MY LITTLE RESIDENZA SEEMED DARK AND GLOOMY WHEN I FINALLY dragged myself out of bed, and a quick glance out the window revealed a sun as weak as yesterday’s dreams. I dressed in black slacks and a sweater (even on weekends and holidays, in Rome only teenagers seemed to wear jeans), then stepped out into the hallway. Mario and Marco sat at the end of the hall, the contents of their mother’s mailbag spread all over the carpeted floor.
I slipped my hands into my pockets and morosely reflected that my love life was about as dependable as my landlady’s mail route. Since my arrival at the residenza, I had learned that the twins’ mother was a mail carrier for the city of Rome. Though the city promised two mail deliveries on weekdays and one on Sundays, Benedetta Donatelli’s patrons were lucky if they got mail four times a week. They were luckier still if their cards, letters, and magazines survived the sticky hands of two inquisitive six-year-old boys.
I thought about asking the boys if they’d seen any mail for me, then thought the better of it. No telling what they’d hand me. After giving the twins a weakly tolerant smile, I stepped over the scattered mail, left the house, and walked down to my favorite espresso shop. After eating a tasteless croissant and downing a cup of the strongest concoction they offered, some of the feeling seemed to return to my body. Instead of returning to the scene of my humiliation, however, I turned and walked up the Via di Ripetta.
The prevailing sidewalk traffic seemed to be moving in the opposite direction, and I knew most people in this neighborhood would attend church, then spend their holiday in the Piazza del Popolo. The tourists would gawk at the three-thousand-year-old obelisk that Augustus had brought to Rome after the conquest of Egypt, while the locals gathered around the marble lions and fountains to exchange gossip with their neighbors.
Strange, that I now counted myself among the latter group. Immediately after arriving in Rome I’d spent my weekends visiting all the tourist sites, and I no longer wanted to fight crowds and look at ancient architecture. I wanted the comfort of the familiar—so maybe that’s why I was walking toward Global Union headquarters, the red palace.
How pitiful! I stopped abruptly in the wide space of the Piazza della Rotonda, startling the man walking a scant two steps behind me. He muttered something about Americans as he changed his pace and passed on my right side, but I didn’t care. I stood in the center of the sidewalk, floundering in an agonizing maelstrom of emotion, searching for something solid to cling to . . .
And then I saw Asher Genzano seated at a table outside the Café Giolitti with the morning newspaper in his hands. A cup of coffee sat on the table near his elbow, and a black-and-white tuxedo cat crouched at his feet, playfully swatting the laces of Genzano’s shoes.
I may never understand why I sank into the empty chair facing him. I didn’t particularly want to talk to him; perhaps the sight of a familiar face drew me to his table. Genzano looked up immediately, of course, and greeted me with a quiet, “Buon giorno.” I answered him with the same phrase, then defensively crossed my arms and my legs and stared at the milling crowds in the piazza. I could feel the pressure of Genzano’s eyes upon me, but after a moment he looked away and continued reading his paper. While I sat in lonely silence and mentally replayed my conversation with Kurt at least another dozen times, Genzano said nothing but flipped the pages of his paper until he reached the last page. When he had finished reading, he folded the paper, lowered it to the table, and picked up his coffee cup.
Watching from the corner of my eye, I felt a pain squeeze my heart as he leaned toward me. “Are you well, signorina?”
I wanted to lift my arms and scream no! at the top of my lungs— an action that probably wouldn’t draw much attention in Manhattan or Rome. But an air of old-world gentility clung to Genzano, and I didn’t think he’d want a bloodcurdling scream to shatter the serenity of his morning.
I swallowed the despair in my throat and tried to maintain an even, professional tone. “I’m fine—had a bit of bad news this morning, though.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Genzano spoke in a tone of surprised respect. “Family trouble?”
I nearly choked on the word. “Family? Not quite. My fiancé.” I bent toward the ground and pretended to brush dirt from my shoe. “My engagement is off.”
Genzano crossed his arms and pasted on a thoughtful expression. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I know you would not make a rash decision.”
He was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that I wondered how many other women had wandered up to him and sat in pouting silence while he tried to enjoy his paper and espresso. His behavior was properly compassionate and supportive, but he was probably counting the minutes until I decided to leave . . .
He’d have to wait a few minutes more.
“Breaking up with Kurt was the rashest decision I’ve ever made,” I told him, turning to look directly at him. “But I think it was also the rightest, if there is such a word. Trouble is, now I don’t know what to do with myself. I had so many plans—things Kurt and I were going to do together. Now I feel a little lost.”
His mouth quirked with wry humor. “Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the LORD’S purpose that prevails.”
I cut him a quick glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Genzano shrugged and shifted in the chair. “Only that we are often part of a bigger picture without knowing it.”
I sighed, weary of Asher Genzano and his riddles. I hadn’t seen much of him since he came to work at Global Union. Signora Casale had assigned him to work with the Publications Department on the fourth floor, so our paths rarely crossed during the day. I hadn’t forgotten about him, though. Some back room of my brain not occupied with whatever task lay at hand speculated that perhaps I’d been right about Asher Genzano all along. Though everyone praised his work, his humble attitude, and his unflagging commitment to The Cause, I had a niggling feeling that some off-kilter aspect of his personality would pop that illusionary bubble one day . . .
