From the published news reports I learned that Santos D. Justus was born in 1949. Though several of the reports stated that he was born in Rome, not one mentioned his parents or any siblings. I thought that omission a bit odd. Either his background was completely unremarkable, or someone was trying to hide an unpleasant truth. An illegitimate birth, perhaps? Or was he trying to hide the real time and place of his birth? Thousands of people doctored their résumés every year, and politicians and entertainers were among the worst offenders.
I wrote Background? on my steno pad. In only two days I had learned that most Romans loved to talk, so I didn’t think I would have much difficulty filling in the missing pieces. If Justus really was a native son, someone would be eager to brag about knowing him.
According to his official biography, Santos Justus hailed from the Lazio region of Italy, the west-central province that included Rome and Vatican City. Elected to the Chamber of Deputies at the tender age of thirty, his name shot from obscurity to prominence in a matter of months. No less than five of the articles in my folder made special mention of his charisma and gifted oratory. “In a city of rhetoric and bombast,” wrote one reporter, “Santos Justus shines above his contemporaries. Though his speeches are often more philosophical than pragmatic, he has won the support of a fickle populace more thrilled by automobiles, soccer, and television than by politics.”
An article in a 1985 edition of Newsweek featured a photograph of Justus with Pope John Paul II. I brought the photo closer and adjusted it to lose the glare from the overhead light. Though the black-and-white photo was small, I could tell that Justus was taller than the ailing pope and handsome in a polished JFK Jr. sort of way.
Reflexively, I glanced upward. Justus probably had offices on the top floor. If my spacious office was any kind of measuring stick, his must be absolutely palatial.
I kept reading. After serving five one-year terms in the Chamber of Deputies, Justus was elected to the Senate, where he served another five years. During this time, he apparently left his wife of six years, a Roman woman he married just before his election to the Chamber. No children resulted from their union, and the marriage was officially annulled.
I jotted the wife’s name, Francesca Solano, on my steno pad. She was probably living a quiet and contented life as someone else’s wife, but it wouldn’t hurt to remember her name.
After serving his country for ten years, Justus apparently turned his attention toward international politics. In 1989 he became the Italian ambassador to the Western European Union. Now Italy served as president of that organization, so Santos Justus was not only Il Presidente to Global Union, but to the Western European Union as well.
I frowned at the page in my hand. Odd, that a man committed to peace would serve as president of a defense organization like the WEU. I would have expected him to aim for the ambassadorship to the European Union or even the United Nations—but, then again, Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher had taught the world that the highway of military preparedness was often the most direct road to peace.
I glanced again at the photograph of Justus. As he extended his right hand to the pope, his posture was straight, his left hand calmly tucked in his pocket with the thumb exposed—the body language of confidence. The photographer might have intended to portray Justus as a religious man or a friend of the church, but the hand in the pocket told me he was not at all intimidated by his proximity to religious authority.
I considered this, then smiled in relief. If Global Union intended to change the world for the better, its leaders would do well to keep themselves distanced from established religions. Mankind had committed enough atrocities in the name of God.
After finishing the articles Rory pulled for me, I placed the copies into a folder, then stared at my nearly empty notepad. I had learned a lot about Justus’s history and accomplishments, but very little about the man himself. When would I have the opportunity to meet him?
Five minutes later, the slim black telephone on my desk rang. Reverend Synn wasted no time with pleasantries before coming directly to the point—Il Presidente was presently giving a speech to the Chamber at Montecitorio Palace and hoped to be finished before noon. Would I like to join him and the director for lunch?
I answered yes, and Il Direttore said I should meet him and Signora Casale downstairs by the reception desk in half an hour.
I hung up the phone, feeling at once relieved and a little excited to meet the man who just might change the course of world history . . . and whom I had promised to help.
NINE
ASHER LEANED BACK AGAINST THE TRAVERTINE FACING OF THE STONE building and narrowed his eyes as the trio exited the red palace. He recognized Darien Synn from news reports, and he had seen the dark-haired woman on other occasions when he watched the building. But the second woman, a blonde with short, clipped hair, was unfamiliar to him. Asher pulled himself erect and followed, willing to wager his last lira that the blonde was the American Justus had just hired.
Synn walked at the newcomer’s left side, shielding her from the commotion of the busy street, leaving the older woman to follow behind. The director of Unione Globale did most of the talking, occasionally pulling his hand from his pocket to gesture at a building. He was undoubtedly rattling off the typical information given to tourists while the blonde drank it all in, her head bobbing in silent agreement, her eyes wide with interest.
They walked at a brisk pace, dodging slower pedestrian traffic and hurrying through intersections, then stopped outside a crowded trattoria on the Via de Cestari. Synn spoke to the owner, and a moment later all three had been seated at a large circular table in the outdoor terrace.
From his vantage point on the sidewalk across the street, Asher stood and eyed the empty chair at the table. The seat was probably reserved for Justus, who had been scheduled to give a speech to the Chamber of Deputies at 10:00 A.M. The Chamber met less than two blocks away, so this would be an ideal meeting place.
