“Christ, Elliott, can’t you ever give a straight answer to a question?”
Elliott looked affronted. “It doesn’t matter who he is. What do you want to know? He’s part of the stuff that goes on behind the scenes.”
“Behind the scenes?”
“You think war is all bombs and bullets, aircraft and subs?”
“Yes. I think if you can hurt your enemy more than he hurts you, then you win.”
Elliott weighed his words. “You’re right, of course. But you’re also wrong. An enemy can be persuaded to squander its assets. Take the Battle of Hastings. A lot of crap’s been written about the Battle of Hastings—believe me, I read most of it at West Point. You want to know the long and short of it? Harold holds the high ground; William has to attack uphill. William fakes a retreat. Harold forsakes the high ground. Harold loses. Yes, horses and men and spears and arrows helped determine the outcome, but that’s a battle Harold should have won. He gave up his advantage.”
“Thanks for the history lesson.”
“Simple deception—that’s why he lost it.”
Max stopped at the top of the staircase. “And is that what you do, Elliott?”
“I wouldn’t have the first clue about faking a retreat.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Put it this way: I don’t fly planes and I don’t fire guns.”
“Yet again, I’ve learned nothing new about you whatsoever.”
Descending the staircase in stony silence, they passed the gangling fellow, no longer with files under his arm, coming in the opposite direction. “Your shirt’s hanging out,” he said curtly to Max.
“No it isn’t,” Max fired back.
Elliott cast a puzzled glance behind him as they carried on down the stone steps. “What is that, code or something?”
Max let him stew in his ignorance.
“Jeez, there are some things about you Brits I’ll never understand.”
They emerged from the building into the dancing heat and the cyclopean glare of the sun. Elliott put on his sunglasses—he was very proud of his Polaroid sunglasses.
“Look, if you want to talk truth, come and see me tonight.”
“I can’t,” said Max. “I’m dining with Ralph at the mess in Mdina.”
“You call Maconochies stew and tack biscuits dining?”
“I’m hoping corned beef’s on the menu tonight.”
“How does grilled fish and a chilled bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet sound?”
“Chassagne-Montrachet?”
“You just have to know where to look.” Elliott grinned.
A shot of truth was an undeniable temptation. So was a glass or two of white burgundy.
“I can’t. I promised Ralph, and I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Maybe I’ll join you.”
“I’m sure you’d be welcome.”
“I’m detecting a lack of enthusiasm.”
“That’s because I’m sulking.”
Elliott smiled. “I’ll call you later, when you’re over it.”
“Yes, do that.”
Elliott made off across the courtyard before stopping and turning back.
“Don’t let them get you down,” he called. “Like my granddaddy used to say: ‘There’s more horses’ asses in the world than there is horses.’”
The very first thing Max did on returning to the Information Office was snatch up one of the phones on his desk. He twirled the handle and asked the operator to put him through to the 90th General Hospital at Mtarfa.
Freddie wasn’t back yet. The car had probably been held up by the raid developing over Ta’ Qali.
Max replaced the receiver and stared at the papers that Maria had laid out in prioritized piles for his perusal. There was no point in even trying to work his way through them. He was too distracted, his thoughts turning to the ordeal of the past hour, skipping among Iris’s betrayal, his roasting in the lieutenant governor’s office, and Elliott’s promise of some answers.
It was a while before he was able to bring any order to bear in his head. Something about the meeting had struck a false note at the time, and he now realized what it was. Assuming that they’d learned of Max’s interest in the deaths from Iris, then there was no way they could have known about the shoulder tab. But if that was the case, then what were the two mystery men doing at the meeting? They had the distinct whiff of military intelligence about them—hardly the types to get involved in such an affair, not unless they knew there was more at stake than just a couple of local girls dying in what might or might not be suspicious circumstances.
Colonel Gifford, on the other hand, had appeared genuinely shocked when presented with the shoulder tab. His face had betrayed all the signs of someone coming to terms with the dire ramifications of such a discovery.