Until then, I could do nothing but watch for signs of impending implosion.
I looked up at him, grateful that he provided a meaningful distraction from my pity party. During our interviews, Genzano had not displayed any signs of religious devotion—at least, no more than other Romans, most of whom merely paid lip service to the religious trappings surrounding them. This reference to “the Lord” offered a clue to a side of Genzano I hadn’t seen.
I smiled. “Were you quoting the Bible?”
“It’s a wonderful book. You ought to read it.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his face dangerously close to mine. “One of the men who penned the Bible wrote, ‘My days have passed, my plans are shattered, and so are the desires of my heart.’” He hesitated a moment as if weighing my reaction. “Sound familiar?”
“I suppose that’s how I feel.” I scanned my memory, reluctantly trying to recall a Bible character with major problems in his love life, but my childhood Sunday school teacher must have skipped all the really juicy stories. “Who wrote that?”
“Job.”
I nodded, not wanting to reveal my ignorance, then pulled back so a much more comfortable—and American—distance lay between us. “What happened to Job?”
Genzano turned and propped his elbow on the back of the chair— a relaxed posture, so he obviously felt comfortable discussing religious figures. “Job was a righteous man who thought he had lived an honest and honorable life. God had blessed him and protected him. But Satan decided to test Job, and God permitted the testing, allowing Satan to take everything but Job’s life.”
I made a face. “Sounds like a pretty brutal test.”
“It was. Satan left Job with only one thing, a nagging wife, while he took Job’s children, his riches, and his health. Everyone in the city came around to commiserate with poor Job, but most of his friends spent more time criticizing than they did helping. They all figured Job must have committed the worst kind of sin to earn that kind of punishment.”
“Did he?”
“Not outwardly; he had lived a blameless life before his fellow men. But Job battled the sin of pride, and it was only after he humbled himself before God that his health, wealth, and family were restored.”
“Sounds like a tough way to learn a lesson.”
“It is.”
I found myself suddenly stunned by the weary, wounded look that appeared in his eyes. My disappointment and hurt faded to triviality in the light of that look. What happened to this man? The question snapped into my thoughts like a whip, making me flinch, but I had no time to consider it.
“Ask yourself,” Genzano went on, looking away, “whether you are upset because you loved this man greatly or because he has wounded your pride. Are you hurt because you are angry or because he has broken your heart?”
I took a deep breath, feeling a dozen different emotions collide. I was angry and hurt and disappointed, and I had liked Kurt tremendously. We were great friends and perhaps, if I could work through my feelings, we could be friends again. But now I felt the sting of humiliation most. Was he taking this other woman to the diners and restaurants we had visited together? Were our friends whispering about me, even pitying me? If they knew about Kurt’s lady friend, they probably thought me the worst kind of fool—
My mind came to an abrupt halt, like hitting a wall. “You’re right. My heart isn’t broken. I’m just . . . embarrassed. My pride is hurt more than anything, and I can fix that. I can call my secretary, and he’ll be sure to spread the word around. I want everyone to know the engagement is off, and I’m the one who ended it.”
Genzano gave me a look that said his brain was working hard at an entirely new set of problems. “That’s your answer? If you save your pride, you’ll feel better?”
To my annoyance, I felt a blush burn my cheeks. “Works for me.”
He looked away and shook his head slightly. “I knew you did not love this man. So perhaps you are right, a little anger, a little pride, and you will feel better.”
“You knew—” I closed my mouth, clamping off the words that threatened to rise from a geyser of indignation. I wanted to know why he thought I didn’t love Kurt and by what right he had presumed to read me, when I was the professional people reader and jury consultant extraordinaire. But people read each other every day, reason assured me, and Asher Genzano seemed more observant and thoughtful than the average man . . .
He seemed to realize he had offended me, for he gave me an apologetic smile and gestured toward the piazza. “Would you like me to show you the city?” His smile crinkled the corners of his fascinating eyes. “I can guarantee no one will give you a better tour of Rome.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, I slid toward the edge of my chair. “I’ve seen most of the sights.”
“You’ve seen the tourist spots. Let me show you the real city.”
I looked up. The morning sun had driven the clouds away and now bathed the piazza with dazzling light. “I don’t want to spoil your holiday. You probably have other plans.”
“Signorina Fischer,” he said, examining my face with considerable absorption, “trust me. I have all the time in the world.”
Before I could think of another excuse, Genzano had taken my hand and was leading me toward the Pantheon. His touch surprised me, though I should have expected that he would hold my hand; Italians held hands all the time. Yet there was something strangely intimate in the warm gesture that placed us palm to palm, and not even Kurt held my hand routinely. I was trying to remember the last time Kurt had impulsively caught my hand when Asher stopped abruptly and pointed toward the behemoth that, he assured me, had originally been built by Marcus Agrippa, the stuttering son-in-law of Caesar Augustus. Credit for the awe-inspiring dome belonged to the emperor Hadrian, but Agrippa got the project off the ground.
