she knew near on as much as the governor himself. The fact that she had cultivated a close friendship with His Excellency—or “H.E.,” as she insisted on referring to him—no doubt boosted her store of knowledge.
“I’ll be right back,” said Hugh, grabbing a bottle. “Damsel in distress over by the bougainvillea. Trevor Kimberley’s better half. A bit on the short side, but easy on the eye. And thirsty.”
“We like them thirsty.”
“‘Thou honeyseed rogue.’”
“King Henry the Fourth, Part II.”
“Doesn’t count,” said Hugh, disappearing with the bottle.
Max turned back to the drinks table and topped off his glass. Hugh was right; April had been quite a month—the darkest yet. The artillery might have knocked down more than a hundred enemy aircraft, but that was largely due to the more frequent and promiscuous raids. The figures were in, and the Luftwaffe had flown a staggering ninety-six hundred sorties against the island in April, almost double the number for March, which itself had shattered all previous records. The lack of any meaningful competition from the boys in blue had also contributed to the artillery’s impressive bag. There weren’t many pilots who’d logged more than a few hours of operational flying time all month, thanks to the glaring lack of serviceable Spitfires and Hurricanes. Even when the airfields at Ta’ Qali, Luqa, and Hal Far pooled their resources, you were still looking at less than ten planes. The pilots were used to taking to the air with the odds mightily stacked against them—things had never been any different on Malta, and you rarely heard the pilots complain—but what could a handful of patched-up, battle-scarred crates really hope to achieve against a massed raid of Junker 88s with a covering fighter force of sixty?
Things might have been less dispiriting if a large flock of spanking new Spits hadn’t flown in just ten days before—forty-six in all, fresh from Greenock in Scotland by way of Gibraltar. The U.S. Navy’s aircraft carrier USS Wasp had seen them safe as far as the waters off Algiers, and the fly-off had gone without a hitch, all but two of the batch making it to Malta on the long-range fuel tanks. It had seemed too good to be true. And it was. Field Marshal Kesselring, sitting safely in Sicily, was no fool. He had obviously got wind of the reinforcement flight and had figured it best to wait for the aircraft to land before making his move. Within three days of their arrival almost half of the new Spitfires had been destroyed, and the rest had been put out of action by the Luftwaffe’s intensive carpet bombing of the airfields.
Kesselring had his man on the ropes and was going for the knockout. He knew it; they knew it. Because without fighter aircraft to challenge the Luftwaffe’s aerial dominance, there was little hope of any supply convoys getting through. And if that didn’t happen very soon, the guns would fall silent and the island would starve. Invasion, an imminent threat for months now, would inevitably follow.
Christ, it was unthinkable. So, best not to think about it, Max told himself, topping off his glass once more and turning to survey the garden.
He found himself face-to-face with Mitzi.
She had crept up on him unannounced and was regarding him with a curious and slightly concerned expression, her startling green eyes reaching for his, a stray ray of sunlight catching her blond hair. Not for the first time, he found himself silenced by her beauty.
“What were you thinking?” she asked.
“Nothing important.”
“Your shoulders were sagging. You looked … deflated.”
“Not anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“It’s true.”
“If it’s true, then why didn’t you even look for me?”
“I did.”
“I was watching you from the moment you arrived.”
“You were talking to that bald chap from Defense Security over by the bench.”
“Well, I must say, you have excellent peripheral vision.”
“That’s what my sports master used to say. It’s why he stuck me in the center of the midfield.”
“You don’t really expect me to talk about football, do you?”
“When Rosamund rings her bell, we might have no choice.”
A slow smile broke across her face. “My God, I’ve missed you,” she said softly and quite unexpectedly.
The desire in her voice was palpable, almost painful to his ears.
“You’re breaking the rules,” said Max.
“Damn the rules.”
“You’re forgetting—you were the one who made the rules.”
“Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Max.”
“It’s the best I can come up with under the circumstances.”
“Now you’re being abstruse.” She handed him her empty glass. “Mix me another, will you?”