Manstein watched the same plane that had landed only minutes ago take off again. This time he was not a passenger inside. Paul was. He left him behind with Ribbentrop as negotiation leader, along with several other officers and bureaucrats.
"Is it really true?" Manstein asked, loud enough for Ribbentrop, who was already walking toward the building. He stopped.
"What he says is true either way, even if it is not, Manstein."
"But the possibility exists. The only thing that can truly hit Britain where it hurts is at sea. To hinder anyone from even coming close, the British Empire has held a virtual hegemony over the European oceans for centuries. Every time a force came close, they poured all their effort into destroying it."
Ribbentrop paused, watching the plane fade into the distance.
"If our gamble pays off, we may become the first force in centuries to finally escape the wheel, to stand before Britain on equal footing. Especially together in the Mediterranean, if our Führer's meeting goes well."
"Indeed," Manstein answered, measuring the sly Ribbentrop before him, before walking past him.
"We have much to do as well. Let us treat ourselves to a hearty meal," Manstein said, his eyes sharp.
Hours later, Rome, Italy
"So he has landed?" Mussolini asked, plucking a grape from his pristine bowl, the sun shining brightly on his tanned face.
"Indeed, sire," Italo Balbo answered, taking a seat next to the dictator behind the table on the terrace.
"So I will finally meet the famous Heinrich Jaeger, a man quite shrouded in mystery, his climb astonishing. Although not as spectacular as my March on Rome," Mussolini said proudly, allowing himself another grape.
"He will most likely be here for an alliance," Balbo changed the topic, with evident awkwardness.
Mussolini nodded.
"Very well. Let us see what he can give Italy in return," Mussolini said, standing up abruptly and walking toward the door leading into his spacious mansion. Two guards stood at attention, opening it for him.
"Come with me to the airport, Balbo," Mussolini called out as Balbo was still seated.
Balbo quickly stood up and followed behind the dictator, with little enthusiasm.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Balbo looked toward the telephone that had been ringing for some time. Noticing no reaction from Mussolini, he reached for it.
"Hello?"
…
"Yes?"
In the meantime, Mussolini finished putting on his majestic white military uniform. With a low hum, he let one of the attendants polish his leather boots.
Balbo lowered the receiver, his mouth opening.
"Sir—"
"Not now," Mussolini said, winking.
"But—"
Mussolini raised his index finger, continuing to hum. Then suddenly he stood up, almost kicking the kneeling attendant, and walked toward the door.
Balbo sighed and opened his mouth again.
"Jaeger is—"
Mussolini tore the door open, only to find a man clad in a grey green military uniform standing before him. His black hair was neatly combed, his pristine blue eyes meeting Mussolini's brown ones sharply and calculatingly.
He smiled at Mussolini, almost mockingly. Behind him stood a crowd of men, some German, some Italian. At the forefront was a man clad in an expensive suit, panting heavily before straightening himself.
"Sir, the Führer of Germany, Heinrich Jaeger, has arrived," the man announced.
Mussolini, completely baffled by the sudden situation, stared at the man in anger before turning toward Balbo.
"That is what I wanted—"
"Shush," Mussolini snapped, glaring angrily at Balbo, who balled his fist.
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"Wine, Your Excellency?" an Italian asked for what felt like the tenth time.
Paul gave him a cold glance, scaring away the overly enthusiastic man, before turning his focus back to Mussolini and his translator, who happened to be his foreign minister and son in law, Count Galeazzo Ciano.
The Count's gaze remained hostile throughout the meeting. Still, he translated every word Paul spoke.
"So where were we?" Paul began. "Yes." He stretched out his hand. "Join me. Join Germany. Join the victor. That is what you wished for the whole time."
Mussolini, listening to the translation, was taken aback by the blunt statement.
"Although Italy is interested in forming an alliance, we wish to know which benefits would reach our country with such an agreement. Fighting against Britain and the rest of the Allies is a large task," the Count translated Mussolini's words with evident disdain. Historically, he was known for opposing an alliance with Hitler's Germany, a fact Paul knew all too well.
Beneath the table, Paul's gloved hand tightened, the leather creaking quietly under the strain.
"Tell me, Count," Paul began, looking directly at him. The man seemed surprised at being addressed directly."Why are you lying? Why are you misinterpreting his words?"
