The Information Officer - By Mark Mills Page 0,108
you?”
“Who did you tell about us?”
“He’s here,” she said tightly.
“Who did you tell about us?”
“Max …,” she pleaded.
It was too late. Lionel materialized from the gloom behind her.
“I say, old man, are you all right?”
Max ignored him. “Who did you tell?”
Mitzi turned to Lionel. “He’s obviously not himself.”
“I’ll say. What’s going on? What do you mean?”
Max stared at them both. He saw the silent pact that had brought them together and the emptiness hanging between them, the lies. He could change it all in a moment. He could take it from them. He could hand the hurt straight back to Mitzi. It was so easy. Too easy.
“I’ve been seeing a girl in the office,” he said finally. “She’s Maltese. She’s also married. I made the mistake of telling your wife here. It now seems that half the bloody garrison knows.”
“Are you drunk?”
“A little. Enough to crash my motorcycle.”
Lionel edged past Mitzi protectively. “I think you should leave.”
Mitzi placed a restraining hand on Lionel’s arm.
“Freddie,” she said. “I told Freddie.”
There was gratitude in her eyes for the lie he’d concocted.
“When?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake—”
“Shut up, Lionel.” Mitzi looked back at Max. “A few months ago, maybe more. January, I think.”
Max nodded his thanks, and she turned and wandered back to the bedroom. Lionel wasn’t done with him yet, though.
“You’re a bloody disgrace to your service!”
“Am I, Ken?”
He saw a satisfying flicker of alarm in Lionel’s eyes. “I know about you and Mary Farrugia, and I’m guessing you also brushed with Loreta Saliba and Carmela Cassar.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. They’re all dead. Murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Don’t worry. I know it wasn’t you.”
He turned and hobbled off down the stairs.
He had never given his service revolver much thought—he strapped it on each morning, removed it before bed—but now he felt naked without it. Finding a replacement wasn’t going to be easy at five o’clock in the morning. There was an obvious place to start, though. It was also on his route.
He was surprised to find the boys at the Bofors gun site near his flat already up and about. They were peering down over the bastion wall into the dark abyss of Grand Harbour. It was another half hour till sunrise, but way to the east, beyond the harbor mouth, the sky was already brightening.
“There!” said one of them, pointing.
It was just possible to make out the dark form of a ship sliding through the gloom toward them.
“It’s the Welshman. She made it!”
There were cheers and slaps on the back, and that’s when they noticed they had company.
“It’s only me,” said Max.
“You see that, sir, the Welshman got through!”
“Cigarette, sir?”
“Cup of tea, sir?”
“Foot rub, sir?”
The joker got his laugh. Max was in favor with the Manchester men since their heroics had been reported in the Weekly Bulletin, as he’d promised they would be.
“Just a quick word in private with Sergeant Deakin, if he’s around.”
“Right here, sir,” came a voice from the darkness.
Max led Deakin a little way off. “I don’t have time to explain. I need to borrow your gun.”
“My gun?”
“Your service revolver. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“You know I can’t, sir. It’s against regulations.”
“It’s a matter of life or death.”
“That’s the truth. The CO’d ’ave my guts for garters if he found out.”
“What if I took it off you by force?”
“You’re welcome to give it a go, sir, but if you don’t mind me saying, you’re not moving too good.”
“Okay,” said Max, “here it is. My friend, my best friend, is probably a German agent. He’s also planning to kill a girl I care very much about. For all I know, she’s dead already. So you see, I’m going to have to give it a go whatever.”
“Holy mackerel,” said Deakin softly. “Are you sure you’re all right in the head?”
“Never better. Actually, that’s a lie. But what I’ve just told you is the truth. You have my word on it.”
After a few moments, Deakin handed over his revolver.
“You’re a good man, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, well, just remember to bring that up at my court-martial.”
The road to the naval hospital at Bighi skirted Grand Harbour on its southern side, taking him through the Three Cities, right past the dockyards. He thought about stopping off and enlisting the support of the military police, but procedures would have to be followed, phone calls made, authority sought. Precious minutes, hours even, would tick by. Besides, the situation might call for the kind of behavior not exactly endorsed by the rule book. He had no