“How do they know Agrippa stuttered?” I asked, looking up at the immense portico, enclosed by stately granite columns. On the pediment overhead I could read the letters M A G R I P P A.
“I know he stuttered,” Genzano answered, gently pulling me around a pastry vendor’s cart. “He was an insecure fellow, even after he gained the throne. I think he believed history would be merciful to his memory if he created buildings like this. No one would care that he stuttered like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”
“Signor Genzano—”
“Please. Call me Asher.”
“All right. Asher.” I glanced up at him, warmed by his effort to lighten my spirits and annoyed by his outright fibbing. “You don’t have to embroider the history to make it interesting. The notion that Agrippa was a nervous kid is funny, but we probably shouldn’t mock his memory.”
His faint smile held a touch of sadness. “I’m not mocking anything. I knew the lad, and I heard him stutter myself.” He lifted his free hand in the Italian gesture that seemed to mean, I can’t help it, then gestured toward the steps of the Pantheon.
My mind whirled at his response, but perhaps I had misunderstood. Shaking my head, I sighed and followed him.
November 2, All Souls’ Day, followed the feasting of All Saints’ Day, but the latter day was not a holiday. On Tutti i Santi, people went to church and prayed to the saints with the government’s blessing; on Tutti i Morti, they went to cemeteries and prayed for the dead on their own time. As I left my residenza for work, I saw that Benedetta had sacrificed her mail route for the sake of the dearly departed. Her boys wore matching dark suits and petulant expressions. Each carried a small bouquet of flowers destined, I knew, for the graves of ancestors.
Leaving the boys and their flowers, I went out the door in a flood of relief, grateful to go to work instead of the graveyard. I wore a black wool skirt, a gray sweater, and a black jacket—dull colors to fit into a soberly dressed European crowd. Today I was to fly to Brussels for the European Union conference.
My stomach did a little flip-flop when I saw Asher at the airport. With wit, charm, and an incomparable knowledge of Rome, yesterday he had succeeded in doing the impossible—he scattered my melancholy thoughts of Kurt to the four winds. And he was right—he did give me a better tour of the city than any of the regular tourist guides. He showed me the Ara Pacis, a detailed monument erected after Augustus Caesar secured peace in A.D. 13; he even pointed out the boundaries of Rome when the city burned during Nero’s rule. We saw the Colosseum together; I touched the mosaics from the Baths of Caracalla; I marveled at a standing section of the Aurelian Wall. Asher opened my eyes to the Rome of the common people, and I inhaled its scents—of diesel fuel, cooking foods, ancient sewers, and ancient stones.
During my tour, Asher Genzano revealed himself as a man of culture. Without any help whatsoever he could detail the history of Rome, list the papal progression, and recite the epic poetry of Virgil. Yet this learned man of letters was sensitive enough to stand in wistful silence before Michelangelo’s Pietà.
According to a brochure I picked up about St. Peter’s, the sculptor finished the statue in 1499, when he was only twenty-five years old. “Hard to believe he was so young when he did this,” I said as we stood before the Pietà.
“Yes,” Asher answered, not taking his gaze from the statue of Mary with the body of Christ draped across her lap. I watched as water rose in his eyes, like a slow fountain filling up. “He was very young . . . to suffer so much. But God showed him mercy.”
His comment made no sense, but I shrugged to hide my confusion and moved away. Asher Genzano was often mysterious. Out of gratitude for his time and concern, I had decided to leave it at that.
Now we sat aboard Justus’s private jet with Reverend Synn. Asher sat in a seat by the far window, but Synn sat next to me, his elbow nudging my shoulder as he explained our assignment for the day. “The task is very simple,” he said, his yeasty breath blowing over me as he leaned in my direction. “You will be home tonight with the job well done.”
I leaned on the opposite armrest and tried to avoid crinkling my nose as he continued. Asher and I were to sit in the observer’s gallery of the EU’s Council of Ministers’ building and make notes on the demeanor of three particular men: Vail Billaud, the ambassador from Luxembourg; Marlon Dutetre, the ambassador from Belgium; and Jan Dekker, the representative from the Netherlands. The EU provided an interpreter and headsets for those who needed them, but I was not to rely upon the official translators. Instead, I would have Asher Genzano seated next to me. He would speak into a tiny microphone fastened to his cuff, and the sound would instantly be transmitted to an earpiece in my ear.
Synn placed the dime-sized receiver in my palm. “It has been thoroughly tested,” he said, transferring his gaze to Asher as he handed over the inch-long microphone. “You, Signor Genzano, will speak in a casual whisper. No one will suspect anything.”
I shook my head. “Won’t he attract attention if he’s talking to himself?”
Synn laughed softly. “Not in the visitors’ gallery, signorina. Trust me. Signor Genzano will be practically invisible.”
