Mark Mills - The Information Officer

Max was momentarily thrown by the question. “What’s there to tell? She’s the deputy editor of Il-Berqa . She’s also very good at her job.”

“Well, you would know, given the amount of time you spend liaising with her.”

Max ignored the thinly veiled insinuation. “Yes, I suppose I’m better placed than most to make that judgment.”

“Her mother is in Italy, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s right. She was in Padua when Italy declared war. She was unable to make it home.”

“Home? I would have thought home was at her husband’s side.”

It wasn’t just the cold blue eyes, it was their steady, piercing scrutiny that was so unsettling.

“She’s not married.”

“As good as, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“I have no idea.”

“I believe he’s a professor of archaeology at the University of Padua.”

“I believe so.”

“And do you also believe it’s possible for a man to hold such a post at an Italian university if he isn’t in some way sympathetic to the regime?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Hazard a guess.”

Max generally burned a long fuse, but was struggling now to hold himself in check. He could see what was being done to him. He had boxed at Oxford; he had been on the receiving end of the irritating jabs designed to make you drop your guard and risk it all on a roundhouse.

“For what it’s worth,” he said icily, “I would stake my job, my reputation—my life, even—on Lilian’s loyalty.”

The ginger one seemed almost amused. “There’s really no need for such grandiloquence. Do you think for a moment she would be the deputy editor of Il-Berqa if we weren’t of the same mind?”

“So what, with respect, is your point?”

“My point, Major Chadwick, is this: we like her, we like what she does, we like the fact that the two of you work so well together. She’s inclined to sail a little close to the wind at times, but her readers value her forthright opinions, and it’s important that they’re permitted a vent for their frustrations. You seem to temper her more extreme tendencies.” He paused. “So you see, we’re quite content with the way things are, and it would be unfortunate if—how shall I put it?—those of a more prejudiced disposition were allowed to prevail on the question of her current employment.”

Diplomatic doublespeak, but the threat was plain and simple: back off or we pack her off.

Lilian’s job meant everything to her. She had dreamed of it since childhood; she had fought for it against the wishes of her family. It was her life, the one fixed point in her universe.

“I think I get your meaning.”

“Then you may go now.”

Max noted that Colonel Gifford wasn’t aggrieved by this man subverting his authority, as he had been with Elliott. In fact, he seemed almost in awe of him.

“I’ll see Major Chadwick out,” said Elliott, levering himself to his feet.

“There’s no need for that,” said the colonel.

“I’d like to.”

Colonel Gifford was about to object, but something in coppertop’s expression silenced him.

Max made a point of ignoring Hodges on the way out.

“That went well, don’t you think?” Elliott declared chirpily when they were alone in the corridor.

Max wasn’t in the mood for lightheartedness. “For God’s sake, Elliott, what the hell were you doing there?”

“They thought I might be in on it, knowing the two of you as I do. And I’ve got to say, I’m a little insulted I wasn’t in the loop.”

Max ignored the comment.

“They’re not going to do anything, are they?”

“I doubt it. Not with Upstanding about to leave the island.”

“And what happens when dead girls start showing up in Alexandria?”

Elliott hesitated. “I see you’ve been doing your research.”

“What happens?”

“Not our jurisdiction, old man.” He stretched out the vowels in a convincing parody of the ginger-haired chap.

“Who is he?”

“You know, under different circumstances I can see the two of you hitting it off.”

“Christ, Elliott, can’t you ever give a straight answer to a question?”

Elliott looked affronted. “It doesn’t matter who he is. What do you want to know? He’s part of the stuff that goes on behind the scenes.”

“Behind the scenes?”

“You think war is all bombs and bullets, aircraft and subs?”

“Yes. I think if you can hurt your enemy more than he hurts you, then you win.”

Elliott weighed his words. “You’re right, of course. But you’re also wrong. An enemy can be persuaded to squander its assets. Take the Battle of Hastings. A lot of crap’s been written about the Battle of Hastings—believe me, I read most of it at West Point. You want to know the long and short of it? Harold holds the high ground; William has to attack uphill. William fakes a retreat. Harold forsakes the high ground. Harold loses. Yes, horses and men and spears and arrows helped determine the outcome, but that’s a battle Harold should have won. He gave up his advantage.”

“Thanks for the history lesson.”

“Simple deception—that’s why he lost it.”

Max stopped at the top of the staircase. “And is that what you do, Elliott?”

“I wouldn’t have the first clue about faking a retreat.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Put it this way: I don’t fly planes and I don’t fire guns.”

“Yet again, I’ve learned nothing new about you whatsoever.”

Descending the staircase in stony silence, they passed the gangling fellow, no longer with files under his arm, coming in the opposite direction. “Your shirt’s hanging out,” he said curtly to Max.

“No it isn’t,” Max fired back.

Elliott cast a puzzled glance behind him as they carried on down the stone steps. “What is that, code or something?”

Max let him stew in his ignorance.

“Jeez, there are some things about you Brits I’ll never understand.”

They emerged from the building into the dancing heat and the cyclopean glare of the sun. Elliott put on his sunglasses—he was very proud of his Polaroid sunglasses.

“Look, if you want to talk truth, come and see me tonight.”

“I can’t,” said Max. “I’m dining with Ralph at the mess in Mdina.”

“You call Maconochies stew and tack biscuits dining?”

“I’m hoping corned beef’s on the menu tonight.”

“How does grilled fish and a chilled bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet sound?”

“Chassagne-Montrachet?”

“You just have to know where to look.” Elliott grinned.

A shot of truth was an undeniable temptation. So was a glass or two of white burgundy.

“I can’t. I promised Ralph, and I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Maybe I’ll join you.”

“I’m sure you’d be welcome.”

“I’m detecting a lack of enthusiasm.”

“That’s because I’m sulking.”

Elliott smiled. “I’ll call you later, when you’re over it.”

“Yes, do that.”

Elliott made off across the courtyard before stopping and turning back.

“Don’t let them get you down,” he called. “Like my granddaddy used to say: ‘There’s more horses’ asses in the world than there is horses.’”

The very first thing Max did on returning to the Information Office was snatch up one of the phones on his desk. He twirled the handle and asked the operator to put him through to the 90th General Hospital at Mtarfa.

Freddie wasn’t back yet. The car had probably been held up by the raid developing over Ta’ Qali.

Max replaced the receiver and stared at the papers that Maria had laid out in prioritized piles for his perusal. There was no point in even trying to work his way through them. He was too distracted, his thoughts turning to the ordeal of the past hour, skipping among Iris’s betrayal, his roasting in the lieutenant governor’s office, and Elliott’s promise of some answers.