WE DID AS SYNN HAD INSTRUCTED, TAKING A CAB FROM THE TRAIN station to the Eurovillage Brussels Hotel. I was not entirely comfortable being alone with Asher in the hotel room, but he seemed to sense my unease and took pains to respect my desire for physical space. While I sat at the desk and riffled through the drawers, trying to find a suitable piece of stationery, he sat in a wing chair and turned on the television, thoughtfully lowering the volume. While he watched a local news station, I stared at a blank sheet of beige cotton bond and tried to write a sympathy note to Rory’s wife. No matter how hard I tried to summon the words, my thoughts kept returning to an imagined scene in which Asher and I were detained by angry Belgian nationals who had discovered that our national identification cards were false.
Scarcely ten minutes after our arrival, the telephone rang. Asher picked up the phone, murmured “Oui” in a restrained voice, listened for a moment, then hung up. “They will pick us up outside in a black sedan,” he said, a faint glint of humor in his eyes. “The driver will”— he tugged on the lapel of his jacket—“wear a red flower on his coat.”
I brought my hand to my mouth, smothering an incredulous smile. There was something strangely ludicrous about this entire situation, and I felt a wave of gratitude toward Asher for helping me see it.
“I’ll be just a moment,” I said, moving toward the bathroom. “I just want to freshen up before we go.”
He nodded, and I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, pausing a moment to stare at my reflection in the smoky mirror. My eyes looked like black holes in my face; no condemned criminal could have looked guiltier.
“Shape up, Fischer,” I told my ghostly reflection. “Just do this and get out. Nothing’s going to happen, and no one’s going to care.”
Five minutes later, Asher and I were walking through the hotel lobby, where a man in a dark coat lounged against a marble pillar. After spotting the clichéd red flower, Asher walked over to the man, murmured something in French, and the two shook hands. Asher beckoned to me, so I followed them through the lobby and into the bitterly cold wind. After seating us in the backseat of a sedan, the driver whisked us through the streets of Belgium.
Asher and I didn’t speak until we stopped outside a concrete and glass building. I barely had time to ask, “Are we here?” when another man opened my door and practically pulled me onto the sidewalk.
This man, a tall, thin fellow with long brown hair and a long face to match, gestured toward the building entrance. “This way, mademoiselle.” I glanced back for Asher, saw that he stood right behind me, and together we followed the man into the building and through a maze of hallways.
Finally he led us into a small, windowless room with bare walls. The air smelled of sweat and pulsed faintly with fluorescent light. A fax machine rasped on a stand against the wall, spitting curled paper into the room. Above a utilitarian table, a column of dust rose toward the ceiling in a column of greenish light. A computer monitor sat on the table; a still image filled the screen. A heavy bald man with a pair of headphones on his ears sat at the end of the table and fretted with some sort of electrical control panel. His neck was so thick that his head appeared to rest directly on his substantial shoulders.
Our escort pointed toward two steel folding chairs, then moved toward the fax machine. “The meeting is to begin in ten minutes,” he said, gesturing that we should be seated. “We wanted you here early so you can understand how to direct our cameras. We have six cameras in the room. If you tell us what you want to see, you shall see it.”
I looked up at our guide and decided his mustache was more intention than fact. “What about the sound?” I asked.
Mr. Thin Face nodded. “We have excellent audio reception.”
He scanned the fax for a moment, then folded it and tucked it into his pocket. Without another word, he leaned back and flipped a switch, plunging the stuffy room into a silent darkness lit only by the soft gray light from the computer monitor. The technician’s hands floated over his controls, magically changing the picture on the screen so I could see the room from several different vantage points. The room under observation seemed to be a parlor in a deluxe hotel suite, or perhaps a drawing room in a private home. The curtains were heavy and of luxurious fabric, probably velvet; the sofa and chairs were likewise of fine quality. Several lovely paintings hung on the walls, and an ornate carved door appeared to be the main entrance.
“Where are the cameras hidden?” I asked, a little amazed by the technical setup.
“Inside the impressionistic paintings.” A smile ruffled our host’s shadow of a mustache. “The camera itself is nothing but a tiny dot. In such a painting it is practically invisible.”
“And where is the meeting taking place? A hotel?”
The smile disappeared. “That, mademoiselle, you do not need to know.”
I sat back, feeling abruptly rebuffed. Asher filled the awkward silence. “The microphones—are they hidden with the cameras?”
