The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  As the president continued, I sketched a diagram of the furniture arrangement. The circular table featured a lectern at each end, and it was entirely possible the three men who sat practically in the first lectern’s shadow were fairly concealed from the dozen or so ambassadors to the president’s left. This concealment might lead to a sense of security, even persuade them that they could exchange comments without being spotted.

  I leaned forward when the center man, Dutetre, leaned sideways to whisper something to Billaud. Billaud smiled and nodded slightly, then looked at the papers on the desk and shuffled a few pages without appearing to focus on them.

  Distracted? I wrote.

  The meeting went from boring to soporific, and before the president’s speech ended I had to elbow Asher and wake him from a sound sleep. But by the time we left the building, I had gathered a host of impressions, all of which convinced me Justus was right. The three representatives in question were friendly, cooperative, and very likely in league with one another.

  I presented my report to Reverend Synn on the jet. He listened to my observations, smiled at a couple of the finer points, then nodded in satisfaction. “We will proceed with our plans at once. You have done an excellent job, and I know you will be even more useful in the next phase.”

  “The next phase?” I stared at him in confusion. “Surely you won’t need me—”

  “We need you more than ever.” Synn brought his hand down upon his knee, startling me with the sharp sound of the blow. “You said it yourself, signorina—these men would never completely reveal themselves in a public arena. Now that our fears have been confirmed, we must find out exactly what they are up to.”

  I glanced across the cabin at Asher. He had settled back in his seat and closed his eyes after boarding the plane, but he was wide awake now, his eyes wide and dark with alarm.

  “You have nothing to fear.” Synn took my hand and held it firmly. “Our men will set up a command post in another building; you will never even be near the targets. We will bring you in, you will watch and listen, Signor Genzano will interpret, and we will learn what we need to know. You will be out of the city within a few hours, and no one will ever know you were involved.”

  My adrenaline level had begun to rise when he used the word target, and the purposeful, intent look on his face did nothing to lower my blood pressure.

  I looked away and blinked in stunned silence. Last week I had been a little thrilled by the thought of a mild cloak-and-dagger operation, but today’s little day trip was nothing compared to what Synn was suggesting now. If he was telling the truth, we would probably be perfectly safe, but what he had described was nothing less than a covert operation. What was I thinking? I was a jury consultant, not an international spy! I didn’t even like James Bond movies.

  “Reverend Synn.” With an effort, I pulled my hand from his grasp. “I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with this.” I glanced up at Asher and saw that his pupils had dilated, his eyes filling with some stark, troubling emotion. What was it, fear? Uncertainty? Why had I never been able to read him?

  “If you are uncomfortable, we will make you comfortable.” The minister of whatever church claimed him leaned closer, vigorously invading my space and forcing me to tilt my head back at an awkward angle. “We will do everything in our power to be sure you are safe and content. You will be well rewarded.”

  “Money is not the issue.”

  His strong jaw wobbled, and I knew I had committed a faux pas. Italians did not like to bargain or talk about money in blunt terms. Negotiation was a dance, I’d learned, and I’d just stepped on his toes.

  I drew a deep breath and tried to begin again. “Signor Synn, I’m not sure I can do what you are asking me to do. Observe people in another building? It would be difficult. Even with three or four cameras in the room I could not see everything—”

  “We will make sure you have the best picture possible. You did so well today; we know you can do as well in this other situation.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to mention this, but there is a personal matter I need to consider.” I caught Asher’s eye for a moment, smiled weakly, then turned my attention back to Il Direttore. “My fiancé and I are having problems. I must be getting back to New York to settle things between us. We have a wedding planned for May 13, and whether or not it goes off there are things I must attend to—”

  “You cannot leave us.” The soft note of entreaty had vanished from Synn’s voice. “You signed an agreement to work with Unione Globale for six months. If you leave any sooner without our permission, you will be in breach of that contract.”