After arriving at the airport, Synn left in a long, dark limo. Asher and I waited until a handful of officials and reporters wandered away, then we crept off the plane and walked into the airport terminal. With the ease of a veteran traveler, Asher hailed a cab and in fluent French gave directions to the EU Council of Ministers’ building.
The European Union headquarters was located in an area of the city known as Euro-Brussels. We alighted from the cab in front of a gleaming building that rose from a colorful, cacophonous city like a modern-day Tower of Babel. People of every race and tongue milled in the crowds around us.
Asher paid the taxi driver as I drank in the scenery, then together we climbed the steps, entered the building, and crossed a polished foyer. I was about to ask a security guard for help when Asher gestured toward a sign that pointed the way to the visitors’ gallery. He pulled two passes from his pocket, and I realized that while the gallery was open to anyone, seating was limited. Justus must have reserved these seats before he even approached me with the idea.
The upstairs visitors’ area featured curving rows in a balcony overlooking the cavernous councilors’ meeting room. Though the polished circular desk below was brilliantly lighted, with each seat well identified by a nameplate, there were no lights in the gallery, making us all but invisible to the council participants. For security reasons, a wall of glass panels, probably bulletproof, stood between us and the ambassadors. The sound poured in through a series of audio speakers, one mounted in each corner of the gallery.
I discovered the reason for Synn’s confident assertion that no one would notice us soon after we had taken our seats. Without warning, the double doors blew open and a series of children—probably a class of ten-year-olds, judging by the giggly look of the boys and the superior look of the girls—pushed and shoved and stomped their way into the rows behind us. A trio of exhausted-looking adults filed in with them, then the chaperones split up—two kept an eye on the unruly young ones from opposite corners, while another stood guard at the door. There were about half a dozen other adults in the gallery—journalists, I supposed, because, like me, they carried steno pads and briefcases.
The subdued lighting in the gallery dimmed like the lights in a movie theater, and the children stilled. As the hush settled over the gathering, the councilors filed in and took their seats below us, then the president of the European Union stood before the lectern. He spoke in English, which made things easier for Asher and allowed me to direct my attention to the three men whose motives concerned Santos Justus. I knew these first few unguarded moments could tell me volumes.
Scanning the nameplates on each desk, I located the three men Justus had instructed me to watch. They sat just to the right of the lectern and next to each other—an interesting fact, considering that the names were not arranged in any sort of alphabetical order. Close seating therefore implied friendship, or at least cooperation.
While the president droned on in formal welcome, two of the men—Dutetre and Billaud—looked at each other and exchanged an eyebrow flash. Within sixty seconds, they each looked at the third man, Dekker, and received a brow flash and a simple smile in return.
I noted the fact in my notebook. An eyebrow flash, as any student of body language will tell you, is an international greeting, an action most people take completely for granted. If you are talking to a friend on the street and you see another friend pass by, even if you can’t speak, you will certainly flash your brows at the approaching friend when your eyes meet. To refuse the flash is an outward sign of avoidance or hostility, often intended to provoke a response. The simple fact that these three had greeted each other with silent eyebrow flashes bore strong testimony to their acquaintance and implied a viable friendship.
As the president continued, I sketched a diagram of the furniture arrangement. The circular table featured a lectern at each end, and it was entirely possible the three men who sat practically in the first lectern’s shadow were fairly concealed from the dozen or so ambassadors to the president’s left. This concealment might lead to a sense of security, even persuade them that they could exchange comments without being spotted.
I leaned forward when the center man, Dutetre, leaned sideways to whisper something to Billaud. Billaud smiled and nodded slightly, then looked at the papers on the desk and shuffled a few pages without appearing to focus on them.
Distracted? I wrote.
The meeting went from boring to soporific, and before the president’s speech ended I had to elbow Asher and wake him from a sound sleep. But by the time we left the building, I had gathered a host of impressions, all of which convinced me Justus was right. The three representatives in question were friendly, cooperative, and very likely in league with one another.
I presented my report to Reverend Synn on the jet. He listened to my observations, smiled at a couple of the finer points, then nodded in satisfaction. “We will proceed with our plans at once. You have done an excellent job, and I know you will be even more useful in the next phase.”
“The next phase?” I stared at him in confusion. “Surely you won’t need me—”
“We need you more than ever.” Synn brought his hand down upon his knee, startling me with the sharp sound of the blow. “You said it yourself, signorina—these men would never completely reveal themselves in a public arena. Now that our fears have been confirmed, we must find out exactly what they are up to.”
I glanced across the cabin at Asher. He had settled back in his seat and closed his eyes after boarding the plane, but he was wide awake now, his eyes wide and dark with alarm.
“You have nothing to fear.” Synn took my hand and held it firmly. “Our men will set up a command post in another building; you will never even be near the targets. We will bring you in, you will watch and listen, Signor Genzano will interpret, and we will learn what we need to know. You will be out of the city within a few hours, and no one will ever know you were involved.”
My adrenaline level had begun to rise when he used the word target, and the purposeful, intent look on his face did nothing to lower my blood pressure.
