“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’d 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 wineglass on table 10.

“Is that what they told you?” asked the balding man.

“They didn’t have to. I was there, remember?”

“You’re wrong. I could have killed you. Maybe I should have. I chose not to.”

The other man gave a short snort of derision.

Mario was well out of his depth now and regretting his decision to eavesdrop. Help came in the form of a large party of diners who blew in through the door on a gale of laughter. Mario couldn’t see them from where he was lurking.

“Isn’t that the actor everyone’s talking about?” said the balding man.

“I think so.”

“I’m not sure a fedora and a cloak suit a fellow that short. He looks like a kid playing at Zorro.”

Definitely table 2, thought Mario, swooping from his hiding place to greet the new arrivals.

MALTA

May 1942

SHE KNEW THE CEMETERY WELL—NOT EVERY GRAVESTONE, tomb, and mausoleum, but most. She certainly knew it well enough to tread its twisting pathways with confidence, even on a moonless night such as this. Before the blackout restrictions, she would have been assisted on her way by a constellation of flickering candles, but with the deep darkness as her only companion, she still walked with confidence and purpose.