The Information Officer

“Verdict?”

“Not so special. I feel a bit dizzy.”

She sat back against the trunk and closed her eyes. There was nothing awkward about the silence that now enveloped them. It gave him the opportunity to think about how he was going to broach the subject. It was hardly the time to do it, not while she was still reeling from the death of her friend, but time was a luxury he couldn’t afford right then.

Over the tops of the trees he could make out Verdala Palace, the governor’s summer residence, rising foursquare on the ridge above, lording over the gardens. With its corner towers and crenellations, it resembled a medieval castle, although the pale stonework lent it an exotic and less forbidding air. He could picture the vast barrel-vaulted hall with its frescoes, where he had dined soon after his promotion. Being a Plymouth Brother, Governor Dobbie was a teetotaler, but he had nevertheless kept the wine waiter on his toes that night, ensuring that his guests’ glasses had been properly charged.

“What are you thinking?” Lilian asked. She still had her head resting against the trunk, but her eyes were open now, locked on to him. “It looks serious,” she added lightheartedly.

He placed his hand over hers and gave it a small squeeze. “It is, I’m afraid.”

He told her everything, from the moment when Freddie had first summoned him to the Central Hospital to show him Carmela Cassar’s corpse. First, though, he made her swear on all she held dear that she wouldn’t share a word of what he was about to tell her with any living soul.

She was on her feet before he had finished his account, and only when he was done did she speak.

“The lieutenant governor tried to stop you?”

“He wasn’t present.”

“But he was still in the room.”

“I suppose they must have been acting with his authority.”

“I can’t believe it.”

She was angry now, pacing around.

“It’s true. They threatened us both in no uncertain terms.”

“But they’re doing something about it. They must be.”

“I wouldn’t bank on it. They don’t want to have the drains up at a time like this. It’s like Elliott said—when the Upstanding leaves, the problem goes with her.”

“The problem?” she fired back crisply. “Is that what you call murderers in your country?”

He raised his hands in placatory gesture. “Don’t get angry with me.”

“But I am angry with you. I’m angry with all of you—the way you treat us, the way you think of us, the way you talk about us. ‘The natives are getting restless’—I heard that yesterday in the Union Club. And I saw the looks and the smiles. They all thought it was very funny, until they saw me listening. Then they were embarrassed. Good. I’m glad the little native embarrassed them.”

“Lilian—”

“It’s true. You know it is.”

“Not everyone thinks like that, or talks like that.”

“Oh, you’re innocent, are you? I read what you write, and I see the same thing in your words. What was it last week? ‘Malta Can Take It’? Well, good old Malta.”

“That was a line from a BBC broadcast,” he bleated in his defense.

“Yes, Malta can take it, because Malta has got to take it. But we’re not doing it for you; we’re doing it for us.” She slapped her palm against her chest to make her point. “It’s our island. It’s not yours, and it’s not theirs. It’s ours.”

Technically, the island was a British crown colony, but it probably wasn’t the best moment to point out this detail.

“If it wasn’t for us, you’d be under German occupation by now.”

“Well, at least they wouldn’t be dropping their bombs on us.”

“No, we would be.”

The words popped out of his mouth unbidden, illuminating Malta’s grim and perennial predicament, a toothless lump of limestone prey to the whims of mightier nations.

“Don’t you see? People have always come here because they can. But they always leave. If the Germans invade, one day they will go.” She paused. “And one day you will go too.”

Her republican rant had strayed into dangerous territory with that last comment. They both knew it.

“I’m not the only one to think it,” she said defensively.

“I don’t doubt it. But keep it under your hat unless you fancy a holiday in Uganda.”

“And that says it all, doesn’t it?”

He wasn’t going to argue the point, because at heart he agreed with her about the “pro-Italians” and the other “subversive elements” who had been shipped out to Uganda earlier in the year. They’d had a number of heated discussions on this thorny issue, with Max trotting out the official platitude: “Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures.” When it came down to it, though, there was something chillingly draconian about the stretch of power that allowed the British to intern and deport Maltese citizens at will, without due process. They