“No. The listening devices are tucked behind the electrical switch plates. The fools did not think to have the room swept before arranging this meeting.”
We sat in silence for at least another five minutes, watching the monitor like terriers at a rat’s hole. Then we saw the door open. The technician’s hands stilled, and three men entered. One had his hand clasped upon another’s shoulder, and all three displayed a generous amount of teeth in casual, relaxed smiles. Right away I realized these were the same three ambassadors I had read at the EU Council of Ministers’ meeting five days before.
“They are friends; they are comfortable; they are sincere,” I murmured, tilting my head as one of the men moved to a cabinet to pour drinks for the other two. “And this one considers himself a host.”
The thin man peered at the screen over my shoulder. “That is Dutetre.”
“Well,” I drawled, “at least I know they’re meeting in Belgium. It is only natural that Dutetre would feel obliged to serve his guests in his home country.”
The thin man said nothing but crossed his arms and stared at the monitor. I returned my gaze to the screen as the camera zoomed in for a closer view.
After serving his guests, Dutetre sat in a wing chair facing the others, who had seated themselves on the sofa—another signal that he had arranged this meeting. Leaders usually situated themselves at the end of a table or in the center. In the absence of a table, the wing chair served as a substitute.
Dutetre crossed his legs, a sign of confidence, and said something to the others in French. Immediately, the smiles disappeared.
“How do you feel things are going?” Asher said, translating Dutetre’s comment.
He paused as Dekker, the ambassador from the Netherlands, answered, then translated his comments as well. “Not well. Justus is meddling in our affairs. He has already proposed that a WEU peacekeeping force be installed in Amsterdam to quell the recent student uprisings.”
“Have you investigated the cause of the riots?”
“Of course. All the rioting students are either affiliated with Unione Globale or have been influenced by the organization’s literature.”
Asher pointed to Vail Billaud as the representative from Luxembourg spoke. “Are any other countries having trouble with students from Unione Globale? I’ve heard the organization now has branch offices in every country, even the United States.”
“They only cause trouble when Justus gives the word,” Dekker said. Anyone could have read the bitterness in his face. “Justus is applying pressure to us alone, my friends, and I do not know how we can stop him. If we resist his ideas, we will be reprimanded by the other nations of the WEU. And how can we justify resisting peace?”
“Justus defines peace as power.” Billaud’s eyes narrowed with fury. “And I do not want him to have power. It is already difficult to resist him.”
On and on they talked, with Asher translating in a rough whisper. The atmosphere in our little spy post grew tenser with each passing moment. I pulled out my notebook and made notes on body language when appropriate, but once I had ascertained that these men trusted each other and were speaking truthfully, anyone could see they were worried. Their conversation left no doubt that the force worrying them most was Santos Justus.
The conversation lasted for half an hour, then Dekker glanced at his watch and stood, announcing that he was late for another appointment. All three men embraced in farewell, and when the camera zoomed in upon Vail Billaud’s face, I thought I saw the glint of tears in his eyes. These men were not only worried . . . they were terrified. For themselves, and for their countries.
One sudden, lucid memory broke into my thoughts: A confederation of ten nations—another king will rise and subdue three of the nations. He will destroy their leaders, and set himself in their place.
Asher’s words washed through me, shivering my skin like the touch of a ghost. The WEU was comprised of ten nations. Was Santos Justus planning to overthrow the leadership of these three countries? I had seen nothing in Justus’s personality to indicate he was capable of such ruthlessness, but I had spent little personal time with the man. Yet here I was, locked in a secret room, spying upon three unwary diplomats for him.
As a bead of perspiration traced a cold path down my spine, I pushed away from the table. “If you have no further need of me, monsieur, I am not feeling well.” I must have sounded as weak as I felt, for Asher’s arm went around my shoulder, supporting me as I stood. The lights came back on in the room, and I saw that the thin man had filled a page of notes too. “Wait, mademoiselle,” he said, looking at his notebook. “You must explain to me everything you saw and what it means.”
“I can’t.” I was breathing in shallow gasps, trying not to inhale the sickly sweet stench of body odor. I had the feeling Monsieur No-Neck had not bathed in a week.
“You must stay.” The thin man looked up at me, his brows arching. “You will tell me all I need to know, and I will report it to my superior—”
Asher fairly growled at the man. “Mademoiselle Fischer will make her report to Justus alone. Can’t you see she is not well? Take us out of this place at once, or Il Presidente will hear that his representative was mistreated.”
