The Information Officer

DAY SEVEN

UNFORTUNATELY, BUSUTTIL WAS A MAN OF HIS WORD.

He reappeared at Max’s flat at five A.M., exactly twenty-fours after his first visit. He seemed surprisingly perky given that he hadn’t made it home to his own bed, opting instead to pass the night in a shelter in Valetta.

“You’re welcome to stay here, you know.”

“Thank you, but the shelter is okay.”

Max had raided Maria’s secret store of quality tea for the occasion, sneaking home just enough for a small pot.

“She’ll kill me for it.”

“I might do the same,” said Busuttil, the taste sending him into a worrying trance. Once he’d recovered, he got straight to the point, bringing Max up to speed on his findings.

“Ken?”

“That’s what she said. Maybe it’s his real name. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe she was lying. I found nothing at Griscti’s. I’ll try the other outfitters today.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“Of course you can. But be careful who you speak to.”

Busuttil had paid two visits to the Blue Parrot, neither of which had revealed anything of note regarding Carmela Cassar. The other girls she’d worked with had painted a picture of a scrupulously moral young woman who had never associated with clients outside the confines of the club. This didn’t mean there wasn’t more to discover on that front; he’d ascertained that the club was popular with officers from the submarine flotilla. He also intended to pay a visit to Carmela’s parents. He stood a better chance of extracting something from them, which, given the hopeless failure of Max’s visit, wasn’t saying much.

Max had nothing much to offer Busuttil in return besides Freddie’s theory that the killer was left-handed.

“Interesting,” said Busuttil, before adding, “Tell me about Freddie.”

“Freddie?”

“Tell me about him.”

“Why?”

“Because everything starts with him. He tells you. You tell Lilian. She tells me. The story grows. Maybe that’s what he wants. Who do I tell?”

“No one, I hope, until you know exactly what’s going on,” replied Max firmly.

“You never know exactly. What makes a man kill? I don’t know. Do you?”

“I know you’re barking up the wrong tree with Freddie.”

Busuttil shrugged. “I’m very suspicious. I have even asked myself if it is you.”

“Well, it isn’t me.”

It was a slightly sour note on which to end. Busuttil suggested that they meet again at ten o’clock that night to pool their findings, and then he disappeared into the new day.

Pemberton was waiting for Max when he got to work, bursting with barely concealed excitement, although he waited till they were alone before spilling the beans.

“The governor’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Last night. From Kalafrana. Left in a seaplane.”

It was good to know that Elliott wasn’t a total fraud.

“Why are you whispering?” whispered Max.

Pemberton looked crestfallen. “You knew?”

“I got a whiff of it.”

Keep it cryptic, keep the new boy in his place, then find out how the hell the new boy got the jump on him.

“Who did you hear it from?”

“Rosamund, who heard it from Hugh. Apparently he’s known for a couple of days. She was very upset.”

Rosamund had shown up at breakfast at the Copnalls’ house in Saint Julian’s, where Pemberton was lodging. If she was to be believed, the governor of Gibraltar, Lord Gort, was now the governor of Malta, having flown in to Kalafrana on the same seaplane that had then carried the Dobbies off.

Gort was a good man, by all accounts—a tough no-nonsense type—and Rosamund would get over it once she’d secured a place for herself at the new court.

It wasn’t long before the call came through from the lieutenant governor’s office, as Max knew it would. He wandered next door to the Vincenzo Bugeja Conservatory, pushing aside memories of his last visit.

The sight of Hodges perched self-importantly behind his desk brought them flooding back.

“It’s good to see you again, Major Chadwick.”

A pointed comment intended to go over the heads of the other men already gathered there, waiting to be called through. They were standing in a loose huddle, smoking and talking in hushed tones. Max nosed his way among them. There were representatives from Defense Security and Censorship, along with a couple of faces he recognized from the Union Club.

“Heard the news, old man?”

“About Dobbie?”

“Damn shame, if you ask me.”

“Straight out of left field. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“He’s been poorly for a while.”

