“I was born in Rome,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “and I have traveled for many years, to a great many countries in the Middle East, Asia, Africa, and America. I have spent a good deal of time in Europe, and as a result of my travels I have mastered several languages.”
“How many?” I asked politely. I picked up my pencil to jot down a few notes, though I was actually more interested in how he spoke than what he said. He certainly dressed well; the suit he wore was beautifully cut and looked expensive. His leather shoes gleamed with polish, and he wore his hair in a neat style that would be equally suited for the boardroom or the soccer field.
Propping his elbow on the chair’s armrest, he leaned toward me and rested his chin on his hand—a gesture of confidence—as a relaxed smile crossed his face. “How many languages do you need?”
I glanced down at the file as if I could find an answer there. “I know Il Presidente will require an interpreter who speaks French—”
“I do.”
“—and German and Dutch and English, of course.”
“I don’t do everything well, but I do I speak those languages fluently.” I glanced up again, a little perplexed. The man sitting before me had all the charm and confidence of James Bond, yet I didn’t see any of the typical markers of egotism in his manner. He did not preen, gesture flamboyantly, or attempt to center the conversation on himself. Instead, he seemed to be focusing on me—unusual for any nervous applicant— and he had exhibited self-deprecating humor, unusual in one so certain of his abilities.
“Forgive me for asking, but how old are you, Signor Genzano?” I flipped through his file, searching for a date. He appeared to be in his midthirties, but appearances could be deceiving. Common sense assured me, however, that it would take years of concentrated study to master the four languages he had mentioned.
“I’m not exactly certain of my age. There is no record of my birth date.”
I glanced up, searching for any physical gesture that might indicate lying, but he sat as still as before. I thought I saw a faint flicker of unease in the depths of his dark eyes, but that could have been the light . . .
“No records? I find that hard to believe.”
“I was born in a small and primitive village. My parents died when I was young, and I was not formally educated until much later in life.”
I stared at him, baffled. “Surely you can obtain some sort of record. At a hospital, perhaps, or a church. Most churches keep records of infant baptisms, so if your parents were Catholic your name is surely recorded somewhere—”
“They weren’t Catholic.”
I lifted a brow. “Protestant?”
“Pagan.”
He wasn’t joking, for he sat perfectly still and his expression did not change. His gaze remained locked with mine; his body did absolutely nothing to betray him . . . if he was lying.
I propped my elbow on the desk and placed my chin against my palm, mirroring his posture while I puzzled through the mismatch of behavior and answers. Liars were always difficult to spot, but there were common telltale signs: restricted hand movements or hidden hands, touches to the face, or neck scratches. Collar pulls usually indicated an increased state of tension often due to lying. I once interviewed a potential witness who lied under oath and consistently revealed his deception by rubbing his nose; the more outrageous his lie, the harder he rubbed.
But Asher Genzano sat perfectly still with a relaxed, simple smile on his face. His chin was still cupped in his palm, so both hands remained plainly in view—there was no subconscious desire to hide them away.
Could he be telling the truth? I would be presumptuous to assume that Italy was so like America that every male over the age of two had a number registered with the Italian version of the IRS. I knew primitive villages still existed in Italy, and perhaps it was possible that thirty years ago a young orphan boy could have grown up without an official record of his birth . . .
I made a mental note to ask Maura Casale how I should handle the situation, then pretended to study the file again. “Do you have family, signore?” I smiled politely. “A wife?”
“I am a widower.” He spoke the words in a grave and solemn tone, yet I detected no crinkling of his eyes, no furrowing of his brow. The grief could not be recent, yet he was a relatively young man. So either he had married while practically still in adolescence, or he had felt nothing for the woman he wed.
I lowered my voice to a more sympathetic note. “I am sorry. Were you married long?”
He looked away and pursed his lips slightly; the gesture set alarm bells ringing in my brain. He knew the answer, he could count the years, but he did not want to tell me. Why not?
“A very long time,” he said finally, meeting my gaze again. “Lifetimes ago.”
Poetic hyperbole. I glanced at the file and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The man was a romantic, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t make a good interpreter. I scanned his application, looking for any word or phrase that might clarify his situation, but found nothing.
What could I do? The man was apparently gifted, and Global Union desperately needed a skilled interpreter. I needed an interpreter, and if this man was really good, I might beg to borrow him for these interviews. But what could his reticence mean? The man was an enigma, and that did not bode well for his chances of earning a top security clearance.
After a moment of consideration, I closed his file and slid it across the desk. “The position of interpreter is an important one, and there are certainly security issues that must be addressed,” I told him. “I cannot make a quick decision. I understand you have other tests involved in the concorso?”
My words displeased him; I saw clear evidence of that in his frown, but he nodded without any obvious signs of hostility.
“I would like to consider your application further, Signor Genzano. We must meet again before I can approve it.”
He rubbed a hand across his face, then exhaled slowly and stood. I stood as well, extending my hand, which he took in a warm, solid grasp. “Grazie, I appreciate your time,” he said simply, looking at me with some barely perceptible emotion stirring in his dark eyes. “I will look forward to our next visit. Until then, good-bye.”
