The Information Officer

by Mark Mills

  “Heard the news, old man?”

  “About Dobbie?”

  “Damn shame, if you ask me.”

  “Straight out of left field. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “He’s been poorly for a while.”

  “Yes, a bad case of ‘Et tu, Brute?’ from what I hear.”

  “Really?”

  “Methinks Mabel has been up to her old tricks.”

  Mabel Strickland was the editor of the Times of Malta, and a force to be reckoned with. It was well known that her influence extended far beyond the shores of Malta to the corridors of Whitehall.

  “Oh goody, a scandal. We haven’t had one of those for a while.”

  If you only knew, thought Max.

  He stayed well out of the was-he-pushed-or-did-he-jump speculation that followed, which was soon interrupted by the appearance of Colonel Gifford, who summoned them through.

  The lieutenant governor rose from his desk to greet them. Despite the suntan, his face appeared drawn and careworn. He didn’t hang about, confirming that Lord Gort was indeed the new governor and commander in chief. In the fullness of time they would all have a chance to meet him, but right then he had his head down with the service chiefs, poring over the preparations for the forthcoming battle. The fly-in of Spitfires would meet with fierce resistance from the Germans, as would the arrival of HMS Welshman the following day. The fast minelayer was going to be making a lone dash from Gibraltar loaded to the gunwales with ammunition, aircraft parts, and food. They were calling it Operation Bowery, and Lord Gort was firmly of the view that nothing should be allowed to distract the islanders during this time. News of his appointment should therefore be kept under wraps for a couple of days, and it was the responsibility of the men in the room to see that his wishes were fulfilled.

  The lieutenant governor assured the men that they wouldn’t be disappointed with the new governor, and even shared an anecdote to bear out his point. As luck would have it, the seaplane base at Kalafrana had suffered a heavy air raid soon after Lord Gort’s arrival, the first bombs raining down right in the middle of the swearing-in ceremony. A very large egg, possibly a two-thousand-pounder, had narrowly missed the base commander’s house where they were all gathered, sending everyone diving for cover—everyone other than Lord Gort, who had barely flinched.

  He’ll learn, thought Max.

  “Something for you to use, Major Chadwick, when the time’s right.”

  “Absolutely, sir. Stirring stuff.”

  He saw Colonel Gifford’s nostrils twitch, sniffing for sarcasm.

  The meeting over, the men filed out of the office, past Hodges, and into the corridor. Colonel Gifford followed close on their heels.

  “Major Chadwick …”

  He evidently wanted a word in private, so Max hung back. Gifford waited for the others to drift out of earshot before speaking.

  “No hard feelings about the other day, I hope?”

  “No, just suitably chastened.” He threw in a coy and contrite little look. “I was a bloody fool. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Gifford appeared to swallow it. “That’s war for you. It messes with our perspective on things.”

  “Not yours.”

  “No, even mine.”

  This admission of fallibility was accompanied by an almost beatific expression.

  Just think of Busuttil, Max told himself, out there at this very moment, digging for the truth.

  “Well, we’re all going to have to stay focused over the next few days,” said Gifford. “The time of reckoning is here.”

  “Let’s hope,” replied Max.

  Mother hen was seated at the counter, talking to the barman, and her lined face lit up when she saw him.

  Josef dumped himself at a table well away from the other girls and waited for her to join him. She made her way over with a small glass of something brown.

  “On the house.”

  Josef sneaked a sip. It was whisky, and it hadn’t been watered down. He flattened a larger sip against his palate, savoring it.

  “I need to know if you were lying.”

  “Lying?”

  “About Ken.”

  “Why would I lie to you?”

  “Because of your nephew.”

  “I told you what Mary told me.”

  “She definitely said he was with the submarines?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else? Dark, fair? Thin, fat?”

  “How many fat people do you know on Malta?”

  “True.”

  “Gozo, maybe. I hear they still eat like kings on Gozo.”

  She reached for one of his cigarettes, and he lit it for her.

  “I see him as having a mustache, but I don’t know if that’s because of something Mary said.”

  “Can you think of anyone else she might have talked to about him? Maybe someone from her family?”