Confirming Asher’s hunch, a blue Alfa Romeo stopped next to the row of parked cars along the curb. As Asher leaned back against the wall, he saw the young man with whom he’d shared a cup of coffee step from the car. Angelo did not release his passenger, however, for before the chauffeur could move, Santos Justus alighted from the backseat, waved a cheery farewell to his driver, and left the young man to fight the traffic alone.
Asher grunted in satisfaction as the Alfa Romeo revved its engine and moved away, clearing his view of the diners on the terrace. Synn stood at once to introduce Justus, and the blonde woman stood as well, extending her hand to the politician. Both smiled and seemed genuinely pleased to meet.
Asher moved from the wall to a street post, still watching as Justus took the empty chair between Synn and the American, then said something to the dark-haired woman, who replied with a gracious smile.
Why bring in an American? Asher considered the question as he turned into the trattoria behind him. He placed an order for a light lunch, paid the cashier, and returned to the street with a drink and a sandwich, sipping his coffee as he thoughtfully considered the quartet across the street. They would not talk about business at lunch, he knew. Italians relaxed and enjoyed their meals, reserving work-related topics for the office and boardroom. But even though they would not talk business, the men and women across the road were certainly forming opinions of one another. Santos Justus would be interested in learning how the American woman could help his organization . . . just as Asher was.
Asher studied the diners a few minutes more, then turned and threaded his way through the lunchtime crowds. A pair of embracing teenagers with matching spiky, green hair shifted to let him pass; a Gypsy woman reached for his hand and offered to read his palm. Asher shook his head and left her alone to solicit another passerby. Her type had always been sprinkled throughout the crowds of Rome; even Hitler’s occupying Nazis could not rid the streets of Gypsies. Mussolini enacted laws to drive the Gypsies out, and Nero had done the same thing, yet not
hing could rid the city of their dark avarice . . .
Some things never changed. In the days of the emperors, Rome had been a bustling metropolis of thousands, not millions, but even then the city leaders had battled polluted waters, pickpockets, congestion in the city squares, and the ever-present beggars. In times of persecution, the beggars and Gypsies stayed out of sight, yet still they remained, sleeping in the fields, hiding in doorways, living in the ruins.
Asher had once heard someone say that life was one thing after another. He snorted in derision at the thought. Life wasn’t one thing after another—it was one thing over and over. The evidences of evil waxed and waned with the seasons of mankind, but its source wielded as much power today as it had in the days of Hitler. The father of evil was patient.
Asher would wait with him.
TEN
SITTING IN THE GOLDEN GLOW OF A PERFECT SEVENTY-DEGREE DAY, I dipped another chunk of the delicious bread into a pool of spiced olive oil, then took a bite and returned my attention to my host. Santos Justus was everything I’d thought he’d be, but the articles and grainy photographs could not come close to depicting the man’s vibrancy and charisma.
I doubted whether any camera could catch the depth of his allure. He was handsome, yes, with movie star appeal, which probably contributed to his success in a country where a television seemed to blare from every open window. He had a quick, bright smile, while his black satin eyes seemed to sparkle with a hidden secret. His dark, meticulously groomed hair surrounded a wide forehead. He wore an Armani suit that fit him perfectly, accenting his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His shoes had been shined and polished; his nails were neat and trimmed. Like Senator Mitchell, this man cared about his appearance, but though Justus was impeccable and impressive, he was also likable.
He was as easy on the nerves as on the eyes, and I felt instantly at ease in his presence. When we first met, his handshake had been warm and firm. He took time to greet Signora Casale, and by the answering blush upon her cheek’s I surmised that she was not often invited to dine with Il Presidente. In fact, I noticed that she never looked at him directly, but cast him sideways glances, which spelled attraction in almost any language. Did Maura Casale nurse a secret infatuation for Il Presidente?
I mentally filed the question away and concentrated on my host. I had expected that Justus would talk about my work for Global Union, but during lunch he adroitly steered the conversation toward his beloved Italy. With a graceful smile, he listed the sights I must see, the places I must go, and the foods I must taste before returning to America.
“You will find”—he paused as the waiter came forward to begin clearing the table—“that there is no place on earth like Rome and no people like the Italians. Our society is centered upon the family; our communities upon the town square, the piazza. Even Rome, as large as it is, has several distinct neighborhoods where everyone knows everyone else. I have a feeling you will enjoy your time in Roma.”
“I’ve enjoyed it already,” I answered, wiping my fingertips on my napkin. “And everyone in your organization has been most helpful. Signora Casale”—the woman blushed again—“has taken pains to make certain I understand the application process, and Reverend Synn has found me a charming place to live.”
Nodding, Justus pulled a package of cigarettes from his suit pocket, silently offered it around the table, then shook one free. “We are glad you are pleased. Your residenza is in a singularly historic part of the city.” He paused for a moment to light the cigarette, then shook the flame off the match. “Has anyone told you the history of our building?”
I shook my head, bracing myself to breathe cigarette smoke while I listened. People reveal a lot about themselves when they tell a story, particularly if it is a tale they enjoy telling.