  I looked at him, surprised by the flat tone of his voice and the hostile gleam in his eye. In all my hours at Global Union headquarters I had never heard him utter a harsh word, not even when a nervous young Japanese student spilled espresso all over Synn’s gray suit. But this—the narrow eyes, the furrowed brow, the flattened lips—these were unmistakable signs of anger. He would not let me go without a fight.

  Too stunned to reply, I nodded slowly. Synn searched my face for a moment as if judging my sincerity, then smiled, his good humor restored. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he murmured something about being hungry, then made his way toward the galley at the back of the jet.

  Totally bewildered, I looked across the aisle at Asher and read a new emotion in his face, as well—determination, marked by the strong stamp of fear.

  Back in my two-room residenza, I sipped a lukewarm diet soda and paced before the brick fireplace in my sitting room, trying to think of some way I could walk away from Global Union. Reading people at the EU Council of Ministers’ building had provided an interesting challenge, but reading people through an eavesdropping network would provide a challenge I didn’t want. I knew the real world of espionage was nothing like a Hollywood movie—it was dangerous (no one ever thinks the movie star spy is really going to get hurt) and undoubtedly illegal. Furthermore, Fischer Consulting’s lifeblood depended upon politicians and lawyers and judges in the States, so I couldn’t afford to have my reputation smeared. Using hidden cameras and microphones to spy on three European ambassadors felt more than a little disreputable.

  Tired of pacing, I sat on the edge of the small sofa and stared at the telephone. Every particle of my being wanted to call a friend. I could call Kirsten, but she wouldn’t understand what I was feeling. Her world revolved around her family and life in the Hamptons, and I doubted if she knew what the WEU was or why it mattered. Political organizations didn’t touch her world, and neither would my problems. She’d just tell me to pack my bags and come home.

  I could call Rory . . . but long ago I’d decided it would be unprofessional to bring my personal problems into the office. Rory and I were great friends, and I ate dinner with him and his wife a couple of times a month, but I wouldn’t let myself cry on his shoulder just because I’d run out of friends.

  No, I couldn’t call Rory . . . I wanted to call Kurt.

  Maybe Asher was right and I never had really loved Kurt. But I had liked him tremendously, and I respected his opinion. Kurt had a marvelously clear way of looking through the emotions that clouded troublesome situations. But I couldn’t call him, not after the scene I’d made the last time we spoke. If I called, I’d have to hear a list of excuses for his horrible behavior, and then I’d have to decide whether or not to forgive him when I really didn’t care about the marriage anymore. Breaking off the engagement was the right thing to do. Breaking off our friendship would be foolish.

  The thought of breaking away from Global Union appealed to me, though. Why couldn’t I just pack my bags and take a cab to the airport? I could be back in New York by tomorrow morning, and Darien could sue me for breach of contract if he wanted to. The case would probably be thrown out of court.

  I stood, about to bolt for the bedroom, then cold, clear reality swept over me in a terrible wave. I couldn’t pack my bags if I wanted to. My passport was locked in a safe at Global Union headquart
ers and had been since my arrival in Rome. Because hoteliers were legally required to register all foreigners with the police, all guests of Global Union surrendered their passports upon arrival and received a Global Union identity card in exchange. “It is the best thing, especially with the purse snatchers and pickpockets,” Maura Casale had explained as she took my passport. “Do not worry. We will keep it safe for you.” Given Synn’s mood the last time we talked, I didn’t think he’d allow security to hand my passport over without comment.

  Frustrated by my lack of options, I slammed the nearly empty soda can down on the little table that stood in my kitchenette, then slipped on my jacket. Maybe a walk would help clear my brain.

  Darkness already shadowed the eastern sky, while deep orange and purple light streaked the western horizon. Shadows pooled and thickened around the bases of the monuments I passed, and the crisp wind bit at the exposed areas of my skin. Somewhere in the distance an ambulance wailed in the eerie weee-oh, weee-oh cadence of European emergency vehicles, while from a balcony overlooking the street a group of men engaged in catcalls as I passed beneath them.

