The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  My mind drifted into a fuzzy haze and then into sleep. If God answered, he didn’t speak loud enough to wake me.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT AND CLEAR, THE KISS OF SUNRISE painting a rosy blush on the stately structures of the city. For a change, it didn’t rain, though gray skies would have been more in keeping with my mood. I had awakened in a fog of regret and sadness, and only by focusing on the task ahead could I keep my thoughts from centering on Kirsten and home.

  I took a cab to Global Union headquarters, rode the elevator to my office, and dropped my purse and briefcase into my desk drawer. After quickly checking my e-mail to be certain there was no urgent news from Kirsten or Sean, I placed a call to Santos Justus’s office, spoke to his secretary, and made a note in my desk calendar.

  Ready or not, Asher, here I come.

  I tugged down the hem of my jacket—a nervous gesture, my brain noted—and walked to the elevator. As the doors slid closed and I found myself staring at my reflection in the brass surface, I pressed the button for the fourth floor and met my own determined gaze straight on.

  Last night, I’d dreamed of lamps and lights and Inquisition fires. I found myself in a long line of condemned heretics before a cheering crowd in the Global Union cafeteria. Though I protested that I had done nothing to promote heresy, when Reverend Synn lifted the torch and asked if I would confess Christ and receive his grace, my mouth went dry and I could not speak.

  The flame came toward me, dancing upon the end of a long wooden pole while Signora Casale sang the Global Union anthem: Peace, Peace, follow me to peace! But death had never brought peace to Asher, just as it did not now bring peace to Kirsten and Sean and Travis . . .

  As the ends of my hair sizzled and blackened in the crackling flames, I awakened.

  I still didn’t understand what Signor Pace meant about receiving God’s grace, but I was ready to stop doubting Asher Genzano. I have always trusted the evidence gathered by my eyes and ears, and everything I saw in Asher attested to the truth of his testimony and his journals. For eight weeks I had been poking and prodding at his story, and not once had I discovered a weak spot or rattled his composure. And I had discovered other proofs as well—the statue by Michelangelo, the eyewitness accounts of others who met Asher in centuries past, the photograph with Hitler.

  As impossible as it seemed, Asher Genzano had told me the truth . . . and right now I needed truth more than I had ever needed anything.

  I had no answers for Kirsten; I couldn’t explain why God, if he truly existed, would allow a loving mother to lose her innocent child. But Asher claimed to know God, and if he believed God wanted him to speak privately with Santos Justus, he would speak with Il Presidente today.

  I would wait and see what God would do . . . or if he could do anything at all.

  The elevator chimed softly as the doors opened again, then I stepped off and went in search of my friend.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “IS ASHER GENZANO IN YET?”

  Asher’s pulse quickened as Claudia’s soft voice floated over the wall of his cubicle. The receptionist must have nodded, for Asher heard nothing else until Claudia stood in the doorway, gazing at him with a chilling intensity.

  “I’ve made an appointment for you,” she said, her blue eyes focused and direct. “Will you be ready to speak to Il Presidente at fourteen o’clock?”

  Asher swallowed his surprise and pushed back from his desk. “I will be ready.”

  She looked at him a moment, her mouth tipping in a mirthless smile. “I thought you’d be more excited. Isn’t this what you’ve wanted all along?”

  “Yes. But it is never easy.” With an effort, he tore his gaze from her face and stared at the pages he had been translating. He would put this work aside until later; everything else could wait. An eel of apprehension wriggled in his bowels, reminding him that he needed time to prepare.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Asher jerked his head around. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I think it is. Justus only agreed to see you because I told him you have discovered some interesting information about a possible role for Global Union in the future. So he’ll see both of us after lunch.”

  The apprehension stirred again, twisting in his guts. “Claudia, I’ve done this many times, and it doesn’t always go well. You may not like the result.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She leaned her shoulder against the wall of the cubicle and lowered her voice. “I’ve decided to think of this as a little experiment. If God is in control, things will work out as they should, right?”

  “What about your contract?”