“Yes, a bad case of ‘Et tu, Brute?’ from what I hear.”

“Really?”

“Methinks Mabel has been up to her old tricks.”

Mabel Strickland was the editor of the Times of Malta, and a force to be reckoned with. It was well known that her influence extended far beyond the shores of Malta to the corridors of Whitehall.

“Oh goody, a scandal. We haven’t had one of those for a while.”

If you only knew, thought Max.

He stayed well out of the was-he-pushed-or-did-he-jump speculation that followed, which was soon interrupted by the appearance of Colonel Gifford, who summoned them through.

The lieutenant governor rose from his desk to greet them. Despite the suntan, his face appeared drawn and careworn. He didn’t hang about, confirming that Lord Gort was indeed the new governor and commander in chief. In the fullness of time they would all have a chance to meet him, but right then he had his head down with the service chiefs, poring over the preparations for the forthcoming battle. The fly-in of Spitfires would meet with fierce resistance from the Germans, as would the arrival of HMS Welshman the following day. The fast minelayer was going to be making a lone dash from Gibraltar loaded to the gunwales with ammunition, aircraft parts, and food. They were calling it Operation Bowery, and Lord Gort was firmly of the view that nothing should be allowed to distract the islanders during this time. News of his appointment should therefore be kept under wraps for a couple of days, and it was the responsibility of the men in the room to see that his wishes were fulfilled.

The lieutenant governor assured the men that they wouldn’t be disappointed with the new governor, and even shared an anecdote to bear out his point. As luck would have it, the seaplane base at Kalafrana had suffered a heavy air raid soon after Lord Gort’s arrival, the first bombs raining down right in the middle of the swearing-in ceremony. A very large egg, possibly a two-thousand-pounder, had narrowly missed the base commander’s house where they were all gathered, sending everyone diving for cover—everyone other than Lord Gort, who had barely flinched.

He’ll learn, thought Max.

“Something for you to use, Major Chadwick, when the time’s right.”

“Absolutely, sir. Stirring stuff.”

He saw Colonel Gifford’s nostrils twitch, sniffing for sarcasm.

The meeting over, the men filed out of the office, past Hodges, and into the corridor. Colonel Gifford followed close on their heels.

“Major Chadwick …”

He evidently wanted a word in private, so Max hung back. Gifford waited for the others to drift out of earshot before speaking.

“No hard feelings about the other day, I hope?”

“No, just suitably chastened.” He threw in a coy and contrite little look. “I was a bloody fool. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Gifford appeared to swallow it. “That’s war for you. It messes with our perspective on things.”

“Not yours.”

“No, even mine.”

This admission of fallibility was accompanied by an almost beatific expression.

Just think of Busuttil, Max told himself, out there at this very moment, digging for the truth.

“Well, we’re all going to have to stay focused over the next few days,” said Gifford. “The time of reckoning is here.”

“Let’s hope,” replied Max.

Mother hen was seated at the counter, talking to the barman, and her lined face lit up when she saw him.

Josef dumped himself at a table well away from the other girls and waited for her to join him. She made her way over with a small glass of something brown.

“On the house.”

Josef sneaked a sip. It was whisky, and it hadn’t been watered down. He flattened a larger sip against his palate, savoring it.

“I need to know if you were lying.”

“Lying?”

“About Ken.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because of your nephew.”

“I told you what Mary told me.”

“She definitely said he was with the submarines?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else? Dark, fair? Thin, fat?”

“How many fat people do you know on Malta?”

“True.”

“Gozo, maybe. I hear they still eat like kings on Gozo.”

She reached for one of his cigarettes, and he lit it for her.

“I see him as having a mustache, but I don’t know if that’s because of something Mary said.”

“Can you think of anyone else she might have talked to about him? Maybe someone from her family?”

“She wasn’t close to her family. She wasn’t close to many people. She lived alone in Hamrun.”

He didn’t bother asking for the address. He had enough on his plate already without a trip to Hamrun.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“No,” replied Josef. “But you’re going to tell me the name of your nephew and I’m going to see what I can do for him.”