The thin man measured Asher with a cool, appraising look for a long moment, then abruptly closed his notebook. “One moment, mademoiselle, I’ll have to take you out.”
Swallowing against the nausea threatening my throat, I picked up my notebook and slipped it in my purse, then moved toward the doorway.
Lengthening his stride, the thin man led us out of the building and to the car. Safe in the backseat, I closed my eyes and leaned against Asher’s solid shoulder as the engine roared to life.
Like tourists returning from sightseeing, Asher and I went back to the hotel, picked up my suitcase, and took a cab back to the train station. I didn’t know what the hotel would think of our abrupt departure, and I didn’t care. Mr. Thin Man and his cronies could handle the dirty details.
Asher sank into his seat across from me. “Are you all right?” he asked, a note of uneasiness in his voice.
“It’s just a nervous stomach.” I pressed my hand to my middle. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes—I just wanted out of there.” I gave him a look of gratitude, which he acknowledged with just the smallest softening of his eyes.
As the train pulled out of the station, Asher settled back in his seat and opened the Belgian magazine he’d picked up as we boarded. I sat across from him with a pillow over my eyes and a hand pressed to my still-queasy belly. One moment slid seamlessly into the next, and though the train roared through the darkness and only a soft overhead light burned in our compartment, sleep would not come to a brain as bothered as mine.
Until this afternoon, I had been certain—convinced—that his were the ravings of a conspiracy nut, or at least a paranoid neurotic. And though I found the idea of spying for Justus unwise and unethical, I had managed to rationalize my actions by thinking of my work as an effort to further world peace.
But what I heard in that darkened listening post shattered my illusions. Those three men—speaking truthfully and with complete candor— had testified of Santos Justus’s manipulation and treachery. From Rico Triccoli’s weekly convocation reports I knew Justus had planted Global Union chapters in every nation and now they were working to have a Global Union office in every major city. Justus appealed to idealists, he spoke of freedom and an end to war, and droves of young people signed on to aid his cause.
I hadn’t picked up an English newspaper since arriving in Rome, so I hadn’t heard anything about student riots in the Netherlands, Belgium, or Luxembourg. But I knew riots in the name of peace would be hard to put down—my own country could not forget what happened at Kent State in 1970. National Guardsmen, called in to put down a student protest against the Vietnam War, shot into a crowd of students, killing four and injuring nine. Kent State happened two years before I was born, but years later I studied the black-and-white photograph of a girl screaming at her fallen friend’s side . . . and you didn’t have to be a people reader to see the heart rending horror in the tragedy.
Surely Dekker, Dutetre, and Billaud had heard of Kent State . . . and now they faced the same situation. It was a challenging conundrum— what could they do to resist peace?
I heard the sound of Asher shifting in his seat, and when I opened my eyes I saw that he had put the magazine aside. He was staring out the window, his arms folded across his chest, his thoughts apparently a million miles away. Perhaps, like me, he was thinking about Justus’s army of idealistic students.
“Tell me more,” I whispered, reluctant to break the silence. “About why you think Santos Justus is the Antichrist.”
Without looking at me, Asher lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know that he is. I only know that he could be. No one can be certain of the evil one’s identity until after the day of the Lord.”
I sighed, knowing that I’d signed on for a long conversation. “Maybe you’d better start with the basics. What’s the day of the Lord?”
He looked at me then, a thoughtful smile curving his mouth. “Are you ready to believe?”
I felt a blush stain my cheeks. Had he known all along that I thought he was crazy?
“I don’t know what I think, Asher. I just want to understand your reasons. I know you’re intelligent and well educated. So I want to know why you believe the things you do about Justus—and about yourself.”
My doubts didn’t seem to upset him; he merely smiled and looked back at his reflection in the black window. “After I became a follower of Christ,” he said, his voice velvet-edged and strong, “I joined a monastery and spent several years studying the Holy Scriptures under Ephraem the Syrian, an important theologian of the early Byzantine Eastern Church. It was Ephraem who told me about the end of the world and the evil one who will appear. The Lord will gather his elect from the earth in order to deliver them from the tribulation to come. After that, the Antichrist will arise. He will seduce the world through intelligence and persuasiveness, subtlety and craft. For seven years he will attempt to rule the earth, and during that time the earth will know great tribulation unlike any that has ever scourged the planet. At the end of the seven years, the Lord will appear with great power and majesty and glory. Then he, Jesus the Christ, will vanquish the Antichrist forever.”
