The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  Even under a choked sun, this was a lovely part of town. The curving southern facade of the Palazzo di Montecitorio had stood for more than three hundred years, and the lovely cream-and-beige building had not lost an iota of its splendor.

  Asher took a deep breath, then made a face and slowly exhaled the mingled scents of the city: the tang of the garbage bin hidden behind a hedge, the odor of dog excrement, the scent of baking bread. And always, the faintly metallic smell of diesel engine exhaust.

  He had just begun to despair of fulfilling his quest when a blue Alfa Romeo, one of the macchine blu driven by people of power, insinuated itself through the traffic and nosed up to the curb. The driver, a dark-haired youth with a cheerfully insolent manner, stepped out and came around the front, nudging a pair of gawking boys out of the way as he bent to open the back door.

  Asher stopped breathing as the man he sought stepped out of the car, glanced quickly right and left, then buttoned his coat and made his way through the crowd scattered about the portal of the palace. The driver waited a moment to be sure his employer was safely away, then locked the car and walked toward Giolitti’s with a loose-boned, confident step.

  Asher followed. He joined the queue before the counter, heard the young man order caffè ristretto, then placed his own order for an espresso. The young man picked up his drink, then took a seat. He lifted a brow in surprise when Asher joined him at the table a moment later.

  “Buon giorno.” Asher lifted his mug in a mild salute, then took a taste and looked out across the piazza. The youth returned the greeting, then sipped from his cup again, apparently not caring that the crowd had forced him to share his table on this busy morning.

  After observing the street scene for a moment, Asher turned toward his young companion. “Can you tell me,” he asked, speaking Italian, “about your employer? Forgive me for being curious, but I saw him get out of your car this morning. His face is familiar, I think.”

  The young man’s face broadened in a smile. “Signor Justus? The car is his; I am just his driver. But I can tell you he is a good man. A very respected man in Rome, in Italy, in the entire world.”

  “Ah, Signor Justus. I thought I would recognize the name.” Asher took another sip from his steaming mug. “I have heard that he is a dedicated romanista. Is that true?”

  The driver’s dark eyes narrowed for a moment. “Are you romanista or laziale?”

  Asher pulled a scarf from his coat pocket, then waved the yellow and purple insignia of the Roma soccer team before the young man’s eyes. “I have been romanista for more years than you could imagine, friend.”

  The young man’s reserved expression melted in an outpouring of excitement and relief. “I am Angelo Mazzone,” he said, clasping Asher’s hand in a warm grasp. “And I am pleased to meet another romanista!”

  “Asher Genzano. ” Asher smiled, inwardly relieved that he had mentioned the correct soccer team. He had suspected that the athletic driver might be a tifoso, a fellow with soccer fever, that Santos D. Justus might be romanista, for the politician wore a yellow scarf around his throat at the championship match last year. A Lazio fan would have worn blue or white.

  “Tell me, Angelo,” Asher said as he folded his hands on the table, “if the rumors I hear are true.”

  “Rumors?” The word burst from the driver in a gasp. “If you have heard something evil, do not believe it. Santos Justus is the most fair man—”

  “I have heard nothing bad about him,” Asher interrupted, deepening his smile, “but I have heard he is hiring people to work for Unione Globale. Is this true? Might I find a job there?”

  Surprise blossomed on the younger man’s face. “You, my friend, do not look like you need a job.”

  Asher squinted with amusement. “All men need to work, Angelo. Of what use is life, unless it is directed toward a purpose?”

  Angelo shrugged slightly. “Unione Globale is hiring, but not many common workers. There is a need for skilled people—”

  “How skilled?”

  The young man scratched at the slight growth of beard on his jaw. “Educated people. Last week Il Presidente hired two professors from the university.”

  Asher looked down, not wanting to reveal the small surge of excitement flowing through him. “A man so bright, hiring professors? What ever for?”

  “Historians, Signor Justus called them. They are to keep records and such. I believe there is talk of opening a library.”

