SITTING IN THE GOLDEN GLOW OF A PERFECT SEVENTY-DEGREE DAY, I dipped another chunk of the delicious bread into a pool of spiced olive oil, then took a bite and returned my attention to my host. Santos Justus was everything I’d thought he’d be, but the articles and grainy photographs could not come close to depicting the man’s vibrancy and charisma.
I doubted whether any camera could catch the depth of his allure. He was handsome, yes, with movie star appeal, which probably contributed to his success in a country where a television seemed to blare from every open window. He had a quick, bright smile, while his black satin eyes seemed to sparkle with a hidden secret. His dark, meticulously groomed hair surrounded a wide forehead. He wore an Armani suit that fit him perfectly, accenting his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His shoes had been shined and polished; his nails were neat and trimmed. Like Senator Mitchell, this man cared about his appearance, but though Justus was impeccable and impressive, he was also likable.
He was as easy on the nerves as on the eyes, and I felt instantly at ease in his presence. When we first met, his handshake had been warm and firm. He took time to greet Signora Casale, and by the answering blush upon her cheek’s I surmised that she was not often invited to dine with Il Presidente. In fact, I noticed that she never looked at him directly, but cast him sideways glances, which spelled attraction in almost any language. Did Maura Casale nurse a secret infatuation for Il Presidente?
I mentally filed the question away and concentrated on my host. I had expected that Justus would talk about my work for Global Union, but during lunch he adroitly steered the conversation toward his beloved Italy. With a graceful smile, he listed the sights I must see, the places I must go, and the foods I must taste before returning to America.
“You will find”—he paused as the waiter came forward to begin clearing the table—“that there is no place on earth like Rome and no people like the Italians. Our society is centered upon the family; our communities upon the town square, the piazza. Even Rome, as large as it is, has several distinct neighborhoods where everyone knows everyone else. I have a feeling you will enjoy your time in Roma.”
“I’ve enjoyed it already,” I answered, wiping my fingertips on my napkin. “And everyone in your organization has been most helpful. Signora Casale”—the woman blushed again—“has taken pains to make certain I understand the application process, and Reverend Synn has found me a charming place to live.”
Nodding, Justus pulled a package of cigarettes from his suit pocket, silently offered it around the table, then shook one free. “We are glad you are pleased. Your residenza is in a singularly historic part of the city.” He paused for a moment to light the cigarette, then shook the flame off the match. “Has anyone told you the history of our building?”
I shook my head, bracing myself to breathe cigarette smoke while I listened. People reveal a lot about themselves when they tell a story, particularly if it is a tale they enjoy telling.
He tasted his cigarette, but only a bare nip; he was eager to speak. “You will hear local residents refer to our headquarters as the red palace, but the designers of the building intended it to be a bank.” Justus rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands together. “Instead of bankers, however, the Communist Party acquired the building shortly after the end of World War II. Some say the money to buy the building came from valuables that Communist partisans found on Mussolini when they captured him on Lake Como while he was trying to flee with his mistress. Others say Moscow itself subsidized the investment. Whatever the source of funds, for years the Communists held court in our building, and guards rarely allowed citizens from the West even to enter the lobby. Their pet name for our headquarters was il bottegone, the big shop.”
“What happened to the Communists?” I asked when Justus paused to draw on his cigarette again.
Smiling, he exhaled a stream of smoke. “The Cold War ended, and their funding dried up and blew away. They offered to sell the building for thirty-five million dollars American, but the real estate market in Rome had gone soft—so soft that Unione Globale was able to buy the building for a mere $20 million last year. Now we tread the same halls hardened Communists once trod . . . and we’re quite grateful.”
I repressed the expression of incredulity that threatened to creep across my face. Reverend Synn had mentioned a bequest that endowed the organization, but I never dreamed that bequest had consisted of millions. My mind’s eye had conjured up a kindly gray-haired lady who dreamed of peace and donated a few hundred thousand dollars, but apparently Justus had financial connections far beyond the scope of my imagination.
“I am no expert on real estate,” I offered, “but I think you got a real bargain.”
“Sixty-five thousand square feet of office space in a prime international location,” Synn said, lifting his wine glass. “The gods surely smiled upon us.”
Something in me took note of his odd comment. What sort of minister referred to God in the plural? Trying not to reveal my bewilderment, I smiled at Synn as Maura Casale’s hand fell upon my arm. “They say,” she said, lowering her voice to a confidential tone, “that the rooms on the upper floor once served as a love nest. Palmiro Togliatti, an international Communist leader, lived there with his mistress when his wife threw him out of the house.” The corners of her eyes crinkled as she gave me a mischievous smile. “Apparently Signora Togliatti was much admired in the Chamber of Deputies, even for a Communist. And the unfaithful husband and his mistress, I’ve heard, spent more time quarreling than loving—”
“Signora Casale.” Synn’s voice held a note of reproach. “I am sure Il Presidente doesn’t want to be reminded of these things. After all, you are speaking of his office.”
