The Information Officer

“Maybe both.”

“Now you’re reaching.”

“It’s possible, though.”

“Anything’s possible under what’s-his-name’s rule. It’s okay to make assumptions if they’re based on evidence.”

“What evidence? One trip to the sub base?” Elliott paused to allow his words to sink in. “I called Tommy Ravilious this afternoon. Don’t worry, I played my cards close. He still thinks the sun shines out of your skinny fundament.”

“Thank God for that. I can sleep easy tonight.”

“I don’t know,” said Elliott, glancing up at the cloudless sky. “That’s a ‘bomber’s moon.’ I wouldn’t bank on any of us sleeping easy tonight.” Looking back at Max, he asked, “So? Do the dates match with when the Upstanding was in port?”

“Of course. That’s not the sort of slip an enemy agent would make.”

Elliott regarded him with a look that hovered on the fringes of disappointment. “I’ve got to say, I’m surprised at your skepticism.”

“I don’t like to leap to assumptions.”

“Touche,” said Elliott with a little nod. “But maybe they’re more than just assumptions. Maybe I know more than I’m letting on.”

Max swirled the wine in his glass, staring at it, pensive.

“I think I can see what you’re doing,” Max said eventually.

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s complicated.”

“So boil it down.”

Colonel Gifford’s threats might not have worked, but if Max could be made to believe there were other factors at play, things far beyond his understanding, then maybe that would persuade him to back off, especially if he thought that by taking the matter further he would only be playing into the enemy’s hands, serving their nefarious cause. Elliott was simply finishing the job that Gifford had started.

Elliott listened attentively to the theory before announcing, “You’re wrong. As far as I’m concerned, what you get up to is your own business. But this”—he wagged the sheet of paper at Max—“is taking you nowhere fast. I mean, look at it. Where did he take Carmela Cassar? It’s the wrong question. Valetta’s a ghost town, so are the Three Cities, even Sliema and Gzira. Most of the people have left. He’s got options coming out of his ears. The question should be: How did he take her there?”

It was a good point. Gasoline was so scarce that motor vehicles had become a rare sight on the roads in the past month or more. Most servicemen were reduced to getting around on foot or on bicycle or in the horse-drawn gharries favored by the Maltese. These were open-sided carriages on four large sprung wheels—hardly an ideal mode of transport for moving a victim about.

“Okay,” said Max, “I’ll add it to the list.”

“You’re really set on seeing this through?”

“You think it’s a bad idea?”

“Yes, because they’ll be watching you closely.”

“Then you can stop me. All it takes is a quick word in the ear of your ginger-haired friend.”

“He’s not my friend. And I’d never do that to you.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Hey, now I’m insulted.”

“Something tells me you’ll get over it.”

Elliott smiled. “Coffee?”

“Really?”

“Colombian or Sumatran?”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

But he wasn’t. The pantry off the bare stone kitchen was stocked with both. It also housed a range of other rarities: tinned fruits, several varieties of tea, a bowl of hens’ eggs, bottles of olive oil. There were even a couple of cured hams hanging from hooks.

“Bloody hell, Elliott, where did this lot come from?”

“I’ll show you.”

The pantry had been impressive, but it was nothing compared to the barn. Small wonder the doors were secured with a hefty padlock.

“Promise not to tell?” asked Elliott as he led Max inside. The light from the hurricane lamp cast wild shadows around the interior, revealing a storehouse of goods piled high in boxes. In one corner stood a stack of gleaming ten-gallon fuel canisters.

“Impressive, huh?”