The Incident at Montebello Read Online Free Page A

“We have to watch our backs. Do I need to tell you why? That’s right. Our neighbors to the north and west are building up their armies. Britain is suspicious of our power and wants us to stay within our borders.”
    The crowd booed. He nodded and stuck out his bottom lip. “So now I ask you, how can we trust them? They stabbed us in the back at Versailles. They stole our land, our pride. For years, we kept quiet. We licked our wounds. But, enough of that. We’re ready. The great power of the Caesars is stirring inside us. When the time is right, we will act. For we are not cowards. We are men.”
    The crowd roared, “Duce, Duce, Duce.”
    He frowned and jerked his chin up and down. “That’s right. We’re men who aren’t afraid to fight, we’re men who aren’t afraid…” Then, in a flash, pain gripped his arm and he staggered backwards amidst the chaos of shouts and screams. Below, men scuffled and shots rang out. The crowd surged, clustering around the gunman.
    His guards rushed him through the balcony doors and lowered him onto the sofa. While one of them tied a handkerchief around the wound, Mussolini, in a burst of fortitude, shouted to his ministers huddled around his desk, “Cowards, get away from my phones. Find out who shot me. I want to see the bastard who tried to put me in the ground. A Frenchman, I bet. Bring him to me, so he can look me in the eye and see what kind of man he’s dealing with. I’ll fight him to the death. The bastard.”
    His finance minister spoke up. “Should we call Bocchini?”
    â€œOf course, Bocchini. He’s got more brains than all of you.” Bocchini, who was the head of the OVRA, Mussolini’s secret police, had worked for him from the beginning and had earned his trust. Just a few others merited it—his housekeeper, cook, and wife. Even his relatives—the Mussolini aunts, uncles, and cousins—were no better. That miserable, grubbing lot was always begging him for money and favors. Well, they’d have a long wait.
    His doctor, Salvatore Ricci, made his grand entrance in a top hat and cape, which swirled around his knees. “ Avanti !” he demanded, urging the crowd out the door. After the ministers filed out, Ricci rummaged through his satchel for his tools. Spying a long needle, Mussolini waved the doctor away.
    â€œThe wound is deep. You need an anesthetic,” Ricci insisted.
    Mussolini made the mistake of glancing at his sleeve stiff with blood, and all at once, his fear ignited, making him queasy and weak in the knees. Suppressing a shudder, he said, “Why? I feel no pain.”
    â€œI know, Duce. You’re a bull.”
    Mussolini frowned, certain that the doctor was placating him. He was telling Ricci, “For all your education, you’re still a pompous son of a jackass,” when the needle pricked his skin, cutting short his insults. As relief flowed through him, his head sagged against the sofa cushions and he clamped his eyes shut.
    While Ricci cut away the bloody shirt, he shamelessly promoted himself. “No need to worry, Duce. You’re in good hands. You’ll be riding your horse again in a few days. Just you see.”
    â€œI’d get to the stables faster if you stopped talking and got on with it,” Mussolini said.
    When he opened his eyes, the doctor was wrapping his arm in a bandage. “You’re lucky, Duce. The bullet passed right through. The wound will heal in a few days. But you must rest.”
    â€œWhy? So another bullet can find me? Leave me alone to do my work. And where the hell is Bocchini? Get him here right away. And tell Signorelli to bring his camera. I want my picture in the morning papers with the caption—‘ No Rest For Il Duce After Foreign Assassination Attempt .’”
    When Ricci swept out the door, Mussolini staggered over to his desk and picked up his pen, gathering strength as