The personnel director swallowed hard, her cheeks blazing brighter than the sunshine warranted. I felt embarrassed for her, but Justus reached out and affectionately patted the woman’s arm. “Signora Casale meant no harm, Darien. And the story is fascinating. I can see why she wanted to share it with the signorina.”
Our meal concluded, the waiter removed the last of our dishes, then presented the check to Justus, who promptly handed it to Reverend Synn.
“Well,” Justus said, taking another drag from his cigarette. He put it in an ashtray to smolder, then turned his attention to me. “Now that our meal is done, perhaps you will allow me to speak of business.”
“Please do.”
He turned the full brilliance of his smile upon me. “We need your help with the concorso, of course, but another matter regarding our international work has arisen, and I think your unique skills may be of invaluable assistance. Would you be willing to attend a meeting or two in Brussels with me?”
Brussels? The capital of the European Union . . .
Suddenly my blood was swimming in adrenaline. Three weeks ago I would have been thrilled just to establish a reputation for quality work in the eastern United States, but from out of the blue I’d been invited to Rome. Now, as casually as if he were offering me another slice of bread, Santos Justus was inviting me to the European capital!
I lifted my gaze and tried on a casual, nonchalant smile. “I’d be happy to see if I can help.”
Justus leaned back and picked up his cigarette again. “Bene. Wonderful. I will let you know more details as the time approaches.”
Synn leaned toward his employer and gestured to his watch. “Were you supposed to meet someone after lunch?”
“Si, grazie.” Il Presidente nipped at his cigarette one final time, then ground it out with a vicious twist of thumb and forefinger. As he stood, Justus turned his attention back to me. “Thank you for lunch. I am grateful for an opportunity to know you better.”
He smiled at Signora Casale, held her hand for a moment in farewell, then slipped through the crowd milling outside the restaurant.
“Does he always travel alone like that?” I asked, craning my neck to follow his athletic form through the crowd. “Doesn’t he have a bodyguard?”
“I have tried to convince him it is foolish to walk about in the open,” Synn answered, coming around to pull out my chair. “But he feels he is beloved in the Eternal City.”
I stood, about to ask about the enemies Synn had told me to guard against, but Il Direttore was moving toward the cashier with a fistful of lire. I waited beside Signora Casale, silently wondering why Justus felt so safe in Rome. History had proved that public figures were not safe anywhere, especially at home. Hadn’t Julius Caesar been stabbed to death on the steps of the Roman Senate? And Pope John Paul II had been shot in the courtyard of his own St. Peter’s Basilica.
As Synn smiled and extended his hand toward the sidewalk, I joined him and Signora Casale, deciding to let Justus and his security people worry about his personal safety. After all, I had been instructed to watch for cheats and liars, not assassins.
I sincerely hoped the adversaries of Global Union preferred cutting words to automatic weapons.
Though I was more than a little intrigued by the idea of working with Santos Justus in the international arena, I resolved to focus first on the work he had hired me to do. To that end, I allotted several hours each morning for meeting and reviewing the present employees of Global Union. I promised Signora Casale that I’d spend my afternoons interviewing prospective employees from her list of recommended candidates.
On Thursday afternoon, my second day on the job, Maura Casale stopped by my office with several key staff members. Speaking Italian for their benefit, she referred to me in a string of syllables that seemed a haphazard mixture of “o’s” and “ini’s,” then quietly bid me good afternoon and left me blinking in confusion. Though I think my technical title was “resource officer of the Global Union,” I later learned that the employees of Global Union did not refer to me as ufficiale delle risorse del Unione Globale, but as l’Americana. Sometimes when I heard my title whispered in the cafeteria line, I doubted that the phrase was intended as a compliment. Who could blame them? I had been hired, in part, to watch them even in unguarded moments and search for signs of disloyalty. No wonder the senior staff members left my office so quickly.
Before concentrating on individuals, though, I had to learn about the Roman approach to business. I quickly discovered that no work ever transpired between the hours of noon and two o’clock (fourteen o’clock to the Romans). The average employee in our headquarters typically drank his or her breakfast (a cup of espresso) on the run, washed down a croissant (a cornetto) with another cup of espresso at eleven, then dawdled over a two-hour pasta lunch. They were earnest workers as long as they remained in their office environment, but apparently an invisible force field stood somewhere near the doorways of those offices and cubicles. When a Roman employee crossed through the force field, work ceased to exist or matter. Mealtimes were for relaxation and refreshment; walks in the park were inspiration for the soul. Business was not mixed with pleasure.
I learned this the hard way—on Thursday I joined a group of women employees in the cafeteria for lunch and casually brought up the long line of job applicants I’d seen in the lobby that morning. The women fell silent as a little flutter of indignation spread through the group. I had offended them, and later, when the conversation resumed its normal pace, I began to understand why.
The prohibition against business talk at mealtimes was actually a benefit in disguise. When people are relaxed, they reveal more of their authentic selves. So when I joined the employees of Global Union for the cornetto and espresso break at eleven, I found the cafeteria an ideal place to fulfill the first part of my responsibilities—reading the organization’s present employees. Knowing that I was working while I sat and talked with the other employees helped ease the burden of guilt imposed by my American work ethic.