  She shrugged slightly and made a face. “Perhaps Rome has influenced me, Asher. Don’t you have a saying, Que sera, sera?”

  Before he could object again, she turned lightly on her heel and moved away.

  Asher spent the next three hours planning his strategy, scribbling notes on slips of paper, then tossing them into the waste bin. What sort of approach would work best with Santos Justus? After noticing Hitler’s care for his niece, Asher had appealed to Hitler’s mercy, only to discover the man had none. With Napoleon he attempted an intellectual approach, only to find that the little man’s great mind remained closed to the truth of God. He had tried to argue the Scriptures with the inquisitors; he had wept before the emotional Wilhelm II to no avail.

  How should he approach Santos Justus?

  Through the grace of God and the miracle of technology, he had caught this man at an early stage of his career. Asher could not shame him; the man’s public record was nearly spotless and his private encounters no worse than any other politician’s. He could not speak of the organized church, for Justus was irreligious. He could always point out the similarities between Justus and the Antichrist as portrayed in Scripture, but Justus would undoubtedly take offense at being likened to one called “the son of perdition.”

  Perhaps he should not rely on a specialized approach. Perhaps he should just speak the truth, simply and honestly. That’s how Claudia dealt with people.

  At lunchtime he did not go out to eat in the piazza with the others but remained at his desk, jotting notes on a card. Claudia would probably be alarmed at these signs of his nervousness, but at least she had arranged the interview. He had been prepared to wait months, if necessary, until a door of opportunity opened. But waiting carried the risk of speaking up too late.

  A shadow fell across his desk at 13:55. Asher looked up to see Claudia standing behind him. She did not speak but lifted a questioning brow.

  He slipped the scribbled note cards into his coat pocket. He probably wouldn’t use them, but he liked knowing they were within reach. “I’m ready.”

  How odd, he thought as he followed her to the elevator, that he should be nervous while Claudia remained calm. Something had happened since he last saw her, for as recently as yesterday she had believed Justus would view this meeting as nothing less than harassment. Either something had convinced her otherwise, or she no longer cared what Justus thought.

  They rode the elevator to the seventh floor. “Are you really ready?” Claudia whispered, turning to face him. She reached out and plucked a piece of lint from his shoulder.

  Despite his apprehension, Asher felt a hot and awful joy at her touch. She cared. The depth of her concern echoed in her voice as she whispered, “I’ll be right beside you.”

  Clinging to his purpose, Asher prayed he would not betray his agitation. The elevator doors opened, then he strode forward and opened the door that led into Justus’s private office. A blonde secretary seated at the reception desk flashed a brief smile at him, then nodded to Claudia. “Grazie, you are right on time. If you will wait but one moment . . .” She rose and stepped into the inner office, then returned a moment later, holding the door open for them to enter.

  Asher drew a deep breath as a tremor of mingled fear and anticipation shot through him, then closed his eyes to focus his thoughts. Holy God,
for this I have waited and worked. Send your Spirit to convict Justus’s heart. And speak through me, I beg you.

  He lifted his head, saw Claudia looking at him with a question in her eyes, then gave her a confident nod and led the way into the inner office.

  Justus was seated at his desk, a telephone pressed to his ear, his chair turned toward the window. Asher stood before the desk and clasped his hands at his waist, waiting. Somehow it didn’t seem polite to stand here listening to the man’s telephone conversation, but the secretary had ushered them in.

  Behind him, Claudia cleared her throat. He glanced back long enough to give her a smile, then looked up as the chair squealed and Justus turned.

  “See to it, then,” Justus said, then replaced the telephone in the receiver. He looked first at Claudia, then focused the full intensity of his gaze upon Asher. “Welcome, both of you. Please, Signor Genzano, sit and tell me all that is on your mind. Signorina Fischer tells me you have a unique idea about Unione Globale’s role in future world affairs.”

  Asher glanced at Claudia as they sank into the guest chairs, then his gaze moved into Justus’s, seeing nothing else. “Thank you for seeing me, sir. I believe I have news that will interest you.”