“There’s no need to take it so personally. We’ve all been through it.”

Pemberton shifted in his chair. “You’re asking me to lie?”

“To exercise a certain discretion. The press correspondents are out to make a name for themselves. Good news, bad news, it’s all fair game to them.”

Pemberton had made the mistake of being honest with one of the correspondents about a couple of Beaufighters that had failed to return to Luqa after a mission. It was the sort of news you didn’t want going off the island.

“All I’m saying is, be a bit more guarded in your responses to them.”

“Guarded?”

“Gray. Until you’ve spoken to me.”

Pemberton fumbled for a cigarette. Poor boy, thought Max, he’s probably never put a foot wrong. It was written all over him: top of the class, captain of sports, victor ludorum, head boy, handsome as hell, and now this—a small blunder that had tarnished his perfect record.

“Rosamund says no one reads the Daily Situation Report,” Pemberton moaned.

“Does she?”

“She says it’s a joke.”

“Not for the men whose deaths you’re recording.”

Max was beginning to lose his patience, but Pemberton didn’t appear to notice.

“She says no one reads it and the Maltese don’t believe a word of it.”

True enough; he knew that from Lilian.

“Surely they have to read it in order not to believe a word of it.”

“That’s semantics.”

“Semantics is our business. The sooner you understand that, the better it’ll be for you.”

This time, Max invested his voice with a firm touch of authority that startled Pemberton into silence.

“Look,” sighed Max, “whatever you think, whatever you’ve heard, they’ll all be reading it over the next few days. It’s my guess you’re about to chronicle one of the great moments of this war.”

“You think so?”

“I do. I think we’re going to show the Germans a thing or two tomorrow. I think they won’t know what’s hit them. I think we’re going to be standing on the beach when the tide turns.”

It was hardly Churchill, but it seemed to lift Pemberton’s spirits.

“I like that image of the tide turning. I was brought up by the sea, you know?”

Probably swims like a fish, too, thought Max.

The moment Pemberton was gone, Max lit a cigarette and reflected on the exchange. He felt bad for having raised his voice. He knew he had only been taking out his own frustrations on his young charge, the most recent conversation with Tommy Ravilious still fresh in his mind.

Max had thought about heading over to the submarine base in person. Remembering Busuttil’s warning to tread carefully, he had picked up the phone instead.

“Tommy, it’s Max.”

“Ahhhh, Max …” There was something strange in his tone.

“A quick question—”

“I should stop you there, old man. I’m under orders not to speak to you.”

“What?”

“Apparently you’ve become persona non grata. I told them you always were.”

“Who’s them?”

“Does it matter? The powers that be.”

“Tommy, this is important.”

“So’s my pension, old man.”

“Ken.”

“Come again?”

“I’m trying to find a chap called Ken. He’s one of yours, probably an officer.”

“They said you weren’t to be trusted and I was to let them know if you tried to make contact.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I most certainly can, but I’m not going to. I’m going to hang up.”

“Is he one of yours? Yes or no?”

“Sorry, no ken do.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s code, you idiot. We don’t have a Ken—not now, not ever.”

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“What for? We never spoke.”

A dead end. There was nothing more he could do to move matters along. The waiting game was messing with his head, and young Pemberton had paid the price for it.

He was thinking about taking another turn on the roof when the phone rang. It was Maria, and she had Hugh on the line.

“Your presence is requested for dinner at ours this evening, seven for seven-thirty. You won’t guess what we’re eating.”

“I’m so hungry that dog would do.”

“Try duck.”

“Duck? Not Laurel and Hardy!”

Laurel and Hardy were two plump mallards who’d inhabited the pond at the end of Hugh and Rosamund’s garden. They were part of the family, like surrogate children. Max had spent many an hour gathering snails to feed them.

“Think of it as a noble act of self-sacrifice. And if that doesn’t work, think of the taste.”

“Hugh, you can’t.”

“Lady Macbeth already has, I’m afraid. It’s a special occasion—farewell to Mitzi and Lionel.”

