The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  And why had Justus reacted so strongly? Why couldn’t he accept Asher’s concern at face value and, if he wasn’t interested in religion, politely dismiss him? Asher’s fears were not unfounded. Though Justus was not a particularly evil man, the potential for corruption and power undoubtedly yawned before him. How many other men had stood on the brink of world conquest? Hundreds. And how many kings and dictators and emperors had been corrupted by the power they wielded? Most, if not all. The few men who chose to govern with love and gentleness were no match for evil and ambition.

  While I searched for references to the Wandering Jew in Germany, I found a quote where Hitler spoke for most would-be world rulers when he proclaimed that Jesus Christ was “a self-appointed rabbi whose teachings of meekness and love ended in the surrender of the will to survive.” Hitler saw the Christian virtues of forgiveness, self-abnegation, weakness, and humility as “the seeds of decadence” and “the very denial of the evolutionary laws of survival of the fittest, the most courageous and talented.”

  I stirred the straw in my soft drink. Hitler spoke as one who believed nothing existed outside of life, but Asher certainly didn’t feel that way. He yearned for death, evidenced real jealousy toward those who found it, and seemed convinced that the hereafter was infinitely more beautiful than the here and now.

  Where had he gone? For some inexplicable reason, I worried about him. He was a grown man and quite capable of caring for himself, but in the last hour he had finally come face to face with his target . . . and failed to hit the mark.

  What would he do now? Would he continue his pursuit of Justus or search for another man who might fit the role of Antichrist? I considered the latter option for a moment, then dismissed it. Asher had been convinced that Santos Davide Justus was the man who would be king, and I didn’t think he’d give up as long as Justus lived.

  He wouldn’t be able to work through Global Union, though. If Justus had been furious enough to fire me, he certainly wouldn’t allow Asher to remain at Union headquarters. A memo had probably already appeared on Signora Casale’s computer: Dismiss the translator and hire another. Alert security; Asher Genzano is not to enter the building . . .

  I crumpled the paper wrapping from my sandwich, then stood and tossed it into a waste bin. Keeping my soft drink cup, I slipped my briefcase strap back onto my shoulder and stepped into the parade of passing pedestrians, walking northward toward the Piazza della Rotonda and the Pantheon. With any luck, I’d find Asher sitting in an espresso shop or a trattoria along the way.

  An unexpected weed of jealousy sprang up in my heart as I walked. Asher might have been doomed to a life he did not want, but at least he had managed to find a purpose. What purpose did I have? None—at least none that mattered. I had come to Rome with the goal of proving myself to be the world’s leading people reader, but what did my personal ambition matter in the face of the world’s needs? Asher had steered his life on a course to serve mankind; daily he poured himself out in an effort to buy a few more years for people he had never even met. For the sake of others he had endured pain, loneliness, sorrow, and suffering, while I had done nothing but attempt to polish my own rising star.

  Santos Justus’s goal of world peace was more noble than my ambition.

  I abruptly changed directions, accidentally bumping another woman’s shoulder. “Scusi!” I tossed the apology over my shoulder, then glanced up at the street sign. Asher once mentioned that he liked to visit the Pincio Gardens when he needed to think, and those gardens were just off this bus route and not far from my residenza.

  I caught the bus, stared mindlessly through the windows until we reached the Piazza del Popolo, then exited. The hillside above Il Pincio was green with life even in November and the zigzagging path that climbed to the gardens all but invisible through the evergreens. Lengthening my stride, I cut across the piazza and entered the garden path, watching for Asher as I climbed. Beneath a canopy of umbrella pines, palm trees, and gnarled oaks, the garden’s broad avenues seemed a quiet oasis in the midst of the city’s bustle.

  When I finally reached the Pincio’s main square, I stood on the crest of a hill and stared in wonder at the panoramic view stretching before me. A signpost beside the path told me I could see from the Monte Mario to the Janiculum. I didn’t recognize either of those names; I only knew the view was extraordinary. Like a living organism, the city lay before me in all its glory, as alive with the throbbing sights and sounds of life as it had been when Asher first walked these streets two thousand years ago . . .