  “If I wasn’t interested,” Justus said, his voice as cool as the smoke off dry ice, “you wouldn’t be here.”

  Claudia laughed softly, and Asher allowed himself to smile. Like a swimmer about to plunge into icy water, he took a deep breath. “You may not know, Il Presidente, that I am a student of history. I have studied many ancient works, among them the Greek and Hebrew texts of the Bible.”

  The smile remained on Justus’s face, but Asher saw a flash of cold enter the man’s eyes.

  “You may not know, Il Presidente, that the ancient prophets spoke often of a great leader who will come to power in the latter days of the planet. A charismatic and intelligent man will rise from the ancient Roman Empire to become the head of the last form of Gentile world government.”

  Justus lifted his hand, his eyes as black and polished as obsidian beads. “Excuse me, signor, but are you going somewhere with this? All this talk about ancient Romans and Gentiles seems a little irrelevant to our work.”

  “I was speaking of the ruler to come. For a few months the world will believe him to be a great leader, but in truth, he will be the pawn of Satan himself . . . and I believe you may be that man.” The words seemed to flow out of him, and Asher paused as they filled the silent room. For an instant, Justus did not respond, then shock flickered over his face like summer lightning.

  He leaned forward across his desk. “Sei pazzo?”

  Asher slowly shook his head. “No, I’m not crazy. Signorina Fischer used to think so, but she knows I am speaking the truth.”

  Justus glared at Claudia with burning, reproachful eyes, then crossed his arms and turned his gaze back to Asher.

  “I am the greatest of sinners,” Asher continued quickly, “so it is in total humility that I come before you today. I have come to Unione Globale for one reason only—to tell you that God demands repentance from every man who would accept salvation. Jesus Christ offers eternal life, but first you must renounce your sinful ways. Jesus Christ came into the world and was executed at Calvary to atone for the sins of mankind. His salvation is available to any who will accept it, and today he is ready and willing to accept you.”

  Justus said nothing but sat motionless, radiating disapproval. Asher felt it like a chilly breeze on the back of his neck.

  “Grazie, Signor Genzano,” Justus said, bridled anger in his voice. “You are dismissed.”

  Asher stood and turned to go, with Claudia following, but Justus stopped her with a command: “Signorina—you will remain.”

  Asher moved through the doorway, then turned in the reception area in time to steal a glance at Claudia’s face. She looked at him with an almost imperceptible note of pleading in her face, like a hunted animal peering out from the brush.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “WHY HAVE YOU HUMILIATED ME IN THIS WAY?”

  I resisted the urge to cringe as Justus’s voice rolled over me with all the thunder and fury of an old-time preacher.

  “Signor Genzano did not intend to embarrass you, Il Presidente.” I spoke quickly, the words running together as I pulled them out of thin air. “He is concerned for Global Union. He is concerned for your soul.” I heard Justus take a deep, angry, and insulted breath, but he didn’t speak, so I continued. “Asher is a man of deep religious conviction. He has spoken to me of many things over the past few days, and I honestly believe he only wants what is best for you and Global Union.”

  Justus’s face went quite pale, with a deep red patch over his cheekbones, as though someone had slapped him hard on both cheeks. “The man is a lunatic! And you—whatever possessed you to bring him up here?”

  “I—” For the first time in years, words failed me. I had been depending on Asher’s ability to make Justus see the truth. It should have been simple, but it took time for Asher to convince me, and it might take time for Justus to come around.

  But time was something Justus did not seem inclined to give either of us. Neither did God seem inclined to grant a miracle.

  A thunderous scowl darkened his brow as his gaze fell upon me. “You are finished here. Your employment shall terminate in one hour, and I expect you to have your office cleared of all personal belongings. Leave your badge with the security officer in the reception area.”

  My stomach dropped like a hanged man. I had never been fired from a job, nor had I ever had a client look at me the way Santos Justus did. He eyed me as if I were a bad smell.