  Asher cleared his throat and struggled to be patient. “Has Signor Justus a need, perhaps, for interpreters? I have had some experience as a translator.”

  The chauffeur’s smile broadened in approval. “Si, I think he would like a translator. I overheard him speaking to Il Direttore about an American who will be coming to work for Unione Globale. She speaks no Italian and hasn’t time to learn.”

  Asher extended his hand, content with this small but satisfying victory. “Perhaps I will call upon Signor Justus—at his office, of course.”

  “Tell him Angelo recommended you.” The youth enthusiastically shook his hand. “And it wouldn’t hurt to mention that you are a romanista.”

  “Si, grazie. That is an excellent idea.” Asher stood, then patted the youth on the shoulder. “If God wills, I will see you again, Signor Mazzone.”

  The driver grinned up at him. “Arrivederci, Asher Genzano.”

  SEVEN

  I WOULDN’T HAVE MINDED IF KURT WANTED TO DROP ME OFF AT THE LaGuardia Delta terminal, but he insisted on parking and escorting me all the way to the gate. We sat for a few moments in the vinyl chairs, idly watching people and making dull conversation while the other passengers checked in.

  It was there, sitting in the gate chairs, that I noticed something odd. Maybe it’s because I was mentally detaching from Kurt already, or maybe my brain was just moving on a different track. In any case, as we sat there with our eyes fastened to the open area where people hurried back and forth, I realized that Kurt wasn’t just sitting. Whenever he saw an attractive woman, he adjusted his position and sent out a courtship signal.

  At first I told myself I was being paranoid. But then a Meg Ryan wannabe walked by, and Kurt moved his arm, physically grasping the back of the empty seat next to him. That, as any student of body language will tell you, is an obvious invitation to “sit here” and a subconscious attempt to demonstrate the dominance of space. If the blonde had met his eye, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him perform the gaze/smile/gaze/break gaze/return gaze/smile/approach ritual . . . well, maybe not the approach. I was still sitting right beside him.

  “Kurt Welton,” I drawled, distinct rebuke in my voice. “You are watching that blonde!”

  He turned and abruptly gripped my hand. “Am not. Now—are you sure you have everything you need?”

  I felt the corner of my mouth twist with exasperation, but what could I do? He was a man, after all, and I was on my way out of the country.

  I tapped the leather attaché case by my side. “Passport, visa, notebooks, and tape recorder. Plus about a hundred articles on the Global Union. My refrigerator is empty, my neighbor is taking care of Tux, and Rory will handle everything at the office.”

  Kurt leaned closer and breathed a kiss into my hair. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too,” I answered, though I felt a long way from homesickness or honest regret. In the past week I’d been so busy arranging my trip that I hadn’t had much time to think about Kurt at all.

  Overcome with a sudden surge of guilt, I slipped my hand around his neck and gave him a quick kiss. “There’s always the telephone, you know, and e-mail. Just remember that Rome is six hours ahead of New York. If you wait until evening to call me, you’ll be dragging me out of bed in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “Maybe I’ll call at midnight—so my voice will be the first thing you hear in the morning.” He waggled his eyebrows Charlie Chaplin style, ruining an almost-romantic moment.

  “I hear the pace of life is
a little more relaxed in Rome,” I said, pulling away. “So don’t you dare call me before seven Roman time. I’m planning to sleep late, take siestas in the afternoon, and go to bed at sunset. I need to catch up on all the sleep I missed during the Mitchell trial.”

  One of the flight attendants announced that the flight was ready to begin boarding, so Kurt stood and helped me to my feet. Darien Synn had insisted upon furnishing me with a first-class ticket to Rome, so I’d be among the first to board.

  Kurt pulled me into his arms for a farewell embrace. As I stood nestled against him, I closed my eyes and told myself I would miss him dreadfully. Even though I didn’t feel any overwhelming sentiment at the moment, there were bound to be times when I’d long for the sight of a friendly and familiar smile . . .

  “I’ll miss you,” he said again.

