Mark Mills - The Information Officer

“I don’t know what’s got into you, but there are men there who need attention. So—if you don’t mind—I’ve got a job to do.”

Max hadn’t spotted the ambulances on the quayside because they were parked in the streets of Senglea, just back from the docks. Senglea was a ghost town, long since evacuated by order of the governor. If anything, the smoke sat thicker there than on the quayside, undisturbed by the urgent passage of men.

There were four ambulances in all, but only three were required for the wounded men. Freddie sent them on their way before turning his attention back to Max. They were alone now, and Freddie was still angry.

“Okay, what the bloody hell’s going on?”

Don’t be fooled by the indignation , Max told himself. You’re dealing with a practiced liar, a dangerous man .

“Where’s Lilian?”

“Lilian?”

“Tell me where she is!”

“How the hell should I know?”

Reaching for his gun seemed the right thing to do. Taking his eyes off Freddie for a split second as he did so was definitely the wrong thing.

The fist caught him square in the mouth, snapping his head back. His knees buckled and the world seemed to recede around him. He was dimly aware of the air-raid siren and the taste of blood in his mouth and the sound of an engine starting. He forced himself back to consciousness in time to see the remaining ambulance disappear into the smoke.

He stumbled off in pursuit, pulling the revolver from its holster. That’s when the Grand Harbour barrage opened up. It hadn’t been heard in months, not on this scale, not since the March convoy. The restrictions on ammunition had clearly been lifted, and guns were letting off from every quarter. The shattering cacophony didn’t assault just the ears but all the senses. The street shivered before Max’s eyes; his legs felt leaden, numbed to the bone by the reverberations.

He didn’t hear the ambulance until it was almost on him, materializing in a moment, its blunt nose bearing down on him head-on.

He hurled himself to the left, landing hard in a pile of rubble. The ambulance veered to crush him, and it might have succeeded if a large chunk of stonework hadn’t deflected it from its course. The front wheel struck the block with a sickening crunch, and the vehicle reared up, flashing him its dark belly as it passed over him, teetering on two wheels.

Because of the smoke, he didn’t see it roll over, but he heard the sound, even above the thunder of the barrage and the scream of diving Stukas.

He groped for the revolver among the rubble, pushed himself to his feet, and set off after the ambulance.

The vehicle lay on its side, its engine still running. He didn’t bother to check the driver’s compartment because he saw Freddie staggering off through the smoke. Max wasn’t capable of breaking into a sprint, but he did his best under the circumstances and was closing in when Freddie cut right, up some steps.

They led to a church, or what was left of it. A large section of the front façade was gone, and the entrance doors hung drunkenly from their hinges. A small voice told Max to holster his weapon before entering the building. He ignored it.

Freddie had made no attempt to hide. The roof had collapsed into the nave, and he was scrabbling his way toward the back of the building over the twisted beams and broken tiles. Max fired a warning shot, the report echoing off the walls and stopping Freddie in his tracks. He stood upright, turning to face his pursuer.

Outside, the crumping barrage began to fade, the first phase of the raid over. Max picked his way through the rubble. Within the four walls of the church, the smoke seemed to hang in the air like incense at a Catholic Mass.

“Is she alive? Tell me she’s alive.”

“She’s alive.”

“Where is she?”

“In a basement.”

“Where?”

“Within a two-mile radius.”

They both knew what that meant. Grand Harbour’s toothy huddle of cities and towns was reputed to be the most built-over place in Europe.

“You’ll never find her, I can promise you that, not if you pull that trigger. She’ll die a slow death, a horrible death, the worst kind. Starvation and dehydration—is that what you want for her?”

“Why, Freddie?”

“Why?” He gave a short laugh. “My God, that’s a question and a half. How long have you got?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“We were friends.”

“You mean we aren’t anymore?”

He seemed almost to be enjoying himself, untroubled by the gun leveled at his chest.

“Tell me where she is.”

“You think you can make me with that popgun? Go ahead, try. Better still, don’t bother. There’s no point. I’ll never tell you, not you, not anyone.” He spread his arms wide. “Here before God I give you my word.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“You don’t know me,” said Freddie darkly. “It’ll be my little victory. Go on, do it. She’s dead anyway.”

Max lowered the gun sharply, aiming at Freddie’s leg, his finger tightening around the trigger.

A shot rang out around the church and Max was sent reeling, as if clubbed in the arm. He stumbled and fell, gripping his shoulder, feeling the blood, the shock giving way to a searing pain and the vague realization that he’d just been shot.

Elliott stepped into view from behind a pillar—his gun, his eyes, trained on Max.

“Is he alone?” Elliott asked.

Max was on the point of replying when Elliott turned to Freddie and demanded, “Is he alone?”

“I think so,” replied Freddie, slowly coming out of a crouch.

“You think so, or you know so?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

Freddie’s confusion was becoming more evident with each response.

Keeping his gun on Max, Elliott recovered the revolver from the ground before backing away.

“What are you doing here?” Freddie asked, bewildered.

“My job,” said Elliott. “Covering your back. I work for Tacitus too.”

Tacitus? The significance of the word was lost on Max, and for a moment the same seemed true for Freddie. But then he began to laugh.

“You think it’s funny? You see me laughing? I wouldn’t have to be here if you hadn’t screwed up.”

“Elliott?” said Max pathetically.

“Shut up.”

Elliott turned back to Freddie and nodded toward the main doors. “Get out of here.”

Freddie edged his way past Elliott. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Use your imagination.”

“Goodbye, Max,” said Freddie.

The words sounded almost heartfelt.

Max stared at them both, incapable of speech.

Elliott advanced on him.

“Elliott …,” he pleaded.

“Lie down.”

Max kicked out with his feet, trying to keep him at bay.

It couldn’t end like this. It wasn’t possible.

His efforts to defend himself were rewarded with a crippling boot to the solar plexus. Gasping for breath, he looked up at Elliott, vaguely aware of Freddie—a dim shape in the smoke, watching from near the entrance.

“I’m sorry,” said Elliott, dropping to one knee and placing the muzzle of his revolver against Max’s temple. “But as the old saying goes, ‘It is appointed unto man once to die.’”

The words chimed with some hazy memory. He knew that they had made him laugh at the time, but he couldn’t remember why. Something to do with snow and an old man …

He was still groping for the details when Elliott pulled the trigger.

LONDON

May 1951

“SHALL I POUR?” SAID ELLIOTT, REACHING FOR THE WINE bottle.