The Information Officer (32 page)

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 he boarded the
dghaisa
, he made a point of sitting with his back to Valetta.

It was a short run across the water to Vittoriosa, the colorful little craft skimming effortlessly along, propelled by the expert oars of the
two boatmen. The persistent raids in the past few weeks had reduced Dockyard Creek to a shocking picture of devastation. Most of the buildings fronting the water were gutted or simply gone altogether, and it looked like some monstrous creature of the deep had chewed large chunks out of the quaysides. Vittoriosa and Senglea, rising proudly on their long promontories either side of the creek, had also taken a battering, their ancient skylines redrawn for all of time by German bombs.

“Santa Maria …,” whispered Josef.

“You think this is bad, you should see French Creek.”

The boatmen eased the
dghaisa
alongside the rubble-strewn quay beneath the walls of Fort Saint Angelo. Disembarking, Josef lingered with them awhile in conversation, allowing the other
dghaisas
now threading their way across the harbor from Valetta to draw nearer. When he set off, it was at a leisurely pace along the waterfront, out in the open, an easy target to track.

The narrow, winding streets of Cospicua at the head of Dockyard Creek were heaped with ruins, slowing his progress, which was just fine by him if it allowed his tail to gain on him. Once clear of the old defensive walls on the landward side, he was out in the open again, making his way up the slopes toward Tarxien.

He was sweating now, and the feeling of being followed was more acute than ever. So was the temptation to spin round and confirm it. Trees and huts were few and far between on the hillside, and the lace-work of low stone walls offered minimal cover. He would know in a moment, but so would the other man, and that would be that. It would come down to a foot chase, and he was in no physical condition to even contemplate one of those. Better to just carry on his way for now. At most, he was maybe fifteen minutes from the Cassars’ place.

Once there, he would figure out a way to turn the tables on his shadow.

Max made a point of turning up at the offices of
Il-Berqa
with a couple of files under his arm even though work was the furthest thing from his mind.

“You’re late,” said Rita from behind her desk.

“I know I’m late. There was a raid on Ta’ Qali. No doubt you would have risked it.”

Paradoxically, Rita didn’t bristle at his rudeness. She seemed almost to appreciate it. Maybe that’s what he’d been doing wrong all this time—trying too hard to please and appease her.

“Well, she’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Mine too. I cherish our little moments together.”

“Don’t push it,” said Rita.

He hadn’t been lying about the raid, but he would have been less late if he hadn’t stopped by the Ops Room on his way there and done something he’d been wanting to do for days: tear a strip off Iris for her treachery toward him. The actress in her had squeezed out some crocodile tears, prompting the gunnery liaison officer on duty to intercede on her behalf and shepherd Max away. He’d probably made a fool of himself, but for now the sweet taste of retribution more than made up for it.

Lilian was still wearing black out of respect to Caterina.

“When’s the funeral?” he asked, the moment she had closed the door of her office.

“Monday. Why?”

“So long as it’s not tomorrow. The new Spitfires are flying in.”

She breathed in the news, her relief evident. “When?”

“Midmorning. Tell your aunt to keep Felicia and Ena indoors.”

“I will.”

“In fact, tell anyone you like. Kesselring probably knows their ETA already.”

Ten days before he wouldn’t have dared to divulge such information to her in case of possible reprisals. Her expression said as much.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged.

“I mean it. Thank you. Not just for this. For everything. For what you’re doing.”

“Busuttil’s the one doing all the hard work. He’s quite a character.”

“They say he’s the best on the island.”

“He’d better be. He’s got only two more days before the
Upstanding
leaves.”

She wanted details of the investigation, which he refused to give her. The less she knew, the better—for now, at least. Instead, they talked at length about the change of governor and how they both planned to break the news when finally allowed to do so.

As he was leaving her office, she placed her palm against the door to prevent him from opening it.

“What?”

“What do you think?” she replied.

“I have to guess the password?”

She smiled. “Hold me.”

“I haven’t washed properly in days.”

“You think
I
have?”

He drew her into his arms, and for the first time he felt the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest. Her hair was powdered with dust, the omnipresent Maltese dust.

She raised her head to peer up at him. “You weren’t lying.”

“Oh God …”

“I like it,” she said, holding him tighter to prove her point.

“The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is have a bath. Not just any bath. The bath to end all baths. I’m going to sit there and soak for hours. With a good book. And a big glass of pure malt whisky. And I’ll use my foot to top it up with piping hot water from time to time.”

“Your foot?”

“On the tap.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve never done that?” he asked.

“No.”

“It’s not so hard. The hardest part is using your other foot to remove the plug so the tepid water can drain away.”

“I can see you,” she said.

“Can you?”

“Like I was standing there.”

Max hesitated. “You can come in, if you want.”

“You’ll have to put your book down.”

“As long as I don’t have to let go of the whisky.”

“Okay,” she conceded with a small smile. “Now kiss me.”

It was a long and languorous kiss, neither of them wishing it to end.

It was growing dark, and Busuttil had spent more than enough time with the Cassars. He knew pretty much everything there was to know about their dead daughter—how as a young girl Carmela had hated having her hair braided for church; how she had loved having her back stroked in the bath; how she had won the art prize at school with her drawing of the Tarxien Temples. She had always been strong-willed, good with animals, tough on bullies, and indifferent to boys.

