Марк Миллс – The Information Officer (страница 4)

Hugh was her husband, a lieutenant-colonel in the Royal Artillery. A mathematician of some standing before the war, it was Hugh who had worked out the intricate calculations behind the coordinated box barrage over Grand Harbour—an impressive feat, and one which had seen him elevated to the position of senior staff officer at RA HQ. In his early forties, he looked considerably older, which played to his private passion—the theatre—making him eligible for a host of more senior roles, which he scooped up uncontested every time the Malta Amateur Dramatic Club put on one of their plays. He was always trying to get Max to audition for some token part to make up the numbers: butler, chauffeur, monosyllabic house guest.

While Rosamund abandoned her first rule in order to parade her new catch around the garden, Max made for the drinks table in the grateful shade beneath one of the orange trees. True to form, there was no one to pour the drinks. It wouldn’t be good for relations if the Maltese staff were to witness the excesses of their brothers-in-suffering. Max was concocting a whisky-and-soda when he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

‘Ah, thou honeysuckle villain.’

‘Henry the Fourth,’ Max responded, without turning.

‘Not good enough and you know it.’

Max swivelled to face Hugh, whose forehead, as ever, was beaded with perspiration. It was an old and slightly tedious game of theirs. Hugh liked to toss quotations at him, usually Shakespeare, but not always.

‘Henry the Fourth, Part II,’ said Max.

‘Damn.’

‘Mistress Quickly to Falstaff. I studied it at school.’

‘Double damn. That makes three in a row.’

‘But only twenty-two out of thirty-eight.’

Hugh gave a little chortle. ‘Glad to see I’m not the only one keeping score.’

‘Speaking of scores, congratulations on your century.’

‘Yes, quite a month. One hundred and two, all told.’

‘One hundred and one; 249 Squadron are claiming the Stuka over Ta’ Qali.’

‘Bloody typical.’

‘Let them have it. Their heads are down right now.’

‘Not for much longer.’

Max hesitated. ‘So the rumours are true.’

‘What’s that, old man?’

‘They’re sending us another batch of Spitfires.’

‘Couldn’t possibly say—it’s Top Secret.’

‘Then I’ll just have to ask Rosamund.’

Hugh laughed. His wife had a reputation for being ‘genned up’ on everything. No news, however trivial, slipped through Rosamund’s net. Given her connections across the Services, it was quite possible that 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.’

‘Henry the Fourth, Part II.’

‘Doesn’t count,’ said Hugh, disappearing with the bottle.

Max turned back to the drinks table and topped up his glass. Hugh was right; April had been quite a month—the darkest yet. The artillery might have knocked down over 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 9,600 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. 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 ago—forty-six in all, fresh from Greenock in Scotland by way of Gibraltar. The US 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 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 up 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 blonde hair. Not for the first time, he found himself silenced by her beauty.

‘What were you thinking?’

‘Nothing important.’

‘Your shoulders were sagging. You looked…deflated.’

‘Not any more.’

‘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 Defence 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 centre 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?’

‘Remind me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Bandits at one o’clock,’ he said in a whisper.

He had spotted them approaching over her shoulder: Hugh with Trevor Kimberley’s dark and pretty wife in tow.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mitzi sighed volubly. ‘Another gin-and-French.’

Max took her glass. ‘So where’s Lionel? Out on patrol?’

Hugh was within earshot now. ‘Be careful, old chap, asking questions like that can land a man in deep water.’

‘Hello, Margaret,’ said Max.