Mark Mills - The Information Officer

“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.