  Hunched into my heavy jacket, I thrust my hands deep into my pockets, ignoring the calls and barely acknowledging the friendly smiles of people I’d come to think of as my neighbors. I lengthened my stride, marching past the tiny shops on the Via Ara Pacis, then stopped at the end of the street and stared at the silver-spangled river. I had only one friend in Rome—only one person knew what

  I had been asked to do. He knew because he had been asked to do the same thing.

  The sluggish river slapped rhythmically against the concrete walls that restrained it. Could I go to Asher and vent my feelings? Would he even understand my reservations?

  As I turned, my eyes fell upon the Ara Pacis, the “Altar of Peace” that had been erected by the Roman Senate in A.D. 13. The monument now stood beneath a large glass hangar, shining like a jewel in a pool of electric light. As tears of frustration filled my eyes, the highly detailed faces sculpted into the marble frieze seemed to shimmer with life.

  Curling my frozen fingers into fists, I crossed my arms and moved toward the monument, studying the faces as I walked. I had visited the Ara Pacis in daylight, marveling over the incredible craftsmanship, but the figures had not seemed as animated as they did now. The brass plaque outside the entrance told me that the people depicted in the procession were the Roman royal family, ranked by position in the succession. In the royal lineup, Marcus Agrippa, builder of the Pantheon, stood next to the emperor Augustus, and Augustus’s toddling grandson, Lucius, clung to the folds of his mother’s gown.

  The thought of Marcus Agrippa as a stuttering youth brought a twisted smile to my face. Asher’s insane assertion must have been some kind of joke, but apparently I hadn’t picked up all the nuances of Italian humor.

  Leaving the monument, I turned onto the Via di Ripetta, accidentally stepping into the path of a moped on the sidewalk. As the rider swerved and filled the air with a stream of enthusiastic curses, I ignored him and hurried southward toward the Pantheon. I didn’t know that Asher would even be home, but perhaps someone at the hotel might know where I could find him.

  Half an hour later, the brisk walk had warmed me considerably. I cautiously crossed the large Piazza della Rotonda, then stood outside the Sole al Pantheon, not certain how to ask for Asher Genzano. Would the owner live in a detached building? In a penthouse?

  The stately four-story building looked as though it had been painted with a thin wash of moonlight. Three rows of arched windows looked down upon the street, parallel slits of light marking their closed shutters. No sidewalk separated the building and the piazza, but a maroon awning jutted out protectively to shelter those who would find rest within the dignified walls. As I passed beneath its shadow, I noticed a brass plaque near the well-lit entrance. Though my Italian was still not all it should have been, I recognized the names of writers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Rome, too, offered versions of “George Washington slept here.”

  I walked through the long, narrow lobby and drank in the scents of live flowers, then approached the marble desk. I stood silently for a moment until the female clerk looked up and gave me a bland smile.

  “Vorrei vedere,” I began, mentally searching for the correct Italian phrases, “Signor Genzano.”

  The woman lifted a brow. “Signor Asher Genzano?”

  “Si.” Was there more than one Genzano in the house?

  The woman leaned forward and pointed toward the end of the desk, then began to rattle off directions so fluently I didn’t stand a chance.

  “In English, per favore?” I asked, hoping for the best. “I am a friend of Signor Genzano’s.”

  I saw the tightening cheek muscles that turned her upper smile from a mechanical civility to a rictus of necessity. “To the end of the desk,” she said, “into the hall. Walk until you cannot walk further. There is a door. That is the entrance to Signor Genzano’s apartment.”

  “Grazie.” Feeling suddenly chilly again, I put my hands back into my pockets and walked in the direction she had pointed.

  A hallway opened up at the end of the desk, and I followed it, grateful for the dim glow of the brass wall sconces that provided narrow cones of light about every ten yards. Several doors opened off this hallway, but I passed them, recognizing from their nameplates that they led to offices of the hotel staff. The hallway was papered in russet and gold—a gaudy design from an earlier age, but I doubted that hotel patrons often walked through this corridor.

