The Vengeance of Rome

TWENTY-ONE

My main concern was that, in her mindless jealousy, Margherita Sarfatti had given Mussolini a distorted version of events, implicating me with Fiorello da Bazzanno, the communists and even the Nazis. I saw no reason why she should attack me, since she had initiated our relationship in full knowledge that Maddy was my mistress. Fiorello was as much her friend as mine and had last been seen in her company. On the other hand Italo Balbo and several members of the Grand Council had mentioned in passing how Sarfatti could be as vengeful an enemy as she was a generous friend. Although Mussolini now knew my worth, it was she who had first helped me to my present position and might in turn topple me from it. Perhaps Maddy had poisoned her mind?

Could I really be in danger? I had done nothing wrong or disloyal to my Chief. Certainly I did not fear for my life, as I had under the savage El Glaoui. Even the prisoners sent by Mussolini to Lipari or Ponzione were self-declared enemies of the state and had received set sentences. If Sarfatti accused me of rape, things would merely be more awkward. Mussolini had an old-fashioned view of such things. He would see it as a sign of my virility. Rape is not easily proven, especially by a woman of her reputation. My main concern was for my work. I could not bear to see success snatched away from me so soon. I was helpless. Because of my Chief’s mysterious absence, I was without allies. If he was against me now, I was friendless. Had Sarfatti arranged to see me simply to relish her triumph?

says Dante, taking us through Purgatory. Sarfatti was both beauty and the beast. I began to realise the character of the woman Fiorello had painted as a she-leopard in his Divine Comedy sequence. I wondered how he would have depicted Mrs Mussolini.

After some consideration I decided to wear civilian clothes to my lunch with Rachele Mussolini. I selected one of my most elegant suits with soft hat, gloves and a cane. Over my patent-leather shoes I wore a pair of the elegant spats Il Duce himself had made fashionable. Then I ordered my car. Rome was unnaturally calm for the time of day, and we arrived a little early. I was driven through three checkpoints and the now familiar gates of the huge villa. The car swung round to the back of the house, past the stables and the menagerie, until we reached the rustic gate to the courtyard where Rosa Casalini, Signora Mussolini’s attractive assistant, waited for me. Around her feet swarmed the usual crowd of happy dogs.

Signorina Rosa greeted me warmly. This was a good sign. I relaxed at last. I had allowed my fears to get the better of me. Miss Casalini said she had missed my visits. No doubt I had been very busy with the various foreign delegations now in town. Not to mention this business with the Pope. She hoped all that nonsense was settled. She would be glad to see the back of tourists. They were bad enough in the summer, with their Baedekers and their atrocious Italian. Il Duce, of course, had been especially busy finding time to visit the Pontine Marshes and see how ‘the war for dry land’ was going. Il Duce, she said, might try to drop in for lunch. He was only just back in town, so it was unlikely we should see him. Obscurely, I felt relieved. She took me up to the dining room on the first floor where the mistress of the house was waiting.

Rachele Mussolini had on a pretty dress of dark green silk. It suited her colouring and showed off the large rose pearls at her throat. Her hair had been marcelled and she wore, I think, a touch of make-up. Yet her body and face were still those of a stocky resilient peasant. That same sturdy dignity would see her through all coming vicissitudes. Now it informed her honest smile of greeting. She had none of the court’s hypocrisy. When she came forward to embrace me and kiss me on both cheeks, I felt welcomed by a doting sister. Benito, she said, had told her I had been unwell. A falling-out with my girlfriend, too, she had heard. A handsome fellow like me would easily find another fiancée! I was not to worry. Thousands of girls would break their hearts over me. I must not be weak and allow the first one to come along to claim me. I was both too modest and too good-looking. She laughed easily. A dangerous combination for both parties. But in particular I should watch out for opportunistic ‘vampires’ who attached themselves to men of power and sometimes even brought them down. She continued in this vein as she seated me beside her while I exchanged affectionate greetings with the Mussolini boys. The younger children were absent. Only rarely were they brought to these lunches. They were looked after by a Romagnan girl, Carla, from Il Duce’s own village.

After seeing him almost daily for weeks, I said, I had not been in touch with Il Duce for some time. She was sympathetic. ‘He’s like an overgrown boy. He pursues passing enthusiasms, then another distraction comes along and the previous craze is forgotten. Yet never forget, dear Max, that my husband is a serious person. He always returns to matters of substance. He telephones me regularly, of course,’ she added. ’I know he has been very busy with affairs of state. These German events and so on. And he had to go off for a few days to the country, to see to things there. The French are being their usual contrary selves. He has so much to do. So many weighty matters. I believe he is also reforming the judiciary this week.’

I enjoyed her familiar blend of domestic anecdotes and passing references to her husband’s sometimes world-shaking political decisions. She followed his arguments perfectly and could repeat them. Contrary to what many later said, she was completely behind Il Duce’s policies, at least up to the late thirties when Hitler began to have a stronger influence. The only reason she did not speak more about politics was her own sense of propriety. She was naturally discreet about Mussolini’s business and equally silent about his affairs. She always blamed the women but would block any attempt to speak of such things. She loved him as only a Romagnan woman can and remains intensely loyal to his memory to this day. Margherita Sarfatti painted this retiring and intelligent woman as a savage. Rachele sometimes said little, but she had been known to drive off overenthusiastic lovers with a stick. She had a strong territorial sense. Only two women ever ‘defeated’ her: Sarfatti and Clara Petacci, who died with Mussolini at the hands of the communist ‘partisans’.

The meal was delicious. I said how much I had missed her table and our conversations. She apologised. She had left town herself for a little while. She had also been talking to Grandi about aeroplanes and airfields, she said. He had been a little vague. Did I have any thoughts on the matter?