I learned more about Italians in my first few days on the job than I could ever have picked up from a book. I learned, for instance, that the American concept of personal space did not exist in Italy. Touches were freely given and feelings openly expressed. Complete strangers felt completely comfortable leaning close and touching my arm as we spoke; women thought it sweet, not strange, to stroke a friend’s arm while they shared a confidence or talked about the weather. One afternoon while I sat alone at a table in the empty cafeteria, a man I had never met came in, served himself from the espresso machine, and sat in the empty chair right next to me. He didn’t want to talk to me and he didn’t know me; he just wanted to sit in that seat. Though his nearness made me uncomfortable, I soon realized that the Italians meant no offense by what most Americans would consider an invasion of personal territory.
On the first Monday of my second week, with Signora Casale’s blessing I took a tour of the Global Union headquarters to get a feel for my surroundings. The security and employment offices filled the first floor; the cafeteria and employees’ lounge took up most of the space on the third. I already knew that the Communists’ former love nest on the seventh floor served as Santos Justus’s personal offices.
On the second floor I found a mammoth library. The caretakers of this cluttered space, a man and a woman, looked up as I came out of the elevator. From their startled expressions I surmised that the library didn’t receive many visitors.
Stepping forward, I met the Doctors Curvier—Millard and Patrice, husband and wife. Dr. Patrice greeted me with a distracted smile. She was a medium-sized woman with red hair too bright to have come from human DNA. Her green eyes flickered over my form from head to toe, then she gave me a flitting, close-lipped smile, said, “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” and returned her attention to her work.
“Bonjour, Madame and Monsieur Doctor Curvier,” I said, giving the historians the brightest smile I could manage in this dismal and dusty place. “Signora Casale said I should stop by and introduce myself. I am Claudia Fischer, the resource officer who will be working with Il Presidente for the next few months.”
The woman pulled her glasses to the end of her nose and looked up from the document she had been reading. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear,” she said, her voice heavy with a French accent. She reached out and tugged on her husband’s sleeve, then proceeded to speak to him— about me, I think—in sign language.
Monsieur Doctor Curvier was obviously deaf, and though he answered his wife in fluent signs, I had no idea whether he signed in American Sign Language, European, or whatever. After watching the Doctors Curvier converse with one another, I began to suspect they had devised a language all their own.
“My husband and I are pleased to meet you,” Madame Curvier said, turning to me after exchanging a series of flurried gestures with her husband. “What can we do to help you?”
I crossed my arms, mentally noting the gesture as a sign of my own defensiveness. “I just wanted to get a sense of all work Global Union employees are doing. I know you are sorting through stacks of old records—”
The lady made an abrupt tsking sound. “That is my husband’s job. I don’t bother with it. The dust makes me sneeze.” She crinkled her nose, and I noted a gleam of amusement in her green eyes. “I am working on a different project for Il Presidente—a collection of biographies.”
“Really?” I stepped forward and peered over her shoulder. “Who are you studying now?”
She waved her hand. “Many different people. Il Presidente wants to write a speech on the great peacemakers of the world, so I am pulling together facts about Edward VII of England, John of Gaunt, Jesus, Saint Casimir of Poland, Pope Clement VI . . .” Her voice drifted off as she idly touched her hair, then her gaze flew toward me. “Have you any suggestions? Can you think of any peace-loving Americans we should include?”
I bit my lip. “Um . . . Ronald Reagan? They say he brought about the end of the Cold War.”
She tilted her head, considering my suggestion, then frowned. “Too controversial, too current. Il Presidente will be safer referring to men of ages past.”
I smothered a smile, thanked her for her time, and walked back to the elevator, only too happy to leave the stuffy room. The Curviers were unusual people, but I saw no signs of treachery or hostility in them. They were bookish introverts, very French, and very intelligent. I’d bet my wisdom teeth that they were also very boring at parties.
I skipped the third floor and the cafeteria, then stepped off at the fourth floor. This area, designed to house the Editorial and Publications Departments, was still largely unfurnished. A jumble of desks and office chairs filled the lobby, and painters and carpet layers occupied several offices. I quickly excused myself and took the elevator to the sixth floor, skipping the fifth. The only offices on the fifth floor thus far were mine and Rico Triccoli’s, the man hired to oversee international chapters of Global Union. Rico traveled a great deal, and I had not had a chance to meet him.
The sixth floor revealed nothing unusual—only Reverend Synn’s office, a data entry pool of nearly a dozen women, and the financial office, which stood behind locked double doors. I took the hint and moved on, smiling at the data entry operators as I walked past the half-wall that defined their space. As I rounded the corner, I heard whispers about l’Americana. Part of me wished there’d been time to take a basic course in Italian before leaving New York.
I stepped back into the elevator and pressed five, ready to return to my corner of the complex. And as the polished brass doors silently slid shut, I realized that Justus’s personnel director had done a very good job of hiring faithful people thus far . . . without my help.
“So why were they so eager to hire me?”
The question hung in the air, shimmering like my reflection in the elevator’s brass doors.