  I pulled away and looked up, studying his face. I saw no sign of objection in his blue eyes, no passionate desire for me to stay. The only emotion I could read was a faint flicker of jealousy—probably springing from the fact that I’d be mingling with international personalities Kurt would give his last Valium to include on his star-studded patient list.

  I reached up and patted his cheek. “Don’t worry,” I said, feeling a smile tug at my lips. “Perhaps I’ll discover that Santos Justus has a hidden personality disorder. I promise to toss your name into the hat when they search for a psychologist to treat him.”

  His brittle laugh confirmed my suspicion, but he didn’t comment, just pressed a kiss into my palm, then released my hand. “I’ll call you,” he promised as he backed away. “And I’ll miss you every day.”

  I waved in reply, then picked up my briefcase and turned toward the gate. As I handed my boarding pass to the flight attendant, it suddenly occurred to me that several times Kurt had promised to miss me . . . but he hadn’t said a single word about love.

  Eight and a half hours later, I stepped off the plane and into Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. I walked down the gangway on puffy ankles, a little amazed that I had done little on the flight except think about the task ahead. Kirsten’s worries that I might brood over Mom and Dad were totally unfounded. My thoughts did veer toward them as the plane tilted away from LaGuardia and flew out over an expanse of ocean, but then I pulled out a folder of research materials and pushed the melancholy thoughts from my mind. I would always miss my parents, but scar tissue had successfully covered the gash in my wounded heart.

  I saw no one at the gate to meet me, so I proceeded to baggage claim and stood in a long line for customs. After having my passport and visa checked, I stepped out into the open lobby and spied a sign with my name written in bold letters. A young man with dark, curly hair held it toward the arriving passengers.

  I walked up to him and summoned the energy for a smile. “I’m Claudia Fischer.”

  His face split into a wide grin. “Signorina Fischer? No one told me to expect a beautiful lady!”

  To my annoyance, I felt myself blushing. “Thanks. Are you from Global Union?”

  “Si. I am Angelo, your driver. I am to take you to your residenza. You are to stay at the Vittoria, a very nice house.” He reached down to take the handle of my suitcase. “Let me carry that for you.”

  I fell into step beside Angelo, only too happy to let him drag my suitcase through the airport lobby. “A house?”

  “Residenze are apartments with all the comforts of a hotel. You will enjoy your stay.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  At that moment I would have enjoyed any room with a mattress in it. The trip had left me feeling weary and strangely out of sorts—I had left New York at four in the afternoon and flown through a dark sky without sleeping more than a couple of hours, yet here another day was dawning. The airport bustled with activity, and the parking lot outside the building was filled with small cars seemingly intent upon edging one another out of any available parking space. Dutifully following Angelo into the brightness of an almost blinding sun, I stepped over a curb, then shrieked when a whining motor scooter appeared from nowhere and blew past, missing me by inches.

  Angelo looked back and grinned. “Did he startle you? You must not let the vespistas bother you. They are like flies, always buzzing around.”

  The word bewildered me until I saw another motor scooter, this one safely chained to a concrete post. The scooter had Vespa written on it, obviously a brand name, so the youths who rode the whining little scooters must be vespistas . . .

  I stopped, unbelievably grateful when Angelo halted beside a blue sedan. He hit a button on his key ring, nodded in satisfaction when the vehicle chirped obediently, then moved to open the trunk.

  “You speak very good English, Angelo,” I called, determined to make a friendly impression before I passed out in exhaustion. “Where did you learn?”

  He slammed the trunk shut, then came around to the passenger side and gallantly opened the back door for me. “Television, mostly. Everyone wants to learn English, but it is not taught in most schools. The teachers favor French, German, and Spanish.”

  I nodded numbly and slipped into the backseat, then settled my briefcase on my lap. Angelo sprinted around the car and slid into the driver’s seat, then cranked the engine and roared away from the curb with a recklessness that left me feeling a little breathless.

