ASHER LEANED BACK AGAINST THE TRAVERTINE FACING OF THE STONE building and narrowed his eyes as the trio exited the red palace. He recognized Darien Synn from news reports, and he had seen the dark-haired woman on other occasions when he watched the building. But the second woman, a blonde with short, clipped hair, was unfamiliar to him. Asher pulled himself erect and followed, willing to wager his last lira that the blonde was the American Justus had just hired.
Synn walked at the newcomer’s left side, shielding her from the commotion of the busy street, leaving the older woman to follow behind. The director of Unione Globale did most of the talking, occasionally pulling his hand from his pocket to gesture at a building. He was undoubtedly rattling off the typical information given to tourists while the blonde drank it all in, her head bobbing in silent agreement, her eyes wide with interest.
They walked at a brisk pace, dodging slower pedestrian traffic and hurrying through intersections, then stopped outside a crowded trattoria on the Via de Cestari. Synn spoke to the owner, and a moment later all three had been seated at a large circular table in the outdoor terrace.
From his vantage point on the sidewalk across the street, Asher stood and eyed the empty chair at the table. The seat was probably reserved for Justus, who had been scheduled to give a speech to the Chamber of Deputies at 10:00 A.M. The Chamber met less than two blocks away, so this would be an ideal meeting place.
Confirming Asher’s hunch, a blue Alfa Romeo stopped next to the row of parked cars along the curb. As Asher leaned back against the wall, he saw the young man with whom he’d shared a cup of coffee step from the car. Angelo did not release his passenger, however, for before the chauffeur could move, Santos Justus alighted from the backseat, waved a cheery farewell to his driver, and left the young man to fight the traffic alone.
Asher grunted in satisfaction as the Alfa Romeo revved its engine and moved away, clearing his view of the diners on the terrace. Synn stood at once to introduce Justus, and the blonde woman stood as well, extending her hand to the politician. Both smiled and seemed genuinely pleased to meet.
Asher moved from the wall to a street post, still watching as Justus took the empty chair between Synn and the American, then said something to the dark-haired woman, who replied with a gracious smile.
Why bring in an American? Asher considered the question as he turned into the trattoria behind him. He placed an order for a light lunch, paid the cashier, and returned to the street with a drink and a sandwich, sipping his coffee as he thoughtfully considered the quartet across the street. They would not talk about business at lunch, he knew. Italians relaxed and enjoyed their meals, reserving work-related topics for the office and boardroom. But even though they would not talk business, the men and women across the road were certainly forming opinions of one another. Santos Justus would be interested in learning how the American woman could help his organization . . . just as Asher was.
Asher studied the diners a few minutes more, then turned and threaded his way through the lunchtime crowds. A pair of embracing teenagers with matching spiky, green hair shifted to let him pass; a Gypsy woman reached for his hand and offered to read his palm. Asher shook his head and left her alone to solicit another passerby. Her type had always been sprinkled throughout the crowds of Rome; even Hitler’s occupying Nazis could not rid the streets of Gypsies. Mussolini enacted laws to drive the Gypsies out, and Nero had done the same thing, yet nothing could rid the city of their dark avarice . . .
Some things never changed. In the days of the emperors, Rome had been a bustling metropolis of thousands, not millions, but even then the city leaders had battled polluted waters, pickpockets, congestion in the city squares, and the ever-present beggars. In times of persecution, the beggars and Gypsies stayed out of sight, yet still they remained, sleeping in the fields, hiding in doorways, living in the ruins.
Asher had once heard someone say that life was one thing after another. He snorted in derision at the thought. Life wasn’t one thing after another—it was one thing over and over. The evidences of evil waxed and waned with the seasons of mankind, but its source wielded as much power today as it had in the days of Hitler. The father of evil was patient.
Asher would wait with him.