creases of decision were folded in his face, how vivid were the large eyes, which now had an opaque glitter. This man could readily order a hundred murders, Pug decided, if he had to. He was an Italian ruler.
Pug could half follow the banker’s clear, measured Italian as he rapidly explained that Franklin Roosevelt, his treasured friend, had appointed the Berlin naval attache as an aide for his few days in Europe; also that Henry would be acting as interpreter with Hitler. He said Henry could now remain or withdraw at Il Duce’s pleasure. Mussolini gave the attache another glance, this time obviously weighing him as a Roosevelt appointee. His expression warmed.
“Do you speak Italian?” he said in good English, catching Henry unawares almost as though a statue had broken into speech.
“Excellency, I can follow it in a fashion. I can’t speak it. But then, I have nothing to say.”
Mussolini smiled, as Pug had seen him smile at people in the other room. “If we come to naval matters maybe we will talk English.”
He looked expectantly at the banker.
“
The banker talked for about a quarter of an hour. Since Pug already knew the substance, the banker did not altogether lose him. After some compliments, Gianelli said he was no diplomat and had neither the credentials nor the skill to discuss matters of state. He had come to put one question informally to Il Duce, on behalf of the President. Mr. Roosevelt had sent a private citizen who knew Il Duce, so that a negative reply would not affect formal relations between the United States and Italy. The President was alarmed by the drift toward catastrophe in Europe. If full-scale war broke out in the spring, horrors that nobody could foresee might engulf the whole world. Was it possible to do something, even at this late hour? Mr. Roosevelt had in mind a formal, urgent mission by a high United States diplomat, somebody on the order of Sumner Welles (Ciano, drumming the tips of his fingers together, looked up at the mention of the name), to visit all the chiefs of the warring states, perhaps late in January, to explore the possible terms of a general European settlement. Il Duce himself had made a last-minute call for a similar exploration on August 31, in vain. But if he would join the President now in bringing about such a settlement, he would hold a place in history as a savior of mankind.
Mussolini deliberated for a minute or so, his face heavy, his shoulders bowed, his look withdrawn, one hand fiddling with his tweed lapels. Then he said — as nearly as Pug could follow him — that the foreign policy of Italy rested on the Pact of Steel, the unshakable tie with Germany. Any attempt, any maneuver, any trick designed to split off Italy from this alliance would fail. A settlement in Europe was always possible. No one would welcome it more than he. As Mr. Roosevelt acknowledged, he himself had tried to the last to preserve the peace. But Hitler had offered a very reasonable settlement in October, and the Allies had spurned it. The American government in recent years had been openly hostile to Germany and Italy. Italy too had serious demands that had to be part of any settlement. These were not matters in Luigi’s province, Mussolini said, but he was stating them to clarify his very pessimistic feeling about a mission by Sumner Welles.
“You have put a question to me,” he concluded. “Now, Luigi, I will put a question to you.”
“Yes, Duce.”
“Does this initiative come from President Roosevelt, or is he acting at the request of the Allies?”
“Duce, the President has told us this is his own initiative.”
Ciano cleared his throat, leaned forward with his hands clasped, and said, “Do the British and French know and approve of this visit you are making?”
“No, Excellency. The President said that he would be making informal inquiries of the same nature, at this same time, in London and Paris.”
Mussolini said, “The newspapers have no information on any of this, is that correct?”
“What I have told you, Duce, is known outside this room only to the President and his Secretary of State. My trip is a matter of private business, of no interest to the press, and so it will remain forever.”
“I have stated my deep reservations,” said Mussolini, speaking slowly, in an extremely formal tone. “I have very little hope that such a mission would be to any useful purpose, in view of the maniacal hostility of the British and French ruling circles to the resurgent German nation and its great Fuhrer. But I share Mr. Roosevelt’s sentiment about leaving no stone unturned.” He took a long portentous pause, then spoke with a decisive nod. “If the President sends Sumner Welles on such a mission, I will receive him.”
Gianelli’s fixed smile gave way to a real one of delight and pride. He gushed over Mussolini’s wise and great decision, and his joy at the prospect of Italy and the United States, his two mother countries, joining to rescue the world from tragedy. Mussolini nodded tolerantly, seeming to enjoy the flood of flattery, though he waved a deprecating hand to calm down the banker.
Victor Henry seized the first pause in the banker’s speech to put in, “Duce, may I ask whether Signor Gianelli is permitted to tell the Fuhrer this? That you have consented receive a formal mission by Sumner Welles?”
Mussolini’s eyes sparked, as sometimes an admiral’s did when Victor Henry said something sharp. He looked to Ciano. The foreign minister said condescendingly in his perfect English, “The Fuhrer will know long before you have a chance to tell him.”
“Okay,” said Henry.
Mussolini rose, took Gianelli’s elbow, and led him out through french doors to the balcony, letting a gust of cold air into the room.
Ciano smoothed his thick black hair with both white hands. “Well, Commander, what do you think of the great German naval victory in the south Atlantic?”
“I hadn’t heard of one.”
‘Really? It will be on Rome radio at seven o’clock. The battleship
Victor Henry was shocked, but skeptical. “What happened to
“Minor hits that will be repaired overnight.
“The British have acknowledged this?”
Count Ciano smiled. He was a good-looking young man, and obviously knew it; just a little too fat and proud, Pug thought, from living high on the hog. “No, but the British took a little while to acknowledge the sinking of the
The dinner celebrating Victor Henry’s promotion began in gloom, because of the
Captain Kirkwood asserted that he believed the story; that in the twenty years since the war, a deep rot had eaten out the heart of England. Kirkwood looked like an Englishman himself — long-jawed, ruddy, and big- toothed — but he had little use for Great Britain. The British politicians had stalled and cringed in the face of Hitler’s rise, he declared, because they sensed their people no longer had a will to fight. The Limey navy was a shell. England and France were going to crumple under Hitler’s onslaught in the spring.
“It’s too bad, I suppose,” Kirkwood said. “One’s sentiments are with the Allies, naturally.” But the world moves on. After all, Hitler halted communism in its tracks. And don’t worry, once he takes the fight out of the Allies, he’ll settle Stalin’s hash. The Russians are putting on one stumblebum performance in Finland, aren’t they? They’ll be a walkover for the Wehrmacht. In the end we’ll have to make a deal with Hitler, that’s becoming obvious. He holds all the cards on this side of the water.”
“Hi, Dad.” Byron’s sports jacket and slacks were decidedly out of place in this old luxurious restaurant, where half the people wore evening dress.
Henry introduced him to the attache. “Where have you been? You’re late.”
“I saw a movie, and then went to the YMCA to flake out for a little while.”
“Is that all you could find to do in Rome? See a movie? I wish I had a few free hours in this city.”
“Well, see, I was tired.” Byron appeared much more his old slack self.
The waiter now brought champagne and Kirkwood proposed a toast to
“Hey, Dad! Four stripes! Really?” Byron sprang to life, radiating surprised joy. He clasped his father’s hand and lifted a brimming glass. “Well, I’m sure glad I came to Rome, just for this. Say, I know one doesn’t mention