He tasted his cigarette, but only a bare nip; he was eager to speak. “You will hear local residents refer to our headquarters as the red palace, but the designers of the building intended it to be a bank.” Justus rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands together. “Instead of bankers, however, the Communist Party acquired the building shortly after the end of World War II. Some say the money to buy the building came from valuables that Communist partisans found on Mussolini when they captured him on Lake Como while he was trying to flee with his mistress. Others say Moscow itself subsidized the investment. Whatever the source of funds, for years the Communists held court in our building, and guards rarely allowed citizens from the West even to enter the lobby. Their pet name for our headquarters was il bottegone, the big shop.”
“What happened to the Communists?” I asked when Justus paused to draw on his cigarette again.
Smiling, he exhaled a stream of smoke. “The Cold War ended, and their funding dried up and blew away. They offered to sell the building for thirty-five million dollars American, but the real estate market in Rome had gone soft—so soft that Unione Globale was able to buy the building for a mere $20 million last year. Now we tread the same halls hardened Communists once trod . . . and we’re quite grateful.”
I repressed the expression of incredulity that threatened to creep across my face. Reverend Synn had mentioned a bequest that endowed the organization, but I never dreamed that bequest had consisted of millions. My mind’s eye had conjured up a kindly gray-haired lady who dreamed of peace and donated a few hundred thousand dollars, but apparently Justus had financial connections far beyond the scope of my imagination.
“I am no expert on real estate,” I offered, “but I think you got a real bargain.”
“Sixty-five thousand square feet of office space in a prime international location,” Synn said, lifting his wine glass. “The gods surely smiled upon us.”
Something in me took note of his odd comment. What sort of minister referred to God in the plural? Trying not to reveal my bewilderment, I smiled at Synn as Maura Casale’s hand fell upon my arm. “They say,” she said, lowering her voice to a confidential tone, “that the rooms on the upper floor once served as a love nest. Palmiro Togliatti, an international Communist leader, lived there with his mistress when his wife threw him out of the house.” The corners of her eyes crinkled as she gave me a mischievous smile. “Apparently Signora Togliatti was much admired in the Chamber of Deputies, even for a Communist. And the unfaithful husband and his mistress, I’ve heard, spent more time quarreling than loving—”
“Signora Casale.” Synn’s voice held a note of reproach. “I am sure Il Presidente doesn’t want to be reminded of these things. After all, you are speaking of his office.”
The personnel director swallowed hard, her cheeks blazing brighter than the sunshine warranted. I felt embarrassed for her, but Justus reached out and affectionately patted the woman’s arm. “Signora Casale meant no harm, Darien. And the story is fascinating. I can see why she wanted to share it with the signorina.”
Our meal concluded, the waiter removed the last of our dishes, then presented the check to Justus, who promptly handed it to Reverend Synn.
“Well,” Justus said, taking another drag from his cigarette. He put it in an ashtray to smolder, then turned his attention to me. “Now that our meal is done, perhaps you will allow me to speak of business.”
“Please do.”
He turned the full brilliance of his smile upon me. “We need your help with the concorso, of course, but another matter regarding our international work has arisen, and I think your unique skills may be of invaluable assistance. Would you be willing to attend a meeting or two in Brussels with me?”
Brussels? The capital of the European Union . . .
Suddenly my blood was swimming in adrenaline. Three weeks ago I would have been thrilled just to establish a reputation for quality work in the eastern United States, but from out of the blue I’d been invited to Rome. Now, as casually as if he were offering me another slice of bread, Santos Justus was inviting me to the European capital!
I lifted my gaze and tried on a casual, nonchalant smile. “I’d be happy to see if
I can help.”
Justus leaned back and picked up his cigarette again. “Bene. Wonderful. I will let you know more details as the time approaches.”
Synn leaned toward his employer and gestured to his watch. “Were you supposed to meet someone after lunch?”
“Si, grazie.” Il Presidente nipped at his cigarette one final time, then ground it out with a vicious twist of thumb and forefinger. As he stood, Justus turned his attention back to me. “Thank you for lunch. I am grateful for an opportunity to know you better.”
He smiled at Signora Casale, held her hand for a moment in farewell, then slipped through the crowd milling outside the restaurant.
“Does he always travel alone like that?” I asked, craning my neck to follow his athletic form through the crowd. “Doesn’t he have a bodyguard?”
“I have tried to convince him it is foolish to walk about in the open,” Synn answered, coming around to pull out my chair. “But he feels he is beloved in the Eternal City.”
I stood, about to ask about the enemies Synn had told me to guard against, but Il Direttore was moving toward the cashier with a fistful of lire. I waited beside Signora Casale, silently wondering why Justus felt so safe in Rome. History had proved that public figures were not safe anywhere, especially at home. Hadn’t Julius Caesar been stabbed to death on the steps of the Roman Senate? And Pope John Paul II had been shot in the courtyard of his own St. Peter’s Basilica.
As Synn smiled and extended his hand toward the sidewalk, I joined him and Signora Casale, deciding to let Justus and his security people worry about his personal safety. After all, I had been instructed to watch for cheats and liars, not assassins.
I sincerely hoped the adversaries of Global Union preferred cutting words to automatic weapons.
The Immortal Page 9