The Information Officer. Mark Mills

       LONDON May 1951

      Mario was in a good mood.

      This wasn’t saying much; he was often in a good mood. It was a legacy from his father—a simple, hardworking man who had drilled into his children the value of giving daily thanks for those things which most took for granted.

      Mario cast an approving eye around the restaurant. A prime site a stone’s throw from the Ritz, and after just four short years, a reputation to match the very best in town. Not bad for the son of a shoemaker from a small village in northern Italy. Not bad at all.

      The place was empty, just one lone customer at the bar, but it would be heaving within the hour, even in these austere times. He checked over the reservations book, memorizing the names and the table allocations. He prided himself on not having to refer to it once the first diners had arrived. There was the usual smattering of household names with strong views about where they sat. Juggling their wishes was about as hard as his job got.

      Table 7 was the first to show. His face wasn’t well-known to Mario—one of the birthdays-andanniversaries-only crowd—but he remembered him as a generous tipper. He wore a good quality suit, its looser cut suggesting one of the new tailors just off Savile Row. He informed Mario that his wife would be arriving separately and requested a Dry Martini to keep him company in the meantime.

      The wife was obviously a romantic because a special order had been placed earlier in the day for a bottle of wine to be brought to the table as a surprise. It was a white wine from a small French house and it had arrived by taxi along with written instructions and a generous contribution towards corkage.

      It was already on ice, ready and waiting behind the bar. Mario tipped Gregory the wink before taking up a discreet position behind a bushy palmetto to observe the reaction.

      The man smiled at the appearance of the ice bucket, but the moment Gregory revealed the bottle to him he fell absolutely still, the blood draining from his face. He looked up at Gregory, speechless, and then his eyes darted wildly around the restaurant. They came to settle on the only other customer—the gentleman seated at the bar. His back was turned to Table 7, but he now swivelled round on his stool.

      It was impossible to read the look that passed between the two men, but it crackled with a strange intensity. Poor Gregory was flummoxed. He offered to pour the wine, was ignored, then wisely chose to retire as the gentleman at the bar made his way over, clutching his cocktail. He was tall and balding and walked with a lazy grace.

      Another thing Mario prided himself on was his absolute discretion, but this was a conversation he wanted to hear. He drifted towards Table 10, out of sight behind the high banquette but just within earshot, he calculated. He arrived as the balding man was taking a seat.

      ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

      There was a soft but unmistakable American lilt to his accent.

      ‘Where’s my wife?’ said the other man.

      ‘Don’t worry, she’s just fine.’

      ‘Where is she?’

      ‘At home. She thought we should talk.’

      ‘I don’t believe you.’

      ‘It’s true. Call her if you like. Cigarette?’

      ‘I have my own.’

      ‘Try one of these—they’re Russian.’

      Mario heard the cigarettes being lit and then the balding man say, ‘What’s your secret?’

      ‘My secret?’

      ‘You’ve barely aged in ten years.’

      ‘Nine.’

      ‘It feels longer.’

      ‘Does it?’

      ‘I miss Malta.’

      ‘I doubt that.’

      ‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me.’

      ‘What did you expect? The last time I saw you, you tried to kill me.’

      Mario almost toppled a wine glass on Table 10.

      ‘Is that what they told you?’ asked the balding man.

      ‘They didn’t have to.

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