Mark Mills - The Information Officer
“You see, we knew the Germans had an agent on the island. We’d known for a while. We didn’t know who he was, but we knew exactly what he was up to, and why. I was all for finding him and using him. They were all for sitting tight.”
“Sitting tight?”
“Doing nothing. They had their reasons—good reasons.” He paused. “This isn’t public knowledge, and it won’t be for a while yet, so keep it to yourself. We’d cracked the German codes by then. Well, a bunch of your experts had. Hell of an achievement. Probably swung the war our way. It sure as hell made all the difference on Malta. We knew where and when they were running their convoys to Rommel. We knew when the Luftwaffe was leaving Sicily for the Russian front and when they were returning. Remember the Italian E-boat raid on Grand Harbour? We knew it was coming. We were ready for them. That’s why they didn’t stand a chance.”
Max remembered it clearly. It had been a rout, a predawn massacre.
“The only trouble with having the heads-up is you’ve got to be careful how you use the intelligence.”
“Because you’ll give the game away.”
“Exactly. That’s just what it is—a game. Defense Security didn’t want to risk moving on the Germans’ agent because they might have figured out we were deciphering their signals.”
“The lives of a few Maltese girls—who cares, right?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t a dirty game. No one enjoys doing the math on these things. And like I said, I didn’t agree with them.”
“That’s why you helped me.”
“I gave you a few pointers.”
“You used me.”
“We were watching your back.”
“He wasn’t after me. He was after Lilian.”
Elliott glanced down at the notebook. “Read the book. You’ll find you’re wrong. You were part of the big plan too. He just never got a chance to see it through.”
“You were playing with our lives.”
“Look, I didn’t come here for forgiveness. I came here to tell you how it was. I did what I thought was right at the time, and with limited resources. You can’t legislate for everything in those kinds of operations. Like Busuttil. Smart fellow. That’s why we had to remove him. We were trying to contain the situation, and he was running around town making too many waves. Hasn’t held him back, by the way. I heard he made chief inspector.”
“I know. We’re still in touch. I even went to his wedding.”
They were interrupted by the waiter, looking to take their order. They hadn’t given their menus a second thought, so Max picked a couple of the restaurant’s signature dishes for them.
For all their talk, they seemed to have skirted the central issue: that Freddie, their friend, had been a traitor and a murderer. Elliott had obviously come to terms with that fact, but Max needed to talk about it. He was still haunted by images of that ruined church wreathed in smoke, of Freddie standing amidst the rubble of the fallen roof, arms spread wide, an almost Christlike figure. Neither his eyes nor his voice had been those of the person Max had known, almost as if he’d been possessed.
“Did you ever suspect it was Freddie?” Max asked.
“It crossed my mind, but no, I didn’t read the signs.”
“So what were you doing at the church?”
“I got a call from Mitzi. You’d just been at their flat. She was worried about you.”
“Why call you?”
“Because I’d asked her to. We’d lost track of you at that point. She said you’d been asking after Freddie, so I called the hospital at Bighi, found out where he was, figured you had too by then.” He paused. “Dear, beautiful Mitzi, God rest her soul.”
She had never made it to Alexandria. The seaplane she’d been traveling on had strayed too close to Crete and been shot down by 109s. It was something Max thought about a lot but never talked about. Now was no different.
Yes, God rest their souls, he thought.
“I sometimes wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t called me.”
“You would never have got to shoot me in the head, for starters.”
“A little to one side, I think you’ll find.”
“Close enough to leave a scar.”
Elliott shrugged. “A small price to pay for Lilian’s life. It was done for her.”
Max gave an incredulous laugh.
“It’s true. He said it himself—he was never going to reveal where he was holding her. My only chance was to persuade him I was on the same team and hope to get it from him that way.” Elliott crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Which I did, I might add.”
“Tacitus …”
“His German contact. He had to fall for it. He didn’t know we’d broken the codes. The idea was inconceivable to him.”
Max could see it now. He was no longer squinting at the picture, struggling to make sense of it.
“If what you say is true, then the moment you mentioned Tacitus to him, it was all over.”
“Over?”
“For you and your double agent. I can’t see you using a man who knew the codes had been broken.”
