I rehearsed a dozen polite replies to that question as I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor. Thank you for the honor, Il Presidente, but I have a business at home. Or, I have tremendously enjoyed my time with your organization, Signor Justus, but I have too many ties in the United States—no, that reply broke one of the Global Union commandments: Don’t mention a country. Better to claim family ties. Though I had never heard anyone mention Justus’s family, the man had to have one.
As the elevator opened on the seventh floor, I stepped out into a space so bright it literally hurt my eyes. The floor here was white marble, the wall ahead of me clear glass, and the two walls at my sides were covered in full-length mirrors. The bright sunlight from the full-length window poured into the space with dazzling intensity, and for a moment I was too overcome to speak.
The sound of polite laughter cut through my bewilderment. I turned in time to see Reverend Synn coming through a glass door to the right of the elevator. Beyond the door I could see a secretary’s desk.
“It is a bit bright when one first arrives,” he said, extending his hand. “Come, the dining room is this way.”
I followed him into a chamber unlike any corporate dining room I had ever seen. The walls were painted with a detailed garden scene; the cloth-covered ceiling elaborately gathered like a sultan’s tent. A waiter in a white jacket and black bow tie stood to one side and bowed respectfully as Reverend Synn pulled out my chair.
A sense of unease crept into my mood like a wisp of smoke. “Signor Justus is joining us, right?”
“Of course.” Synn took the chair next to me and gestured toward the only other remaining seat. “He will be with us shortly.” We sat there for a long moment, pretending to listen to the odd chant playing on the sound system, then Il Presidente came through another door, this one disguised by the multicolored mural.
“A thousand apologies for my tardiness,” he said, the warmth of his smile echoing in his voice. Synn stood when Justus entered the room, and the two embraced and exchanged kisses on the cheek. Justus took my hand when I stood too, then carelessly pressed a kiss into my palm. “Ah, Signorina Fischer. You have made the past few weeks so pleasurable. I have not heard one complaint from any of the department heads. The new personnel are all we could have asked, and more.”
I thanked him, we sat, and the waiter began to serve the first course, a pasta-laden bean soup that smelled wonderful.
Shaking out his napkin, Justus looked at me and smiled like a child with a secret. “You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you today.”
I nodded and placed my napkin in my lap, a little surprised that Il Presidente would break the Italian prohibition of discussing business at mealtime. But if he wanted to live dangerously . . .
“I am curious.” I kept my tone light and casual, in case he decided to steer the conversation away from our work. “It is not every day I am invited to dine with Il Presidente.”
The sound of his laughter warmed the room. “Indeed, sometimes I wish I could duplicate myself many times over and spend time with each employee, but”—he shrugged—“such things are not possible, at least not yet. Perhaps when technology has improved a bit, my image can appear in many places at once. Until then, however, I shall simply have to work with my excellent deputies.”
He lifted his wine glass and extended it toward Synn. “To you, dear Darien, for all you have meant to me. The future looks brighter than ever. With you at my side, the world cannot help but be a better place.”
I lifted my glass as well but couldn’t quite agree with the exuberant toast. Such a toast at home, coupled with the enthusiastic and physical greeting I’d witnessed, would have caused me to wonder about the kind of relationship existing between these two. But in Italy, men routinely greeted each other with loud exclamations, embraces, and kisses.
I shrugged away my concern and sipped from my glass. Justus picked up his spoon and began to eat from the bowl of aromatic pasta e fagioli, so the director and I followed suit.
“Signorina,” Justus said, a thin smile on his lips, “Signor Synn informs me that all our current positions are filled, in part due to your hard work and earnest effort. We are grateful for your assistance.”
I swallowed and smiled my thanks, bracing for the dismissal to come.
Justus scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it, regarding me for a moment. “We would now like to ask you, signorina, to move into another area.”
I reached for my glass and struggled to overcome my surprise. “What did you have in mind?”