I looked away and blinked in stunned silence. Last week I had been a little thrilled by the thought of a mild cloak-and-dagger operation, but today’s little day trip was nothing compared to what Synn was suggesting now. If he was telling the truth, we would probably be perfectly safe, but what he had described was nothing less than a covert operation. What was I thinking? I was a jury consultant, not an international spy! I didn’t even like James Bond movies.
“Reverend Synn.” With an effort, I pulled my hand from his grasp. “I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with this.” I glanced up at Asher and saw that his pupils had dilated, his eyes filling with some stark, troubling emotion. What was it, fear? Uncertainty? Why had I never been able to read him?
“If you are uncomfortable, we will make you comfortable.” The minister of whatever church claimed him leaned closer, vigorously invading my space and forcing me to tilt my head back at an awkward angle. “We will do everything in our power to be sure you are safe and content. You will be well rewarded.”
“Money is not the issue.”
His strong jaw wobbled, and I knew I had committed a faux pas. Italians did not like to bargain or talk about money in blunt terms. Negotiation was a dance, I’d learned, and I’d just stepped on his toes.
I drew a deep breath and tried to begin again. “Signor Synn, I’m not sure I can do what you are asking me to do. Observe people in another building? It would be difficult. Even with three or four cameras in the room I could not see everything—”
“We will make sure you have the best picture possible. You did so well today; we know you can do as well in this other situation.”
“Well, I didn’t want to mention this, but there is a personal matter I need to consider.” I caught Asher’s eye for a moment, smiled weakly, then turned my attention back to Il Direttore. “My fiancé and I are having problems. I must be getting back to New York to settle things between us. We have a wedding planned for May 13, and whether or not it goes off there are things I must attend to—”
“You cannot leave us.” The soft note of entreaty had vanished from Synn’s voice. “You signed an agreement to work with Unione Globale for six months. If you leave any sooner without our permission, you will be in breach of that contract.”
I looked at him, surprised by the flat tone of his voice and the hostile gleam in his eye. In all my hours at Global Union headquarters I had never heard him utter a harsh word, not even when a nervous young Japanese student spilled espresso all over Synn’s gray suit. But this—the narrow eyes, the furrowed brow, the flattened lips—these were unmistakable signs of anger. He would not let me go without a fight.
Too stunned to reply, I nodded slowly. Synn searched my face for a moment as if judging my sincerity, then smiled, his good humor restored. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he murmured something about being hungry, then made his way toward the galley at the back of the jet.
Totally bewildered, I looked across the aisle at Asher and read a new emotion in his face, as well—determination, marked by the strong stamp of fear.
Back in my two-room residenza, I sipped a lukewarm diet soda and paced before the brick fireplace in my sitting room, trying to think of some way I could walk away from Global Union. Reading people at the EU Council of Ministers’ building had provided an interesting challenge, but reading people through an eavesdropping network would provide a challenge I didn’t want. I knew the real world of espionage was nothing like a Hollywood movie—it was dangerous (no one ever thinks the movie star spy is really going to get hurt) and undoubtedly illegal. Furthermore, Fischer Consulting’s lifeblood depended upon politicians and lawyers and judges in the States, so I couldn’t afford to have my reputation smeared. Using hidden cameras and microphones to spy on three European ambassadors felt more than a little disreputable.
Tired of pacing, I sat on the edge of the small sofa and stared at the telephone. Every particle of my being wanted to call a friend. I could call Kirsten, but she wouldn’t understand what I was feeling. Her world revolved around her family and life in the Hamptons, and I doubted if she knew what the WEU was or why it mattered. Political organizations didn’t touch her world, and neither would my problems. She’d just tell me to pack my bags and come home.
I could call Rory . . . but long ago I’d decided it would be unprofessional to bring my personal problems into the office. Rory and I were great friends, and I ate dinner with him and his wife a couple of times a month, but I wouldn’t let myself cry on his shoulder just because I’d run out of friends.
No, I couldn’t call Rory . . . I wanted to call Kurt.
Maybe Asher was right and I never had really loved Kurt. But I had liked him tremendously, and I respected his opinion. Kurt had a marvelously clear way of looking through the emotions that clouded troublesome situations. But I couldn’t call him, not after the scene I’d made the last time we spoke. If I called, I’d have to hear a list of excuses for his horrible behavior, and then I’d have to decide whether or not to forgive him when I really didn’t care about the marriage anymore. Breaking off the engagement was the right thing to do. Breaking off our friendship would be foolish.
The thought of breaking away from Global Union appealed to me, though. Why couldn’t I just pack my bags and take a cab to the airport? I could be back in New York by tomorrow morning, and Darien could sue me for breach of contract if he wanted to. The case would probably be thrown out of court.
I stood, about to bolt for the bedroom, then cold, clear reality swept over me in a terrible wave. I couldn’t pack my bags if I wanted to. My passport was locked in a safe at Global Union headquarters and had been since my arrival in Rome. Because hoteliers were legally required to register all foreigners with the police, all guests of Global Union surrendered their passports upon arrival and received a Global Union identity card in exchange. “It is the best thing, especially with the purse snatchers and pickpockets,” Maura Casale had explained as she took my passport. “Do not worry. We will keep it safe for you.” Given Synn’s mood the last time we talked, I didn’t think he’d allow security to hand my passport over without comment.