Of course she wanted to discuss Bruno’s flying lessons. It emerged she had dissuaded her husband from giving the lessons himself. ‘He is too daring! Too erratic. He flies by instinct, but such instincts are hard to communicate. I wanted someone more experienced. Like you.’ For about half an hour, with Bruno present and making enthusiastic suggestions, we talked about the relative merits of Fiats and SVA-4s for training. We discussed basic flying routines. I pointed out my unfamiliarity with modern controls. The planes in my films, for instance, were all from the Great War period, mostly Spads and Albatrosses. Virtually all the machines I had known since then were my own! I would not like to take the young man up without first being thoroughly familiar with the machines in question.

She was pleased with my remarks. ‘Flying, I think, is his vocation,’ she said, after Bruno had been sent off to school again. ‘I must let him follow it. I would be a fool not to. And Il Duce, you know, is very pleased. But a mother fears . . .’

I understood. I reassured her that I had been flying since before the War. I would do nothing to jeopardise her son’s life or my own! ‘I am inclined to err,’ I told her, ‘on the side of caution.’

I must admit I was not particularly happy with the responsibility. It would have been unwise of me to broadcast the fact, but I had very little conventional flying experience up to that time. Most of it had been fairly disastrous. I knew that even a minor bruise or a bump to Bruno’s head would bring the full fury of the family down upon me.

Eventually it was agreed. A Fiat would be the best plane to train in. I would set about finding one. .

‘I would like to begin as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘Perhaps an initial “hop” this coming weekend? And more intense lessons once the school vacation begins?’

I could only agree.

Later Signora Mussolini linked her plump, muscular arm in mine. She asked me if I had much work waiting for me at the office. Before I could answer she said, ‘Never mind. I want a handsome young escort for the pictures this afternoon. Would you mind?’

She was my strongest supporter. How could I disagree? We went together to her cinema, a luxurious little theatre designed after those private viewing rooms used by directors. I soon knew why she had invited me. The first film was one of my own, A Buckaroo’s Courtship, which, she said, was her personal favourite. Side by side in the red plush seats we watched an Ace Peters who belonged to a more innocent age. Gloria Cornish was my leading lady. Both Rachele and I enjoyed the scene where, kneeling in my saddle and drawing down my bandanna, I reached to kiss my love as she leaned over the rail of the train’s caboose. Inwardly I mourned for my lost youth. I had forgotten how wonderful those days had been. The next film was a romance, Her Secret Man, a locally made confection of the kind that appealed to women. Il Duce’s wife wept lavishly through the final reel. Then, with Vittorio back from school, we watched several cartoons, including a Mickey Mouse I had not seen. I think it was one of the talkers, but the Villa Torlonia was not yet equipped with sound apparatus. Vittorio was as keen on the cinema as Bruno on flying. He wanted me to teach him to become an actor. I felt I would rather be tutoring him at that time than his brother.

Assuring my patroness that I would make every effort to have a Fiat aeroplane ready and in perfect condition by the following week, I left. My peace of mind had only partially been restored. At least I had not fallen from Rachele’s or her husband’s favour. If anything she was better disposed to me than ever.

I was relieved to know Mussolini had been unavailable to everyone, including his wife. And clearly Signora Rachele knew nothing about any other irregularities. Her view of men was old-fashioned. She had only certain expectations of us. Rachele believed all males to be pretty much the same in certain respects. If women didn’t cater to them they were fools. She was thoroughly on my side. Indeed, I wondered if Rachele had heard something to make her so sympathetic to me. Perhaps I would get a fuller picture when I met my ex-mistress for drinks at the Excelsior? I looked at my watch. There was an hour to prepare for my next encounter. I made an excuse. The office needed me.

I met Mrs Cornelius in the hotel lobby. My angel was a cloudy dream of pale blue, gold and pink. Her cloche was a helmet of spring flowers. She complimented me on my silk summer suit, my matching hat, gloves and spats, my silver-topped ebony cane. Catching sight of us both in the huge mirror I admired the beautiful picture we made. She was an exquisite blonde English rose. I was a dark South Russian nobleman, a high-ranking fascista with my beard trimmed in the imperial style. I wore a fresh flower. The only sign of my rank was an inconspicuous lapel badge.

I enjoyed one of those moments of rebirth, of self-discovery, which Proust talks about at such interminable length. I told her how I was a new man. I was celebrating the coming of the season. I had put the past behind me.

‘Always for the best, Ivan.’ She was approving. ‘Don’t wait to let ther blood dry, that’s my motto.’ She would be leaving soon for Vienna, she said. After that they were going on to St Crim ‘for the Chemmy’. She wouldn’t mind a bit if I wanted to come along. I told her that affairs of state kept me too much in Rome. I would like nothing better than to spend some time with her in the South of France. Unfortunately, I reminded her, I had not had time to return there and clear my name. The thought of a single waltz with her on the floor of the Café Sacher could make me throw all responsibility to the winds. If I had not sworn a blood oath to Il Duce himself, I added.

She chose to hear this last as a fanciful irony. ‘Keeps ya busy, does ‘e, Ivan? Well, I’m trying to get a party up. Between you an’ me, ‘Uggy’s all right but he’s not exactly the liveliest wire most of the time, if ya foller me.’

I promised her I would seize the opportunity if Il Duce released me. She waved over my shoulder. ‘Wotcher, ‘Ermann!’ I turned. “Ello, love.’

‘Heads will roll!’ A boom of jovial German, like wind catching a sail. Across the dark blue carpet in his enormous ivory lounge suit which gave him the grace of a great clipper ship, his arm extended like a spar to save the rather dishevelled, slightly agitated Margherita Sarfatti who, oblivious of all but him, bobbed at his side like a bumboat, came the stately bulk of Captain Göring, his smile lighting the smoky lobby like a fog lamp.