“Ciao,” I called as he turned to leave.
He stopped in midstride, then looked back over his shoulder and waggled a finger in my direction. “No, signorina,” he said. “Ciao is how you would bid farewell to good friends. In a business situation such as this, you must say arrivederci.”
My face grew hot with embarrassment, but I bowed my head in apology. “Thank you for the lesson. I will try to remember.”
“You will learn a lot . . . in time.” He gave me a gentle smile, and something in it reminded me of the way my grandfather had looked at me when he forgave me for playing with my grandmother’s false teeth.
“Arrivederci,” he said, moving through the doorway.
I waited until he disappeared around the corner, then I sat down and circled his name on my appointment sheet. I would not have to test his language skills; Signora Casale would make certain he was qualified for the job he sought. My responsibility was to judge his character, and I was nearly certain Asher Genzano would prove to be an honest, humble, and honorable man.
So why couldn’t I sign his application? His explanation for his lack of birth records was reasonable enough. His avoidance of my questions about his late wife might have indicated that he was uncomfortable discussing what could have been an arranged marriage that failed for some reason. And the fact that he spoke five languages fluently could mean only that he had studied hard and had an ear for intonation—he had said he had “a particular gift.”
I opened my necklace pocket watch and sighed in relief when I noticed the time. Nearly four o’clock. I was tired, worn out from a hard day’s work and the struggle to acclimate myself to a different time and culture.
Things would make more sense tomorrow.
THIRTEEN
&
nbsp; ASHER WALKED DOWN THE HALL AND FOUND THE ELEVATOR, THEN held the doors open when a breathless woman called out, “Si fermi! Per favore!”
A small woman with hair the color of a Santa suit hurried down the hall, then gave him a quick smile as she stepped into the elevator. “Merci beaucoup,” she answered, leaning against the back wall.
The abrupt switch from Italian to French startled him. A Frenchwoman? Asher crossed his arms and smiled as she pressed the button for the second floor. “You are from France?” he asked in French.
The woman looked at him with puzzlement in her eyes. “Oui.”
“How long have you been in Rome?”
“Six weeks.” Her hesitant smile deepened. “You are from France too, no? From Paris?”
“No, I am Roman.” Asher glanced at the door as the elevator began its descent. “But I lived in France for many years.”
“You speak like a native Parisian.”
“Merci beaucoup, madame. I am applying for the job of interpreter here. I am not certain I will be approved.”
The woman made a face. “And why not? It is a pleasure to hear someone speak my native tongue without butchering it. I shall speak to Il Presidente myself and make certain you are raccomandati . . . if you will give me your name.”
Asher gave her a grateful smile. “Asher Genzano,” he answered, stepping back as the elevator doors slid open. “And thank you very much.”
She stepped off the elevator, pausing in the hallway just long enough to give him a reassuring nod. Bowing his head in reply, he pressed the button for the first floor, then folded his arms and leaned against the wall as the elevator doors closed.
He had to get the interpreter’s job. He was far more qualified for it than any man alive, and it was one of the few positions that would bring him into Santos Justus’s inner circle. He knew he had impressed the personnel director, and a word of recommendation from the Frenchwoman would help, but the interview with the American had not gone well.
Who was she, and why did her opinion matter? He had tried to inquire about her role in the concorso when Signora Casale directed him to the American’s office, but the Italian woman only murmured something about “resource officer” and “an important step in the process.”
He chided himself as the elevator doors slid open. He should have prepared better before attempting this approach. He should have learned about the American and puzzled through the connections between her and Justus—then, perhaps, he would be able to understand why she had looked at him with reticence in her eyes.
He paused at the security desk to sign out, then caught the guard’s eye. “I am to come back tomorrow,” he said in Italian. “I am to see Signorina Fischer again.”
“L’Americana?”
“Si.” Asher slid the clipboard across the marble-topped desk at the security station, then adopted the most mournful expression he could muster. “Perhaps you can tell me a way to win her favor. I don’t think she likes me.”
The guard laughed as he picked up the clipboard. “At least you have been invited back. She has dismissed many people after just one meeting.”
His words gave Asher a glimmer of hope. “She is a beautiful woman,” he said, leaning one elbow on the desk. “Surely there is a way a man can work his way into her good graces.”
“I wouldn’t try it.” The guard leaned forward confidentially. “She is an expert in what she does. If you bribe her with flowers, she will know you are not sincere.”
“An expert? In questioning people?”
“In understanding people. This is not commonly known, but”—he gestured for Asher to come closer—“Il Direttore says she can tell almost anything about a person just by talking with him for five minutes. In America she works for criminals, helping them get away with murder in jury trials.”
“E terribile!” Asher couldn’t stop the expression from crossing his lips.
The guard shrugged and straightened himself. “What can I say? E un americanata! What else can you expect from the Americans?”
Asher murmured his thanks and left the building, his thoughts spinning.
