Where was Kurt when I needed him? I felt reasonably sure he had never encountered anything like this in his practice. As far as I could tell, Asher suffered from only one delusion, but he believed it with utter resoluteness.
What should I do? I didn’t think I could talk Asher out of his fascination with Justus—his argument was so persuasive he had nearly convinced me that Justus could be the Antichrist. Perhaps I could distract him. If I could convince him that the American president presented an equally valid prospect for a future puppet of Satan, perhaps I could persuade him to join me when I went back to New York. Once there, Asher could get professional psychological help. He was far too charming and intelligent a man to be allowed to waste his gifts in delusion . . .
I turned slightly and opened one eye, peeking at him. He had curled his tall frame in the chair, but his eyes were open and fixed on the black horizon beyond the window.
What a novelist he would make! Each historical name he had so casually rattled off would make a book in itself. In his delusion he had cast himself as a modern Indiana Jones who always managed to survive despite overwhelming odds.
“By the way,” I whispered through the semi darkness, “how did you escape from all those encounters with dictators? I can’t imagine any of them hearing your story and then just letting you go.”
“I didn’t always escape.” A small grimace of pain rippled across his face. “A few times I was imprisoned and beaten, once I was exiled. Most often, however, I was executed.”
I opened my mouth, then quietly closed it again. For a few moments his delusion had almost seemed minor.
“Of course you were,” I murmured, then turned to snuggle into the cushions and sleep.
TWENTY-TWO
ASHER WAS RIGHT. I WAS SUMMONED TO JUSTUS’S OFFICE THE NEXT morning, where I gave him my report. I needn’t have bothered. From the calm, knowing look in his eyes I gathered he had already heard from his operatives in Brussels. He listened to me merely out of politeness, or perhaps he wanted to test the truthfulness of the thin man and his cohorts.
When I had finished, Justus thanked me, then stood and came around from behind his desk. “I am told you are anxious to get back to New York,” he said, his dark eyes creasing in an expression of admiration. “I understand, of course, but we would like you to remain with us for at least another two or three months. In the very near future we plan to establish an office in Brussels, and we will need to hire more staff. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that they must be the sharpest, most excellent people available.”
“My office in New York,” I began, but Justus cut me off with an uplifted hand. He sank onto the edge of his desk, then crossed his arms and gave me a sympathetic upper smile. “I was sorry to hear about your associate, and I know it won’t be easy to go home and pick up the pieces. That’s why I think you should remain in Rome for a while. My people are fond of you, and your work is respected. If you remain, signorina, I could help you find enough work in the international arena that you may never have to go back to New York.” He arched a brow. “Would work of an international scope suit you? I should think that working for peace would be far more appealing than jury consulting for murderous senators who want to escape justice.”
For an instant I wondered if he had been reading my thoughts and knew about my vow to work for more noble causes. But had I been hard of hearing, I could not have missed the note of sarcasm in his voice, and his cynicism brought up my defenses. “My work in the States has merit, Il Presidente. Every citizen is entitled to a fair defense.”
“But is every citizen entitled to buy his way out of the system? I am well acquainted with the details of your last case. Senator Mitchell hired the best defense lawyer he could find, and that lawyer hired you, the best jury consultant in the business. You practically read the jurors’ minds during voir dire. You knew the verdict weeks before the jury did. Is that not unfair? Can you honestly tell me Senator Mitchell did not buy himself an acquittal?”
His voice was dusty and nearly as deep as the tide of guilt that threatened to pull me under. I sat in silence under his penetrating gaze, recognizing the truth in his words. We had perfected the art of jury selection, and people of wealth could buy better lawyers than the average man on the street. The poor fared worst of all. All too often, court-appointed public defenders were recent law school graduates, young men and women who didn’t have the connections or wherewithal to land a spot in a choice firm . . .
“We’d make it worth your while to remain in Rome,” Justus said, his voice low and seductive. “What are we paying you now—$5,000 per week? We could double that if you’ll agree to remain until the Belgium office is fully staffed.”
“Would I have to work in Brussels?”
“No. All prospective staff will go through the concorso here. We just want you to continue doing what you do so well.”
I drew a deep breath and lowered my gaze, taking advantage of the quiet to wrestle with my reservations. Now that I stood on the brink of a decision, I had to admit that among my swirling emotions was a sense of reluctance to return to New York. Without Rory, I’d be lost in a sea of scribbled telephone messages and unpaid bills. I’d already been away seven weeks, and I had absolutely no idea what currents were running through the Manhattan legal system. I did know Elaine Dawson had moved in during my absence, and if I went back now, at the start of her new trial, I’d be fighting a turf war without an assistant and without clients.
Why not remain in Rome for a few more months? I had been nervous about the clandestine trip to Brussels, but Justus had been right— we hadn’t encountered even a hint of danger. Last night I had been quite willing to believe that Justus’s ambition was rooted in evil, but that belief had been fueled by the darkness and Asher’s mystical stories of world tyrants. Asher’s proclamation that he suffered through numerous executions broke the spell that nearly captivated me.