Although hardly taller than me, the man had astonishing presence. He was the best bred of the Nazi hierarchy. His original plans for the concentration camps were bastardised as soon as he put petits bourgeois like Himmler and Heydrich in charge. I speak from personal experience. That never came out at Nuremberg. Now we all know how such omissions were typical of those American drumhead post-war courts. The assignment of blame is far more important to the American soul than the discovery of cause. Like most kulak cultures they believe analysis to be forgiveness. From beginning to end, though, I will admit to Göring’s increasing greed after his first wife died. But he remained a gentleman and on the whole a loyal friend. Was it his fault if Himmler and the others conspired to block the messages I sent? Certainly he was never implicated in the scandal which was to destroy more careers than mine and claim many lives. He had every expectation of taking over the reins of government after the War and was astonished by the court’s attitude. They wanted blood, not justice. Look what happened to poor Joyce, Wodehouse and Pound. The Americans wanted to destroy the Nazi dream for ever. But dreams of such yearning magnitude do not die easily. Göring knew that. He said as much in his final testament.

When the unofficial Nazi ambassador saw us he grew hearty with relief. Clearly he had had enough of La Sarfatti. ‘My dear friends! How good to see you.’ He tacked expertly towards us, murmuring an apology as Margherita Sarfatti was whisked smartly to starboard, almost losing her clutch on his pale shantung.

Only then she saw me and hurled herself free of his gravity, a motley whirl of tassels and trim.

‘Caro!’ she said, flinging her arms wide so that her extraordinary scent struck my face like a wall. ’Mio!’ She remembered where she was and cooed back over her shoulder. ‘The main thing is, darling, that the press got their pictures.’ I was kissed and whispered at. We should soon be alone, she promised, as if the episode in the cottage had never occurred. While I remained mystified by her rage, I was relieved to be forgiven. The thought of resuming my sexual duties was not, however, attractive.

Mrs Cornelius made a prim, dismissive greeting of some kind. She turned in search of Hugenberg. ‘Don’t forget me offer, Ivan,’ she said.

Suddenly Göring was also waving farewell, saying something in German to Margherita Sarfatti which I did not catch. She answered a little distractedly and turned to me. ‘Any news?’ she said.

I had absolutely no idea what she meant.

‘Of whom?’ I felt inane.

‘We’ll talk later.’ Her smile changed. ‘Well, my dear, how have you boys all been?’

I was unsure of her tone. ‘Boys?’

‘I’m used to it,’ she said. ‘But you might tell the Chief. I think it’s time this particular game was finished.’

I had no reply. Clearly Margherita had less idea of our Duce’s whereabouts than I. She fluttered until she had made herself comfortable in the great basket of her chair, settling like a partridge on her eggs. Then she fixed her bright, hard eyes upon me. ‘Well, darling!’

‘You’re out of sorts,’ I said as the waiter arrived. ‘A drink?’

‘After all I’ve done for him lately!’ Viciously she ordered some fashionably complex cocktail in a glass the size of a chamber pot. I had a Campari Fizz. I wished to keep my head as clear as possible. As Major Nye used to say of his own lady wife, La Sarfatti was going off like a fire in an ammunition factory.

‘I feel so sorry,’ she began. ‘Everything is my fault. I should never have gone over. I was convinced she was already keeping her assignation at the hotel with him and we’d be safe. I expected to surprise you when you arrived! And then, of course, he turns up! He must have been tailing you!’

I assumed at first that she spoke of Fiorello, then of Mrs Cornelius and Herr Hugenberg, perhaps of Seryozha. Then I wondered if she was referring to Göring. I listened carefully in the hope of refining some sense from her outpourings.

‘It’s that peasant bitch, isn’t it?’ she said to me. ’Rachele’s watching him like an owl.’

I had no notion of her drift.

‘Why did she have to come to Rome? She’s crazy. She’s interfering in matters she can’t possibly understand. Il Duce is loyal to her, of course, but she can’t give him what I give him. And why is she picking on me? I hardly see him. Why doesn’t she pick on that whore of yours? She’s the one who takes up all his attention these days!’

Sarfatti seemed to have gone utterly mad. I made an effort to change the subject. ‘Have you heard anything more from Fiorello?’

She stared at me. ‘What?’ It was as if she had never known our mutual friend.

‘Did he make it to Switzerland?’

‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘They all do. Darling, the reason I needed to see you is for your sake.’ She gave a little, self-deprecating snigger. ‘I fear I need my little house back.’

She was evicting me! From spite? As a strategy? Was this the only price I was being asked to pay for being rid of her?

‘Naturally,’ I said. ’That was always our understanding. If you could give me a day or two to find new digs.’

‘I need it rather urgently,’ she said. ‘Rather soon. Tomorrow, my darling. I hate to do this to you, but it’s all very sordid and concerned with money, about which I understand absolutely nothing. But those who do follow such things are the masters now, darling, aren’t they?’

I was breathless. ‘I suppose I can find rooms at a hotel near the office . . .’

‘Why not here, darling? They have marvellous drinks and wonderful service. I know the manager. I can get you a special rate.’

I would be content with something a little less elaborate. I would ask my friends for suggestions.

She fluttered across the glass table dividing us and settled on me like a carnivorous moth. ‘You are the perfect gentleman,’ she said. ‘I always have the right instincts. I should learn to trust them more.’

A short while later she would be on a boat to America, never to return. To save her from the political situation, Il Duce exiled her. It was entirely for her own good. To her credit she understood that. She was one of many Italian Jews who found happiness in the New World.

As we sat there, she asked after my friends in the press corps. I had seen only Tom Morgan. I had even lost contact with Billy Grisham and his family. I gathered he had been reassigned to Berlin.

‘The press is more fickle than any woman.’ She nodded as if in confirmation of her own wisdom. She became contemplative and returned to her chair. We had reached an impasse. I wondered if I had inadvertently given her some more pieces in her jigsaw.

I filled the silence. ‘Has Captain Göring bought any pictures?’

‘Not really. He’s far too busy with politics these days. His attention is on politics rather than art! And his wife is ailing, too, you know.’ This last appeared to be entirely irrelevant. ‘He carried his message to Il Duce. He carried his message to the Pope.’ She inspected her hands, perhaps for stigmata. ‘He took a message to Berlin. He brought a message to Rome. He did what he had to do. And soon he will leave.’ With a dramatic expression of wounded bitterness she called for another cocktail.

