The Information Officer

had written him, especially someone like Mademoiselle Leckford.

“It means …,” she said softly, peering down at him with a strange look in her eyes. “It means, ‘You would have been my life.’”

“Oh.”

She turned away, staring out the window. “Now run along, Chadwick.”

Only later did he learn that she had turned her back on him because she hadn’t wanted him to see the tears building in her eyes.

Of course, the pity felt by an adult for a ten-year-old boy could hardly be dignified with the name of friendship, but it had nonetheless been the start of something enduring and important for both of them.

“I still see her,” said Max, speaking of Lucinda. “And maybe I’m still a bit in love with her.”

“That’ll do me,” Elliott replied. “I like that. It’s a good story. Very revealing.”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, I do.”

Only when the plates were cleared away did they broach the subject they both knew they’d been avoiding, and it was Elliott who took the initiative.

“Recovered from the meeting yesterday?”

“Oh, that’s what it was. Seemed more like a court-martial to me.”

“From where I was sitting too.”

“Where exactly were you sitting?”

Elliott leaned back in his chair. “Put it this way: I can see both sides.”

“You think I can’t? You know what I did when Freddie first showed me the shoulder tab?”

“No, but I can guess. You thought about getting rid of it.”

Max was momentarily thrown by the response. “And what would you have done?”

“Same as you, probably—thought about it, changed my mind, snooped around a bit. The only difference is, I wouldn’t have got caught.”

“Well, bully for you.”

Elliott shrugged the comment aside. “I’m trained for that kind of thing. You’re an architect with a gift for writing the kind of upbeat bullshit that people want to hear at times like this.”

“If you’re trying to put me in my place, you’re doing a pretty good job—better than Colonel Gifford, even.”

“Gifford’s about as subtle as an anvil. I told him you couldn’t be strong-armed.”

“Well, he proved you wrong.”

“Did he? I doubt it. My guess is you’ve thought about nothing else since then … and what you’re going to do about it now.”

“What do you care?” said Max warily.

“You think I’m completely without principles?”

It was a typical play from Elliott, answering a question with a question. Nevertheless, Max reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Elliott took it from him, angling it at the light from the candles.

Max had scribbled three questions on it: Where does he find them? Where did he take Carmela Cassar? Why does he do it? He had put a line through the last of these.

“Interesting,” said Elliott. “But why cross out the last one?”

“Because it’s imponderable. Who knows why he does it? Some sick urge buried away deep inside him.”

“Him?” asked Elliott. “Why not them?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to Max. “I just assumed …”

“Well, don’t. Wethern’s Law of Suspended Judgment: assumption is the mother of all screwups.” Elliott pointed to the third item on Max’s list. “For all you know, this is the key to it all. Don’t dismiss it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Jeez, your ignorance is refreshing. I’m saying, what if he’s doing it for reasons other than self-gratification? What if he’s looking to destabilize the situation here? What if he’s working for the enemy and the whole thing is one big setup, all part of a plan to turn the Maltese against you, to break the special relationship?”

“Now you’re sounding like Ralph. He sees spies and fifth columnists everywhere.”

“Ralph is right to be on his guard. They are here. I can tell you that for nothing.”

It was a big statement, and one that raised more questions, but Max tried to remain focused on the issue.

“Freddie said there was evidence of sexual interference.”

“Ah …”

“So either this person—or persons—takes his job very seriously, or he’s getting some kind of pleasure from it.”