Looking up at my employer, I saw a remarkable man sitting on the edge of his desk, a charming, optimistic politician who wanted peace for the world. Nothing more. Nothing less.
My reservations could not prevail against double pay and two additional months of job security. “I wouldn’t want to do anything else like the job in Belgium.” I met Justus’s gaze without flinching. “I was nervous the entire time. It felt . . . not right somehow.”
“You will not have to do anything that causes you distress.” Justus laced his hands together. “We want you to be happy.”
“Then . . . I will stay.” I smiled and gave him a nod. “I’ll stay through January, but then I really must get home. My sister is expecting a baby at the end of December, and I’ve promised to get home as soon as I can.”
Laugh lines radiated from the corners of Justus’s eyes as he chuckled. “I have a sister myself. And though I’ve never been a parent, she has ten children who keep me on my toes. I cannot visit on a Saturday night without the little ones hanging from my neck and demanding to know what sort of presents I have brought them.”
Something in my heart lifted as I stood to leave. Justus had never mentioned his family, and for the first time I felt I had been allowed to glimpse the man behind the polished mask he wore almost constantly. Perhaps I had finally won his trust.
He walked me to the door, and just before leaving I turned to face him. “I want you to know, sir, that I have really enjoyed my time here. You have attracted the most wonderful people to Global Union.” I paused, wondering if I should tell him about Asher Genzano. If the world ever learned that one of the Global Union employees suffered from a rather creative delusion, at least Justus could say I had warned him.
I took a breath, ready to speak, but Justus had opened the door and was beckoning to Reverend Synn, who stood outside in the foyer. He was no longer looking at or listening to me; the moment of camaraderie had passed.
“Buon giorno, signor,” I murmured politely, then moved out of the way.
Alone in my office, I bounced the rubber tip of my pe
ncil against the desk while staring at the telephone. Should I call Kurt? A cynical voice in my brain kept telling me I should call an Italian psychologist, and fast, because Asher’s delusion was more than slightly abnormal. But I knew enough about people, and about Asher, to feel reasonably sure he wasn’t dangerous. I had also grown fond of him and couldn’t bear the thought of hurting or embarrassing him.
I pressed my lips together and shifted my gaze to the window, recalling the many sorts of people I had seen on the streets of Rome—ragged beggars and Gypsies and religious pilgrims traversing St. Peter’s Square on their knees. In the past few weeks I had encountered homeless men who talked to themselves and religious penitents who flogged themselves in the shadows, of the Vatican walls. Who could say Asher was more disturbed than any of them? He had a home, he held a job, and he knew more about everything than I knew about anything.
My hand moved toward the phone, curled around the receiver, and stopped. Kurt would be alarmed if I shared Asher’s entire story. He’d say I owed it to Global Union to have a potentially dangerous employee committed. I could almost hear him: A man who says he’s been executed by world tyrants? Good grief, Claudia, you sat there and encouraged that nonsense? You’re not a psychologist. Get the man to a doctor.
But the story didn’t seem like nonsense when Asher told it. I haven’t had much experience with the mentally ill, but I saw nothing in his demeanor to indicate that he was telling me anything but the truth—no revealing tics, no touching his nose or ears or other disguising gestures. He spoke honestly and openly, with a clear voice and direct eye contact. I doubted whether even a habitual liar could have maintained as perfect an illusion of honesty.
Well. I lifted my hand from the phone and picked up my notebook. There was more than one way to prove the truth, and I believed in Asher’s innate sense of reason. Last night he had rattled off a long list of names and dates and places, and after arriving home I had jotted down as many of them as I could remember. If I could confront him with proof that just one of his supposed “recollections” was false, perhaps I could place a solid dent in his delusion. After all, Kurt had urged me to present Asher with facts.
With a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in days, I scooped my notebook off the desk and walked to the elevator, then pushed the button for the second floor. Monsieur and Madame Curvier had made good progress organizing the library’s archived files, I’d heard, and I thought they might be able to give me some information. After all, they were French, as were several of Asher’s suspected antichrists . . .
The elevator dinged softly, and I stepped onto the second floor, then pushed my way through the double glass door that led to the archives. Dr. Millard Curvier sat on a stool facing the door, a folder in his hand. He lifted his head when I came in. Not knowing any sign language, I smiled and wriggled my fingers in a wave, then pointed toward the door that led to the doctors’ private offices. “Your wife?” I said, feeling slightly silly as I exaggerated the movement of my lips. I didn’t speak sign language, but he most certainly didn’t lipread English, so my attempt to communicate was laughable, at best.
He pointed to the door, either intuiting what I meant or resorting to a habitual gesture for guests. I hurried forward and called out, “Dr. Curvier?”
I found Patrice seated at her desk. She looked up from a stack of typed pages when I came in, then pulled her glasses down her nose. “Oui? Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” I glanced at my notebook, not certain where to start. “I’m searching for some information on dictators . . . particularly European dictators. I thought there might be something in the files about Hitler, Wilhelm II of Germany, or even Napoleon.”
“Oui, the Communists kept files on everybody, living and dead.” She pushed her glasses back as she stood and moved past me. “We have lists; we have biographical files; we have photographs. We have a file on Tito of Yugoslavia thirty centimeters thick.”