  I had imagined I’d be bright and energetic on my first morning in Rome, but my brain felt as though it were wrapped in a layer of cotton gauze. The dissonant sounds of car horns, the whine of the wind, and the blur of unfamiliar buildings and pedestrians came to me through a thick haze, then faded into blackness.

  The next thing I knew, Angelo’s hand was on my shoulder, his voice near my ear. “Signorina Fischer, we are here. Your bag is in your room, and the mistress understands that you would like to rest.”

  Embarrassed to have been caught napping, I lifted my head from the upholstered seat. “Thank you, Angelo.” I stepped out and groggily followed the driver into a yellow building, then through a tiled foyer and down a hallway. A short, red-headed woman shook her head in quiet sympathy as she surveyed my appearance, then pointed through the open doorway at what looked to my dazzled senses like a one-bedroom apartment.

  “I am Benedetta Donatelli,” she said, placing one hand on my shoulder as she pressed a key into my open palm. “If you need anything, you call.”

  I thanked the man and the woman and tried to maintain a polite smile as they closed the door and left me alone. After locking the door, I tossed my attaché case onto a table, then kicked off my shoes. Beyond the small sitting room lay a bedroom, and the coverlet looked neat and clean. I sat on the edge of the bed, intending to lie down for just a minute, but then my cheek hit the pillow and my toes tingled with relief.

  Overcome by exhaustion and jet lag, I slept.

  The clock on the bedstand said two o’clock when I opened my eyes. Two o’clock? Day or night? Monday or Tuesday?

  I lifted my head, overcome with a sense of confusion, and saw bright light pouring in from a window in the tiny bathroom. So—this had to be afternoon.

  Overcome by a sudden and irrational conviction that I had missed my first day of work, I glanced at the pocket watch Kirsten had given me, still set for New York time. No—my watch said September 19, so I had only missed the morning of my first day in Rome. I didn’t have to report to Global Union until tomorrow.

  Groaning, I sat up and clutched at the edge of the bed. A window shade covered the window, but in the soft gray light I could see that the bedroom was pleasant and tidy, though decidedly simple. A double bed occupied most of the space, and a simple linen dresser scarf covered the small table at the bedside. A vase of fresh flowers stood upon a desk against the far wall, and a small television sat upon a stand near the door.

  I shivered slightly as a cool breeze pushed at the shade covering the open window. I moved to raise the shade, then paused and peered out at a sloping street flanked by stone buildings in varying shades of gold and orange and red. A solid row of
bumper-to-bumper automobiles lined each side of the narrow road, leaving barely enough room for another car to pass. An orange tabby cat stretched across the roof of one car and sunned itself, while a pair of motorcycles thundered by, shattering the quiet afternoon.

  I leaned on the window sill and drank in the crisp, cool air. Though I had scarcely seen anything of the city, already Rome impressed me as being a bit of an oxymoron—the city had withstood the test of time, proving its strength and resilience, but the breeze and the little pink flowers in my window box seemed uncommonly delicate.

  Leaving the window, I pulled my toiletry bag from my suitcase, brushed my teeth, and splashed water on my face. The touch of the cold water sharpened my senses and helped me to focus as I dried my skin with a thick cotton towel hanging in the bathroom.

  Feeling better, I walked through the bedroom and entered the living room through which I’d staggered earlier this morning. Like the bedroom, this space was clean and pleasant and simply furnished. I had no way of knowing, but I suspected that Reverend Synn had done his best to make me feel comfortable and yet a part of Italy. He could have found a suite for me in any one of the luxurious hotels, but this pleasant place suited me very well.

  A card on the desk caught my eye, so I picked it up. A stylish hand had carefully written:

  Welcome to Rome, Miss Fischer. Please take the day to rest and make yourself at home. A driver will call for you tomorrow morning and take you to Unione Globale headquarters. Until then, if you need anything, please call my office.

  A telephone number followed and a signature:

  Santos D. Justus.

  I whistled softly, impressed that the Big Man himself had taken the time to write a personal note. Apparently Synn hadn’t been exaggerating when he said Justus was personally interested in having me work for his organization.