The Information Officer

lightly down the central avenue for fifty yards or so before breaking left, weaving through the gravestones, and taking up a position behind a run of large family tombs.

There he waited and listened, filtering out the sounds of the night. He started to feel foolish after several minutes had passed, and was about to break cover when he heard it, buried away in the drone of cicadas: the sound of the gate being opened.

His hand went instinctively to his waist, closing around the stock of his pistol.

From where he was hidden it was hard to judge the height of the man because the avenue was shaded from the moonlight by a screen of cypress trees. From the sound of his footfalls, he was moving stealthily but with purpose, looking to narrow the lead.

Josef kicked off his shoes and set off along the narrow pathway behind him. It ran parallel to the main avenue, and he hurried in a low crouch to get ahead of the man. He was familiar enough with the cemetery to know that the main avenue divided at the back of the cathedral, skirting it on both sides. It was as good a spot as any for Josef to make his move.

He was in position, hunched behind a gravestone, when the man reached the junction and stopped. If he headed left, Josef would strike, leaping from the shadows and delivering a quick pistol whip. He couldn’t afford to take any chances. It was a case of act first, ask questions later. If the man gave him the slip, there would be little hope of finding him in the labyrinth of tombs.

The man set off again, his footsteps receding. Josef peered out from his hiding place in time to see the shadowy figure disappear from view along the right-hand fork. He gave a silent curse at the prospect of yet more running, then padded off around the other side of the cathedral.

He was heaving for breath by the time he reached the point where the two pathways converged once more. It was a darkened spot, perfect for his purposes: a circular patch of ground fringed with trees at the foot of the low plateau on which the cathedral was perched. A double stone staircase set in a sheer bank of rock marked the beginning of the long climb up to the main entrance of the building, and it was here, in the deep shadows to one side of the staircase, that he placed himself.

The blood was beating in his ears after his exertions, and he strained to hear the man approaching. When he did, he sneaked a quick look. The man was no more than twenty yards away and approaching at a brisk rate down the pathway. Josef’s fingers tightened around the pistol. Go for the side of the head and hit him again if he tries to get up….

His muscles were tensed, poised to spring into action. If they hadn’t been, he might have reacted to the sound more quickly. It came from behind him, and by the time he had registered it, by the time he had turned, it was too late.

His last impression before his world went black was of a tall figure looming over him. His last thought was of the air-raid shelter and the young woman whose name he now knew.

“Anyone for seconds?” asked Rosamund.

“That’s a question I haven’t heard in a while,” said Max.

Lionel gave a hearty laugh. “Too right, old man.”

“A bit more of Hardy, if there’s any going,” said Freddie.

“Freddie!” chided Mitzi.

“Well, he’s more tender than Laurel.”

“Stop it!”

“She,” corrected Rosamund. “Hardy was a girl.”

“Really? How can you tell?” asked Lionel.

Mitzi rolled her eyes. “The plumage, for one.”

“And Hardy always peed sitting down.”

This earned Max a big laugh around the table. Lionel even slapped his thigh. Mitzi took the opportunity to fire Max a look that only he could interpret. It said, I know what you’re doing, and I don’t care.

But she did care, which was why he intended to carry on doing it.

“Shouldn’t we hold the rest back for the others?” he suggested.

“They don’t deserve it,” said Rosamund.

Elliott had failed to show, and Hugh was supposed to have been back from Rabat almost two hours before, having scooped up Ralph in Mdina en route.

“I’m sure it’s not their fault they’re late.”

“Oh, it’s never Hugh’s fault.”

This was uncharacteristic of Rosamund, who generally liked to present a united front. Realizing her transgression, she tried to make light of it.

“I keep a list of Hugh’s excuses. He must too, because he’s never used the same one twice.”

His excuse, when he showed up a short while later with Ralph, was difficult to fault. He’d spent the afternoon touring gun emplacements ahead of the big day, geeing up his men. The whole thing had overrun because of the afternoon raids.

“You could have phoned.”

“I tried, my darling. The lines were down.”