“Really?” I mentally cross-checked the name against my list and didn’t find a match.
I followed her to a long bank of filing cabinets that traversed the room. Fortunately, each cabinet was only four feet high, which made for a convenient reading height when files were spread over the solid surface. Mounds of paper lay scattered across the top of the cabinets, some pages wrapped in folders, others spread out like a crazy quilt, punctuated here and there with grainy black-and-white photographs.
“Hitler is there, file fifteen, third drawer,” she said, pointing to a cabinet near the center of the room. “But we have scarcely begun to archive all the information about him. His troops occupied Rome, you know, after Mussolini’s fall. They were hated. In 1944, someone set off a bomb near a marching column of SS police in the center of Rome and 31 Germans died. In retaliation, Hitler ordered 335 Italian hostages shot by the Gestapo on the old Ardeatine Road. His pride demanded vengeance.” She paused. “In whom else were you interested?”
I glanced at my list, searching for one of the more obscure names. “Laval, from France?”
“Vous plaisantez! I remember hearing about him. He was a devil.” She walked away, muttering about the man who had controlled France for Hitler, and I stopped in front of file cabinet number fifteen. A pile of black-and-white photographs covered the cabinet, and I found myself studying the first one, a shot of Hitler sitting in an open car, his eyes fixed upon the road before him, a bevy of SS men clustered around the vehicle like obedient priests around a stern-faced demigod.
I picked up the photograph and ran my finger over the face of the man who sent millions of people to their death. Somehow, in the light of Hitler’s unspeakable deeds, Asher’s story about a man doing the work of the devil did not seem so ludicrous. A man would almost have to be possessed by the spirit of pure evil to send babies and their mothers into the ovens . . .
I set the photograph aside and stared at another. The camera placed Hitler front and center, as always, but in this photo he posed at the bottom of what looked like an outdoor staircase. His men, three solid rows of somber-looking soldiers in dark uniforms, stood around and behind him, each wearing an expression of resolute determination.
I brought the photograph closer to my face and searched each man’s face for some sign of conscience. People tended to reveal a lot about themselves even in photographs, but I could not detect a single derivation from the stiff, focused status quo. Not a man’s arm hung bent; not a single chin was lifted in a disobedient wayward glance. Every eye was focused upon the camera, every profile turned at the proper angle to favor the Führer who had become the center of their universe . . .
I was about to set the photograph aside when a memorable pair of dark eyes caught my attention. I knew the man standing in the second row, scarcely six feet from Adolf Hitler.
My heart began to pound like a kettledrum as my fingertip traced the image of Asher Genzano.
TWENTY-THREE
TIRED AND IRRITABLE AFTER A NEARLY SLEEPLESS NIGHT, I STOOD outside the American Academy Library and wondered if Kurt would approve of my plan. After finding Asher’s face in the Nazi photo, I had silently carried my questions and bewilderment back to my apartment, where I tossed and turned throughout the hours of darkness. By the time daylight at last fringed the blinds, I had formulated a two-pronged plan—first, I would go to the library and look up references to this Wandering Jew character, the better to prove to Asher that he couldn’t possibly be a living legend, then I would return to Global Union headquarters and search for information that might explain how a man who looked exactly like the current Asher Genzano came to be employed in Hitler’s army. Perhaps, my tired brain told me, the man in the photograph is one of Asher’s relatives. Even if that was the case, I doubted that Santos Justus would welcome the news that one of his employees was related to a Nazi war criminal.
I crossed the Via Angelo Masina in a flood of pedestrians, then entered the library, one of the few in Rome that catered to English-speaking residents. Accustomed to the large, expansive stacks o
f the New York Public Library, this building seemed small and crowded. A gate prevented entrance to the large hall where the books were shelved. A small woman sat behind a dark wooden desk next to the gate, her pink scalp glowing through a tight white perm like a warning.
“Buon giorno,” I said, giving her the brightest smile I could muster after a sleepless night. “Parla inglese? ”
She made a faint moue of distaste, then switched to English. “How may I help you?”
I placed my hands on the railing and cast a covetous glance toward the books on the shelves behind her. “I’m searching for information about the man called the Wandering Jew. I don’t have a library card, but perhaps I could just look at a few materials here in the library.”
Her mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “Signorina, we do things differently here. In Italy, you do not join a library, you gain access to it. And the extent of your access depends upon whether or not you have a sponsor to support your work.”
Momentarily speechless with surprise, I gaped at the woman.
“You must go to the Ufficio Orientamento and present your passport or other official identification, then you’ll be given a permesso di entrata for however long we estimate your work will require. If you want access to rare books or manoscritti—”
I flagged her to a halt, afraid she had somehow moved on to the discussion of pasta without answering my question. “Wait, please. I must go where to get what? And what are manoscritti?”
“Manuscripts.” Her brows drew downward in a frown. “You must go to the admissions office and get an entrance pass before you will be allowed access to the library. And once you have gained access, you will need help from one of the bibliotecari. We do not have computerized card catalogs, and only our bibliotecari understand the filing system.”
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