  “She wasn’t close to her family. She wasn’t close to many people. She lived alone in Hamrun.”

  He didn’t bother asking for the address. He had enough on his plate already without a trip to Hamrun.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “No,” replied Josef. “But you’re going to tell me the name of your nephew and I’m going to see what I can do for him.”

  “There’s no need to take it so personally. We’ve all been through it.”

  Pemberton shifted in his chair. “You’re asking me to lie?”

  “To exercise a certain discretion. The press correspondents are out to make a name for themselves. Good news, bad news, it’s all fair game to them.”

  Pemberton had made the mistake of being honest with one of the correspondents about a couple of Beaufighters that had failed to return to Luqa after a mission. It was the sort of news you didn’t want going off the island.

  “All I’m saying is, be a bit more guarded in your responses to them.”

  “Guarded?”

  “Gray. Until you’ve spoken to me.”

  Pemberton fumbled for a cigarette. Poor boy, thought Max, he’s probably never put a foot wrong. It was written all over him: top of the class, captain of sports, victor ludorum, head boy, handsome as hell, and now this—a small blunder that had tarnished his perfect record.

  “Rosamund says no one reads the Daily Situation Report,” Pemberton moaned.

  “Does she?”

  “She says it’s a joke.”

  “Not for the men whose deaths you’re recording.”

  Max was beginning to lose his patience, but Pemberton didn’t appear to notice.

  “She says no one reads it and the Maltese don’t believe a word of it.”

  True enough; he knew that from Lilian.

  “Surely they have to read it in order not to believe a word of it.”

  “That’s semantics.”

  “Semantics is our business. The sooner you understand that, the better it’ll be for you.”

  This time, Max invested his voice with a firm touch of authority that startled Pemberton into silence.

  “Look,” sighed Max, “whatever you think, whatever you’ve heard, they’ll all be reading it over the next few days. It’s my guess you’re about to chronicle one of the great moments of this war.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. I think we’re going to show the Germans a thing or two tomorrow. I think they won’t know what’s hit them. I think we’re going to be standing on the beach when the tide turns.”

  It was hardly Churchill, but it seemed to lift Pemberton’s spirits.

  “I like that image of the tide turning. I was brought up by the sea, you know?”

  Probably swims like a fish, too, thought Max.

  The moment Pemberton was gone, Max lit a cigarette and reflected on the exchange. He felt bad for having raised his voice. He knew he had only been taking out his own frustrations on his young charge, the most recent conversation with Tommy Ravilious still fresh in his mind.

 
Max had thought about heading over to the submarine base in person. Remembering Busuttil’s warning to tread carefully, he had picked up the phone instead.

  “Tommy, it’s Max.”

  “Ahhhh, Max …” There was something strange in his tone.

  “A quick question—”

  “I should stop you there, old man. I’m under orders not to speak to you.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently you’ve become persona non grata. I told them you always were.”

  “Who’s them?”

  “Does it matter? The powers that be.”

  “Tommy, this is important.”

  “So’s my pension, old man.”

  “Ken.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m trying to find a chap called Ken. He’s one of yours, probably an officer.”

  “They said you weren’t to be trusted and I was to let them know if you tried to make contact.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I most certainly can, but I’m not going to. I’m going to hang up.”

  “Is he one of yours? Yes or no?”

  “Sorry, no ken do.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s code, you idiot. We don’t have a Ken—not now, not ever.”

  “Thanks, Tommy.”

  “What for? We never spoke.”

  A dead end. There was nothing more he could do to move matters along. The waiting game was messing with his head, and young Pemberton had paid the price for it.

  He was thinking about taking another turn on the roof when the phone rang. It was Maria, and she had Hugh on the line.

  “Your presence is requested for dinner at ours this evening, seven for seven-thirty. You won’t guess what we’re eating.”

  “I’m so hungry that dog would do.”

  “Try duck.”

  “Duck? Not Laurel and Hardy!”

  Laurel and Hardy were two plump mallards who’d inhabited the pond at the end of Hugh and Rosamund’s garden. They were part of the family, like surrogate children. Max had spent many an hour gathering snails to feed them.

  “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 offic
e, 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.