the table. “It’s those things the Nazis say about Jews. That they’re rodents. Unclean, conniving.” He inhaled the bouquet of the brandy. “Claptrap, of course. But when I discovered what she’d done to me … Propaganda is most hateful when it’s true.”
“You killed her.”
“What would you have done if it was your wife?” His jawline erupted in scarlet pinpricks. “If you’d given her a life beyond her imagination, then found her fucking some menial.” He was calm again. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Like you didn’t kill Patrick or the rest of my men in Kongo. You gave the order; that’s enough. Russell told me everything.”
“I doubt it.”
Cranley picked up the telephone from the table and dialed the operator. “Scotland Yard,” he said, specifying the extension number. While he waited to be connected, he examined the point of his shoe as if it were the most fascinating object in the world. Burton gave his arm another tug; the skin was chafing, but the rope felt slacker.
“One thing I am curious about. How did you escape the Ibis ? I received confirmation that you were on board when it left Angola.”
“A day out to sea, we passed a freighter headed for Cape Town. Even half-dead on morphine, I reckoned someone would hit us. If not you, then Hochburg. I changed ships.”
“You are a remarkable man, Major.”
“Then up the east coast to Suez.”
Cranley nodded but was no longer interested. With a sardonic detachment, he watched Burton fight the rope before his attention returned
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