man hollered.
One of the other two guards ran over and tossed a weapon. Their assassin released his grip on the gun Clara held and caught the offering.
Mussolini realized this was his moment.
Energy filled him.
He made no move to run or defy.
Instead he swept back his jacket with both hands, thrusting his chest forward like the jutting bow of a ship. Past the three men who’d come to murder him he saw the knight in the German uniform walking down the road. Casual. No hurry. Unmolested by the other three. The uniform stopped and stared at the scene. Good. Let him watch.
“Magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo,” Mussolini called out.
He doubted any of these fools spoke Latin.
Only the knight would understand.
The great order of the ages is born afresh.
The machine gun erupted.
Clara was hit first and dropped to the ground. His heart broke to see her die. More rounds came his way. Three thudded into his midsection. Four more found his legs. His knees buckled and he dropped to a sitting position.
His eyes stared across at the knight, and he summoned what little strength was left inside him to say, “This … is not … over.”
Blood spewed out his mouth.
His left shoulder dipped and he slumped to the wet cobbles. He stared up at the cloudy sky, still alive. The smell of cordite hung heavy in the moist air. One of the guards stood over him, the barrel of the weapon aimed down.
He focused on the black dot.
Like a period at the end of a sentence.
The gun fired.
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER ONE
TUESDAY, MAY 9
LAKE COMO, ITALY
8:40 A.M.
Cotton Malone studied the execution site.
A little after 4:00 P.M., on the afternoon of April 28, 1945, Benito Mussolini and his mistress Claretta Petacci were gunned down just a few feet away from where he stood. In the decades since, the entrance to the Villa Belmonte, beside a narrow road that rose steeply from Azzano about half a mile below, had evolved into a shrine. The iron gate, the low wall, even the clipped hedges were still there, the only change from then being a wooden cross tacked to the stone on one side of the gate that denoted Mussolini’s name and date of death. On the other side he saw another addition—a small, glass-fronted wooden box that displayed pictures of Mussolini and Claretta. A huge wreath of fresh flowers hung from the iron fence above the cross. Its banner read EGLI VIVRÀ PER SEMPRE NEL CUORE DEL SUO POPOLO.
He will always live in the hearts of people.
Down in the village he’d been told where to find the spot and that loyalists continued to venerate the site. Which was amazing, considering Mussolini’s brutal reputation and the fact that so many decades had passed since his death.
What a quandary Mussolini had faced.
Italy languishing in a state of flux. The Germans fast retreating. Partisans flooding down from the hills. The Allies driving hard from the south, liberating town after town. Only the north, and Switzerland, had offered the possibility of a refuge.
Which never happened.
He stood in the cool of a lovely spring morning.
Yesterday, he’d taken an afternoon flight from Copenhagen to the Milan–Malpensa Airport, then driven a rented Alfa Romeo north to Lake Como. He’d splurged on the sports car, since who didn’t like driving a 237-horsepowered engine that could go from zero to sixty in four seconds. He’d visited Como before, staying at the stunning Villa d’Este during an undercover mission years ago for the Magellan Billet. One of the finest hotels in the world. This time the accommodations would not be anywhere near as opulent.
He was on special assignment for British intelligence, working freelance, his target an Italian, a local antiques dealer who’d recently crept onto MI6’s radar. Originally his job had been a simple buy and sell. Being in the rare-book business provided him with a certain expertise in negotiating for old and endangered writings. But new information obtained last night had zeroed in on a possible hiding place, so the task had been modified. If the information proved correct, his orders were now to steal the items.
He knew the drill.
Buying involved way too many trails and, until yesterday, had been MI6’s only option. But if what they wanted could be appropriated without paying for it, then that was the smart play. Especially considering that what they were after did not belong to the Italian offering it for sale.
He had no illusions.
Twelve years with the Magellan Billet, and a few more after that working freelance for