Not five meters from him stood Benito Mussolini.

The Italian dictator wore tan riding breeches, high-glossed boots that hit him below the knee, and a white tunic opened well down his chest, revealing gray hair and the beginnings of an old man’s belly that strained against the lower buttons of the shirt. Il Duce’s great bald head and the skin above his famous jawline were flushed. He held a glass of red wine. There was a half-empty carafe of wine on the table behind the dictator.

“General Leyers,” Mussolini said, nodding, and then turning his rheumy eyes on Pino. “Who the hell are you?”

Pino stammered, “Today I am the general’s interpreter, Duce.”

“Ask him how he is,” Leyers said to Pino in French. “Ask him how I can be of help today.”

Pino did so in Italian. Mussolini threw his head back and roared with laughter, then sneered. “How is Il Duce?”

A brunette with formidable breasts bulging against a sleeveless white blouse came out onto the terrace. She wore sunglasses and also carried a glass of wine. A cigarette smoldered between her ruby lips.

Mussolini said, “Tell them, Clara. How is Mussolini?”

She took a drag, blew smoke, then said, “Benito is feeling pretty shitty these days.”

Pino tried not to gape. He knew who she was. Everyone in Italy knew who she was. Claretta Petacci was the dictator’s notorious mistress. Her picture was always in the papers. He couldn’t believe she was there right in front of him.

Mussolini stopped laughing, turned dead serious, looked at Pino, and said, “Tell the general that. Tell him Il Duce is feeling pretty shitty these days. And ask him if he can fix the things that make Il Duce feel shitty.”

Pino translated. Irritated, Leyers said, “Tell him, maybe we can help each other. Tell him, if he sees about ending the strikes in Milan and Turin, I’ll do what I can for him.”

Pino gave it to Mussolini word for word.

The dictator snorted. “I can end the strikes if you pay my workers in hard currency, and make them safer.”

“I’ll pay them in Swiss francs, but I can’t control the bombers,” Leyers said. “We have moved many factory operations underground, but there are not enough tunnels to make them all safe. In any case, as far as Italy is concerned, we are at a turning point in the war. The latest intelligence indicates as many as seven Allied divisions were moved out of Italy to France following the invasion there, which means my Gothic Line will hold through the winter if I can keep it supplied. But I cannot be assured of that happening if I do not have competent machinists to turn out weapons and parts. So can you end the strikes for me, Duce? I’m sure the führer will be pleased at your support.”

“Done with a phone call,” Mussolini said, snapped his fingers, and poured more wine.

“Excellent,” General Leyers said. “What else can I help you with?”

“How about control of my country?” the dictator said bitterly, picking up his glass and draining it.

After Pino translated, the general took a long breath and said, “You have much control, Duce. It’s why I came to you to stop the strikes.”

“Il Duce has much control?” Mussolini said, thick with sarcasm and glancing at his mistress, who nodded encouragement. “Then why are my soldiers in Germany digging ditches or dying on the eastern front? Why no meetings with Kesselring? Why are decisions being made about Italy without its president at the table? Why won’t Hitler pick up the goddamned phone?”

The dictator shouted the last question. Leyers seemed unruffled as Pino translated.

Leyers said, “I can’t presume to know why the führer hasn’t taken your calls, Duce, but fighting wars on three fronts is a busy business.”

“I know why Hitler won’t take my goddamned calls!” Mussolini bellowed, and slammed his glass on the table. He glared at the general and then Pino in a way that made Pino wonder if he should retreat a step or two. “Who is the most hated man in all of Italy?” Mussolini said, directing the question at Pino.

Flustered, Pino didn’t know what to say, but then started to translate.

Mussolini cut him off, still talking to Pino, slapping his chest and saying, “Il Duce is the most hated man in Italy, just like Hitler is the most hated man in Germany. But, you see, Hitler, he does not care. Il Duce cares about his people’s love, but Hitler doesn’t give a dog’s turd for love. All he cares about is fear.”

Pino was doing his best to keep up when the dictator seemed to come to some kind of revelation. “Clara, do you know why the most hated man in Italy is not in control of his own country?”

His mistress stubbed out a cigarette, blew smoke, then said, “Adolf Hitler.”

“That’s right!” Il Duce cried. “It’s because the most hated man in Germany hates the most hated man in Italy! It’s because Hitler treats his Nazi shepherd dogs better than he treats the president of Italy! Keeps me locked up in the middle of—”

“I don’t have time for this madness,” General Leyers snapped at Pino. “Tell him I will see about a meeting with Field Marshal Kesselring in the next few days, and to expect a call from the führer within the week. It’s the best I can do for now.”

Pino translated, expecting another explosion from Mussolini.

Instead, these concessions seemed to please the dictator, who began to button his tunic, saying, “How soon with Kesselring?”

“I am on my way to meet with him now, Duce,” Leyers said. “I’ll have his aide call before nightfall. Herr Hitler’s attention may take a little longer to attract.”

Mussolini nodded in a statesmanlike manner, as if he’d gained back some of his illusory power and now planned to use it on the cosmos.

“Very good, General Leyers,” Mussolini said, checking his cuffs. “I shall have the strikes ended before nightfall.”

Leyers clicked his heels, dropped his head, and said, “I’m sure the field marshal and the führer will be pleased. Thank you again for your time and influence, Duce.”

The general pivoted and strode away. Pino hesitated, not quite sure what to do, and then bowed quickly to Mussolini and to Claretta Petacci before bolting after Leyers, who had disappeared around the corner and onto the colonnade. He caught up to him and walked at the general’s right shoulder until they’d almost reached the staff car, when he hurried ahead and opened the rear door.

General Leyers hesitated, studied Pino for several seconds before saying, “Well done, Vorarbeiter.”

“Thank you, mon général,” Pino sputtered.

“Now get me out of this insane asylum,” Leyers said, and climbed inside. “Take me to the telephone exchange in Milan. Do you know it?”