  I will be your God throughout your lifetime—until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.

  The words crept into my mind, softly, like the poet says, on little cat feet. I don’t know where they originated or why they crept into my consciousness, but they brought comfort in their wake.

  It would be wonderful to believe as Asher did. To know that life had purpose, no matter how short or long, and that no matter what happened, God remained in control.

  Signor Pace believed like that. That wise man had found happiness in something as simple as caring for a tiny church and the neighborhood’s feline population . . . and I envied him.

  If I could believe like that, I might be able to accept Rory’s death and the loss of Kirsten’s baby. I might never cease to mourn what might have been, but I’d know that evil couldn’t separate us forever and that I’d see them again.

  My childhood Sunday school teacher had been fond of teaching about heaven. She’d taught us prayers like “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . .” I smiled as I flipped through my memory file for the rest of the prayer. Of course—“And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

  God had taken Kirsten’s baby to heaven. He hadn’t caused the accident, but he was sheltering that child, and the accident had drawn Sean and Kirsten closer together. God had also taken Rory, and now Jesus was comforting Alice. I didn’t understand how, but she did.

  Yet for some reason God had steadfastly refused to take Asher’s soul . . . why? So he would be here when Justus rose to power? Or so he would be here when I needed him?

  A stone bench stood at the edge of the avenue, and I sat down, keeping my gaze fixed to the horizon. As a child, I had marveled at views like this. Every sunset filled my heart with ecstasy, and sunrise was a time of magic and unexpected delight. Kirsten always told me that every morning God opened his paint box and painted the colors of a new day. I believed her, just like I believed her story about thunder coming from God’s bowling alley. I also believed everything the Sunday school teacher said, often taking her literally. When she explained that we put money in the offering plate in order to give it to God, I assumed the dark-suited men who took the overflowing plates down to the Communion table were like the priests in the Old Testament stories. Since I knew they couldn’t very well take the money outside and toss it up to heaven, I figured they burned it, like the animal sacrifices, so God would smell the smoke and declare the offering a sweet scent . . .

  But then I grew up and learned the difference between imagination and reality. I gave up sunrises in order to sleep late; schoolwork and studies filled my sunset hours. I learned that rapidly expanding air along the path of an electrical discharge of lightning created thunder, and I realized that no one in his or her right mind would burn money to please God. No, the money went to very practical, realistic needs: electricity, flowers for the altar table, and the pastor’s salary.

  My world shifted on its axis; my daydreams vanished, replaced by five-year goals and to-do lists. A pocket organizer replaced my girlish diary; meetings replaced my hours of contemplation. I didn’t mind, for the person I became earned praises and awards and the admiration of her peers. I began to consider myself the ultimate pragmatist. Independent, self-contained, cool under pressure, and very private, I didn’t need anyone and I certainly didn’t need God. I wasn’t interested in changing oth
er people, and I didn’t want anyone to change me.

  Until now.

  A faint wind sighed through the trees, and in its breath I felt my spirit stretch and soar. If nothing else, Asher had taught me to look beyond myself and my physical boundaries, to broaden my thinking. Through his eyes I had glimpsed a world that stretched like this panorama, from ancient history to a foreseeable future. Through his conviction I had begun to accept that it was all part of God’s plan. In the beginning he created man, in the center of time he sent the One who would atone for all, and in the end he would set things right. And throughout the marvelous and varied tapestry of time, the simple scarlet cord of love ran like the foundation thread on a weaver’s loom.

  A wry smile tugged at the corners of my lips. God must have known I’d be a tough nut to crack. Into my world he first sent Rory, who lived a quiet and steady life of faith. When that didn’t impress me, God sent the one person on earth who would pit my abilities against my reason. My eyes and ears told me Asher spoke the truth; my mind had never been able to believe it. With such a contest raging in my brain, it’s a wonder I didn’t need psychological help!