“They’re going to be there?”

“Bit of an odd farewell bash if they weren’t, don’t you think?”

Max suggested they meet at the Union Club beforehand. He was going to need a couple of drinks to set himself up.

“I wish,” said Hugh. “The CRA has got us jumping through hoops. I’ll be lucky to get away by seven as it is.”

Busuttil made his way beneath Victoria Gate and down to the customhouse at the water’s edge. He had a particular fondness for the elegant old building from his days on port control and was saddened to see that it had taken a couple of bad knocks since he’d last been there.

It was while waiting for a dghaisa to take him across Grand Harbour that the feeling first came to him: a distinct sensation of being watched.

He removed his hat and fanned his face with it, resisting the urge to turn around, trusting his instincts. They rarely played him false, and it cost him nothing to indulge them now. He had a long walk ahead of him once he’d crossed the harbor. There would be plenty of better opportunities for testing his intuition. Even when he boarded the dghaisa, he made a point of sitting with his back to Valetta.

It was a short run across the water to Vittoriosa, the colorful little craft skimming effortlessly along, propelled by the expert oars of the two boatmen. The persistent raids in the past few weeks had reduced Dockyard Creek to a shocking picture of devastation. Most of the buildings fronting the water were gutted or simply gone altogether, and it looked like some monstrous creature of the deep had chewed large chunks out of the quaysides. Vittoriosa and Senglea, rising proudly on their long promontories either side of the creek, had also taken a battering, their ancient skylines redrawn for all of time by German bombs.

“Santa Maria …,” whispered Josef.

“You think this is bad, you should see French Creek.”

The boatmen eased the dghaisa alongside the rubble-strewn quay beneath the walls of Fort Saint Angelo. Disembarking, Josef lingered with them awhile in conversation, allowing the other dghaisas now threading their way across the harbor from Valetta to draw nearer. When he set off, it was at a leisurely pace along the waterfront, out in the open, an easy target to track.

The narrow, winding streets of Cospicua at the head of Dockyard Creek were heaped with ruins, slowing his progress, which was just fine by him if it allowed his tail to gain on him. Once clear of the old defensive walls on the landward side, he was out in the open again, making his way up the slopes toward Tarxien.

He was sweating now, and the feeling of being followed was more acute than ever. So was the temptation to spin round and confirm it. Trees and huts were few and far between on the hillside, and the lace-work of low stone walls offered minimal cover. He would know in a moment, but so would the other man, and that would be that. It would come down to a foot chase, and he was in no physical condition to even contemplate one of those. Better to just carry on his way for now. At most, he was maybe fifteen minutes from the Cassars’ place.

Once there, he would figure out a way to turn the tables on his shadow.

Max made a point of turning up at the offices of Il-Berqa with a couple of files under his arm even though work was the furthest thing from his mind.

“You’re late,” said Rita from behind her desk.

“I know I’m late. There was a raid on Ta’ Qali. No doubt you would have risked it.”

Paradoxically, Rita didn’t bristle at his rudeness. She seemed almost to appreciate it. Maybe that’s what he’d been doing wrong all this time—trying too hard to please and appease her.

“Well, she’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Mine too. I cherish our little moments together.”

“Don’t push it,” said Rita.

He hadn’t been lying about the raid, but he would have been less late if he hadn’t stopped by the Ops Room on his way there and done something he’d been wanting to do for days: tear a strip off Iris for her treachery toward him. The actress in her had squeezed out some crocodile tears, prompting the gunnery liaison officer on duty to intercede on her behalf and shepherd Max away. He’d probably made a fool of himself, but for now the sweet taste of retribution more than made up for it.

Lilian was still wearing black out of respect to Caterina.

“When’s the funeral?” he asked, the moment she had closed the door of her office.

“Monday. Why?”

“So long as it’s not tomorrow. The new Spitfires are flying in.”

She breathed in the news, her relief evident. “When?”

“Midmorning. Tell your aunt to keep Felicia and Ena indoors.”

“I will.”