“Actually”—a dark flush mantled Justus’s cheeks as he lowered his gaze to his soup bowl—“we had you in mind for this project from the beginning but wanted to be certain of your motivation. We can only trust those who are loyal, signorina. But in the last six weeks you have proved your dedication.”
A chorus of I told you sos began to chant in my brain. I had wondered why Santos Justus would bring me in for something so basic as personnel management. He had wanted me for something else from the first, so he must be in legal trouble or facing some sort of lawsuit.
I sipped from my glass, then smoothed my features and lowered my glass to the table. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?” I caught Synn’s eye and smiled. “I must admit, gentlemen, that I thought our arrangement a bit odd. Why don’t you tell me what you really want from me.”
“It is a most delicate situation,” Justus began.
“Most legal cases are.”
Justus gave me an upper smile, polite and reserved. “It is not a legal case. The situation revolves around my work in the international arena.”
I caught my breath as a thrill shot through me. The Roman connection had been exciting enough, but to work on a truly international level . . . I had only dared to dream of such possibilities.
Justus lowered his spoon to the table, then tented his fingers and looked directly at me. “As you have probably heard, signorina, I represent Italia in the Western European Union. Within the WEU there now exists an underground effort to demilitarize our organization, but those who would have us ground our planes and retire our armed forces have not considered the assets of a strong defense.”
“History has shown that strong nations do not have to be aggressive nations,” Synn interjected. “We do not want the WEU to lay down its arms. We are not warmongers; we are committed to peace. But total disarmament would be foolish.”
“Three of the ten nations allied with us,” Justus continued, “have elected new leadership to the WEU, and these three have formed an ad hoc committee whose purpose is to initiate wholesale and complete disarmament. Officially they deny this, of course, for a formal partnership with such a purpose would violate the bylaws of the WEU.”
“But we have our suspicions,” Synn said, his blue eyes sinking into nets of wrinkles as he smiled.
“We have our informers,” Justus added. His eyes were flat and unreadable in the dim light. “We know they are making plans to influence the other nations to vote against us. Even as president, I could do nothing to overcome a majority vote. I am hoping they will not wield enough influence to do any real harm, but I do not know these newcomers well. Thus far they have refused all my invitations to meet and talk through our differences.”
Both men had stopped eating. An unnatural silence prevailed as they stared at me, waiting for—what?
“I’m not sure I understand how I can help you.” I spoke calmly, but with that eerie sense of detachment that comes with an awareness of impending risk. “I know very little about international politics and would not feel comfortable—”
“You know people,” Justus interrupted. “And in the last few weeks you have learned a great deal about Europeans in particular. You would be able, wouldn’t you, to watch the interaction of these men from a distance and read their body language? Would you, for instance, be able to tell if they are speaking truthfully or purposefully being secretive?”
I faltered in the silence
engulfing me. “Perhaps. But it would be very difficult, and impossible if I could not understand their language. An individual reveals a great deal in his choice of words. Body language alone, no matter how expressive, cannot paint an entire picture. I would not want to make a mistake in something as important as this.”
“We would, of course, send Signor Genzano with you as interpreter.” A glint of wonder filled Justus’s eyes. “I must compliment you, signorina, on your approval of that gentleman. He is a wonder! Last week I spoke to a tourist contingent from Zimbabwe, and he translated every word. I have yet to discover a language he cannot speak.”
I smiled, anxious to abandon the subject of Asher Genzano. “May I ask how, where, and when I am to read these men from the WEU? I must warn you: They are likely to avoid sensitive topics if they are speaking in a public arena.”
“You are not to worry, signorina.” Synn showed his teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “Everything will be taken care of, and you will not be noticed in the gathering. But say nothing of this to anyone. This is—how would you say it?—top-secret work. No one will think your presence remarkable, nor will they know Global Union is involved.”
Justus touched Synn’s arm, effectively taking control of the conversation. “The next public meeting is in two days, in Brussels. These men are not only members of the WEU, but also of the European Union, and they will be present for a public councilors’ meeting on Thursday. That is where you will observe them.”