I propped the small pillow behind my head and thoughtfully considered Asher’s words. My childhood Sunday school teacher never taught about tribulation and antichrists, and the sermons I heard in church—those I could remember, anyway—seemed to revolve around having faith in God and the goodness of man. I knew some ministers preached all sorts of prophecy; at the turn of the millennium the tabloids had been filled with stories of doomsday cults and photos from people who snapped Jesus peeping out through the clouds. The New York Times had reported that at least a dozen respected ministers believed that Jesus might return to earth in the year 2000, but that year had come and gone without any sign of Christ’s appearing.
Was Asher just another prophecy nut? A leftover zany from the millennium craze?
“So,” I said, speaking slowly, feeling my way, “you think the Antichrist is here, so Jesus is coming back soon—”
Asher shot me a warning glance. “The Antichrist won’t be revealed until after all believers are taken to heaven. Some people call that event the Rapture. Others call it the Ingathering. Whatever you call it, it’s going to happen.”
I waved a hand in confusion. “OK. But it hasn’t happened yet— right?”
“You’ll know when it happens. The world won’t be able to ignore the day millions of people vanish.”
I nodded quickly, hurrying him past that particular prediction. “If it hasn’t happened, why do you think Justus is the Antichrist?” Another more troubling question suddenly popped into my brain. “And if you think he’s such an evil person, why are you working for him?”
“I didn’t say he was the Antichrist, and I’m not sure he’s evil. But I know he is ambitious. And I think he might become the Antichrist one day if—well, if I do not succeed.”
My internal warning systems went on full alert. “Succeed at what, Asher?”
“In leading him to the Lord.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned as a sudden tide of weariness engulfed me.
Asher leaned forward, eagerness shining from his eyes. “Claudia, you must understand. The apostle John told us that the Antichrist is coming in the future. But he also wrote that many antichrists have already come. In the first century he told his readers that the spirit of the Antichrist was already in the world.”
Totally disoriented, I looked up at him.
“Claudia.” He slid to the edge of his seat, then reached out and clasped my hand. “Satan is not like God. He is powerful; he is clever; he is the most proud and ambitious being ever created. But he is not omniscient. He does not know when the Rapture will occur. Jesus said no man knows the day or the hour; only God the Father knows. And God, in his mercy, is waiting for more souls to repent. He is longsuffering and ever-patient, and with every day he waits, more people have an opportunity to accept the truth of who the Nazarene was and what he came to do.”
I sat very still. “So—you are telling me . . . what?”
Asher didn’t miss a beat. “I believe that in every generation Satan prepares a man who will rise to world power if the Rapture occurs. Once the believers are delivered, Satan will not want to waste a moment. He will have his man ready, and that man, the Antichrist, will step onto the world’s stage and begin to implement Satan’s agenda. By that time, his heart will be hardened, his mind resolute, and his spirit owned by il diavolo.”
I didn’t need my Italian-English dictionary to know he was talking about the devil. There was a blank moment when my head swarmed with words, and then my uppermost thought slipped out: “Why did I ever hire you?”
Asher smiled and squeezed my hand. “Because God knew you would become my ally. Because I will need help to confront Santos Justus. Because, you see, I need time alone with him to share the good news of Jesus Christ. If I do not, his path could be set. Reverend Synn will never tell him, for he does not understand the gospel himself. Signora Casale will never tell him, nor will Rico Triccoli. They are too busy working to further Justus’s power, and they tell him only what he wants to hear.”
“Asher”— I firmly pulled my hand free of his—“I can’t let you harass Justus. First of all, he’s not going to believe your story—I don’t believe it myself. Second, I’m sure he’s quite happy in his religion, whatever it is. And third, politics and religion don’t mix. Why do you think the Holy See is a separate country?”
Asher leaned back and gave an irritable tug at his sleeve. “What I plan to do is not harassment. It is an act of mercy, for the world and for Justus himself.”
“I just don’t see how—”
“What would have happened,” Asher interrupted, visibly trembling with intensity, “if someone had confronted Adolf Hitler when he was a young and impressionable child? What if someone had convinced him that the Jewish nation is beloved of God and that Christianity means love in action, not genocide?”
“I suppose—” My voice faltered before his steady gaze. “I suppose history would be changed.”
