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?’