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Authors: Guy Saville
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cannon was louder than the rushing air.
The gunner whooped. A fireball shot past them.
Hochburg watched the Mozambican jet plummet from the sky. A shard of metal detached from its tail fin and spun toward them. It punctured the Focke-Wulf’s port wing and fuel tank. The plane juddered violently, Fenris howling.
Gasoline streamed from the aircraft. It caught the sunlight, stretching and separating into globules as it was whisked away, sparkling like a trail of diamonds.
Hochburg battled with the controls. “Where’s the nearest airstrip? We can glide down.”
“There’s nothing in this sector,” replied the copilot.
Empty savannah filled the bubble of the cockpit. Slowly the fuel gauge dipped toward zero.
CHAPTER SIX
Suffolk coast, England
29 January, 03:15
THE SEA AND sky were the deepest black. He couldn’t wait for sunrise.
Reluctantly, Burton pressed the bell. The second time, he let his finger stay till a procession of lights came on: the attic, the stairs, finally the lamps by the front door. Shivering, he squinted in the glare. His shoulder had grown stiff, the shirt plastered around it with blood.
There was a purposeful snap of locks, and the door opened. Burton found himself staring at the twin bores of a sawed-off shotgun.
“What do you want?”
It was Pebble, his aunt’s maid, wearing a greatcoat over her nightdress, scowling with sleep; she looked ready to pull the trigger. Her husband had been a gamekeeper before being killed at Dunkirk. Burton noted that the safety catch was off.
“Sorry it’s so late—”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve come to see my aunt.”
The barrels lowered. “Master Cole?” The maid checked herself: “Burton?” He couldn’t bear the servants calling him anything other than his first name.
Pebble, like her mistress, was a woman given to pragmatism. That her employer’s nephew had arrived on the doorstep at three in the morning with a split face left her unfazed. Her only task was to find solutions.
She stepped aside to let him in.
Burton half-jokingly called this place “the sanatorium.” This was where he came between bouts of carnage in Africa: a haven where he could let his wounds heal or lie in bed as tropical germs sweated out of him. Before he bought the farm, this was his imitation of home. With its white, colonnaded frontage, the house possessed a conspicuous grandeur; at the rear, the garden ran down to the North Sea. It had been built by his grandfather in the previous century and lost through brandy and bad adventures. His aunt had made it her duty to regain ownership of the house. Burton suspected that she’d endured years of sordid marriage, before being widowed, to inherit enough wealth to buy back the family property.
Pebble showed him into the drawing room. It was still warm, even though the hearth was dead. “I’ll wake her,” she said and slipped away.
All Burton wanted to do was sink into one of the chesterfields, but he ignored them. If he sat, the embers of his strength would desert him. Instead he patrolled the room, absorbing its familiarity: the deep carpet that smelled of ash and sea salt, the decanter half full of Madeira, the photograph on the mantelpiece that showed his mother and aunt before they were estranged—all legs, laughter, and Edwardian bathing suits, taken a hundred feet from this spot. In the corner a piano gleamed like a somber, polished sarcophagus.
Burton rested his hand on it. He became aware of how silent the house was. The first time he met Madeleine, she’d been playing this piano. That had been—what?—four or five years ago. He could never remember exactly: it was a chance meeting that foretold nothing.
It had been a blustery summer evening; plenty of cocktails and merriment on the lawn. Burton was at the sanatorium to shake off the last dregs of a bout of dengue fever. His aunt insisted that he show his face, so he came downstairs, planning to drift through the partygoers before returning
The gunner whooped. A fireball shot past them.
Hochburg watched the Mozambican jet plummet from the sky. A shard of metal detached from its tail fin and spun toward them. It punctured the Focke-Wulf’s port wing and fuel tank. The plane juddered violently, Fenris howling.
Gasoline streamed from the aircraft. It caught the sunlight, stretching and separating into globules as it was whisked away, sparkling like a trail of diamonds.
Hochburg battled with the controls. “Where’s the nearest airstrip? We can glide down.”
“There’s nothing in this sector,” replied the copilot.
Empty savannah filled the bubble of the cockpit. Slowly the fuel gauge dipped toward zero.
CHAPTER SIX
Suffolk coast, England
29 January, 03:15
THE SEA AND sky were the deepest black. He couldn’t wait for sunrise.
Reluctantly, Burton pressed the bell. The second time, he let his finger stay till a procession of lights came on: the attic, the stairs, finally the lamps by the front door. Shivering, he squinted in the glare. His shoulder had grown stiff, the shirt plastered around it with blood.
There was a purposeful snap of locks, and the door opened. Burton found himself staring at the twin bores of a sawed-off shotgun.
“What do you want?”
It was Pebble, his aunt’s maid, wearing a greatcoat over her nightdress, scowling with sleep; she looked ready to pull the trigger. Her husband had been a gamekeeper before being killed at Dunkirk. Burton noted that the safety catch was off.
“Sorry it’s so late—”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve come to see my aunt.”
The barrels lowered. “Master Cole?” The maid checked herself: “Burton?” He couldn’t bear the servants calling him anything other than his first name.
Pebble, like her mistress, was a woman given to pragmatism. That her employer’s nephew had arrived on the doorstep at three in the morning with a split face left her unfazed. Her only task was to find solutions.
She stepped aside to let him in.
Burton half-jokingly called this place “the sanatorium.” This was where he came between bouts of carnage in Africa: a haven where he could let his wounds heal or lie in bed as tropical germs sweated out of him. Before he bought the farm, this was his imitation of home. With its white, colonnaded frontage, the house possessed a conspicuous grandeur; at the rear, the garden ran down to the North Sea. It had been built by his grandfather in the previous century and lost through brandy and bad adventures. His aunt had made it her duty to regain ownership of the house. Burton suspected that she’d endured years of sordid marriage, before being widowed, to inherit enough wealth to buy back the family property.
Pebble showed him into the drawing room. It was still warm, even though the hearth was dead. “I’ll wake her,” she said and slipped away.
All Burton wanted to do was sink into one of the chesterfields, but he ignored them. If he sat, the embers of his strength would desert him. Instead he patrolled the room, absorbing its familiarity: the deep carpet that smelled of ash and sea salt, the decanter half full of Madeira, the photograph on the mantelpiece that showed his mother and aunt before they were estranged—all legs, laughter, and Edwardian bathing suits, taken a hundred feet from this spot. In the corner a piano gleamed like a somber, polished sarcophagus.
Burton rested his hand on it. He became aware of how silent the house was. The first time he met Madeleine, she’d been playing this piano. That had been—what?—four or five years ago. He could never remember exactly: it was a chance meeting that foretold nothing.
It had been a blustery summer evening; plenty of cocktails and merriment on the lawn. Burton was at the sanatorium to shake off the last dregs of a bout of dengue fever. His aunt insisted that he show his face, so he came downstairs, planning to drift through the partygoers before returning
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