Asher nodded. “Of course it would. And the lives of more than six million innocent people would have continued, populating today’s world with their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” He leaned forward again as a glazed look of despair spread over his face. “I tried to reach der Führer. By the time I recognized him as the candidate for that generation, the security around him was tight. I had to join the SS in an attempt to reach him. In ’34, by the time Hitler was ruling as absolute dictator, I got close enough to speak with him, but he laughed in my face when I mentioned Christ’s love.”
I absorbed this unbelievable news in silence, then drew a deep breath: “You worked for Hitler.”
He answered with an impersonal nod. “In the press office, but only for a short time. Over my lifetimes I have borne witness of the gospel to scores of would-be antichrists. With the Holy Scriptures as my guide, I have testified of Christ before Richard II in England, Cosmo Medici of Florence, and Henry VIII. For a while I believed Philip II of Spain would certainly be the one to do Satan’s bidding after the departure of the believers, for he and the bloody Inquisition he inherited strove to mold Spain into a society marked by religious unity and social conformity— a one-world system beginning in Spain.”
He spread his hands, palms upward, a sure sign of sincerity.
“In the seventeenth century, I journeyed back to England to bear witness to Oliver Cromwell, who killed a king, ended the monarchy, and created a dictatorship more absolute than any kingdom. I was nearly convinced he would be the Antichrist when in 1653 he met with Rabbi Menassah Ben-Israel to discuss the readmission of Jews to Britain—they had been expelled in 1290. Cromwell met many of the criteria—he was a soldier, he had divided the British Isles into six military commands, and he seemed determined to crush his people, going so far as to outlaw dramatic performances, horse races, and even stained-glass windows. He was nothing short of a tyrant, but he, too, met his end before the end of time.
“Napoleon rose as the next obvious candidate. Though he was a French subject, he was born of an Italian family in Corsica, thus springing from the people of ancient Rome. He, too, was a military man and a most ambitious soldier. He used the advances gained during the French Revolution to promote himself, then systematically limited the freedoms the French people had gained, violating the liberty of speech and the press. After he came to power, the number of newspapers in France fell from seventy-three to four. His laws denied equality to women and reinstituted slavery, which had been abolished during the Revolution. In the name of freedom he set out to conquer Europe, but he desired to increase his power above all else. Like most men of authority, he played at religion, courting church leaders in public and living for pleasure in private. I did not think I would ever be allowed to see him, but finally I found a way . . . and Napoleon joined the ranks of those who would not listen.
“When Napoleon died, I returned to Italy and discovered Count Camillo Benso di Cavour, prime minister of Sardinia-Piedmont and Italy. During his first tenure in the Piedmontese cabinet in 1851, he secured the portfolios of Agriculture, Navy, and Finance.” Asher shifted his position and lifted a brow. “Can you see why that was significant?”
I nodded slowly, a little amazed that I could follow his thoughts. “Three divisions of government . . . three heads. He took over three heads.”
Asher’s face lit with a sudden smile. “Exactly. I was certain Cavour would be the one. He, too, hungered for authority, and he grasped the reins of power tightly. He believed the main occupation of a ruler should be the art of war, and he accomplished the near impossible—the unification of Italy—through force. Like the Scripture foretells, Cavour was a man of cunning and persuasion, orchestrating ‘spontaneous’ riots in the Italian duchies. He achieved power through deceit, conquest, and broken promises, but I was never able to penetrate his inner circle. He died in 1861, at the relatively young age of fifty-one.”
Asher rubbed a hand over his face, then sighed heavily. “With every decade of the nineteenth century, a new candidate for antichrist seemed to arise. Lenin ruled in Russia, Leopold II in Belgium, and Napoleon III in France. Wilhelm II, who believed he ruled by the grace of God, came to power in Germany. He was also enamored of the military, loving uniforms so much that he changed his own several times a day. Looking far beyond the boundaries of Germany, he established a ‘world policy,’ creating a framework of defensive alliances and promising to come to the aid of his allied countries. He was partly responsible for the beginning of World War I and stepped down only when it became clear Germany and her allies could not win. Shortly after his abdication, the Social Democrats proclaimed the existence of the German Republic.
“In the twentieth century, I watched Khrushchev, Gorbachev, and Pierre Laval in France. Time magazine proclaimed Laval ‘Man of the Year’ in 1931, but he worked hand in hand with Hitler during the Nazi occupation of France, exporting thousands of Jews to German extermination camps. That was significant, for anti-Semitism will be another characteristic of the Antichrist.”
