Mac had Signore Beaumonti get him a cab to Villa Taverna, the official residence of the United States Ambassador to Italy, which sat on seven acres in one of the most exclusive areas in Rome. The fifteenth-century villa was commissioned by Cardinal Consalvi, and in its early days it was utilized as a Jesuit German-Hungarian College under the auspices of Pope Gregory XIII. The building was purchased by Milanese aristocrat Count Ludovico Taverna in 1920, with the United States State Department leasing the home from the Taverna family for its ambassador commencing in 1933.
Mac was dropped at the wrought iron gates held in place by two yellow brick pillars, each tapering up to hold massive Baroque statues of half-naked women.
He was a little nervous, but felt confident he would fit in. A Marine standing sentry at the outside front gate, who was apparently, despite his stern formality, aware of Mac's invitation, welcomed the young lawyer, directing Mac across the courtyard to the front door.
The heavy wooden door opened as Mac approached, a gentleman in a butler's uniform inviting him to enter. The foyer was veined white marble, floor, and walls, with a large crystal chandelier in the center of the coffered ceiling. The grand sweeping staircase to the second floor was brightly carpeted over the marble, the wall of the stairway covered with a large antique woven tapestry. Works of Art, portraits of ancients of whom Mac had no idea who they were, graced the other walls, on two levels, around the circular entryway.
“This way, sir,” said the butler, directing Mac to the right, through a wooden door, into another room. “My name is Alessandro, Commander. If there is anything you need, please let me know. Mr. Phillips and the other guests are in the salon. May I get you a cocktail?”
“Thank you, Alessandro. A single malt on ice, please.”
Mac was led into an ornately decorated room, where the Ambassador, his wife, and two other couples were sipping drinks, laughing at something someone had said. The room was filled tastefully with antique overstuffed furniture, Chippendale tables, and a high server. The lighting was subdued, lamps resting on much of the fine wooden tables, the great chandelier not lit for the occasion. There was more portraiture on the white plaster walls.
“Commander Martin, welcome,” said Ambassador Phillips, his hand outstretched in Mac's direction. “So good of you to join us. Let me do the introductions. This is my lovely wife, Caroline.”
Mac took the woman's outstretched hand, and he kissed it, as he understood was customary in Rome.
“This is my goddaughter Iris, and her husband, Antonio Origo. Iris and Antonio are here in Rome for some holiday shopping, and they have graced us with their presence. They live on a charming estate in Tuscany, on which they spend all their time renovating.”
Mac shook Antonio's hand, and kissed Iris’ hand.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said Mac.
“This is Breckinridge Long, and his lovely wife Christine. Ambassador Long had my job before I did, the poor chap,” Phillips laughed. “He is a good friend of mine. He also happens to be a good friend of the president, who in his infinite wisdom has given him the appointment as Special Assistant Secretary of State in charge of problems arising from the escapades of our fascist friends. He has just returned from North Africa, and he is going to tell us about it at dinner tonight.”
Mac shook the hand of Ambassador Long, a handsome ivy league-looking man like Ambassador Phillips, and he kissed the hand of his classy wife, as Alessandro brought him his cocktail.
Both Ambassadors’ wives were elegant, in their gay flowered dresses, pearls, and sensible chunky heeled shoes. Neither seemed particularly uncomfortable being together in what had been both of their homes.
“I hope you are hungry, young man,” said Ambassador Phillips. We are having prime rib tonight, my favorite.”
“I am, sir,” Mac lied, after the feast he had that afternoon with Balls. “Thank you for inviting me, sir. It is nice to be in such a lovely home, surrounded by such wonderful people. As you know, I have only recently arrived here in Rome from New York. I am looking forward to my time here.”
“So, Commander, tell us about what is happening in New York these days?” asked Breckinridge Long. “We have been away for so long now.”
“Honestly, sir, not much has changed. As I am sure you know, New Yorkers are not moved by much. Not even by the possibility of war. Business as usual, just with a lot more uniforms walking around. The Yankees are in first place. Not much else matters, does it? I have been too busy learning to be an attorney. Not much time for play, I’m afraid.”