I guessed what had happened. Il Duce did not blame me for my affair with his mistress. He knew her too well for that. He blamed her. He had clearly found another paramour who interested him far more. I was not out of favour. All Sarfatti had left to offer her Chief was her contacts within the new, young Germany. Evidently he had been using them, because neither Göring nor any of his entourage had met Mussolini officially. Her house had been a useful meeting place for the men. In spite of this she was no longer a woman to be seen with. No doubt she had exaggerated her current role to gain a moments prestige.

I looked at my wristwatch. ‘Well, I must make my plans. I shall be busy with my move.’ This would be a good time to begin my reconciliation with Maddy Butter. Once I located her, I could promise her I had made a clean break with Madame Sarfatti.

‘You mustn’t feel rushed,’ she said. ‘I could perhaps arrange to give you some more time.’

As I rose I became increasingly formal. I told her that I would not think to impose on her any longer than necessary. Did she plan to dine at the hotel or could I call her car for her?

She shrugged. Her drink arrived and I left.

I hoped that I had not been seen. Rachele Mussolini had her own spies. It occurred to me that Il Duce’s wife had warmed to me again because I was clearly no longer seeing Sarfatti. I must choose my company carefully for the next few weeks. Meanwhile, I considered taking a refresher course in flying. But how could I do that tactfully? I wondered.

I ran into Major Nye in the lobby. The tall Englishman was talking to Balbo and a couple of other high-ranking fascisti. Balbo was supposed to have killed a priest in the early twenties, a story that dogged his career. As well as being Italy’s most famous aviator, Balbo, a competent and intelligent man, had the unfortunate appearance of Popeyes enemy Bluto in the cartoons everyone loved. He was known privately, even by Mussolini, as ‘Air Minister Bluto’. In his mid-thirties, as were most of the leading fascisti Grand Councillors, he would have done well to shave off his beard or cultivate a more refined one, like my own. I think he believed it made his face look thinner. In my view his beard was his downfall. He was eventually sent into exile as Governor of Libya. In the end, they said, the great aviator was glad to go. I had cultivated him at one stage. He had shown every interest in my descriptions of the planes I had built. He even asked me to send him over a few plans, but Mussolini blocked the idea. He said Balbo would only have bogged things down in red tape.

I joined the group for a moment. It would have been impolitic to do anything else. Besides, Balbo was just the man who might help me. Almost embarrassed by the vigour of my salute, they returned it in kind. The other three were the voluble and volatile Farinacci, who agreed with many of my ideas and was still regarded as a sound man by the party rank and file, the dapper, garrulous Grandi, Italy’s charming Foreign Minister, and the polished Cardinal Gasparri, with whom I also shared important opinions. A slightly disparate group, it did me no harm to be seen in their company when chatting to the Englishman.

I murmured to Gasparri that I was impressed by the way he extended his diplomatic talents to the international scene. He smiled and drew a perfectly manicured finger to his sensitive lips. In contrast to Balbo, the cardinal was almost ostentatiously well shaven. He advertised his own grooming as others might advertise their rank. His flesh had the blush of fine talc. He was golden pink with an aura of assured authority. Even the richly woven scarlet cloth of his robes had that same quality of invulnerable softness. His smoothness, of course, was his great strength. I have met theatrical agents with a similar manner. It made him the best negotiator between the Palazzo Venezia and the Vatican.

Cheerful and fashionable as always, Grandi the Foreign Minister sported, like me, the pointed beard and half-wax of a pre-war boulevardier. He was probably the ablest man in Italy and Il Duce’s best friend. Grandi turned against his Chief in the end, became a declared anti-Fascist and fled to Lisbon where, I gather, he is now a tobacconist.

I mentioned to Grandi that I was about to be homeless. This set the little man to laughing heartily. ‘Dumped you, has she? Or has he?’ It seemed half of Rome was aware of my affair. I shuddered.

‘If you like,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m glad it’s over.’

Grandi said I would get used to it. ‘We all get used to it after a while.’ I was not to worry. I would have a house in twenty-four hours. ‘It’s just a question of telling some impoverished old fart of a nobleman whose family stole it from some other old fart of a nobleman that he has to vacate his seat. His thousand years are up. Now it’s our turn. We’ll relocate him in the country.’

He was joking, of course. Only later would such jokes be interpreted by the humourless Americans to suggest the Fascists were brutes.

As I left them, Farinacci wished me good luck. He was a far-sighted man, poorly used by his people. He alone saw that the state could not tolerate a separate constituency. We had made our peace with the Pope, he had said, but we would never make our peace with the Grand Rabbi. Those people had international loyalties and simply could not be trusted to be good citizens. Wisely, the Grand Rabbi converted to Christianity, of course, in 1955. What does that tell us?

It was impossible just then to have a private word with Balbo. I told Grandi I would telephone him in the morning. I asked the concierge to have my car brought round. I was just in time. As I stepped through the doors of the hotel and descended to my waiting Mercedes a voice from behind me cried: ‘Dimka! Dimka, dear!’

I saw Seryozha reflected in the polished metal. Everything on him was loose and flying. He was a wild pirate schooner to Göring’s dignified ship of the line. He swerved erratically in pursuit of me.

I did not turn round. I got into my car and told my chauffeur to drive off quickly. I heard a thump on the car’s trunk. When I did risk a glance back, I saw Seryozha angrily shouting at a group of squadristi, who had appeared from nowhere.

The streets were still busy. It was not yet twilight and Rome, lively as always, was going out to eat. The lights of the trams were golden and scarlet against the deepening blue of the sky. The creamy stone was vivid with posters. Cafés and restaurants came alive. The energy of the city was visible everywhere. As the car took me through the park, I sat back and enjoyed the beauty of the late-spring flowers, the last of the children trooping back from their play, young courting couples, elderly women with their dogs, the old men sitting in groups, smoking and mocking everyone not of their class and generation. There was a tranquillity and stability about this scene that Rome had not enjoyed since the War. It showed why Mussolini was so revered here and how much he had given his people.