The Count's eyes widened.
"I do not know what—"
Paul slammed his fist onto the table. The German soldiers behind him straightened instantly, as did the Italians.
Mussolini exchanged worried glances between the Count and Paul, not understanding how the meeting had escalated so suddenly.
Then Paul spoke again.
"Are you calling me dumb, Count?" he asked in Italian, his accent noticeable, but faint.
The Count, already about to respond, froze mid sentence as he realized the language Paul was speaking.
"You speak Italian?" he asked.
"Yes. It seems your services are no longer required. You may leave," Paul said, also looking at Mussolini, making sure to appear as offended as possible.
Mussolini hesitated briefly, then waved the Count away.
Paul leaned back slightly, watching the man leave while muttering quiet curses.
A German soldier behind Paul, one who had followed him for quite some time and a new member of the Ghost Squad, narrowed his eyes.
The Count had not mistranslated a single word. The soldier thought so, knowing Italian. Yet did not dare voice it, knowing Paul had another intention.
Only one remains, Paul thought, looking at Balbo seated to Mussolini's left.
"Now, let me tell you something," Paul continued, his voice turning cold again.
"Italy is not entitled to any compensation from Germany. We have defeated Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, and not to forget little Luxembourg."
Paul paused.
"Alone."
"If you wish to follow us, you may do so. But Germany will not hesitate to walk this thorny path alone once again if it must."
Mussolini's cheerful demeanor grew more serious with every word, until he held his breath.
"France, you say?" he asked.
Paul glanced at his watch.
"Right now."
Mussolini and Balbo stared at him, wide eyed.
"Gentlemen," Paul said, extending his hand. "My hand remains."
"Although I said Italy is not entitled to compensation, there is room for cooperation between our two countries. For example, in the air sector. Our technology is unmatched."
Balbo tilted his head with evident interest. The Air Marshal had always admired the German air force. A glimpse of its technology could boost Italy's own considerably.
He gave Mussolini enthusiastic nods.
The dictator finally spoke.
"You speak of cooperation. What do you expect from us in return, besides joining the war?"
Oh, there is still a spark, Paul thought, surprised by Mussolini's sudden sharpness.
"Toulon. The Italian navy must depart immediately. A little bird told me the British Mediterranean fleet will appear there. We want you to strike them in a surprise attack."
And at the same time protect our new fleet, Paul added silently, his piercing gaze never leaving Mussolini.
This time Mussolini's eyes gleamed. The British, from their distant mainland, had claimed dominion over the Mediterranean, something Greater Italy had once aspired to. Something he could not accept.
Paul's hand remained extended, his other fingers tapping against the table.
Slowly, Mussolini stood up and suddenly thrust his hand forward, almost lunging for Paul's. Perhaps remembering that he alone decided power in Italy.
"Yes," Mussolini declared, raising his left arm high."Italy will join the war effort, declaring war on the Allies with immediate effect. Spread the message. Ready the army, air force, and navy. Admiral Iachino is to leave harbor immediately and strike preemptively at the British fleet in Toulon. With this strike, Italy will show its might to the world!"
The Pact of Steel, as later generations would call it. With it, another great European power joined the war effort, fueling the fire already burning across the continent. Feeding hungry predators, awakening desires for power, or rousing long sleeping dogs eager to bite back.
Either way, on the 1st of July 1939 at 2 p.m., sirens echoed through Taranto, Italy's largest naval base, followed by the chaos of war.
At 4 p.m., the engines of the first warships began to howl, thick black smoke rising into the sky. Battleships, old monsters, though the Italian ones truly were old, still retained traces of their former sharpness. Alongside them, cruisers, destroyers, and countless other vessels left the harbor. Italian flags fluttered in the wind as waves crashed against their hulls.
"Full speed ahead," Admiral Iachino shouted, clenching his fist, eager to finally face their British rivals in open battle.
Yet the question remained. Who would be faster? The British, the Italians, or the Germans? The latter advancing both on land and in the air, while Gustaf and the rest of the Ghost Squad finally reached the naval base of Toulon. The first planes were already lifting off from German runways, their massive, unfamiliar silhouettes casting long shadows across the land below.
The race for Toulon had begun.
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