Intrigue, deception and sabotage in Mussolini's Italian Eritrea
Colonel Francesco Ferrazza, a disciplined and inflexible Royal Italian Army officer with Italy’s Fascist Military Information Service, and his attractive British wife, Emilia, are posted to Asmara affectionately referred to as “Little Rome” by Mussolini. The colonel is a familiar figure at the military casino and bordello where he brags at the bar he can bend a fireplace poker in half. But he is astonished when in 1938 he is ordered by his Rome superior to set in motion an unusual but clandestine sabotage operation of the engineering marvel that is the Asmara-Massawa cableway that links Italian Eritrea to the sea.
Fearful of the devastating power of exposure Ferrazza sets out to find someone to carry out Operation Red Lion and meets Mario Caparrotti, an amateur race car driver. He plans to compete in the first Christmas Day automobile race through town.
Greedy, boastful, and ignorant, Caparrotti is all of the things the colonel detests in his fellow human beings, civilians in particular. But Ferrazza is desperate to recruit him because he is a cableway mechanic who has unfettered access to the engine room. The colonel entices him with his wife. Prodded by her husband the reluctant Emilia unhappily plays her part by becoming Caparrotti’s lover.
But things begin to fall apart: Caparrotti balks and now also demands significant sums of cash and when the colonel murders a colonial civil servant who has somehow learned of the plot he orders Caparrotti to help him dispose of the body. With the driver more reluctant than ever, and with the deadline drawing nearer, the colonel will do anything to ensure the sabotage is carried out.
Unexpectedly, Gyles Aiscroft, a Rome-based British freelance foreign correspondent, and an old family friend of Emilia’s parents arrives in Asmara. An older man she finds herself drawn to him and confides her plight to him. They embark on a brief, intense affair. But what she doesn’t count on is his falling in love with her and wanting to whisk her off to Capri.
Determined to leave Africa with his mission complete, and with the deadline almost upon him, Ferrazza instructs the resigned and fearful Caparrotti how to go about setting the dynamite charges.
And as the tick-tock of the clock counts down the final hours the colonel belatedly begins to grasp that in ‘Little Rome’ nothing is what it seems, no one can be trusted and, when serving Mussolini, failure will never be condoned.
Excerpt
“Now, tell me,” he said waving at the window. “We’re almost there. What do you think? Is it to your liking? Have a look. Go on. Tell me.”
They had arrived in town and the driver of the Fiat bus—its engine wheezing and the gears crashing—was beginning a wide slow turn onto the Viale Roma. The name of the street was on a metal nameplate affixed to the wall of a building on the corner. Viale Roma was an important street with dusty palms spaced at even intervals aligned on either side. They drove up one short block after another, the bus plodding through the congestion of anxious automobiles, the shouting drivers honking their horns. Facing either side of the street was a run of low, whitewashed ochre-colored buildings with common walls and walking past was a mélange of unhurried Italians wearing Western clothes and sunglasses crowding the sidewalks. The native people, who looked out of place, wore long, drab-looking ankle length attires while the women wrapped their heads and shoulders in shawls. Aiscroft noticed at one point how, as they drove past a prominent three-story building, the sidewalk was cast in shadows and how the pedestrians passing into the gloom reappeared shortly blinking into the bright African sun.
Many of the establishments—their Italian names painted in bright contrasting colors over the entrances—fronted outdoor cafes where patrons sat contentedly beneath tan umbrellas at little round tables sipping coffee from small white cups. Aiscroft decided it looked as if it all had been transplanted from somewhere in southern Italy. It seemed to him, in the orderly way in which it was all laid out, that it was some planner’s vision of how a small and proper Italian town should look. And the reminiscent architecture and mixture of European and indigenous peoples mingling in the street brought to mind Benghazi and Tripoli where a similar Italian presence had transformed those places as well.
A moment later the driver pulled to the curb. They had arrived at the airline’s ticket office. He looked over his shoulder. “Biglietteria,”—ticket office, he called out turning off the noisy engine and as the bus shuddered to a silence everyone got to their feet, and formed a single impatient line between the rows of narrow bench seats.
Paola, Chef Modici’s short, attractive, and much younger wife, was animated at his return, and rushed to her husband as he stepped down from the bus. With a wide brim white hat, long thick dark hair splayed across her shoulders, and her face carefully made up, she wore a fetching black and white sleeveless dress and held her sunglasses down at her side. The chef kissed her hurriedly and unemotionally on the cheek, and gave her a quick embrace before pulling away.
In a throaty sensual voice that surprised Aiscroft, she asked. “How was your trip, darling? Were you unhappy without me?” Uncertain, she smiled. “I missed you.”
He laughed at her. “Of course I was unhappy,” he chortled—“miserable, in fact.”
“And Emilio? How’s he? You two got along? No arguments this time?”
“No but Emilio never changes. Still it’s good to see him, if only twice a year.”
“He’s your brother, you should.”
“Sometimes I wonder. I was thinking on the plane coming home. He can’t be bothered to visit us in Asmara,” he said in a huff. “So it’s me that has to take the time and spend the money and go up there and stay at that damn hotel if I want to see him. I can’t even stay with him because his wife’s always sick.”
