They arrived like kings in a chess game.
Not to win.
Not yet.
But to surround the board.
No civilians.
No press.
Only protocol.
Flags.
Anthems.
Marching bands that did not smile.
London had not seen this kind of assembly since Versailles.
And even then, not like this.
Not all at once.
The first to arrive was Mussolini.
He disembarked at Dover by battleship escort Regia Marina, black hull gleaming.
A full brass ensemble met him on the dock. White-gloved salutes.
Red carpets rolled.
Il Duce wore a dark grey uniform, medals glinting beneath the clouds.
He descended the gangplank slowly, boots heavy, chin high.
Beside him, Ciano kept pace silently.
"We are early," Mussolini said.
Ciano nodded. "It's better to watch them arrive."
They boarded a black limousine, curtains drawn.
The escort took them north, straight to Claridge's, where two entire floors had been cleared.
The Italians didn't speak on the drive.
They stared.
They waited.
Next came Hitler.
By air.
