The Information Officer

“Last night. From Kalafrana. Left in a seaplane.”

It was good to know that Elliott wasn’t a total fraud.

“Why are you whispering?” whispered Max.

Pemberton looked crestfallen. “You knew?”

“I got a whiff of it.”

Keep it cryptic, keep the new boy in his place, then find out how the hell the new boy got the jump on him.

“Who did you hear it from?”

“Rosamund, who heard it from Hugh. Apparently he’s known for a couple of days. She was very upset.”

Rosamund had shown up at breakfast at the Copnalls’ house in Saint Julian’s, where Pemberton was lodging. If she was to be believed, the governor of Gibraltar, Lord Gort, was now the governor of Malta, having flown in to Kalafrana on the same seaplane that had then carried the Dobbies off.

Gort was a good man, by all accounts—a tough no-nonsense type—and Rosamund would get over it once she’d secured a place for herself at the new court.

It wasn’t long before the call came through from the lieutenant governor’s office, as Max knew it would. He wandered next door to the Vincenzo Bugeja Conservatory, pushing aside memories of his last visit.

The sight of Hodges perched self-importantly behind his desk brought them flooding back.

“It’s good to see you again, Major Chadwick.”

A pointed comment intended to go over the heads of the other men already gathered there, waiting to be called through. They were standing in a loose huddle, smoking and talking in hushed tones. Max nosed his way among them. There were representatives from Defense Security and Censorship, along with a couple of faces he recognized from the Union Club.

“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?”