“It was your decision, Gino. Don’t go again, if you don’t want to. Maybe he’ll come here next time.”
“I’ll wait forever,” he grumbled.
“He’ll always be your brother, darling,” she said reaching to stroke his arm. “No matter where he lives. Maybe next time call him instead of flying all that way.” She dropped her arm and turned to look unabashedly at Aiscroft. “Gino?” she asked. “Who is this gentleman with you?” She smiled at Aiscroft and gave him a look that was equal parts sympathy and interest. “He’s been standing there so patiently waiting for...”
“Ah, yes,” he said jerking around to Aiscroft. “My apologies.”
“Quite all right.”
“Paola,” he said to her, as if about to read a proclamation, “this is Mister Aiscroft, a reporter from Rome. He’s an Englishman. This is my wife, Paola,” he told Aiscroft nodding at her.
Paola slid her sunglasses on, bathed him in a wider smile, and limply extended her hand. “Welcome, Mister Aiscroft, so nice to meet you. I was wondering when Gino might tell me who you were.”
The sidewalk was becoming congested with luggage and passengers ready to board the bus to the airport, so they crossed the street. The avenue was clouded with exhaust, as they dodged the two lines of traffic and steered clear of the ever-present boys leading strings of indifferent camels and donkeys. Modici headed unerringly toward his gleaming maroon Lancia Augusta Berlina parked at the curb while mentioning to Paola they would be giving their guest a ride to his hotel.
“Where are you staying, Mister Aiscroft?” she asked looking at him closely as they stood alongside the car while Modici scrutinized the sheet metal for any signs of damage his wife might have caused in his absence.
“The Colonia,” called out Modici overhearing her question. Satisfied with his inspection he pulled open the passenger door for Paola. “Get in,” he said impatiently. “I have to go to the restaurant.”
“Lovely hotel,” Paola told Aiscroft before ducking into the car. “The best in Asmara. Did Gino tell you about it? You should be comfortable there,” she said.
“Yes, Paola, I told him. He’s already booked there,” said Modici slamming her door shut. “Now, my friend,” he said frowning at Aiscroft behind his sunglasses. “We should go. I have a busy day ahead of me.”
Professional Reviews
A must read for anyone interested in political thrillers set in exotic locales and time periods.
If the past is a foreign country, then the past in a foreign country is even more difficult to fathom. It is author John R. Rogers’s genius to set political thrillers in obscure corners of the world in a bygone era and to make that world come alive.
In The Italian Couple we are transported to Asmara, the capital of Italian Eritrea, in the late 1930s. Rogers brings us into the setting with descriptions such as this: “Men holding sticks, their heads wrapped and wearing white ankle-length garments leading a long line of camels. They were pack animals the color of worn cashmere loaded with firewood and large earthenware jugs of drinking water.”
He conjures up the bygone life of expat Europeans with tableaux so vivid you can not only see them but feel the tropical heat: “…the governor and his family and staff seated in chairs under tall umbrellas on the sprawling lawn bordered by lush vegetation and high iron gates.”
The author populates his setting with seemingly ordinary characters, among others, Mario, the racecar driver, Emilia, the English-born wife of an Italian army officer, and Gyles, the British freelance foreign correspondent. Of course, each of them carries a secret that propels the plot in unexpected directions.
Rogers creates suspense slowly, subtly, as he pulls us into the story. Before we know it, we are on the edge of our seats, almost afraid to read on but unable to stop as the story builds (and twists and turns) on its way to a gut-wrenching finale.
Although one always settles in eagerly to Rogers’ signature in the first paragraphs for a good read, it would be a mistake to anticipate ...
Those who follow J.R. Rogers’ novels recognize his signature: little-known settings in far-flung cities that he seems somehow to know intimately, and an intriguing what-could-go-wrong plot of espionage populated with a mix of sophisticated and common characters with varying skills and expertise in advancing the story. While compelled by the intrigue of a fast-moving and unexpected story, the reader always learns new lessons in geography, history, and social interactions typical within a surprising off-the-path setting.
In The Italian Couple, one quickly recognizes Rogers’ signature and eagerly settles into the opening story of a thrilling motor race through the streets of Asmara, Mussolini’s “La Piccola Roma,” (Little Rome) in the Italian colony of Eritrea. Here we meet our first character, Mario Caparrotti, as he skillfully navigates, shifts through the gears, and speeds through familiar streets and corners of Asmara in his red 1934 Fiat 508 Sport Spider. From there we are off as a complex panoply of characters and twisting plot unfold and race toward an unexpected denouement.
Although one always settles in eagerly to Rogers’ signature in the first paragraphs for a good read, it would be a mistake to anticipate formulaic personalities and twists of plot. Rogers does not recycle his novels! Rather, it is a new place, a new slice of history, and a unique set of characters and plot that one races through his pages to discover.
The Italian Couple
Well written. Didn't see the ending coming. Would have liked more exposition. Some things left unexplained. Worth reading.
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