The sun was setting as we reached the quieter suburbs. The soft light washed away most modern buildings. Ancient walls covered in climbing shrubbery might have been the villas of Roman nobles. We came at last to the little gate of the cottage. I got out, said goodnight to my driver, glanced around to see if any OVRA people were keeping an eye on things, saw nothing, opened my gate and noticed that there were flies everywhere. Through the half-light I could make out a large creature lying on my doorstep. At first I thought it was a leopard or some other animal escaped from the nearby zoo. Then I realised it appeared to be a sleeping Labrador, an English dog then very fashionable in Italy. I wondered how it had managed to get through the gate. As I drew closer, I noticed that the dog’s head lay at an odd angle, its eyes partially open. There was liquid oozing from its muzzle and staining the stone. As I bent to inspect it, a strong smell, half-dog, half-death, hit my nostrils. It had been dead for some hours and was no longer stiff.

I was completely mystified. Had the Labrador made its way here and expired? Why would someone put it here? Perhaps it had been struck by a car and managed to get to my house before dying. Now I saw the creature had been shot in the throat with a small-calibre gun. Was it someone’s guard dog?

Rather than inspect the corpse further, and feeling my lungs filling up with the unmistakable and almost indefinable smell of death, against which all normal animals react, I stepped over the beast and opened my door.

As soon as I had put the lights on, I took a little ‘snuff’ to clear the stink from my nostrils and lit some anti-insect candles in the hope of keeping the flies out. Already some were in the room. Feeling quite ready to leave the place, I began to pack up my personal documents. Then on an impulse I rang the exchange and got a number for the local police. I telephoned the police and told them of the problem. They were sympathetic. They would contact the necessary municipal office who would send a team in the morning to remove the dog. I was tempted to use my authority with them, but I had already been cautioned against this by Tom Morgan. Il Duce hated his ‘secret party people’ making their status public. It simply wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do. I understood all this, having been trained in old-fashioned American courtesy by that great patriot Major Simmonds. I could try more tactful methods, I decided, if the flies got any worse. I continued with my packing. Someone would come in to remove the majority of my things when I found new quarters.

At that time of the evening the sunset noises from the zoo carried over through the open window. I realised I was going to miss the roars and shrieks. The telephone rang. It was Quinto Navarra, Mussolini’s private secretary. He had heard I was thinking of moving. I told him I had been evicted by my landlady and he laughed. He understood completely. Had I found another place yet?

I thought he had telephoned me to help with my accommodation. Instead, he asked if I was in good spirits. I told him that I was in excellent spirits until I had come home to find a dead dog on my doorstep. It was a mystery how it had got there.

Navarra was extremely concerned. He would have some people come and remove it at once. What colour was the dog?

I found this question a little strange. It was a black Labrador, I said. A male.

‘Black? A bad joke,’ he said. ‘We’ll have it looked into. I’ll call Bocchini’s office.’

A joke? What sort of joke? And who would play it?

He was not given to loud laughter but he seemed amused. ‘Someone who wanted you to think you were a Mafia target, perhaps? The black dog is their calling card.’

I knew nothing of such people. I had made no enemies among them.

‘It isn’t the Mafia,’ Navarra assured me. ‘Il Duce has pretty much eradicated the Mafia. They wouldn’t dare. Do you have other enemies in Rome? Or perhaps America? Did something perhaps happen years ago?’

I remembered Annibale Santucci and his people who had helped me in San Francisco. I had never doubted that they were involved with organised crime. But we had parted on the best of terms.

And then, of course, it came to me.

Brodmann!

Quinto Navarra thought little of the whole thing. ‘Schoolkids used to do that with dead dogs all the time. It terrified some people! Particularly Jew shopkeepers the kids didn’t like. It used to scare them silly, thinking the Mafia had taken against them!’ Again he seemed to laugh to himself. He said that he had just left Il Duce. Much as he regretted not being able to come to me at my offices as usual, Mussolini would be glad if I visited him at the Palazzo Venezia in the morning. He would like a quiet a word with me.

Normally I would have been delighted. This was certain proof that I was still persona grata with our Chief. But I was deeply confused as I replaced the receiver and continued to pack. I turned on the radio, hoping for some dance music, but the stations were already closing down for the evening.

A little later came a knock at the door. No doubt Navarra had sent someone to remove the dog.

I opened up to find Seryozha standing there. He offered me a knowing leer.

Clutching two bottles of champagne in his hands, his pockets revealed glasses, some bread and what appeared to be the contents of a good-sized larder.

‘Are you starving?’ he asked. ‘I am.’ He stepped over the corpse and came in. ‘Is that your dog, Dimka? Aren’t people brutes? I saw you at the hotel, but you didn’t see me. Luckily I still had your address. This is our chance to be alone together with nobody knowing!’

I guessed that any secret service novice could have kept watch on Seryozha while doing the crossword puzzle and listening to a football game, but I could not easily get rid of him. I closed the door. He embraced me. I felt the bottles digging into my back as he kissed me. ‘Now, Dimka, dear. Where shall we have our little picnic?’

I told him I was delighted to see him but that we did not have long for our meal. I had an appointment with my Chief.

‘Then we shall make the most of our time,’ Seryozha promised. ‘After all, in lovemaking, quality not quantity counts!’

I had become so alarmed at the threat of Brodmann back on my trail that I hardly cared what Seryozha said or did. Unless he was in the pay of the Cheka, which was a possibility, his company was better than nothing. I felt Brodmann would not strike tonight. He would give me time to think about the implications of my Fido Negro.

I hardly listened to Seryozha as he prattled on. I was all too familiar with his kind of gossip: who was friends with whom, who hated whom and so on. He let me know that Göring and ‘the Berliners’ hated his patron, ‘Ernstie’, who was, he said, a ‘real Nazi’. Göring and company had already gone over to the forces of international capitalism against which the Nazis had been determined to fight as thoroughly as they fought Bolshevism. The corporate state was betrayed! I did not give this stuff much of my attention. I was distracted with more immediate matters.

