The Information Officer - By Mark Mills Page 0,93

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?”

“No, just suitably chastened.” He threw in a coy and contrite little look. “I was a bloody fool. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Gifford appeared to swallow it. “That’s war for you. It messes with our perspective on things.”

“Not yours.”

“No, even mine.”

This admission of fallibility was accompanied by an almost beatific expression.

Just think of Busuttil, Max told himself, out there at this very moment, digging for the truth.

“Well, we’re all going to have to stay focused over the next few days,” said Gifford. “The time of reckoning is here.”

“Let’s hope,” replied Max.

Mother hen was seated at the counter, talking to the barman, and her lined face lit up when she saw him.

Josef dumped himself at a table well away from the other girls and waited for her to join him. She made her way over with a small glass of something brown.

“On the house.”

Josef sneaked a sip. It was whisky, and it hadn’t been watered down. He flattened a larger sip against his palate, savoring it.

“I need to know if you were lying.”

“Lying?”

“About Ken.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because of your nephew.”

“I told you what Mary told me.”

“She definitely said he was with the submarines?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else? Dark, fair? Thin, fat?”

“How many fat people do you know on Malta?”

“True.”

“Gozo, maybe. I hear they still eat like kings on Gozo.”

She reached for one of his cigarettes, and he lit it for her.

“I see him as having a mustache, but I don’t know if that’s because of something Mary said.”

“Can you think of anyone else she might have talked to about him? Maybe someone from her family?”

“She wasn’t close to her family. She wasn’t close to many people. She lived alone in Hamrun.”

He didn’t bother asking for the address. He had enough on his plate already without a trip to Hamrun.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“No,” replied Josef. “But you’re going to tell me the name of your nephew and I’m going to see what I can do for him.”

“There’s no need to take it so personally. We’ve all been through it.”

Pemberton shifted in his chair. “You’re asking me to lie?”

“To exercise a certain discretion. The press correspondents are out to make a name for themselves. Good news, bad news, it’s all fair game to them.”

Pemberton had made the mistake of being honest with one of the correspondents about a couple of Beaufighters that had failed to return to Luqa after a mission. It was the sort of news you didn’t want going off the island.

“All I’m saying is, be a bit more guarded in your responses to them.”

“Guarded?”

“Gray. Until you’ve spoken to me.”

Pemberton fumbled for a cigarette. Poor boy, thought Max, he’s probably never put a foot wrong. It was written all over him: top of the class, captain of sports, victor ludorum, head boy, handsome as hell, and now this—a small blunder that had tarnished his

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