  Behind me, the sun was coming down the sky but hadn’t yet reached the row of pines that topped the hill. Watching the lengthening shadows, I exhaled a long sigh of contentment.

  “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son . . .”

  My mind ran backward, picking up the strings of time. I think I learned that snippet of Scripture in the little wooden church where Kirsten and I were baptized as babies. I thought I was a Christian back then—after all, weren’t all Americans? But later, when I thought I had grown too old for Bible stories and Sunday school songs, I put my spiritual training away, like a box of outgrown garments.

  “Show me the way back, God.”

  In the distance, far beyond the gleaming man-made monuments, the wind herded dull-gray clouds over the mountains like a shepherd gathering in his wayward sheep. I lifted my chin and closed my eyes. “God—Signor Pace said you would give me salvation if I ask for it. So I’m asking. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do or say, but I chose to believe in Asher, and now I’d like to believe in you.”

  When I opened my eyes again, a little boy, probably three or four, stood at the end of my bench with a finger in his mouth. He looked at me with wide, curious eyes.

  One corner of my mouth lifted in a smile. “I believe,” I told the toddler, not caring whether or not he understood. It just felt good to say it.

  The child looked away, then turned and ran off, calling for his mama.

  I hunched into my jacket and scanned the wide horizon, not wanting to alarm the boy’s parents. I wasn’t a crazy American. For the first time in years, I felt I had found a way home.

  THIRTY

  ALONE IN HIS SITTING ROOM, ASHER SLIPPED OUT OF HIS COAT AND tossed it onto the settee, wishing he could cast aside his defeat as easily. Sighing in frustration, he slouched into his desk chair and pulled his journal toward him. As the wind hooted through the half-opened window, he uncapped his fountain pen and confessed his failure in the only way he knew how.

  Today I spoke to Santos D. Justus, and he would not hear me. May God forgive me if the fault was mine, but I fear his heart was set against the truth before I even began to speak. He sees nothing but his own ambitions; he cares for nothing but his own schemes. And now I am at a loss—what should I do? I was certain I had caught this one sooner than the others.

  Oh, God, have I failed you yet again? My hand still bears the scars from your crown of thorns. Must I bear the scar of your displeasure forever as well? I know I am cursed before you. My anger and pride were an abomination to you, an affront to the humble Lamb of God who was preparing to give his life.

  Can Justus not see the truth? He lives in the most holy city in the world; he walks upon the streets where saints have trod, yet his eyes are blind to the truth of the gospel. He is Antichrist, if not in fact, then certainly in deed and attitude.

  I pray he is not the one, yet I am almost certain he is. Never have the times been more ripe for the Lord’s coming. You spoke, blessed Lord, of wars and rumors of wars; I see them on every hand. You spoke of famines in various places, of earthquakes and death and destruction. These, too, I see behind and before me.

  You said the sons of Abraham would return to the Promised Land, and they have. I know now why Adolf Hitler could never have been the Antichrist—the time was not right; your people did not safely dwell in the land promised to Abraham’s seed. But now they are there, with more arriving every day, and they have signed peace accords that allow them to dwell in relative safety. They are even preparing to rebuild the holy temple that will be the scene of abomination and desolation in the time of tribulation.

  I understand, heavenly God, that man’s time of groaning and travail is nearing an end. I myself am weary and weak in spirit. My tongue is not as eloquent as it once was, and the men and women of this day and age are not easily impressed by knowledge. Their minds are too full of useless things; their minds are cluttered with images and sound bites from around the globe. They hurry and scurry and chat by telephone and e-mail. They communicate more information in a minute than an ancient scribe could in a year . . . yet they accomplish nothing of eternal value or consequence.

  I cannot help feeling that I failed today. Santos Davide Justus must be the man who will lead the world once your church has departed, yet I could not persuade him to hear the truth.

