ASHER WALKED DOWN THE HALL AND FOUND THE ELEVATOR, THEN held the doors open when a breathless woman called out, “Si fermi! Per favore!”
A small woman with hair the color of a Santa suit hurried down the hall, then gave him a quick smile as she stepped into the elevator. “Merci beaucoup,” she answered, leaning against the back wall.
The abrupt switch from Italian to French startled him. A Frenchwoman? Asher crossed his arms and smiled as she pressed the button for the second floor. “You are from France?” he asked in French.
The woman looked at him with puzzlement in her eyes. “Oui.”
“How long have you been in Rome?”
“Six weeks.” Her hesitant smile deepened. “You are from France too, no? From Paris?”
“No, I am Roman.” Asher glanced at the door as the elevator began its descent. “But I lived in France for many years.”
“You speak like a native Parisian.”
“Merci beaucoup, madame. I am applying for the job of interpreter here. I am not certain I will be approved.”
The woman made a face. “And why not? It is a pleasure to hear someone speak my native tongue without butchering it. I shall speak to Il Presidente myself and make certain you are raccomandati . . . if you will give me your name.”
Asher gave her a grateful smile. “Asher Genzano,” he answered, stepping back as the elevator doors slid open. “And thank you very much.”
She stepped off the elevator, pausing in the hallway just long enough to give him a reassuring nod. Bowing his head in reply, he pressed the button for the first floor, then folded his arms and leaned against the wall as the elevator doors closed.
He had to get the interpreter’s job. He was far more qualified for it than any man alive, and it was one of the few positions that would bring him into Santos Justus’s inner circle. He knew he had impressed the personnel director, and a word of recommendation from the Frenchwoman would help, but the interview with the American had not gone well.
Who was she, and why did her opinion matter? He had tried to inquire about her role in the concorso when Signora Casale directed him to the American’s office, but the Italian woman only murmured something about “resource officer” and “an important step in the process.”
He chided himself as the elevator doors slid open. He should have prepared better before attempting this approach. He should have learned about the American and puzzled through the connections between her and Justus—then, perhaps, he would be able to understand why she had looked at him with reticence in her eyes.
He paused at the security desk to sign out, then caught the guard’s eye. “I am to come back tomorrow,” he said in Italian. “I am to see Signorina Fischer again.”
“L’Americana?”
“Si.” Asher slid the clipboard across the marble-topped desk at the security station, then adopted the most mournful expression he could muster. “Perhaps you can tell me a way to win her favor. I don’t think she likes me.”
The guard laughed as he picked up the clipboard. “At least you have been invited back. She has dismissed many people after just one meeting.”
His words gave Asher a glimmer of hope. “She is a beautiful woman,” he said, leaning one elbow on the desk. “Surely there is a way a man can work his way into her good graces.”
“I wouldn’t try it.” The guard leaned forward confidentially. “She is an expert in what she does. If you bribe her with flowers, she will know you are not sincere.”
“An expert? In questioning people?”
“In understanding people. This is not commonly known, but”—he gestured for Asher to come closer—“Il Direttore says she can tell almost anything about a person just by talking with him for five minutes. In America she works for criminals, helping them get away with murder in jury trials.”
“E terribile!” Asher couldn’t stop the expression from crossing his lips.
The guard shrugged and straightened himself. “What can I say? E un americanata! What else can you expect from the Americans?”
Asher murmured his thanks and left the building, his thoughts spinning.