It occurred to me that I might contact my acquaintance Monelli at the OVRA headquarters and tell him that I was being threatened by a Chekist. But the situation would be impossible to explain and unfortunately would conflict in certain key areas with my official biography. Apart from Mrs Cornelius, who always supported me in whatever role I played, only Seryozha among our mutual acquaintances now knew me to be Russian. Fiorello, with luck, had escaped and would be no danger to me.

When I left that evening, taking a whining but reinvigorated Seryozha with me, I had nowhere else to go. I told him I would drop him off at the Excelsior.

The car arrived. Again we were forced to step over the rapidly decaying corpse of the dog. By now Seryozha was full of sentimental misery for the dogs fate and began speculating on the kind of bastard who would do that kind of thing. I delivered a still emotional Seryozha back and told my chauffeur to take a spin up the Tivoli road for a while. I was anxious to clear my head. Attempting to relax, I somehow could not enjoy that perfect Roman evening to the full.

When I returned to the cottage, the dog was gone. Everything was perfectly clean. Navarra had been as good as his word. I showered, got into my pyjamas, read through some newspapers I had bought on my way home and then, though I was not particularly tired, went to bed early.

Next morning, smart in my best uniform, my morale improved, I forced myself to think of nothing but work and matters in hand. I arrived at the Palazzo Venezia about half an hour early and as usual gave my name to the guard. Positioned everywhere were the tall, handsome young noblemen who formed Mussolini’s special ‘Death’s Head’ guard. Each was sworn to defend the life of Il Duce with his own. In their smart black uniforms, with silver skull-and-crossbones insignia on black fezzes, with silver daggers at their belts and the latest rapid-firing carbines on their shoulders, they were Mussolini’s own healthy praetorians, the best of the new Italy.

I was taken to a waiting room where several others already sat. I was disconcerted. Having expected to see Il Duce alone, I felt rather like a petitioner in a medieval antechamber. Indeed, I was unpleasantly reminded of El Glaoui’s court.

The affable Quinto Navarra soon found me. With apologies and excuses he led me through a private door. Less privileged visitors would be taken through an elaborate series of vast rooms before being presented to Il Duce, but Navarra guided me along the back corridors until at last we passed through a curtain guarded by two squadristi. We came out on to the huge landing of dark panelling and sombre murals, which lay before the so-called Hall of the Globe, the Mappamondo room, now Mussolini’s office. Here Navarra led me straight past the guards, set me on my way and quietly closed the doors behind me.

I had heard of this hall but never previously experienced it. My meetings with Mussolini had always been of a more private nature. About seventy-five feet long and fifty feet tall, its walls, ceiling and panelling were decorated with entire panoramas of Italian history. In the distance, at a huge desk lit by a single lamp, sat Il Duce who gravely signalled me forward.

I felt inflated, rather than reduced, by the sense of occasion. Proud in the uniform of my rank I strode forward to greet the greatest soldier-philosopher since Alexander. His massive shaven head and muscular torso were an impressive silhouette against the light. As I came nearer, Mussolini suddenly stood up and came round his desk towards me. Even as I raised my arm to salute him he put his own out. We shook hands. He was warm. He was abstracted, urgent. He said how good it was to see me. How much he had missed our discussions and especially our strategy meetings. He was even now trying to convince the Finance Ministry of the need to fund all the Peters prototypes. Affairs of state continued to engage him. But I must not despair. The Land Leviathan would soon be an impressive reality. The Peters Supertank might be a good name for it, didn’t I think? He had a few details to finalise with the Spanish government. Ten machines were as good as sold. With the money paid by the Spaniards, we would build our own ten first. Then we would build their ten. With the final payment, we could build another ten. And so on. He imagined a fleet of monstrous land ironclads perhaps a hundred or two hundred strong. ‘Enough to awe the enemy and dissuade resistance before it begins.’

As always I was inspired by his vision. Even as I stood in his comradely embrace, I could see my armies of flying soldiers, of massive battle-engines and bombing aeroplanes streaming rank upon endless rank into a golden future. I saw myself as Mussolini’s foremost lieutenant. I would be his most magnificent marshal, Roland to his Charlemagne. Leading his legions against all Italy’s foes, I would establish another great Holy Roman Empire, stretching from the Sahara to the Pyrenees, from Lisbon to Constantinople, a great shield against Islam. My cities would fly. Flying cities would dominate the tranquil skies, keeping order upon the earth in a new Pax Romana. That world would abolish usury and establish the corporate state, would again be given over to natural farming and enlightened animal husbandry, to the skilled artisan, so that none should be without work, none should go hungry.

In spite of all his optimism, however, I sensed that Il Duce was in a rather gloomy and contemplative mood. No doubt the recalcitrant Vatican and legal profession were causing him problems. But he said none of this to me. He changed the subject. ’I gather,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that you’re getting on well with the German delegation. One of them’s a friend of yours, eh?’

‘An acquaintance I’m trying to avoid, if the truth be told,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit awkward. He’s a Russian ballet boy I’ve helped out a couple of times. I think as a result he’s developed a crush on me.’ I had no wish to be associated with what Mussolini called ‘rouge boys’. ’I find it all rather disgusting.’

‘Strange bedfellows, eh?’ said Mussolini with a wink. He was in a comradely mood. ‘I hear you broke up with that girlfriend of yours.’ He offered me a sharp, penetrating look. Did he mean Seryozha? Of course not.

I assumed he meant Maddy Butter. Or could Sarfatti have said something? I was struck by a thought: were they playing a game? Had Mussolini discovered the truth? Had the black dog’s corpse been placed on my doorstep at his instructions? Had Maddy’s accusations been believed? My left leg began to tremble. I knew a moment’s terror. I needed to see Maddy, to find out what she had said. Was she back in Rome, her press assignment over?

‘You must be feeling a bit fed up.’ He strolled over to the huge carved lectern on which was arranged an atlas almost as tall as himself. ’Needing a change. Someone told me you’re moving house.’

He had forgotten that he himself had suggested I move. I agreed that a change would do me good.

‘Maybe even a vacation?’

I had work to do for Italy. I had no more need of rest than did my leader.