  Finally the passageway ended at a single door, unmarked and unadorned. I stood in the silent hallway for a moment, wondering if Asher would think I had completely lost my mind, then I tapped on the door.

  I locked my hands behind my back, glancing around as I waited for a response. Had I misunderstood the receptionist’s directions? A patch of peeling plaster loomed above my head; the carpet beneath my feet was faded and worn. The elegant lobby had sparkled with grandeur, but I couldn’t imagine a hotel owner choosing to live in this obscure corner . . .

  I straightened at the sound of approaching footsteps, then tried on a smile as the door swung open. Asher’s eyes widened when he saw me standing there.

  “Per favore”—I tilted my head in the universal body language of winsome pleading—“may I speak with you, Signor Genzano?”

  He gaped at me like a man faced with a hard sum in arithmetic, then he swung the door wider and gestured toward the tiny foyer beyond. “Come in, signorina.”

  I don’t know what I expected of Asher Genzano’s apartment, but I had never imagined the man might live in a library. For that was what I found in his foyer and sitting room—a veritable fortress of books. Heavily laden bookshelves lined every wall. Leather volumes filled the window sill and stood at attention upon the counters of his small kitchen. The scents of dust and age and paper permeated the room, underlined by the faint odor of dried leather.

  I turned in speechless silence.

  “I know.” Asher lifted both shoulders in a shrug. “I have too many books in too small a space. The—what would you call him?—the fire marshal would not approve.”

  I smiled in bewilderment. “Have you read all these?”

  “Once.” He looked at me, his eyes shimmering in the light from a small lamp on a writing desk. “But you did not come here to talk about books.”

  “No. I came to talk about Global Union.” I looked for a place to sit, and Asher hurried to remove a stack of newspapers from a velvet-covered settee with ornate carved feet.

  “Excuse the mess; I do not often entertain visitors. Please, sit down.”

  “Thanks.” I sat, smoothing the velvet fabric as I did so. I don’t know much about antiques, but this piece looked positively priceless.

  I waited until Asher seated himself in a chair next to the desk. “I am concerned about this latest job Justus has asked us to do. I don’t feel comfortable with spying. When I took this job, I never intended to break
any laws—international or moral. I’m worried about what might happen if we are caught.”

  Asher smiled, but with a distracted, inward look, as though he were thinking about something else altogether. After a moment, he crossed his arms and met my gaze. “I am afraid we cannot escape the nature of evil. It slowly creeps upon us until we are stained with sin. And then, when we are tainted, we can do nothing but try to scrub the stain out. That effort can take a lifetime, or even longer.” The timbre of his voice changed, and I heard bitterness spill into his words. “Sometimes I think it is impossible to escape the consequences of sin.”

  “Asher.” My tone was sharper than I had intended it to be. “I didn’t come here for philosophical arguments. I came because I need to know if you are as worried as I am. Is there some way we can get out of this?”

  Lines of concentration deepened along his brows and under his eyes as he looked at me. “It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  He turned, resting one arm on the back of the chair and propping his head against his hand. “What is your ultimate purpose, Claudia Fischer? If doing what Justus demands will help you reach your goal, go ahead and be done with it. But if it is contrary to your purpose, walk away.”

  Annoyed, I glared at him. “I can’t walk away! And I don’t see what purposes and goals have to do with anything. Furthermore, I can’t understand why you haven’t objected. Don’t you think what Synn’s asking us to do is wrong?”

  Asher studied me for a moment, then looked at the ceiling as if appealing to a higher authority. “I will do what Justus asks,” he said finally, closing his eyes, “because it is what I must do. I must fulfill my purpose, and he must fulfill his.”

  I swallowed the scream of frustration that rose at the back of my throat. What was it with Italian men? Why couldn’t any of them give me a straight answer?