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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?