“In fact, tell anyone you like. Kesselring probably knows their ETA already.”

Ten days before he wouldn’t have dared to divulge such information to her in case of possible reprisals. Her expression said as much.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged.

“I mean it. Thank you. Not just for this. For everything. For what you’re doing.”

“Busuttil’s the one doing all the hard work. He’s quite a character.”

“They say he’s the best on the island.”

“He’d better be. He’s got only two more days before the Upstanding leaves.”

She wanted details of the investigation, which he refused to give her. The less she knew, the better—for now, at least. Instead, they talked at length about the change of governor and how they both planned to break the news when finally allowed to do so.

As he was leaving her office, she placed her palm against the door to prevent him from opening it.

“What?”

“What do you think?” she replied.

“I have to guess the password?”

She smiled. “Hold me.”

“I haven’t washed properly in days.”

“You think I have?”

He drew her into his arms, and for the first time he felt the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest. Her hair was powdered with dust, the omnipresent Maltese dust.

She raised her head to peer up at him. “You weren’t lying.”

“Oh God …”

“I like it,” she said, holding him tighter to prove her point.

“The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is have a bath. Not just any bath. The bath to end all baths. I’m going to sit there and soak for hours. With a good book. And a big glass of pure malt whisky. And I’ll use my foot to top it up with piping hot water from time to time.”

“Your foot?”

“On the tap.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve never done that?” he asked.

“No.”

“It’s not so hard. The hardest part is using your other foot to remove the plug so the tepid water can drain away.”

“I can see you,” she said.

“Can you?”

“Like I was standing there.”

Max hesitated. “You can come in, if you want.”

“You’ll have to put your book down.”

“As long as I don’t have to let go of the whisky.”

“Okay,” she conceded with a small smile. “Now kiss me.”

It was a long and languorous kiss, neither of them wishing it to end.

It was growing dark, and Busuttil had spent more than enough time with the Cassars. He knew pretty much everything there was to know about their dead daughter—how as a young girl Carmela had hated having her hair braided for church; how she had loved having her back stroked in the bath; how she had won the art prize at school with her drawing of the Tarxien Temples. She had always been strong-willed, good with animals, tough on bullies, and indifferent to boys.

Josef searched for lies in their words, but was left with a picture of a model daughter, proud, principled, and kindhearted. So eager were they to bring her back to life with their reminiscences that only once did they ask him why he had come visiting. He palmed them off with the usual line about it being standard police procedure.

Carmela had been laid to rest in Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery just a few days before, and before the light faded, her father was able to point out the spot from the house—a quiet corner near the western wall that apparently caught the early-morning sun. Carmela had always said that she wanted to be buried there.

Well, now she was. And only a stone’s throw away, Josef suspected, from the place where she’d been abducted. He knew from her parents the route she’d taken home from work every night, and he had played it through in his mind, walking the streets with her back from the Blue Parrot: Valetta, Floriana, down past the Porte des Bombes to Marsa, skirting the end of Grand Harbour, leaving the racetrack on her right. Until this point she’d have been on main roads. Better to wait till she took the shortcut, up the valley and through Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery. That’s what he would have done. That’s what anyone who knew her movements would have done—waited till she was on the home stretch, well off the beaten track. Josef knew it in his bones, just as he knew that out there somewhere, someone was watching and waiting.

Who they were, and just where they’d picked up his trail, he didn’t know. But he would know soon enough. That’s why he had lingered so long with the Cassars, allowing the sun to set and darkness to descend. The night was his time, his friend. It was when he had always done his best work, even as a student at the university. The Cassars were keen that he stay and eat with them, but he made his excuses and left.

There was a waning moon overhead, only half-full, yet bright enough to illuminate his path down the hill. It was ideal. Any less light, and it would have been too dark to see what he was doing; any more, and the hunter might have realized that he had become the hunted.

The iron gate set in the south wall of the cemetery offered an added bonus. Its dry and dusty hinges groaned in protest as Josef slipped the latch and eased it open. After closing it behind him, he quickened his pace, stepping lightly down the central avenue for fifty yards or so before breaking left, weaving through the gravestones, and taking up a position behind a run of large family tombs.

