bore the Italians slightly less rancor than he did the Germans. As a keen fan of motor racing, he felt that any nation that had produced Enzo Ferrari and Tazio Nuvolari couldn’t be all bad. He ascribed both the wariness of their bombers and the flamboyant aerobatics of their fighter pilots to the inferior nature of their aircraft. They were simply reacting to circumstances, making the best of a bad thing, as anyone in their right mind would.
He was far more wary of the Germans. This prejudice had first lodged itself in him just before the war, when he’d visited the country as part of a rowing eight cobbled together from a number of Cambridge college crews. He had found their German co-competitors at the regatta cold and high-handed and—sin of sins—obsessed with calisthenics. To cap it all, when the British eight’s engagingly amateurish approach to competition rowing had brought them victory, the home crews had proved remarkably ungracious in defeat. This unfortunate experience had flicked a switch in Ralph’s head. He now saw evidence of the German master plan wherever he looked.
Wagner’s belief in the Gesamtkunstwerk, the total work of art, and Hegel’s concept of the “Absolute Idea,” which amounted to a total philosophy of human culture, were two examples of a Teutonic propensity to extremism. A more plausible prop to Ralph’s theory, maybe, was General Erich Ludendorff’s book, published a few years before the outbreak of hostilities, entitled Total War.
Max had always found Ralph’s ideas as dangerously extreme as those he purported to despise. But maybe Ralph’s instincts were sound. In the grand scheme of things, what did the lives of a few innocent Maltese girls matter to the enemy if they served a greater purpose? The indiscriminate targeting of the islanders had seen a surge in civilian casualties over the past month, but it had also succeeded in stiffening the resolve of the people. So much better for the Germans to be selective about who they killed, and actually achieve something in the process.
Max could see the logic in the thinking. It made sense. But it also raised as many questions as it answered, not least of all: Why had Elliott chosen to share the theory with him when there had been no call to do so? It just wasn’t in Elliott’s nature to let slip something like that.
Max was no closer to determining some invisible agenda by the time he reached the Porte des Bombes, at which point questions of a more immediate kind began jostling for his attention. Would Mitzi still be expecting him to show up, even at this late hour? What if Lionel’s plans had changed and he was now happily tucked up in bed with his wife? It had happened once before, and on that occasion Mitzi had been unable to get word to Max of Lionel’s unexpected return from patrol. Letting himself into the building with the key, Max had crept silently up the staircase to the third floor only to find the door to the flat firmly locked. Thank God he’d conquered the temptation to knock. No excuse, however inspired, could have convincingly explained just what he was doing there in the dead of night.
On this occasion, common sense dictated that he leave the motorcycle outside his flat and walk the rest of the way, but somehow it wasn’t an option. He drove straight to Hastings Gardens, tucking the machine out of sight in a narrow alleyway, leaning it against a wall daubed with the words “BOMB ROME.”
As ever, the lock downstairs resisted the initial advances of the key. And, as ever, he paused to catch his breath on the third-floor landing before placing his palm against the door to the apartment. It was unlocked and swung open without resistance.
A ghostlike apparition stood before him. It was Mitzi, her naked limbs rendered more pale by the dark negligee.
She drew him silently inside, easing the door shut behind him. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”
They stood close, the way they used to stand. And in the deep darkness of the entrance hall he could feel the heat coming off her.
“Where’s Lionel?”
“Gzira. He’s spending the night in one of the officers’ rest flats.”
Gzira sat on the slope right across from the sub base, and ever since the transport infrastructure on the island had all but collapsed, the navy had taken on a number of flats there where officers could overnight.
Max reached into his hip pocket, then placed his hand in