Mark Mills - The Information Officer

“Interesting,” said Elliott. “But why cross out the last one?”

“Because it’s imponderable. Who knows why he does it? Some sick urge buried away deep inside him.”

“Him?” asked Elliott. “Why not them?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to Max. “I just assumed …”

“Well, don’t. Wethern’s Law of Suspended Judgment: assumption is the mother of all screwups.” Elliott pointed to the third item on Max’s list. “For all you know, this is the key to it all. Don’t dismiss it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Jeez, your ignorance is refreshing. I’m saying, what if he’s doing it for reasons other than self-gratification? What if he’s looking to destabilize the situation here? What if he’s working for the enemy and the whole thing is one big setup, all part of a plan to turn the Maltese against you, to break the special relationship?”

“Now you’re sounding like Ralph. He sees spies and fifth columnists everywhere.”

“Ralph is right to be on his guard. They are here. I can tell you that for nothing.”

It was a big statement, and one that raised more questions, but Max tried to remain focused on the issue.

“Freddie said there was evidence of sexual interference.”

“Ah …”

“So either this person—or persons—takes his job very seriously, or he’s getting some kind of pleasure from it.”

“Maybe both.”

“Now you’re reaching.”

“It’s possible, though.”

“Anything’s possible under what’s-his-name’s rule. It’s okay to make assumptions if they’re based on evidence.”

“What evidence? One trip to the sub base?” Elliott paused to allow his words to sink in. “I called Tommy Ravilious this afternoon. Don’t worry, I played my cards close. He still thinks the sun shines out of your skinny fundament.”

“Thank God for that. I can sleep easy tonight.”

“I don’t know,” said Elliott, glancing up at the cloudless sky. “That’s a ‘bomber’s moon.’ I wouldn’t bank on any of us sleeping easy tonight.” Looking back at Max, he asked, “So? Do the dates match with when the Upstanding was in port?”

“Of course. That’s not the sort of slip an enemy agent would make.”

Elliott regarded him with a look that hovered on the fringes of disappointment. “I’ve got to say, I’m surprised at your skepticism.”

“I don’t like to leap to assumptions.”

“Touché,” said Elliott with a little nod. “But maybe they’re more than just assumptions. Maybe I know more than I’m letting on.”

Max swirled the wine in his glass, staring at it, pensive.

“I think I can see what you’re doing,” Max said eventually.

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s complicated.”

“So boil it down.”

Colonel Gifford’s threats might not have worked, but if Max could be made to believe there were other factors at play, things far beyond his understanding, then maybe that would persuade him to back off, especially if he thought that by taking the matter further he would only be playing into the enemy’s hands, serving their nefarious cause. Elliott was simply finishing the job that Gifford had started.

Elliott listened attentively to the theory before announcing, “You’re wrong. As far as I’m concerned, what you get up to is your own business. But this”—he wagged the sheet of paper at Max—“is taking you nowhere fast. I mean, look at it. Where did he take Carmela Cassar? It’s the wrong question. Valetta’s a ghost town, so are the Three Cities, even Sliema and Gzira. Most of the people have left. He’s got options coming out of his ears. The question should be: How did he take her there?”

It was a good point. Gasoline was so scarce that motor vehicles had become a rare sight on the roads in the past month or more. Most servicemen were reduced to getting around on foot or on bicycle or in the horse-drawn gharries favored by the Maltese. These were open-sided carriages on four large sprung wheels—hardly an ideal mode of transport for moving a victim about.

“Okay,” said Max, “I’ll add it to the list.”

“You’re really set on seeing this through?”

“You think it’s a bad idea?”

“Yes, because they’ll be watching you closely.”

“Then you can stop me. All it takes is a quick word in the ear of your ginger-haired friend.”

“He’s not my friend. And I’d never do that to you.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Hey, now I’m insulted.”

“Something tells me you’ll get over it.”

Elliott smiled. “Coffee?”

“Really?”

“Colombian or Sumatran?”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

But he wasn’t. The pantry off the bare stone kitchen was stocked with both. It also housed a range of other rarities: tinned fruits, several varieties of tea, a bowl of hens’ eggs, bottles of olive oil. There were even a couple of cured hams hanging from hooks.

“Bloody hell, Elliott, where did this lot come from?”

“I’ll show you.”

The pantry had been impressive, but it was nothing compared to the barn. Small wonder the doors were secured with a hefty padlock.

“Promise not to tell?” asked Elliott as he led Max inside. The light from the hurricane lamp cast wild shadows around the interior, revealing a storehouse of goods piled high in boxes. In one corner stood a stack of gleaming ten-gallon fuel canisters.

“Impressive, huh?”

“I’m not sure the military police would see it the same way.”

“We don’t get a lot of Red Caps out in these parts.”

Max strolled through the cases.

“I’m not a profiteer, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Elliott said.

“Just a hoarder?”

“Not even. This is work. I’m the sole representative of the United States government on the island, and sometimes I need to get things done. This lot counts for more than money right now.”

“Ah, ambassadorial privilege.”

“Nicely put. I like that.”

“Well, let’s hope you don’t ever have to plead it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Nothing that a small bribe can’t rectify.”

Max was joking, of course, but when he set off back to Valetta after two cups of very fine coffee, it was with a full tank of gasoline sloshing between his legs and half a dozen eggs secreted about his person.

HE USUALLY WROTE WITH A FOUNTAIN PEN. HOWEVER, ink had grown scarce on the island, obliging him to fall back on a pencil. The words lacked their usual authority on the page, but they still spoke clearly to him.

The witless Germans might have lost their nerve, but he wasn’t ready to hang up his boots, not quite yet. It would be like abandoning a game of chess just when the board was set for a perfect endgame. Risks had been taken, sacrifices made, in order to maneuver the pieces into position. There was no question of walking away. The question, rather, was one of how exactly to proceed.

He had listed his options neatly on the page, and by the light of the guttering candle he pondered them in turn, playing each of the little dramas through to its conclusion.

Caution dictated that he be extremely thorough, more so than ever. Released from his contract with the Germans, he was a free agent, and a whole new range of possibilities presented themselves for wrapping up the affair in his own fashion. He knew what he was like, though; he knew he was liable to leap at the most ambitious of these, ignoring the added dangers for the sake of the greater satisfaction it would bring. He needed to keep his instincts in check, to keep his perspective.

Malta marked a new stage of his journey, but that’s all it was—a stage. There was far more to come. He couldn’t say what exactly, he couldn’t perceive the pattern yet, but he’d be a fool to wager it all on one roll of the dice.