“I’ve already packed some extra hankies.”
“You’ll latch on to another pair of handsome, witty young men within a week of landing in Alexandria.”
“Is that what I did: latch on to you?”
“Brazenly. It was almost embarrassing, wasn’t it, Max?”
“Absolutely. I still shudder when I think about it.”
Freddie laughed. Mitzi didn’t.
Max was still thinking about Lionel.
IT WAS PERFECT, MAYBE MORE PERFECT THAN IT HAD EVER been in the past.
Preparations had been made, contingencies planned for, but it wasn’t the logistics that accounted for his deep sense of satisfaction. That came from the beauty of the stratagem, its plain and simple trigonometry.
There had been moments when he had feared he’d taken on too much. He could admit to that now, now that he was so close and could see it all unfolding before his eyes.
He loved this moment, and he tried to record his almost dizzying sense of anticipation.
Reading back the words, he realized that some things lay well beyond the scope of language.
DAY EIGHT
MAX WOKE WITH A START, UNSURE WHY AT FIRST, THE reason slowly dawning on him.
He struggled to read the luminous dial of his wristwatch—just after five—which meant Busuttil was running more than seven hours late.
Max had been the first to leave the dinner, racing home to make the ten o’clock appointment and managing to stay awake until after midnight before nodding off. He had left the door downstairs unlocked and the one to his flat ajar. It still was.
Maybe Busuttil had been caught in one of the night raids, injured even. It seemed unlikely. The 88s had concentrated all their efforts on the airfields, wave after wave, suggesting that Kesselring had full knowledge of the fly-in and was doing everything in his power to hamper the operation, chewing up the runways and scattering what remained of them with delayed-action bombs.
By seven o’clock, there was still no sign of the detective.
Max left the flat, pinning a note to the door that said he’d gone to work, and giving the phone number. Outside, he ran an apologetic hand over the motorcycle. He had thrashed her on the way home, hurling her around the looping bends of Marsamxett Harbour. He gave her a little shake to check the contents of the tank. Running low on gasoline yet again, but the coil of tubing was tucked away under the seat, ready for some surreptitious siphoning. She started the first time.
There was an air of expectancy in the office. Everyone knew what was coming, but not when exactly. They congregated on the roof of Saint Joseph’s, eyes fixed on the distant ridge where Rabat and Mdina stood shoulder to shoulder. That’s where the Spitfires would come from, out of the west. High overhead, 109s stooged about the skies, keeping watch, biding their time.
By nine o’clock there was still no word from Busuttil, so Max put a call through to the offices of
“Teresa, it’s me, Max.”
“How nice to hear your voice.”
“Is Lilian there?”
“No, she’s at work.”
She had left early, grabbing a ride down the hill to Ta’ Qali on the pilots’ bus, as she usually did.
“She’s not at work.”
“She must be there by now.”
“Well, she isn’t. No one has seen her.”
“Max, what are you saying?”
He could hear the anxiety creeping into her voice.
“She probably couldn’t get a lift from the airfield into Valetta. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But he wasn’t sure. Even if she’d been forced to walk all the way—which simply never happened to women with her kind of looks—she would have arrived by now.
He waited half an hour before calling
No, that theory didn’t hold up. If Busuttil had been pulled in by the authorities and had coughed up Lilian’s name