“Well, Allen Dulles says you are a damn good one,” remarked Ambassador Phillips, sipping on his drink.
“William, language!” said his wife, Caroline.
“Sorry lovey. Do you play tennis, Mac?”
“I do, but I am sure I am not on your level, sir. I understand you and Dulles are a little competitive with it.”
“A little? They would tear each other apart between the lines if given to their own devices,” exclaimed Iris.
“I’ll say,” retorted Caroline, Phillip's wife. “Can’t go near him, after he has a run at good old Dulles.”
“We all know the Astors have a bit of a competitive streak, as well,” laughed Phillips, referring to his wife's family.
“That may be true, dear. Perhaps it is why we ended up together. “We are like Hepburn and Tracey in that movie, what was it?”
“Pat and Mike,” offered Mac.
“Dinner is served,” announced Alessandro, showing the group into the next room.
The dining room had a veined white marble floor, with matching door frame and window casements. The red oriental carpet under the shined maple dining table stretched a good distance on either side of the table, the matching chairs sitting on the carpet, even when pulled out from the table. There was a fountain made of mosaics on one wall, with ornate ten-foot carvings of ladies on either side, holding up the marble pediment over the fountain.
“You sit here, Commander, next to Iris,” directed Mrs. Phillips. “Breckinridge, you sit on the other side of Iris, and next to me. And perhaps, Christine, you can sit across from Mac, and next to my husband, with Antonio to your right, next to me.”
As the guests were seated, ladies in grey uniforms with white aprons and puffy white hats, served seafood bisque to each guest.
“Commander, what brings you to our Country?” asked Iris, as he was sipping his piping hot soup.
“I was sent here by my firm to work on Vatican matters, Mrs. Origo.”
“You don’t have to be so modest. You are amongst friends here,” said Ambassador Phillips. “The Commander has been chosen to observe what is happening here in Italy, and to report back what he hears about what the Italian people are feeling about all this. President Roosevelt wants to know.”
“How about that election?” asked Christine Long. “Roosevelt in another landslide. Third term, no less. I think he wants the job for life.”
“And they criticize the fascists,” added Caroline Phillips, “for being in power for life. Somewhat the pot calling the kettle black, now, wouldn’t you say?”
“It's a little different, Caroline,” said Ambassador Phillips. “We have elections; they kill their would-be opposition.”
“I can help you with your assignment,” said Iris Origo. “Call me Iris, Commander. I have been keeping a diary of what I see and hear. I love getting close to my people on the property. We have twenty-five families working our land. They have much to say, believe me. Perhaps, you would like to visit us at some point.”
“That would be swell, Iris, if it is acceptable with Antonio. Call me Mac, by the way. You live in Tuscany?”
“Yes,” chimed in Antonio Origo. “We are halfway between Rome and Florence, on the Via Francigena; you know it? It's the ancient pilgrim road from France to Rome. Our Villa is called La Foce. You must come see us.”
“Sounds great,” responded Mac. “Perhaps after the holidays, at some point. My family is from Palombara Sabina. I am going to visit my relatives for Christmas. That is north of Rome, as well.”
“I am familiar with Palombara, Commander,” said Antonio. “It is not far from us, in Lazio, the next province. Big old town on a hill, old. But, charming. What a view from up there, at the Savelli Palace. Magnifico!”
“So, Breckinridge, tell us about North Africa,” said Ambassador Phillips, as the staff began to serve the prime rib, roasted potatoes, and string beans.
“Well, as you know, back in 1935 Mussolini sent 400,000 troops to Ethiopia, forcing Emperor Haile Sallasie to flee to England. He did not stop until he had conquered Sudan, Kenya, and the British Somaliland colonies. He has this obsession of bringing Africa and the Mediterranean back under Italian rule, as it had once been under Roman times. Like an Italian Manifest Destiny, if you will. The most important thing to understand about Mussolini is his obsession with demography. He sees it as a Darwinian struggle between the “virile” nations with high birth rates destined to destroy the “effete” nations with low birth rates.”
