“Rosamund says no one reads the Daily Situation Report,” Pemberton moaned.
“Does she?”
“She says it’s a joke.”
“Not for the men whose deaths you’re recording.”
Max was beginning to lose his patience, but Pemberton didn’t appear to notice.
“She says no one reads it and the Maltese don’t believe a word of it.”
True enough; he knew that from Lilian.
“Surely they have to read it in order not to believe a word of it.”
“That’s semantics.”
“Semantics is our business. The sooner you understand that, the better it’ll be for you.”
This time, Max invested his voice with a firm touch of authority that startled Pemberton into silence.
“Look,” sighed Max, “whatever you think, whatever you’ve heard, they’ll all be reading it over the next few days. It’s my guess you’re about to chronicle one of the great moments of this war.”
“You think so?”
“I do. I think we’re going to show the Germans a thing or two tomorrow. I think they won’t know what’s hit them. I think we’re going to be standing on the beach when the tide turns.”
It was hardly Churchill, but it seemed to lift Pemberton’s spirits.
“I like that image of the tide turning. I was brought up by the sea, you know?”
Probably swims like a fish, too, thought Max.
The moment Pemberton was gone, Max lit a cigarette and reflected on the exchange. He felt bad for having raised his voice. He knew he had only been taking out his own frustrations on his young charge, the most recent conversation with Tommy Ravilious still fresh in his mind.
Max had thought about heading over to the submarine base in person. Remembering Busuttil’s warning to tread carefully, he had picked up the phone instead.
“Tommy, it’s Max.”
“Ahhhh, Max …” There was something strange in his tone.
“A quick question—”
“I should stop you there, old man. I’m under orders not to speak to you.”
“What?”
“Apparently you’ve become persona non grata. I told them you always were.”
“Who’s them?”
“Does it matter? The powers that be.”
“Tommy, this is important.”
“So’s my pension, old man.”
“Ken.”
“Come again?”
“I’m trying to find a chap called Ken. He’s one of yours, probably an officer.”
“They said you weren’t to be trusted and I was to let them know if you tried to make contact.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I most certainly can, but I’m not going to. I’m going to hang up.”
“Is he one of yours? Yes or no?”
“Sorry, no ken do.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s code, you idiot. We don’t have a Ken—not now, not ever.”
“Thanks, Tommy.”
“What for? We never spoke.”
A dead end. There was nothing more he could do to move matters along. The waiting game was messing with his head, and young Pemberton had paid the price for it.
He was thinking about taking another turn on the roof when the phone rang. It was Maria, and she had Hugh on the line.
“Your presence is requested for dinner at ours this evening, seven for seven-thirty. You won’t guess what we’re eating.”
“I’m so hungry that dog would do.”
“Try duck.”
“Duck? Not Laurel and Hardy!”
Laurel and Hardy were two plump mallards who’d inhabited the pond at the end of Hugh and Rosamund’s garden. They were part of the family, like surrogate children. Max had spent many an hour gathering snails to feed them.
“Think of it as a noble act of self-sacrifice. And if that doesn’t work, think of the taste.”
“Hugh, you can’t.”
“Lady Macbeth already has, I’m afraid. It’s a special occasion—farewell to Mitzi and Lionel.”
“They’re going to be there?”
“Bit of an odd farewell bash if they weren’t, don’t you think?”
Max suggested they meet at the Union Club beforehand. He was going to need a couple of drinks to set himself up.
“I wish,” said Hugh. “The CRA has got us jumping through hoops. I’ll be lucky to get away by seven as it is.”
Busuttil made his way beneath Victoria Gate and down to the customhouse at the water’s edge. He had a particular fondness for the elegant old building from his days on port control and was saddened to see that it had taken a couple of bad knocks since he’d last been there.
It was while waiting for a dghaisa to take him across Grand Harbour that the feeling first came to him: a distinct sensation of being watched.
He removed his hat and fanned his face with it, resisting the urge to turn around, trusting his instincts. They rarely played him false, and it cost him nothing to indulge them now. He had a long walk ahead of him once he’d crossed the harbor. There would be plenty of better opportunities for testing his intuition. Even when