There he waited and listened, filtering out the sounds of the night. He started to feel foolish after several minutes had passed, and was about to break cover when he heard it, buried away in the drone of cicadas: the sound of the gate being opened.

His hand went instinctively to his waist, closing around the stock of his pistol.

From where he was hidden it was hard to judge the height of the man because the avenue was shaded from the moonlight by a screen of cypress trees. From the sound of his footfalls, he was moving stealthily but with purpose, looking to narrow the lead.

Josef kicked off his shoes and set off along the narrow pathway behind him. It ran parallel to the main avenue, and he hurried in a low crouch to get ahead of the man. He was familiar enough with the cemetery to know that the main avenue divided at the back of the cathedral, skirting it on both sides. It was as good a spot as any for Josef to make his move.

He was in position, hunched behind a gravestone, when the man reached the junction and stopped. If he headed left, Josef would strike, leaping from the shadows and delivering a quick pistol whip. He couldn’t afford to take any chances. It was a case of act first, ask questions later. If the man gave him the slip, there would be little hope of finding him in the labyrinth of tombs.

The man set off again, his footsteps receding. Josef peered out from his hiding place in time to see the shadowy figure disappear from view along the right-hand fork. He gave a silent curse at the prospect of yet more running, then padded off around the other side of the cathedral.

He was heaving for breath by the time he reached the point where the two pathways converged once more. It was a darkened spot, perfect for his purposes: a circular patch of ground fringed with trees at the foot of the low plateau on which the cathedral was perched. A double stone staircase set in a sheer bank of rock marked the beginning of the long climb up to the main entrance of the building, and it was here, in the deep shadows to one side of the staircase, that he placed himself.

The blood was beating in his ears after his exertions, and he strained to hear the man approaching. When he did, he sneaked a quick look. The man was no more than twenty yards away and approaching at a brisk rate down the pathway. Josef’s fingers tightened around the pistol. Go for the side of the head and hit him again if he tries to get up….

His muscles were tensed, poised to spring into action. If they hadn’t been, he might have reacted to the sound more quickly. It came from behind him, and by the time he had registered it, by the time he had turned, it was too late.

His last impression before his world went black was of a tall figure looming over him. His last thought was of the air-raid shelter and the young woman whose name he now knew.

“Anyone for seconds?” asked Rosamund.

“That’s a question I haven’t heard in a while,” said Max.

Lionel gave a hearty laugh. “Too right, old man.”

“A bit more of Hardy, if there’s any going,” said Freddie.

“Freddie!” chided Mitzi.

“Well, he’s more tender than Laurel.”

“Stop it!”

“She,” corrected Rosamund. “Hardy was a girl.”

“Really? How can you tell?” asked Lionel.

Mitzi rolled her eyes. “The plumage, for one.”

“And Hardy always peed sitting down.”

This earned Max a big laugh around the table. Lionel even slapped his thigh. Mitzi took the opportunity to fire Max a look that only he could interpret. It said, I know what you’re doing, and I don’t care.

But she did care, which was why he intended to carry on doing it.

“Shouldn’t we hold the rest back for the others?” he suggested.

“They don’t deserve it,” said Rosamund.

Elliott had failed to show, and Hugh was supposed to have been back from Rabat almost two hours before, having scooped up Ralph in Mdina en route.

“I’m sure it’s not their fault they’re late.”

“Oh, it’s never Hugh’s fault.”

This was uncharacteristic of Rosamund, who generally liked to present a united front. Realizing her transgression, she tried to make light of it.

“I keep a list of Hugh’s excuses. He must too, because he’s never used the same one twice.”

His excuse, when he showed up a short while later with Ralph, was difficult to fault. He’d spent the afternoon touring gun emplacements ahead of the big day, geeing up his men. The whole thing had overrun because of the afternoon raids.

“You could have phoned.”

“I tried, my darling. The lines were down.”

“Not when I called HQ and they told me they had no idea where you were.”