“By June of this year, Mussolini continued his designs on North Africa, amassing over a million men in Libya, when he joined Germany in declaring war on Brittan and France. By September, the Italian Army in North Africa had begun a rapid advance into Egypt but halted in front of the British forces guarding the Suez Canal at Mersa Matruh, not seeking a direct major confrontation. Yet, just two weeks ago, the British, although badly outnumbered, conducted a counter offensive, which caused the Italians heavy casualties, pushing them 500 miles back into Libya. The English are now poised to capture the port of Tabruk in Libya from the Italians, some saying it will happen right after the holidays. With their ill-conceived foray into Greece back in October a total failure, Italy is reeling, and becoming more dependent on Nazi Germany every day. I would say that North Africa is ripe for the taking at this point, Ambassador. I know Churchill is busting to make a show of it, distracting the Axis away from its cross-channel ambitions. He is pressing Roosevelt to get involved now, while the Italians are back on their heels.”
“Mussolini has not been himself lately,” offered Ambassador Phillips, “that's for sure. He seems to be in hiding. I guess his follies in North Africa and Greece explain his sudden reluctance to be in public.”
“Will he be at the Christmas Ball on Saturday?” asked Caroline Phillips, with genuine concern.
“I would think so,” replied her husband. “He cannot stand up the King, for goodness’ sake. His power and authority still derive from the King. He will make an appearance.”
“I understand Mussolini's son-in-law, what's his name, Ciano, yes that's it, has the ear of the King,” said Breckinridge. “King Emmanuel warned Mussolini that Italy was not ready for war a year ago. Now, they must rely on Germany. The King is not happy. Ciano is being put out in front more and more, relegating Mussolini to the shadows. But Mussolini is too popular to be removed, even by the King. Things are getting hot for the fascists, though.”
“Which would be fine with the Italian people,” said Iris. “They love their Il Duce, but they hate the rest of the fascists, and the wars. No one wants to lose his or her son in North Africa or Greece. For what? To impress the Nazis. The Italians are proud of their leader but find war abhorrent. They are convinced the Americans will eventually get involved, and that Italy will be doomed to a southern invasion. Didn’t Congress just pass the Selective Service Act, or whatever they called it? I hear more than 16 million American boys have registered for the draft there. That certainly does not support the president's stated position of neutrality, and not wanting American boys to die in foreign wars, does it? It seems it is only a question of time, now that the presidential election is over, I would think. They say that Ciano is looking to establish a separate peace with England and France, which the Italian people would welcome, I believe. No one wants war.”
“How does the Vatican fit into all this?” asked Mac to the table, thinking of his meeting the following morning.
“The Pope officially stands neutral, but he just met with Ribbentrop, the German Foreign Minister,” responded Phillips. “Although he flatly refused to back the Axis of Steel, particularly citing their dealing with reports of atrocities against Catholics and the Jewish population in Poland, he must straddle a fine line. The Holy See sits in the heart of fascism and could be overrun at any time. The Pope has been investigating these reports of atrocities being committed by the Germans in Poland over the past year, but what can he do, other than words?”
“I am meeting with Robert Leiber, the Pope's Personal Assistant tomorrow morning,” offered Mac. “I imagine the subject will come up. Perhaps, he will want my help with the investigation.”
“If it does come up, remember, just listen and report back,” said Phillips. “You do not speak for the United States Government, which is obviously still publicly neutral on all matters relating to the Axis; for now, anyway. If they are to involve you in the investigation, it is because they want you to report back what you learn to the president. It is called passing the buck, diplomatically speaking.”
“Of course, sir. Listen and report.”
“This beef is sublime, Caroline,” remarked Christine Long, clearly looking to change the subject. “How did you get your hands on a rack of beef here in Rome?”
“William gets it brought in from the States somehow,” replied Caroline Phillips, clearly pleased the conversation had turned away from such inappropriate dinner conversation for cultured people.