The thought of a clandestine operation brought a frisson of excitement. I had worked trials for clients suspected of industrial spying, but never had anything seemed as stimulating as what Justus and Synn were now proposing. And it would be safe, for Synn had said I would be watching in a public gathering.
“This isn’t”—I hesitated, anxious to select the right word—“illegal, is it?”
My question seemed to amuse both men. “Of course not,” Justus assured me. “You will be attending an assembly where every word is intended for the record. And you may consider your work an effort to reach our goal of international security and peace. If we are to live in safety, we must know what our opposition is thinking. I assure you, signorina, you will not find yourself in a compromising situation.”
I blinked at that comment, not certain how reading people would help bring about world peace, but Justus picked up a little silver bell on the table and shook it. Within a moment, the waiter appeared to remove our largely untouched bowls of soup.
Justus leaned forward and pressed his palms together, smiling at me over his fingertips. “You will love the next course—baccalà. I believe the English word is codfish.”
I dipped my head and gave him what I hoped was an appreciative smile, though my thoughts had nothing whatsoever to do with food.
I woke with the sun on Wednesday morning, then remembered that it was November 1 and a legal holiday. All Saints’ Day, Signora Casale had told me, had been observed since the seventh century, when the Pantheon was consecrated as the Church of the Blessed Virgin and All Martyrs.
I cared nothing for churches or saints, but I was grateful for the day off. I pulled myself out from under the covers and fumbled for the phone on the bedstand. I couldn’t wait to tell Kurt about Justus’s latest proposition, and my excitement seemed to justify the exorbitant cost of an overseas call.
I glanced at the clock as the phone clicked in my ear. Seven in the morning in Rome was one in the morning in New York—late, but not so late that Kurt would be dead to the world. I knew he kept late hours on the weekends, so if he had already gone to bed, odds were good that he hadn’t been asleep long.
I shivered in anticipation when the phone finally began to ring. He’d be so surprised to hear from me! Though I had e-mailed him nearly every day, filling my messages with details of life in Rome and describing my colorful coworkers, I had not yet managed to telephone him at home. The time difference made it difficult to catch him, and the expense was another consideration. Though Kurt could easily afford to call me, I wanted to be financially responsible until Rory and I safely pulled Fischer Consulting out of the red.
On the third ring, I heard the muffled sounds of someone fumbling with the receiver, then a husky hello.
A woman’s voice.
I felt my breath being suddenly whipped away. Had I misdialed?
Obeying an instinct born of perverse pride, I resorted to subterfuge: “May I speak to Dr. Welton, please? This is his service calling.”
I held my breath, hoping the woman would complain or curse at my mistake, but then I heard more fumbling sounds and a woman saying, “Kurt, it’s for you.”
I nearly dropped the phone as something inside me deflated and began to drain away. Even the soft, reassuring sound of Kurt’s greeting could not stop the nauseating sinking of despair that flowed from my heart.
I probably should have hung up. I should have replaced the phone and gone back to bed, letting my subconscious wrestle with the problem in my dreams. My clients would have expected that reaction; they always said I was unflappable in a crisis. But hurt and pride took the reins of my tongue and whipped it into an abrupt fury.
“Kurt!” Steely anger edged my voice. “Who is with you?”
“Claudia?” I heard surprise, alarm, and a note of panic in his reply. I closed my eyes, wishing I could see him, wanting to read the evidence of guilt and betrayal on his face. Then again, if he was leaning over this woman in an effort to reach the bedside phone, perhaps I was better off not seeing him. I’d never be able to shake that image out of my memory.
I shivered in the coolness of my bedroom. “Kurt, the engagement is off.”
“Hold on a minute, Claude. Surely we can talk this out when you come back to New York.”
“Is she a patient, Kurt? Is this some sort of new therapy—for you?” Seething with anger and humiliation, I threw the words at him like stones, not really caring if they made sense or not.