Josef searched for lies in their words, but was left with a picture of a model daughter, proud, principled, and kindhearted. So eager were they to bring her back to life with their reminiscences that only once did they ask him why he had come visiting. He palmed them off with the usual line about it being standard police procedure.

Carmela had been laid to rest in Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery just a few days before, and before the light faded, her father was able to point out the spot from the house—a quiet corner near the western wall that apparently caught the early-morning sun. Carmela had always said that she wanted to be buried there.

Well, now she was. And only a stone’s throw away, Josef suspected, from the place where she’d been abducted. He knew from her parents the route she’d taken home from work every night, and he had played it through in his mind, walking the streets with her back from the Blue Parrot: Valetta, Floriana, down past the Porte des Bombes to Marsa, skirting the end of Grand Harbour, leaving the racetrack on her right. Until this point she’d have been on main roads. Better to wait till she took the shortcut, up the valley and through Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery. That’s what he would have done.
That’s what anyone who knew her movements would have done—waited till she was on the home stretch, well off the beaten track. Josef knew it in his bones, just as he knew that out there somewhere, someone was watching and waiting.

Who they were, and just where they’d picked up his trail, he didn’t know. But he would know soon enough. That’s why he had lingered so long with the Cassars, allowing the sun to set and darkness to descend. The night was his time, his friend. It was when he had always done his best work, even as a student at the university. The Cassars were keen that he stay and eat with them, but he made his excuses and left.

There was a waning moon overhead, only half-full, yet bright enough to illuminate his path down the hill. It was ideal. Any less light, and it would have been too dark to see what he was doing; any more, and the hunter might have realized that he had become the hunted.

The iron gate set in the south wall of the cemetery offered an added bonus. Its dry and dusty hinges groaned in protest as Josef slipped the latch and eased it open. After closing it behind him, he quickened his pace, stepping lightly down the central avenue for fifty yards or so before breaking left, weaving through the gravestones, and taking up a position behind a run of large family tombs.

There he waited and listened, filtering out the sounds of the night. He started to feel foolish after several minutes had passed, and was about to break cover when he heard it, buried away in the drone of cicadas: the sound of the gate being opened.

His hand went instinctively to his waist, closing around the stock of his pistol.

From where he was hidden it was hard to judge the height of the man because the avenue was shaded from the moonlight by a screen of cypress trees. From the sound of his footfalls, he was moving stealthily but with purpose, looking to narrow the lead.

Josef kicked off his shoes and set off along the narrow pathway behind him. It ran parallel to the main avenue, and he hurried in a low crouch to get ahead of the man. He was familiar enough with the
cemetery to know that the main avenue divided at the back of the cathedral, skirting it on both sides. It was as good a spot as any for Josef to make his move.

He was in position, hunched behind a gravestone, when the man reached the junction and stopped. If he headed left, Josef would strike, leaping from the shadows and delivering a quick pistol whip. He couldn’t afford to take any chances. It was a case of act first, ask questions later. If the man gave him the slip, there would be little hope of finding him in the labyrinth of tombs.

The man set off again, his footsteps receding. Josef peered out from his hiding place in time to see the shadowy figure disappear from view along the right-hand fork. He gave a silent curse at the prospect of yet more running, then padded off around the other side of the cathedral.

He was heaving for breath by the time he reached the point where the two pathways converged once more. It was a darkened spot, perfect for his purposes: a circular patch of ground fringed with trees at the foot of the low plateau on which the cathedral was perched. A double stone staircase set in a sheer bank of rock marked the beginning of the long climb up to the main entrance of the building, and it was here, in the deep shadows to one side of the staircase, that he placed himself.

The blood was beating in his ears after his exertions, and he strained to hear the man approaching. When he did, he sneaked a quick look. The man was no more than twenty yards away and approaching at a brisk rate down the pathway. Josef’s fingers tightened around the pistol.
Go for the side of the head and hit him again if he tries to get up…
.

His muscles were tensed, poised to spring into action. If they hadn’t been, he might have reacted to the sound more quickly. It came from behind him, and by the time he had registered it, by the time he had turned, it was too late.

His last impression before his world went black was of a tall figure looming over him. His last thought was of the air-raid shelter and the young woman whose name he now knew.

“Anyone for seconds?” asked Rosamund.

“That’s a question I haven’t heard in a while,” said Max.

Lionel gave a hearty laugh. “Too right, old man.”

“A bit more of Hardy, if there’s any going,” said Freddie.

“Freddie!” chided Mitzi.

“Well, he’s more tender than Laurel.”

“Stop it!”

“She,”
corrected Rosamund. “Hardy was a girl.”

“Really? How can you tell?” asked Lionel.

Mitzi rolled her eyes. “The plumage, for one.”

“And Hardy always peed sitting down.”

This earned Max a big laugh around the table. Lionel even slapped his thigh. Mitzi took the opportunity to fire Max a look that only he could interpret. It said,
I know what you’re doing, and I don’t care
.

But she
did
care, which was why he intended to carry on doing it.