  I lifted my chin and met his gaze. “Anything else?”

  “If you think the matter ends here, you’re sadly mistaken. You will never work again in Europe. The hot breath of religion is the last thing we need in the sensitive atmosphere of global politics. For two thousand years we have been striving to rid ourselves of religion’s poisonous stench, and yet you have the audacity to hire a zealous bigot and drag his nonsense even into my office!”

  From some reserve of strength I didn’t know I possessed, I summoned the courage to answer him. “Asher Genzano is neither a bigot nor a lunatic. He is only a Christian.”

  Justus’s gaze locked on mine, focusing on me with predatory intensity. “I suppose you are one of those fanatics too.”

  I swallowed hard. “I want very much to be.”

  “Then va al diavolo to you both!” He flung out his hand, literally sending me away. I turned and left the room, giving the unnaturally blonde secretary a stiff nod as I passed from the outer office into the lobby. And as I pressed the elevator button and tried to stop my knees from trembling, I wondered how I had managed to travel from the peaks of confidence to the pits of despair in less than a week. The man who would have paved my road to fame and fortune had just told me to go to the devil.

  After stopping in a ladies’ washroom to splash my hands and face with water, I went to my office and emptied my desk drawers of all personal items. I piled my pocket tape recorder, a half-dozen books, and my favorite Waterman pen into my leather briefcase, then pulled my laptop’s plug from the electrical outlet with one smooth jerk. Into the briefcase it went as well, with a handful of personal files from the credenza. I picked up a framed photo of Kirsten and Travis and dropped it into the case, then settled the leather strap onto my shoulder and turned for a last look around.

  “Signorina Fischer?” Maura Casale’s husky voice caught me by surprise. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m leaving, signora.” I gave her an abrupt nod, then gestured toward my desk. “If I have left anything of personal value, will you send it to me? I expect I’ll be leaving Rome soon.” I slipped a business card from my wallet. “Here’s my New York address.”

  The personnel director merely stared, apparently tongue-tied, as I pressed my card against her palm and moved through the doorway. “By the way, signora”—I turned in the hall—“have yo
u seen Signor Genzano in the last five minutes? I’d like to speak to him before I go.”

  Wordlessly, she pointed toward the elevator.

  I stopped on the fourth floor and looked for Asher, but the Publications secretary said he had already left for the day. I thanked her and strode away, determined to leave the building before my fragile facade cracked and shattered into a million tears.

  The rush of adrenaline supported me through my exit interview at the security station where I handed in my ID badge and requested my passport. The guard stepped back to his desk to place a telephone call, watching me through half-closed lids as he confirmed my story, then he returned my passport without ceremony. I took it, flipped through the pages to be sure it hadn’t been altered, then slipped it into my bulging briefcase.

  A surge of indignation carried me out of the building and northward for two blocks, then swirled away like water from an unclogged kitchen sink. As the wind fingered my hair, I plodded forward with a couple of waddling pigeons for company. I felt empty without the rush of adrenaline, so I took a seat in a neighborhood trattoria and ordered a sandwich and a diet soda. I wasn’t hungry but forced myself to eat. As I chewed the unusually tasteless meal, my eyes carelessly scanned the crowds moving on the sidewalk.

  I should have been flooded with relief. I was free from my contract, so in a matter of days I could return to the life I had left behind. I could be with Kirsten and help her through her grief. I could go back to Manhattan and pick up the pieces of my practice, hire a new secretary, and prepare to defend my territory against Elaine Dawson’s invasion. I could visit Rory’s wife and offer my long-overdue condolences. Justus might very well prevent me from working in Europe again, but I had responsibilities aplenty in New York.

  But my mind still burned from the encounter I’d witnessed in Justus’s office. How surreal the situation now seemed! From reading Asher’s journal, I knew he possessed great courage under pressure, but I read unmistakable signs of nervousness in his body when he confronted Justus. Did his anxiety stem from his conviction that he was speaking to the future Antichrist, or was it the simple tension anyone would experience when faced with a long-sought goal?