Frustrated by my lack of options, I slammed the nearly empty soda can down on the little table that stood in my kitchenette, then slipped on my jacket. Maybe a walk would help clear my brain.
Darkness already shadowed the eastern sky, while deep orange and purple light streaked the western horizon. Shadows pooled and thickened around the bases of the monuments I passed, and the crisp wind bit at the exposed areas of my skin. Somewhere in the distance an ambulance wailed in the eerie weee-oh, weee-oh cadence of European emergency vehicles, while from a balcony overlooking the street a group of men engaged in catcalls as I passed beneath them.
Hunched into my heavy jacket, I thrust my hands deep into my pockets, ignoring the calls and barely acknowledging the friendly smiles of people I’d come to think of as my neighbors. I lengthened my stride, marching past the tiny shops on the Via Ara Pacis, then stopped at the end of the street and stared at the silver-spangled river. I had only one friend in Rome—only one person knew what
I had been asked to do. He knew because he had been asked to do the same thing.
The sluggish river slapped rhythmically against the concrete walls that restrained it. Could I go to Asher and vent my feelings? Would he even understand my reservations?
As I turned, my eyes fell upon the Ara Pacis, the “Altar of Peace” that had been erected by the Roman Senate in A.D. 13. The monument now stood beneath a large glass hangar, shining like a jewel in a pool of electric light. As tears of frustration filled my eyes, the highly detailed faces sculpted into the marble frieze seemed to shimmer with life.
Curling my frozen fingers into fists, I crossed my arms and moved toward the monument, studying the faces as I walked. I had visited the Ara Pacis in daylight, marveling over the incredible craftsmanship, but the figures had not seemed as animated as they did now. The brass plaque outside the entrance told me that the people depicted in the procession were the Roman royal family, ranked by position in the succession. In the royal lineup, Marcus Agrippa, builder of the Pantheon, stood next to the emperor Augustus, and Augustus’s toddling grandson, Lucius, clung to the folds of his mother’s gown.
The thought of Marcus Agrippa as a stuttering youth brought a twisted smile to my face. Asher’s insane assertion must have been some kind of joke, but apparently I hadn’t picked up all the nuances of Italian humor.
Leaving the monument, I turned onto the Via di Ripetta, accidentally stepping into the path of a moped on the sidewalk. As the rider swerved and filled the air with a stream of enthusiastic curses, I ignored him and hurried southward toward the Pantheon. I didn’t know that Asher would even be home, but perhaps someone at the hotel might know where I could find him.
Half an hour later, the brisk walk had warmed me considerably. I cautiously crossed the large Piazza della Rotonda, then stood outside the Sole al Pantheon, not certain how to ask for Asher Genzano. Would the owner live in a detached building? In a penthouse?
The stately four-story building looked as though it had been painted with a thin wash of moonlight. Three rows of arched windows looked down upon the street, parallel slits of light marking their closed shutters. No sidewalk separated the building and the piazza, but a maroon awning jutted out protectively to shelter those who would find rest within the dignified walls. As I passed beneath its shadow, I noticed a brass plaque near the well-lit entrance. Though my Italian was still not all it should have been, I recognized the names of writers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Rome, too, offered versions of “George Washington slept here.”
I walked through the long, narrow lobby and drank in the scents of live flowers, then approached the marble desk. I stood silently for a moment until the female clerk looked up and gave me a bland smile.
“Vorrei vedere,” I began, mentally searching for the correct Italian phrases, “Signor Genzano.”
The woman lifted a brow. “Signor Asher Genzano?”
“Si.” Was there more than one Genzano in the house?
The woman leaned forward and pointed toward the end of the desk, then began to rattle off directions so fluently I didn’t stand a chance.
“In English, per favore?” I asked, hoping for the best. “I am a friend of Signor Genzano’s.”
I saw the tightening cheek muscles that turned her upper smile from a mechanical civility to a rictus of necessity. “To the end of the desk,” she said, “into the hall. Walk until you cannot walk further. There is a door. That is the entrance to Signor Genzano’s apartment.”
“Grazie.” Feeling suddenly chilly again, I put my hands back into my pockets and walked in the direction she had pointed.
A hallway opened up at the end of the desk, and I followed it, grateful for the dim glow of the brass wall sconces that provided narrow cones of light about every ten yards. Several doors opened off this hallway, but I passed them, recognizing from their nameplates that they led to offices of the hotel staff. The hallway was papered in russet and gold—a gaudy design from an earlier age, but I doubted that hotel patrons often walked through this corridor.
Finally the passageway ended at a single door, unmarked and unadorned. I stood in the silent hallway for a moment, wondering if Asher would think I had completely lost my mind, then I tapped on the door.
