Mark Mills - The Information Officer

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.

IT WAS PERFECT, MAYBE MORE PERFECT THAN IT HAD EVER been in the past.

Preparations had been made, contingencies planned for, but it wasn’t the logistics that accounted for his deep sense of satisfaction. That came from the beauty of the stratagem, its plain and simple trigonometry.

There had been moments when he had feared he’d taken on too much. He could admit to that now, now that he was so close and could see it all unfolding before his eyes.

He loved this moment, and he tried to record his almost dizzying sense of anticipation.

Reading back the words, he realized that some things lay well beyond the scope of language.

DAY EIGHT

MAX WOKE WITH A START, UNSURE WHY AT FIRST, THE reason slowly dawning on him.

He struggled to read the luminous dial of his wristwatch—just after five—which meant Busuttil was running more than seven hours late.

Max had been the first to leave the dinner, racing home to make the ten o’clock appointment and managing to stay awake until after midnight before nodding off. He had left the door downstairs unlocked and the one to his flat ajar. It still was.

Maybe Busuttil had been caught in one of the night raids, injured even. It seemed unlikely. The 88s had concentrated all their efforts on the airfields, wave after wave, suggesting that Kesselring had full knowledge of the fly-in and was doing everything in his power to hamper the operation, chewing up the runways and scattering what remained of them with delayed-action bombs.

By seven o’clock, there was still no sign of the detective.

Max left the flat, pinning a note to the door that said he’d gone to work, and giving the phone number. Outside, he ran an apologetic hand over the motorcycle. He had thrashed her on the way home, hurling her around the looping bends of Marsamxett Harbour. He gave her a little shake to check the contents of the tank. Running low on gasoline yet again, but the coil of tubing was tucked away under the seat, ready for some surreptitious siphoning. She started the first time.

There was an air of expectancy in the office. Everyone knew what was coming, but not when exactly. They congregated on the roof of Saint Joseph’s, eyes fixed on the distant ridge where Rabat and Mdina stood shoulder to shoulder. That’s where the Spitfires would come from, out of the west. High overhead, 109s stooged about the skies, keeping watch, biding their time.

By nine o’clock there was still no word from Busuttil, so Max put a call through to the offices of Il-Berqa . Lilian hadn’t shown up at work yet, which was strange. She was usually at her desk by eight at the latest. His next call was to her aunt in Mdina.

“Teresa, it’s me, Max.”

“How nice to hear your voice.”

“Is Lilian there?”

“No, she’s at work.”

She had left early, grabbing a ride down the hill to Ta’ Qali on the pilots’ bus, as she usually did.

“She’s not at work.”

“She must be there by now.”

“Well, she isn’t. No one has seen her.”

“Max, what are you saying?”

He could hear the anxiety creeping into her voice.

“She probably couldn’t get a lift from the airfield into Valetta. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

But he wasn’t sure. Even if she’d been forced to walk all the way—which simply never happened to women with her kind of looks—she would have arrived by now.

He waited half an hour before calling Il-Berqa again and drawing another blank. He could feel the seed of fear germinating in his chest. First Busuttil disappears, and now Lilian. Coincidence? Not if they really were missing. That suggested something far more sinister. He remembered Elliott’s warning: They’ll be watching you closely . Maybe he should have heeded those words of caution more closely. Maybe Colonel Gifford—