It was earlier morning when even the sun was asleep.
But Moreau was already dressed and standing by the window when the knock came.
It was Laval's aide, a man named Dervaux. "Minister wants you downstairs in twenty minutes," he said.
"Briefing before we move to Palazzo Venezia."
"Understood," Moreau replied.
Soon Moreau entered the briefing room.
Laval sat alone at the end of a long table, still in shirtsleeves, hunched over a dispatch from Paris.
"You sleep?" Laval asked without looking up.
"Enough."
"Good. We'll need clarity today. Today's meeting is short," he said without looking up.
"Mussolini is busy posturing. This is a 'welcome' session no agreements, no binding talks. Just tone."
Moreau poured himself a coffee. "He's going to try and steer us off-topic. Africa, the Mediterranean. He'll throw everything at the wall to see what sticks."
Laval finally looked up. "You speak like you've met him before."
"I've studied him. Closely."
The minister gave him a look.