“That’s as it should be. We’d all be in terrible trouble if HQ actually knew what was going on.”

The laughter put an end to the matter, and attention shifted back to the guests of honor. Freddie proposed a toast to Lionel and Mitzi, following it up with a small speech he’d prepared. It was a touching tribute, heavy on the humor, which brought some tears from Mitzi. Even Lionel’s eyes misted over a little.

His response to Freddie’s kind words was a predictable mix of awkward affability and pomposity: friendships smelted in the furnace of battle … memories to last a lifetime … the eternal struggle of good versus evil … not “goodbye” so much as “au revoir.” He made no mention of Mitzi and the fact that she had chosen to stay at his side throughout it all, whereas most of the wives had long since bolted for home. Max knew that he should keep his mouth shut, that to speak would only draw attention to Lionel’s oversight, but when the smattering of applause had died down, he raised his glass.

“To Mitzi and all her good work at the Standing Committee of Adjustment.”

Mitzi tilted her head at him in gratitude.

“Hear, hear,” said Rosamund emphatically. “If it wasn’t for women like you, women like me wouldn’t get to sit around all day playing gin rummy and moaning about the scarcity of zip fasteners.”

The final toast of the evening was to Ralph, and in many ways it was the most poignant. None of them around the table was facing a trial like his, and they all knew it was one he might not survive. The next morning, when the replacement Spitfires flew in, he would be waiting at Ta’ Qali, ready to take to the air in one of the new machines. No one doubted that the ensuing air battle would be the fiercest yet, and Ralph was going to be in the thick of it.

“Are you sure you remember how to fly the bloody things?” asked Freddie.

“Stick, rudder pedals, firing button—how hard can it be?” scoffed Max.

Lionel gave a loud snort. “Well, I must say, that’s pretty rich coming from you, old man.”

“He was joking,” Mitzi sighed.

“Oh.”

When they all moved outside for coffee, Max and Freddie snatched a moment alone on the back terrace. It was the first chance they’d had to talk in private, and Max filled him in on Busuttil’s discoveries, including the name he’d turned up.

“Ken?”

“I checked with Tommy Ravilious at the sub base. Nothing.”

“An assumed name?”

“Maybe. Busuttil’s chasing it down.”

“I hope so. Mitzi says the Upstanding’s due to leave on Sunday.”

“I thought it was Monday.”

“It’s been brought forward a day. They want her gone before things really heat up around here.”

“Christ.”

Only one more day for Busuttil to crack it. He wasn’t going to appreciate this new development when Max saw him later.

Freddie wanted to know if there was anything he could do to help. He had just been assigned to the naval hospital at Bighi, on the Grand Harbour side of Valetta, but was more than happy to shirk his duties if the situation called for it.

“You can’t do that.”

“It’s not like I’m stuck out at Mtarfa anymore. I’m right here on the doorstep and ready to do whatever—hang the consequences.”

“I’ll mention it to Busuttil, see what he says.”

Freddie glanced toward the house. Lionel was still seated at the dining table, pontificating to Hugh and Ralph about something or other.

“Have you ever wondered if it’s him?”

“Lionel? For all of five seconds. Why?”

“I hadn’t noticed before tonight…. He’s left-handed.”

As if on cue, Lionel raised his wineglass to his lips with his left hand.

Max didn’t have a chance to respond.

“What are you two looking so furtive about?”

The voice came from high above them. It was Mitzi, peering down from the crow’s nest, barely discernible in the darkness.

“What are you doing up there?” called Freddie.

“Having a last look.”

“Don’t pretend you’ll miss it.”

“Oh, but I shall.”

“And us?”

“I’ve already packed some extra hankies.”

“You’ll latch on to another pair of handsome, witty young men within a week of landing in Alexandria.”

“Is that what I did: latch on to you?”

“Brazenly. It was almost embarrassing, wasn’t it, Max?”

“Absolutely. I still shudder when I think about it.”

Freddie laughed. Mitzi didn’t.

Max was still thinking about Lionel.