The Information Officer

“You were talking to that bald chap from Defense Security over by the bench.”

“Well, I must say, you have excellent peripheral vision.”

“That’s what my sports master used to say. It’s why he stuck me in the center of the midfield.”

“You don’t really expect me to talk about football, do you?”

“When Rosamund rings her bell, we might have no choice.”

A slow smile broke across her face. “My God, I’ve missed you,” she said softly and quite unexpectedly.

The desire in her voice was palpable, almost painful to his ears.

“You’re breaking the rules,” said Max.

“Damn the rules.”

“You’re forgetting—you were the one who made the rules.”

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Max.”

“It’s the best I can come up with under the circumstances.”

“Now you’re being abstruse.” She handed him her empty glass. “Mix me another, will you?”

“Remind me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Bandits at one o’clock,” he said in a whisper.

He had spotted them approaching over her shoulder: Hugh with Trevor Kimberley’s dark and pretty wife in tow.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mitzi sighed volubly. “Another gin and French.”

Max took her glass. “So where’s Lionel? Out on patrol?”

Hugh was within earshot now. “Be careful, old chap. Asking questions like that can land a man in deep water.”

“Hello, Margaret,” said Max, ignoring him.

Margaret Kimberley nodded benignly and maybe a little drunkenly.

“I mean,” Hugh persisted, “why would you want to know the details of what our noble submariners are up to?”

“Besides, I’m hardly the person to ask,” said Mitzi. “Lionel doesn’t tell me anything. One day he’s gone, then one day he’s back; that’s all I know.”

“It’s all any of us needs to know.”

“Trevor tells me nothing,” chipped in Margaret.

Hugh peered down at her. “That, my dear, is because your Trevor does next to nothing for most of the time. Take it from me as his commanding officer.”

“Somehow, Hugh, I can’t think of you as a commanding officer,” Mitzi chimed, a playful glint in her eye. “A genial one, maybe, and slightly inept, but not a commanding one.”

Margaret’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle a laugh, which drew an affronted scowl from Hugh.

“Bang goes Trevor’s promotion,” said Max, to more laughter.

A little while later the ladies left together for the far end of the garden. Max fought to ignore the lazy sway of Mitzi’s slender hips beneath her cotton print dress.

“Entre nous,” said Hugh, considerably less abashed about admiring the view, “all the subs will be gone for good within a week or so.”

“Really?”

“Well, you’ve seen the pasting they’ve been taking down at Lazaretto Creek. And since Wanklyn came a cropper …”

The loss of the Upholder a couple of weeks back had rocked the whole garrison, right down to the man on the street. Subs had been lost before, subs driven by good men known to all, men who had once lit up the bar at the Union Club and whose bones were now resting somewhere on the seabed. “Wankers” Wanklyn was different, though. A tall, soft-spoken Scotsman with a biblical beard, he’d been modest in the way that only the truly great can afford to be. With well over one hundred thousand tons of enemy shipping under his belt and a Victoria Cross on his chest, he’d exuded a quiet invincibility that others had fed off, had drawn strength from. Not one of his peers had begrudged him his star status because he’d never once played to it; he’d just got on with the job. And now he was gone, sent to the bottom, a mere human being after all.

As the information officer, Max had been the first to learn of the Upholder’s fate. The announcement had been buried away in the transcript of an Italian broadcast—a brief mention of a nameless submarine destroyed in an engagement off Tripoli. Max had made some discreet inquiries, enough to narrow the field to the Upholder, and then he had sat on the news for a couple of days.

Yes, he had wanted Wanklyn to prove him wrong, he had wanted to see the Maltese packing the bastions again, cheering the Upholder home, straining to see if there were any new chevrons stitched to the Jolly Roger she was flying. But he had known in his bones that it wasn’t going to happen. He had known that what he needed was a couple of days to figure out how to play it, how to soften the blow for his readers and listeners.

But that was then, and this was now, and while he understood that pulling the subs off the island might be the