“That would have been … imprudent.”
“Which means you threw it all away, right at the end, everything you’d been working for.”
Elliott spread his hands. “Turns out you’re not the only sentimentalist in the world.”
When their food arrived, they talked about Elliott’s line of work. He didn’t reveal much, only that he still drew a government salary and had spent a lot of time in Moscow in the intervening years.
“Twenty million Soviets died fighting for the same cause as us, and now they’re the enemy. Go figure that.”
His bleak prognosis was that things were going to get a whole lot worse between the USSR and the West before they got any better.
Assisted by the excellent food and another bottle of wine, they relaxed and talked of happier things, of places they had traveled to and others they hoped to visit, of their new families and old friends.
Ralph, Max informed Elliott, was now a commercial pilot with BOAC, flying Stratocruisers on the long-haul routes.
“Still moaning about ‘the machine’?”
“Different machine, same moaning.”
Elliott was far more surprised to hear that Hugh had gone on to become the headmaster of a prep school in Sussex.
“I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Nor did Rosamund. She told him she’d divorce him if he took the job.”
“And did she?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I should look them up next time I’m in the country.”
“Do that. I know they’d like it.”
Their plates were being cleared away when Elliott mentioned, “By the way, I saw your house in a magazine.”
“It’s not my house.”
“I’m sure as hell glad it’s not mine. Where’d you get your inspiration from—a fish tank?”
“It’s called modernism.”
“That’s not what the guy who wrote the piece called it.”
Max laughed. “You can’t please everyone.”
The glass and concrete villa had been his first private commission since qualifying as an architect. The best that could be said of it was that it had “divided the critics.”
“Well, at least you’ve got a wife who’s made something of herself.”
She appeared as if on cue, being led by Mario toward their table. She was wearing a strapless silk taffeta evening dress that Max had never seen before. As ever, he gave silent thanks for his good fortune.
Elliott caught his expression and turned. “Oh yeah. I forgot to say, she’s joining us for coffee.”
They both got to their feet, and Elliott stooped to kiss her hand. “You look radiant.”
“You do,” said Max, kissing her on the cheek.
“Friends again?” she inquired.
“You’ll have to ask your husband.”
Max looked long and hard at Elliott. “I don’t see why not.”
Lilian smiled.
“That’s good,” she said. “That’s very good.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
The fly-in of new Spitfires on May 9, 1942, marked the turning point in Malta’s fortunes. The following day, sixty-three enemy aircraft were shot down over the island. A German broadcast declared, “Malta can be reduced by other means.” It never was. In 1964 the island finally gained independence from Great Britain.
While trying to remain as true to the period as possible, I have, inevitably, taken certain liberties for the purposes of the story. My apologies for these, and for any other errors I’m not yet aware of. The majority of the characters in the book are entirely fictitious. Those who aren’t bear no relation to their real-life counterparts, whose impeccable wartime records speak for themselves.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, I owe a big debt of gratitude to my agent, Stephanie Cabot, for her tireless enthusiasm and support. I would also like to thank my editors, Jennifer Hershey and Julia Wisdom, for their expert insights and guidance. My thanks also go to Bara MacNeill.
Of the many books I read while researching the story, I would like to make special mention of Malta Magnificent by Francis Gerard, as well as Fortress Malta, James Holland’s vivid and entirely compelling account of the island’s wartime trials.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARK MILLS graduated from Cambridge University in 1986. He has lived in both Italy and France and has written for the screen. His first novel, Amagansett, was a national bestseller and also won the British Crime Writer’s Association Award for Best Novel by a debut author. His second, The Savage Garden, was a number one bestseller in the UK. He lives in Oxford with his wife and two children.
The Information Officer is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Mark Mills
Maps copyright © 2010 by Daniel R. Lynch
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers,
London, in 2009.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Mills, Mark
The information officer: a novel / Mark Mills.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-58836-910-9
1. World War, 1939–1945—Malta—Fiction. 2. British—Malta—
Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Malta—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3613.I569I64 2009 813′.6—dc22 2009020047
Title-page image copyright © iStockphoto.com/FotografiaBasica
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Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