“Claudia, be reasonable. You were planning to be away for a very long time.”
“No.” A tremor filled my voice, and I closed my eyes, hating the weak sound of it. “I was planning to be married for a very long time. But if you can’t be faithful for six weeks, I can’t give you a lifetime.”
“Aw, Claude—”
“Good-bye, Kurt.” I slammed the phone down, then wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my head against them, realizing that for the first time in the length of our relationship, Kurt’s blue eyes hadn’t been able to dazzle me into overlooking his blunder.
Those eyes—would they ever look at me again?
“Buck up,” I told myself. “This is a good thing. You learned the truth before it was too late.”
Apparently, my charming Kurt was about as steadfast as a wall of mud—and I ought to be thanking my lucky stars. A man like that, Kirsten would say, wasn’t worth the time and trouble it would take to train him as a husband. Good riddance to bad trouble. I would be better off without him.
I fell over onto the bed, burying my face in the feather pillow. With one phone call, my plans for the future had evaporated. I no longer had a fiancé in New York, a date for Lincoln Center, or someone to share Chinese with on long, leisurely weekends.
I rolled over and looked at the diamond winking on my left hand. With a shuddering sigh, I pulled it from my finger and dropped it on the nightstand by the bed.
Never had I felt so alone.
SEVENTEEN
MY LITTLE RESIDENZA SEEMED DARK AND GLOOMY WHEN I FINALLY dragged myself out of bed, and a quick glance out the window revealed a sun as weak as yesterday’s dreams. I dressed in black slacks and a sweater (even on weekends and holidays, in Rome only teenagers seemed to wear jeans), then stepped out into the hallway. Mario and Marco sat at the end of the hall, the contents of their mother’s mailbag spread all over the carpeted floor.
I slipped my hands into my pockets and morosely reflected that my love life was about as dependable as my landlady’s mail route. Since my
arrival at the residenza, I had learned that the twins’ mother was a mail carrier for the city of Rome. Though the city promised two mail deliveries on weekdays and one on Sundays, Benedetta Donatelli’s patrons were lucky if they got mail four times a week. They were luckier still if their cards, letters, and magazines survived the sticky hands of two inquisitive six-year-old boys.
I thought about asking the boys if they’d seen any mail for me, then thought the better of it. No telling what they’d hand me. After giving the twins a weakly tolerant smile, I stepped over the scattered mail, left the house, and walked down to my favorite espresso shop. After eating a tasteless croissant and downing a cup of the strongest concoction they offered, some of the feeling seemed to return to my body. Instead of returning to the scene of my humiliation, however, I turned and walked up the Via di Ripetta.
The prevailing sidewalk traffic seemed to be moving in the opposite direction, and I knew most people in this neighborhood would attend church, then spend their holiday in the Piazza del Popolo. The tourists would gawk at the three-thousand-year-old obelisk that Augustus had brought to Rome after the conquest of Egypt, while the locals gathered around the marble lions and fountains to exchange gossip with their neighbors.
Strange, that I now counted myself among the latter group. Immediately after arriving in Rome I’d spent my weekends visiting all the tourist sites, and I no longer wanted to fight crowds and look at ancient architecture. I wanted the comfort of the familiar—so maybe that’s why I was walking toward Global Union headquarters, the red palace.
How pitiful! I stopped abruptly in the wide space of the Piazza della Rotonda, startling the man walking a scant two steps behind me. He muttered something about Americans as he changed his pace and passed on my right side, but I didn’t care. I stood in the center of the sidewalk, floundering in an agonizing maelstrom of emotion, searching for something solid to cling to . . .
And then I saw Asher Genzano seated at a table outside the Café Giolitti with the morning newspaper in his hands. A cup of coffee sat on the table near his elbow, and a black-and-white tuxedo cat crouched at his feet, playfully swatting the laces of Genzano’s shoes.
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