This pleased him. ’You are a true fastisti, Professor. A hard-working Renaissance man.’

‘You are my model and my ideal,’ I said. I spoke only the truth.

He accepted this with his usual almost shy acknowledgement. ‘But it seemed to Signora Mussolini today that your nerves were a little bad. She remarked on it. And you know how much she cares about you. You are going to teach Bruno to fly. We need you in the best condition, Professor Peters. I, too, have a special interest in your health.’

I said that I was honoured. I had, indeed, experienced one or two minor personal problems, but these were all now behind me. A dead dog on my doorstep had not improved my mood. But I was ready to put my shoulder to whatever wheel Il Duce presented!

He frowned, thrusting his lower lip forward in that characteristic way. ’Perhaps you need a break. A change of scene. Maybe our mutual interest could be served. I desperately need someone I can trust. There are so few. You are one of them.’ He turned towards the enormous window, head low on his chest. A long pause. Then: ’Professor, I want to offer you a very special assignment. I wouldn’t even talk to the Grand Council about it. It can’t go beyond these walls.’ His brooding eyes fixed on mine. ‘It can only be between you and me. I want you to act for Italy.’ He stepped back, as if to study his effect on me.

I could not respond. I stammered. I would do anything for him. Anything for my new nation.

He nodded, taking this for granted. He placed a hand on my arm. ‘You are certainly already aware that Captain Göring is Hitler’s Special and Secret Emissary. That is the identical role I have in mind for you. Are you prepared to leave Rome for a few weeks?’

‘If necessary, Chief.’ This was something of a shock. I was a scientist, an inventor, not a secret service agent. But I had sworn an oath to obey my Duce to the death. I could not refuse. Moreover, if I was away from the city, I would have a chance to polish my flying skills before returning.

His expression confirmed his own trust in me. ‘It’s not a pleasant mission. You’ll have to mix with some obnoxious people. You’ll be travelling to Munich and Berlin as my secret emissary.’ He noticed my reaction. ’The public knows nothing of your affiliations, you see. Only of your fame. Anyone else could not accomplish this. As an American film star you can go anywhere and not be under suspicion. The Nazi boys all know you, of course, and have a pretty good idea what you do. They’ll be wanting to find out about our inventions. You will give them a hint and no more. It won’t do any harm to exaggerate a little. It will be in your commercial interest as well as Italy’s to let them believe we are further ahead with production.’

‘But what excuse could I possibly have —?’

He raised a silencing hand. He had thought of this, too. ‘Anyone who asks, you can say you’re curious about the new political movements in Europe. Meanwhile, you will be Italy’s eyes and ears. You speak German. You know Göring. In particular, you have the scientific and engineering experience to take a look at some of their own undercover projects.’

‘A spy, Chief?’

‘A special intelligence officer. Those Krauts plan to rearm if they come to power. They have some good people helping them. Göring confided all this to Margherita Sarfatti. They plan to make bombers disguised as commercial aircraft. They have half a dozen new aerial weapons ready for production. I don’t trust them. Before we had our own weapons programmes under way, the Germans could be in Austria, then Italy. You know what they’re like. They’re promising revenge against us all.’

‘Excuse me, Duce,’ I asked levelly, ‘but are you asking me to find some sort of evidence that Hitler and company plan to attack Italy?’

He became circumspect. He took me by the arm. He insisted: ‘I’ve told you. A foreign ambassador does not spy. But you are a loyal Fascist now. Should you discover information of use to this nation, you are honour-bound to relay it to us. That is all I ask you to do.’

I was confused. ‘But what of my work here? We are almost at production stage. We can’t afford to have anyone discover what we’re doing, surely?’ I was genuinely distressed. Did he mean to abandon our engineering projects? ‘The flying lessons for your son Bruno. Signora Mussolini might be disappointed . . .’

‘I am talking a matter of two months at most. While you are gone I will set the initial factory work in motion. When you come back you will be in a position to supervise an ongoing project.’

Two months would, it was true, give me a breathing space. I could use the time to my advantage. And if Brodmann were really in town, I would be able to leave before he realised it. No doubt the dead dog had been his idea. Seryozha, too, was becoming a serious embarrassment. Sarfatti was threatening to come back into my life. There were other looming complications. I was, of course, still hoping for a reconciliation with Maddy Butter.

‘My fiancée . . .’ I began.

Mussolini scowled. He did not think this was a serious subject. ‘Women are easily come by. Most of them are whores at heart. You need to forget your American and look for someone as loyal as my Rachele. When you find her, marry her at once.’

I paused. I took his point. Moreover, I did not share his dislike of Germans, or indeed, of the individual Nazis I had met. To leave Rome for a couple of months and experience the vibrancy of modern German political life might be exactly what I needed. So much the better if I was performing an important personal service for my Duce. I was sure he would not let such loyalty go unrewarded. In addition, it would throw Brodmann off the scent. The dog, I was convinced, had been only a warning. Classic Chekist psychological warfare.

However, this led to another thought. What if I was captured and tortured for my scientific secrets?

Mussolini put his arm around my shoulders. Together we marched up and down the length of that huge room. He reassured me that such things only happened in fiction. Internationally known actors (and engineers) could not easily be spirited away. The community of nations would have something to say about it! The Nazis were anxious to improve their public image. ‘They will court you, but that is all to the good. You can sow the seeds of rumour about our secret weapons and that will be useful to us.’

He took my hand in both of his and stared into my eyes for a moment, as if filling me with some of his own resolve, his own inexhaustible courage. Others have mentioned his hypnotic powers, and I can vouch for them.