“I have it shipped on ice from the United States to Lisbon, then flown here to Rome,” added Phillips, understanding the ladies desire to change the topic.
“Well, it is delicious,” said Mac. “I am stuffed,” he continued, as the staff was taking the plates away.
“Did you see that “Gone with the Wind” won the Oscar,” asked Christine Long to the table, seeking to continue the more genteel conversation. “And, that colored woman, what's her name, oh yeah, Hattie McDaniel, she won the award for the Best Supporting Actress. How about that? First time for everything, I suppose. Times they are a changing, for the good, if you ask me.”
“Yes, what a great movie,” said Caroline Phillips, “but so violent. Makes you really think about what war does to people, doesn’t it? Terrible!”
“Yes, but the costumes, Caroline. Incredible!” responded Christine. “Just beautiful!”
“Mac, you are going to the Christmas Ball on Saturday, I understand,” said Caroline Phillips, once again changing the topic of conversation, much to Mac's discomfort.
“Yes, ma’am,” responded Mac. “I am rather looking forward to it. I have never been to a Palace before. I have heard Quirinal Palace is quite extraordinary.”
“Are you bringing a guest?” asked Mrs. Phillips, homing in on her real point of interest.
“Yes, ma’am, I am bringing a nice young lady I have met here in Rome.”
“So, tell us Commander,” teased Christine Long. “You’re not going to keep us in suspense until Saturday evening, are you? Who is the lucky lady?”
“You probably do not know her, Mrs. Long. Her name is Carla DeFelice. She is from my family's town, Palombara Sabina.”
“Is she related to Alberto DeFelice?” asked Ambassador Phillips.
“I believe she has a brother, Alberto, with whom she lives, here in Rome, sir.”
“Alberto DeFelice is the right-hand man to the Foreign Minister, Galeazzo Ciano,” remarked the Ambassador. “This could be a good thing, Mac. Get close to him, see what falls from the tree, information wise,” laughed Phillips.
“That might be a difficult proposition,” said Mac. “Apparently, he is very protective of his little sister. I must seek his permission to take her to the Ball. I’m not sure how cordial he will be towards me.”
“He will be happy when he meets you, Commander,” said Mrs. Phillips. You are charming, and a perfect gentleman.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Phillips, but you know how protective Italian older brothers can be.”
“All older brothers,” laughed Christine Long, clearly remembering back to her own experience, as her husband blushed.
“Anyway, see if you can ingratiate yourself to the brother,” said the Ambassador Phillips. “He can be a wealth of information.”
Dessert was served, Italian pastries, fruit, and strong coffee. The conversation had turned to Queen Elena, the wife of King Victor Emmanuel III, who had been Princess Elena of Montenegro before her marriage. The ladies were interested in what she would wear to the Ball. She was an elegant woman, often seen in simple pearls, accentuating her dark Italian looks. The ladies expected to see her in the Crown jewels, however, and they were looking forward to her on display. Although the Royal Family did not actually live in Rome, the Quirinal Palace was the setting of the grand event, which all were excited to see.
After dinner, the men retired to the study of Ambassador Phillips to sip cognac, and smoke expensive cigars. Phillips took the opportunity to sit Mac down on the side for an intimate discussion.
“This is a tremendous opportunity, young man, for both you and for your Country,” said the Ambassador. You will be playing with the big boys, the assistant to the Pope, the assistant to Ciano. Keep your eyes open, and your ears open. They gave you a camera I take it. One you can keep hidden?”
“Yes, sir. The size of a box of matches, sir.”
“Good, good. You see anything we should know about, see if you can get a picture. Yes, that could be very helpful, indeed. But, for God's sake, do not get caught,” the Ambassador, laughed. “That's all we need. You are in a fascist country Mac, and they are ruthless. Be careful son. These are dangerous times.”
The Longs offered to take Mac back to the Inn in their car, it being close to midnight. Just as they were leaving the compound, air raid sirens blared, and lights shined in the sky. There were no explosions, however, as no bombs were being dropped that evening, only leaflets, much to the relief of all in the car, as they sped off into downtown Rome.