A smile tugged at Asher’s lips. “For a long time I studied Ronald Reagan. I was about to take a trip to America but changed my mind when I learned more about him. He was neither ambitious nor military.”
I couldn’t stop a burst of laughter. “Why in the world would you suspect Reagan of being the Antichrist?”
A faintly mischievous look entered Asher’s eyes. “His name— Ronald Wilson Reagan. There are six letters in each name—six-six-six. The Bible says the number of the beast is the number of a man, and that number is six-six-six.”
A shiver of panic ran through me as I mentally counted the letters in Santos Justus’s name. Six letters in the first name and the last, but the middle—
I leaned back and grinned in a surge of confidence. “If that’s true, you’re wrong about Justus. I’ve heard that his middle name is David, and that’s only five letters.”
“His middle name,” Asher responded, his voice dissolving into a thready whisper, “is spelled the Italian way—with an e on the end. So that’s six letters—Santos Davide Justus.”
The train rolled through a tunnel, blanketing our compartment with a roaring wall of sound. I took advantage of the noise to try corral my thoughts, but nothing in Asher’s story made logical sense. Actually, it makes perfect sense, some other part of my brain argued, but none of it is possible. Even if everything he told me was true, none of it could have happened. People didn’t live for two thousand years without aging. End of discussion.
We shot out of the tunnel and settled back into the gentle rhythm of the rails. The dense darkness outside the train made me feel as though we were moving through a sea of India ink. Like characters in a science-fiction novel, complete with the arch-villain of fantasy, we shot toward our destination and our destiny . . .
“We’ll be arriving at the station soon.” Asher straightened in his seat and leaned toward me, his deep-set eyes gleaming. “Tomorrow you’ll be expected to give a full report to Justus. Let me come with you, Claudia. Let tomorrow be the day when I tell him it’s not too late. This man I found early; there is still time to turn his heart toward the Savior.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Asher, I can’t do that.”
He bit his lip, signaling that his mood was shifting toward irritation, but I pushed on. “Even if I did get you in to see him, what do you think he will do? Do you think he’ll just drop to his knees and repent? I don’t think Il Presidente sees himself as a bad man, Asher. You’re asking him to turn from a horrible future he doesn’t believe in toward a God he sees as responsible for much of the world’s struggle and strife. And think of the risks! You could lose your job. You would lose your job. And then he’d turn on me. Justus has the power to harm my reputation on an international level, don’t you understand that?”
Unspoken pain glowed in his eyes when he looked at me. “Then I’ll wait,” he said, leaning back in his seat. He crossed his arms and turned to look out the window again. The marks of grief were clear, etched in the lines beside his mouth and eyes, thrown into shadow by the overhead lamp. “I’ll wait until you believe . . . or I will find another way to reach him. Because it is important, Claudia. It is what I must do. It’s my task.”
“I’m tired, Asher. I think I’ll try to get some sleep.” I reached up and turned off the dim lamp, then turned away from the distressing sight of him at the window.
Where was Kurt when I needed him? I felt reasonably sure he had never encountered anything like this in his practice. As far as I could tell, Asher suffered from only one delusion, but he believed it with utter resoluteness.
What should I do? I didn’t think I could talk Asher out of his fascination with Justus—his argument was so persuasive he had nearly convinced me that Justus could be the Antichrist. Perhaps I could distract him. If I could convince him that the American president presented an equally valid prospect for a future puppet of Satan, perhaps I could persuade him to join me when I went back to New York. Once there, Asher could get professional psychological help. He was far too charming and intelligent a man to be allowed to waste his gifts in delusion . . .
I turned slightly and opened one eye, peeking at him. He had curled his tall frame in the chair, but his eyes were open and fixed on the black horizon beyond the window.
What a novelist he would make! Each historical name he had so casually rattled off would make a book in itself. In his delusion he had cast himself as a modern Indiana Jones who always managed to survive despite overwhelming odds.
“By the way,” I whispered through the semi darkness, “how did you escape from all those encounters with dictators? I can’t imagine any of them hearing your story and then just letting you go.”
“I didn’t always escape.” A small grimace of pain rippled across his face. “A few times I was imprisoned and beaten, once I was exiled. Most often, however, I was executed.”
I opened my mouth, then quietly closed it again. For a few moments his delusion had almost seemed minor.
“Of course you were,” I murmured, then turned to snuggle into the cushions and sleep.