I locked my hands behind my back, glancing around as I waited for a response. Had I misunderstood the receptionist’s directions? A patch of peeling plaster loomed above my head; the carpet beneath my feet was faded and worn. The elegant lobby had sparkled with grandeur, but I couldn’t imagine a hotel owner choosing to live in this obscure corner . . .
I straightened at the sound of approaching footsteps, then tried on a smile as the door swung open. Asher’s eyes widened when he saw me standing there.
“Per favore”—I tilted my head in the universal body language of winsome pleading—“may I speak with you, Signor Genzano?”
He gaped at me like a man faced with a hard sum in arithmetic, then he swung the door wider and gestured toward the tiny foyer beyond. “Come in, signorina.”
I don’t know what I expected of Asher Genzano’s apartment, but I had never imagined the man might live in a library. For that was what I found in his foyer and sitting room—a veritable fortress of books. Heavily laden bookshelves lined every wall. Leather volumes filled the window sill and stood at attention upon the counters of his small kitchen. The scents of dust and age and paper permeated the room, underlined by the faint odor of dried leather.
I turned in speechless silence.
“I know.” Asher lifted both shoulders in a shrug. “I have too many books in too small a space. The—what would you call him?—the fire marshal would not approve.”
I smiled in bewilderment. “Have you read all these?”
“Once.” He looked at me, his eyes shimmering in the light from a small lamp on a writing desk. “But you did not come here to talk about books.”
“No. I came to talk about Global Union.” I looked for a place to sit, and Asher hurried to remove a stack of newspapers from a velvet-covered settee with ornate carved feet.
“Excuse the mess; I do not often entertain visitors. Please, sit down.”
“Thanks.” I sat, smoothing the velvet fabric as I did so. I don’t know much about antiques, but this piece looked positively priceless.
I waited until Asher seated himself in a chair next to the desk. “I am concerned about this latest job Justus has asked us to do. I don’t feel comfortable with spying. When I took this job, I never intended to break any laws—international or moral. I’m worried about what might happen if we are caught.”
Asher smiled, but with a distracted, inward look, as though he were thinking about something else altogether. After a moment, he crossed his arms and met my gaze. “I am afraid we cannot escape the nature of evil. It slowly creeps upon us until we are stained with sin. And then, when we are tainted, we can do nothing but try to scrub the stain out. That effort can take a lifetime, or even longer.” The timbre of his voice changed, and I heard bitterness spill into his words. “Sometimes I think it is impossible to escape the consequences of sin.”
“Asher.” My tone was sharper than I had intended it to be. “I didn’t come here for philosophical arguments. I came because I need to know if you are as worried as I am. Is there some way we can get out of this?”
Lines of concentration deepened along his brows and under his eyes as he looked at me. “It all depends.”
“On what?”
He turned, resting one arm on the back of the chair and propping his head against his hand. “What is your ultimate purpose, Claudia Fischer? If doing what Justus demands will help you reach your goal, go ahead and be done with it. But if it is contrary to your purpose, walk away.”
Annoyed, I glared at him. “I can’t walk away! And I don’t see what purposes and goals have to do with anything. Furthermore, I can’t understand why you haven’t objected. Don’t you think what Synn’s asking us to do is wrong?”
Asher studied me for a moment, then looked at the ceiling as if appealing to a higher authority. “I will do what Justus asks,” he said finally, closing his eyes, “because it is what I must do. I must fulfill my purpose, and he must fulfill his.”
I swallowed the scream of frustration that rose at the back of my throat. What was it with Italian men? Why couldn’t any of them give me a straight answer?
“Would you please explain yourself?” I couldn’t disguise the air of irritation in my voice. “I don’t have the patience for riddles or religious dogma right now. I’m very serious about finding a way out of Global Union—”
“There is no way out of God’s will.” His face suddenly rippled with anguish. “Through all the years of my life I have sought a way of escape, and I can assure you there is none. We must follow our destiny, just as Santos Justus follows his. We have only one hope, and that is the blessed blood of Jesus Christ. If Santos accepts the Savior, then and only then can he be turned from the road laid out before him.”
“Stop!” I put my hands over my ears, not willing to hear any more. Fear and anger knotted inside me as I looked up and saw the ferocity of passion glittering in Asher’s dark eyes.
What had happened to the calm, reliable, good-natured man I hired? I would never have guessed that a religious zealot lived inside Asher Genzano; there had been nothing in his demeanor to suggest this streak of fanaticism.
He said nothing but leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving toward the floor. Reassured by his demeanor, I lowered my hands and leaned forward. “Asher,” I said, trying to reason with the gentle man I knew, “I respect religious conviction, really I do. But there is no place for it in the office or in Global Union. Even Reverend Synn makes a point of leaving his religious beliefs outside the organization.”
Asher kept his gaze on the floor, but his mouth twisted in bitter amusement. “You really believe that?”
“I’ve seen no reason to think otherwise.”
He looked at me then, his eyes damp with pain. “Claudia,” he said, his voice calm and soothing, “do you believe in God?”
I nodded, grateful that I could at least placate him with a partially affirmative answer. “I went to Sunday school as a kid and got a pretty thorough indoctrination.”