FOURTEEN
AS MY LAST ACT OF THE WORKDAY, I PICKED UP THE COMPUTER LIST of applicants’ names and noted with grim satisfaction that I had approved more applicants—for the lowest security level, at least—than I had rejected. For a while I had wondered if the change of culture had blurred my perceptions, causing me to see miscreants and goblins in the faces of ordinary working people. I ran my finger down the page, mentally summoning an image to match each entry, then paused as my fingertip touched Asher Genzano’s name.
What should I do about him? Concerned about his uncertain past, I had called Signora Casale after the interview. She reported that Genzano hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he spoke several tongues like a native; he spoke more languages than she could adequately test. She seemed surprised that I hadn’t immediately approved him, so I quickly assured her I hadn’t rejected him, either. I just needed more time. It was an important position, after all, because the interpreter would be traveling with Il Presidente and delivering his words to millions of people.
I hung up and fretted over his application. Signora Casale seemed to think I was some kind of mind reader who could see through people in an instant, but some individuals can’t be read properly in a brief interview. Sometimes people who won’t meet your eye in a conversation aren’t deceitful or secretive—they’re just terribly shy.
One juror in a California case refused to look Elaine Dawson in the eye during three days of voir dire. The juror consistently sat with her body turned to the right and usually propped her head on her hand as though we were inconveniencing her by keeping her awake. Watching from the gallery, I had mentally categorized her as lazy, disinterested, and a lousy juror, but during a recess I met her in the ladies’ room and noticed that a bright red birthmark marred her cheek, extending from just below the corner of her eye up into her hairline. She was none of the things I had supposed—just terribly self-conscious about a birthmark she couldn’t conceal.
A woman I once pegged as a liar because she consistently rubbed her nose proved to have allergies . . . and a man who talked like Thurston Howell III on Gilligan’s Island impressed me as a pretentious snob until I caught him studying a script during a coffee break. At that point I learned he was rehearsing for a play and had vowed to spend an entire week in character.
Though Asher Genzano had none of the particular markers that would ordinarily indicate a false, malicious, or perverse nature, something about his peculiar responses rang my alarm bells. I found myself wishing I had taped our conversation. My memory wasn’t exactly clear, but I was certain I had asked a question that he answered with another question—a definite warning sign. Answering a question with a question didn’t always signal evasiveness; the individual could be insecure, embarrassed, eager to please, or in need of clarification.
In a short burst of disconnected thoughts, I remembered that Kurt was prone to answer questions with another question. I supposed he often used that technique when dealing with his patients—after all, psychologists are notorious for never giving a straight answer. The question-and-question-again approach forces patients to think about things from another perspective. It sometimes annoyed me, though, when Kurt’s psychological technique bled over into our daily lives. “Where do you want to eat?” I’d ask, and he’d respond, “What do you feel like eating?” On and on we’d go, around and around, until I gave up and just pointed to the closest restaurant on the street.
Asher Genzano hadn’t been quite as infuriating, but he had definitely evaded a couple of simple questions. That business about how many languages he spoke, for instance. Most polyglots would be proud to rattle off the name and number of tongues they had mastered. One of Kurt’s friends spoke four languages, and we couldn’t eat in any ethnic restaurant without his reminding us that we could travel to several different countries in his company without ever having to buy a phrase
book. Yet Asher Genzano had never given me a number . . . why not? Did his silence indicate humility or false modesty?
I couldn’t tell, and I knew I wouldn’t find any answers in my office. I shook my head to clear it of frustrating thoughts, then swiveled my chair and scanned my computer mailbox for any late-arriving messages from New York. The huge computer seemed extravagant for a temporary employee; I used it only for word processing and e-mail. I could have managed with my laptop, but Reverend Synn insisted that I use a desktop linked into Global Union’s intranet so I could access the organization’s databases, Web pages, and interoffice e-mail.
Rory had shown me how to use the Internet to link my laptop with the Global Union computers as well as his desktop in New York. “Whatever you do, don’t send personal information through the intranet,” he warned. “Anyone with a master password to the server will be able to read your mail.”
I had laughed. “Oh, yeah, like I care if Santos Justus hears about Kirsten’s cravings for anchovies and peaches.”
There were two messages in my mailbox now—a quick hello from Kirsten and a note from Rory. Kirsten’s rambling letter could wait, but Rory reported that our office had received a call from the Boston mayor’s office—Mr. Mayor was facing a possible indictment on racketeering charges. Would we be interested in his case?
I typed in a quick reply.
Tell them we’re not available until after March 1; see if you can stall. If not, let it go but send our regrets. Thanks, Rory.
I clicked the send button, then stood and slipped into my jacket. A glance out the window told me that the wind had picked up, so I hoped the brisk walk back to my apartment would clear my head. I gathered my purse and briefcase, then flipped the light switch and left my office in darkness.
Downstairs, I smiled farewell to the security guard, then zipped my official ID card through the electronic gizmo at the entrance gate. Only then did the deadbolt release and allow me to exit through the glass doors.
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