  Have I presumed upon your eternal plan? Will you come so quickly, Lord Jesus? Your children would rejoice to see you burst through the clouds to call them to their heavenly reward, but the rest of the earth would mourn. They are still lost, holy God; they are still groping in spiritual darkness. For their sakes, have mercy and postpone your coming. For them, withhold your righteous anger for another generation. For them— Let me stop Santos Justus.

  Asher dropped his pen to the desk, pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. A thought occurred to him—a thought he dared not write in his journals or even confess aloud. The idea might have arisen from the pit of hell itself, but in the light of the day’s defeat, it seemed the only logical alternative to surrender.

  He had a choice—God always provided a choice—but Asher could not step back and let Santos Justus continue to lead Unione Globale. Already the organization had spread its tentacles throughout the world, and by sending Asher and Claudia to Brussels, Justus had demonstrated that he was not an honorable man. Just like Napoleon, Wilhelm II, and Hitler, Santos Justus craved power. And he would increase his power, through fair means and foul, until he controlled the mightiest empire the world had ever known. Like a great, dark spider sitting atop a web, he would manipulate the media, the economy, the government, and the church. It was only a matter of time . . . and time was running out.

  Asher opened his eyes, blinked, and raked his hand through his hair. In Old Testament times, God allowed his people to kill their enemies; at times he demanded it in order to purge the land of idolatry. Wasn’t this the same situation? Santos Justus would lead the world to idolatry when he set himself up as god, for the Scripture plainly prophesied that the Antichrist would erect a statue of himself within Jerusalem’s holy temple. Anyone who did not worship the beast would be martyred, and thousands of people would die, just as they had in the Inquisition . . .

  Asher could not wait. Even if God did not protect him, still he would act. Not for his own sake, but for the ones who still wandered in darkness.

  Pressing his lips together, Asher picked up his pen.

  Give me strength, holy God, and guide my hand. Even if you will not, then clear the way so my aim is true. Let me rid the world of this one who would lead it to death and destruction and desolation.

  Thank you, Father, for your mercy. I pray you will heap it upon the dark soul of Santos Justus tomorrow.

  Asher lowered his pen, waited a moment for the ink to dry, then closed his journal. Moving slowly in the d
im lamplight, he moved to the bureau in his bedroom, then knelt and opened the bottom drawer. From beneath a stack of sweaters that smelled of wool and mothballs, he pulled a bundle of gray felt, secured with strips of leather.

  Carrying the bundle to his bed, he carefully unknotted the leather strings, then wound the felt away from the object it protected. The gray material fell away, leaving a seven-inch metal tube in his hand.

  Asher stared at the olive green weapon, reacquainting himself with its features and purpose. He had not unwrapped it since 1959, when it fell into his possession shortly after the assassination of Ukrainian dissident Stefan Bandera. Asher had not known Bandera or the assassin, a KGB officer called Stashinsky, but he had been standing in the shadows on a snowy night in Munich when a Russian officer crept out of an underground tunnel and dropped the felt package into a waste bin. As the officer crept away, Asher retrieved the bundle.

  A week later he read in the German papers that Stefan Bandera had been murdered with a Soviet gas gun, a short tube containing an ampule of acid. When the firing lever activated a firing pin, the percussion cap detonated, vaporizing the acid into a poisonous gas that would be propelled out of a small hole in the tube. According to eyewitnesses, the papers added, Bandera fell dead just after KGB officer Stashinsky approached and pointed a rolled-up newspaper toward his face.

  Now, as the thick black sky pressed against his window, Asher studied the assassination gun. The felt had kept the mechanism clean and dry; he found no evidence of rust. The cocking rod lay at one end, the muzzle at the other. The designer had placed a rubber ring between the cocking rod and the bend of the firing lever. The rubber had deteriorated somewhat, so the shooter might feel the recoil.

  Carefully, Asher twisted the muzzle end, then pulled out the firing chamber. A single cartridge lay within, its end still sealed with a gas ampule that would spell certain death for whomever the shooter selected as a target.