“Do you believe the Bible is the inspired Word of God?”
I bit my lip, realizing that I couldn’t even hedge my way out of this one. “I believe the Bible is a great book.” I glanced down at my hands. “It contains some of the world’s finest literature. But I can’t say I believe it is literally inspired.”
“Do you believe it is prophetic?”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
His voice, so calm an instant before, filled with sudden vibrancy. “Do you believe it contains the future as well as the past? That events described in the books of Daniel and Ezekiel and Matthew and Revelation will come to pass in the near future?”
The thread of fervor in his voice was enough to make me shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
“Suppose I told you”—Asher leaned forward to pull a leather volume from a desk drawer—“that Santos D. Justus is described, in detail, in Holy Scripture.”
As he flipped the thin pages of the book—a Bible—I pressed my lips together, not certain whether to laugh or cry. Had I allowed a lunatic into Global Union? Apparently something had triggered this change in Asher; some recent situation or someone’s remark had caused a repressed religious fanaticism to surface. But, thank God, at least I had discovered his derangement away from Global Union headquarters. Tomorrow I could quietly tell Reverend Synn that Asher Genzano would no longer be available to serve as interpreter. I’d ask Signora Casale to find us another interpreter/translator—
“Here.” Asher tapped a passage in the open Bible. “Revelation 13:1—John says, ‘And now in my vision I saw a beast rising up out of the sea. It had seven heads and ten horns, with ten crowns on its horns. And written on each head were names that blasphemed God.’”
I hesitated, blinking with bafflement. Much of the Bible had never made sense to me, and this reading made even less sense than the verilys and withersoevers that confused me as a child.
“I don’t understand,” I finally said, giving Asher a small smile. “And I don’t think most people do. I’ve heard that Revelation is allegorical; it was never meant to be understood.”
“Why would God give it to us if he did not want us to understand it?” Something that looked like righteous indignation flared in Asher’s eyes, then cooled. “It’s very simple, Claudia, but it is symbolic. In prophetic symbolism, the sea always represents the Gentile world. The beast therefore comes from a Gentile nation, from a country or confederation that was once part of the ancient Roman Empire.” He flipped the pages of the Bible. “Daniel 8:25 tells us that the beast will destroy many through peace—and Santos Justus has just organized an international peace organization headquartered in Rome.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s completely illogical. Peace can’t destroy anything. Peace is the opposite of war.”
“Peace made through concession can destroy a great deal.” Asher flipped another page. “Daniel 11:16 tells us that his federation will be ruled by absolute authority. The Antichrist will do as he pleases, and no one will stop him. Haven’t you noticed that no one within Unione Globale dares to question Justus?”
I gaped at him. My stomach had dropped at the word Antichrist, and now my mind reeled with confusion. Asher’s paranoia was worse than I feared. In the space of five minutes, he’d gone from being a religious zealot to a conspiracy nut. What would Synn say if he learned that Asher Genzano, who moved through Global Union headquarters with a top-level security pass, believed our international peacemaker to be the Antichrist?
I closed my eyes, envisioning Justus asleep on the jet while Asher tiptoed up behind him with a wooden stake in his hand—but no, a wooden stake was the remedy for vampires, and a silver bullet dispatched werewolves. How, exactly, did one deal with an antichrist?
I had to stay calm. I would make a graceful exit, then go back to my residenza and call Kurt. He’d know what to do.
I propped my elbow on my crossed knee, then rested my chin in my hand, trying to assume a thoughtful, yet relaxed posture. “If Justus is the Antichrist,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “what should we do about it?”
I felt his eyes grazing my face, reading me as thoroughly as I’ve ever read anybody. “You don’t believe me,” he finally said, his voice flat. “You don’t believe any of this.”
“My mind is open.” I lifted my chin. “You just haven’t convinced me. And I’ll have to be convinced before I’d—well, before I could act on this supposition.”
Before I could even allow you through the door of Global Union headquarters again.
A tide of hurt washed through his eyes, and I felt a sharp stab of guilt. I didn’t want to injure our friendship. I had come to respect Asher, and I still did, for many reasons . . . but I couldn’t allow him to jeopardize my client with this kind of religious insanity.
He closed the Bible. After a long, exhausted sigh, he began to recite what I assumed was another verse: “‘Dear children, the last hour is here. You have heard that the Antichrist is coming, and already many such antichrists have appeared. From this we know that the end of the world has come.’” Asher’s eyes sparkled with weariness when he looked at me again. “First John 2:18.”
The wings of shadowy foreboding brushed my spirit. This was not good. The something that had bothered me about Asher Genzano had just revealed itself, and this character flaw could spell disaster for me if he spread these tales throughout Global Union . . .
“I need to go now,” I said, trying to keep my voice nonchalant. “But before I go, I wanted to let you know that Il Direttore wants you to take tomorrow off. We both get the day off—a reward, I guess, for a job well done in Brussels.”
Asher shook his head, causing me to wonder if he knew I was lying, then he gave me a strained smile and walked me to the door.