The few necessary arrangements had already been made with the Germans, he said. The present German government was viciously anti-Nazi and highly suspicious of Italian Fascists. Thus it would be unwise for me to travel on my Italian passport. Could I use my American passport? Although I would seem to be on my own I need not worry. There would be an OVRA man looking out for my interests at all times. Göring had been put in the picture as much as necessary. He had friends in Berlin. Some were in the Reichstag itself. While it would not be wise to have too close a contact with the affable captain, he would be there if needed. Mussolini had thought this through carefully. I would also receive a regular allowance as a state employee. This would come in the form of payments from a publisher. ‘Göring has already spoken warmly of you, in spite of his well-known prejudices. He is, at root, a practical politician like myself. Not a rouge-using lunatic like his boss. They will, of course, suspect you. If you could, perhaps, obscure things a little, it would help. I’m not very worried about the German National Socialists. They won’t increase their vote in the next election. But some of the Catholic nationalists will. The army is backing them. Those are the people to get close to, Professor. You’re not likely to make many more friends in the National Socialists anyway. Apparently they are already bickering among themselves. Hitler’s on his way out. They lack Fascist discipline. One week I hear Strasser’s their “Duce” — the next it’s Hitler again — or Röhm. They have as many factions as they have members. That’s fine. Nobody wants the bastards to get too much power. But I need an idea of how much of their party is likely to listen to us. Are they really pro-Fascist? We don’t know. I must admit I haven’t heard good reports of any of them except Göring. Possibly the Strasser brothers. My guess is that Göring’s the man who will eventually lead the party. Him or Gregor Strasser. Not his brother. He’s too unstable. Of course, the whole country’s unstable. There could be civil war before Göring, for instance, becomes the next Chancellor. He’s their strong man. He’s the only one an old fart like Hindenburg would trust. I’d bet Göring is letting the others fight it out. But there again, everything could change by next Tuesday. That’s why I need a man like you there for a while. My eyes and ears, eh?’

‘I am still a little confused, Chief. . .’

‘The Krauts need more money from me, of course. They are always begging for handouts. I want men like you there who’ll let me know the best horse to back. And I especially need to know any plans they have for rearmament. I can spare few men of your rank, my dear friend, or I wouldn’t ask this of you. I need a loyal Fascist, yet someone who is not evidently pro-Italian.’

I was flattered by the honour. I could not think what merited so much responsibility.

Mussolini told me Navarra had arranged money, documents and so on. I could leave whenever I wished. Perhaps tomorrow would be a good day. There were reservations for me on the Rome—Vienna train which would connect me with the Munich Express.

‘So soon?’ For a moment I had a suspicion he was getting rid of me. Why? Jealousy? Did he see me as a rival for his wife’s affections? For Sarfatti? For whom? But it was not in my nature to refuse this great man. Neither could I easily suspect him of lying. Weakly, I asked whom I should contact when I reached Munich.

He said that would not be a problem. Captain Göring himself would be my host as far as Munich. One of his people would see to my hotel and so on. All I had to do was to have my trunks packed. I should ask Navarra for help.

I had several other rather crucial questions, but now he became impatient, glancing at the floor, looking away from me, tapping his pencil against the table. He was in no mood to give further answers.

He hastened me towards the door. ’And don’t contact that journalist friend of yours. That girl. Maddy?’

‘Butter?’

‘She must know nothing.’ His expression once again grave, he wished me God speed. With tears in my eyes I promised he would have no reason not to trust me. Maddy? Was that why I was being asked to take a sabbatical from Rome? Was she suspect?

Navarra was waiting for me when I left. He steered me quickly to the secret exit. As I went out, I thought I glimpsed a woman very much like Maddy Butter coming in. Had she at last managed to get her interview with Il Duce? No doubt it was a trick of my imagination. But it would have been a queer irony.

In spite of Il Duce’s advice my curiosity got the better of me. When I returned to my office, to tidy up a few things, I telephoned Miss Butter’s apartment. I wanted to leave with her blessing. The telephone was answered by a maid. Miss Butter had a hairdresser’s appointment. She would not be back until that afternoon. I left no message. I could not risk seeing her personally. She might even be the one who had betrayed me to Brodmann and was indirectly responsible for the dead dog on my step.

She had still not returned by that evening. Then a uniformed valet and a team of squadristi arrived at work to take me back to the cottage. They wanted me to supervise the packing of my trunks.

I tried to telephone Signora Mussolini but could not get through. Just as I was dialling the number again, the phone went dead. The dolts at the phone company had turned off the phone a day too early.

Rather than waste time in useless fuming, I changed and took myself to the fashionable Gaffe Florentine for dinner. Once again I was ‘back in the dream’. I felt both excited and disturbed. I had been given no time to consider my decision. Admittedly, as one of Mussolini’s inner circle, I had sworn my oath and had a duty to abide by it. I must obey Il Duce’s orders no matter how mysterious they were. I had to admit I was curious to see Germany as she was now.

My misgivings suppressed, I ate a solitary meal. As I was finishing Balbo came into the restaurant. He saw me and grinned. Marching over, he waved to me, his decorations jingling. ‘I hear you’ve been exiled to Germany, Professor. She must be a bit above average, eh?’ He winked and leered. I had no idea what he meant. Repelled by his peasant coarseness, I did my best not to respond. He seemed envious of me. Had I been given an assignment he craved for himself or one of his cronies? I did not even bother to ask him who ‘she’ was. His suggestion was meaningless. He was jealous of me, I was sure of that. This made me feel a little better about my new duties. I merely smiled and let him think what he liked. He shrugged and went off to join some friends in an alcove.

I took an Armagnac in the bar. The place was now empty of most Fascist delegates. They had returned to their various constituencies. I saw Major Nye come in with Mrs Cornelius. I signalled to them, but they went past without seeing me. I looked for them in the restaurant but could not see them.

At that moment I felt suddenly isolated. A marooned sailor too weary to cry to passing ships. I could not understand why, with a new adventure ahead, I felt so depressed.

Why had I become so obscurely gloomy since discovering that dog? I remained disgusted by the kind of monster capable of such mindless cruelty.

I prayed I was wrong about Brodmann. I concentrated on plans for my new journey. I consoled myself. I was still serving the Fascist cause. I was content to assist my Duce in any way, even by going into exile, as Balbo put it. In no time at all, I thought, I would be back in Italy supervising the building of my Land Leviathan. Once my name was famous as an engineer I could travel wherever I pleased. I need no longer rely on my reputation as an actor.