The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  I propped the card next to the vase of flowers, gave them an appreciative sniff, then moved toward my suitcase. As I unpacked, I became aware of a strange sense of disconnection. I had nothing to do in the hours ahead—no appointments, no schedule, no responsibilities. No one waited to hear from me; no friends were planning on meeting me for dinner.

  That thought had barely crossed my mind when another followed— I could drop dead in my tracks and hours would pass before anyone I cared about would know I was in trouble. The thought made me shiver.

  I lowered my head and focused on my task, organizing my lingerie and jeans in the small dresser next to the wardrobe. This odd sense of disconnection was foolish, I told myself. It sprang from exhaustion and jet lag and insecurity. After all, I had just left Manhattan for the first time in over two years, so I was bound to have a few withdrawal symptoms.

  Still, when I finished unpacking and stored my suitcase at the bottom of the wardrobe, sheer compulsion drove me to the telephone.

  I pulled out my calling card, punched in the international access number, then mentally counted hours on my fingertips. Nearly three o’clock in Rome . . . equaled nearly nine in the morning in New York. Kurt would be on his way to the office, but Kirsten would be home.

  I dialed her number, waited for what seemed an interminable length of time before the call went through, then heard the steady ringing of her telephone. When she picked up, I heard a note of exasperation in her hello.

  “Kirsten? Are you OK?”

  “Claudia! I’m fine, but Travis just spilled a bowl of cereal all over the floor.” She giggled. “Are you homesick already?”

  I laughed, relieved beyond words to hear a familiar voice. “I’m fine. I just wanted someone to know I made it. I got in this morning and slept a few hours, but I’m awake now. After a shower, I think I’ll go out and explore the city.”

  “Your new client doesn’t have you busy already?”

  “I’ve got the day off. They must have known I’d be jet lagged.”

  “Well, if you go out alone, be careful. Watch for pickpockets and muggers. Keep your engagement ring turned around so the stone doesn’t show—”

  “I’m not a yokel, Kirsten. I’m used to big cities.”

  “Just be careful, will you? It’s not like I can drop everything and run off to Rome if you get in trouble.”

  A surge of yearning rose in me, and suddenly I wanted to be in her kitchen wiping Cheerios off the floor. I struggled to speak over the lump in my throat. “Well, I’d better get moving. My body gets confused if I sit too long—I’ll be asleep if I don’t keep moving.”

  “Take care of yourself, Claude. Love you.”

  “Love you, Sis. Take care of Sean and Travis.”

  “I will.”

  I placed the heavy phone back into its cradle and sat on the edge of the bed, fighting back tears. What was wrong with me? I came willingly on this journey, I looked forward to the challenges it presented, and I had decided working for Global Union would be great for the future of my firm. Santos D. Justus couldn’t demand any more from me than Senator Mitchell had, and this was certain to be a far more pleasant experience than those stifling hours in that Manhattan courtroom . . . But this was a different world, and I had no place in it.

  A sludge of nausea oozed back and forth in my belly, whether from fear or jet lag, I couldn’t tell. Then, in an impulse born from a childhood spent in Sunday school, I bowed my head and whispered a half-forgotten prayer: “God in heaven up above, look down upon your child in love. Guide my footsteps through this day, and keep me safe along the way. Amen.”

  I lifted my head and blinked away a veil of tears. Kurt would have laughed aloud if he had heard me recite those childish words, but something within me—he would call it my inner child—felt vastly comforted by the prayer.

  I still didn’t believe in God or miracles, but I recited the rhyme again as I went into the bathroom and ran the water for my shower.

  EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING, A BURST OF ENTHUSIASTIC RAPPING BROUGHT ME scurrying to answer the door. I opened it, expecting to see my driver, but there was no one in the hallway. A high-pitched squeal rang out from the end of the corridor, though, and an instant later I recognized the red-haired woman I had met the day before. My landlady came toward me, dragging a small, frowning boy with each arm.

  “Signorina Fischer,” she said, attempting a bow while the two boys struggled to escape her grip. “I am sorry for the disturbance. These are my sons, and they will not bother you again.”

  Looking down, I couldn’t stop a smile. The children, who appeared to be five or six, were positively adorable. Dark, curly hair covered both their heads, and they looked up at me with dark eyes that sparked with mischief.

  I squatted to look the twin imps in the eye. “What are your names?” I asked, speaking slowly in case they didn’t understand English.

  Their mother interpreted. “Dirle i vostri nomi.”

  The first little boy stuck his index finger in his mouth. “Mario,” he said, shaping the word around his finger.

  The second boy was braver. “Marco!” he announced, right before ducking to hide behind his mother’s skirt.

  Mama rolled her eyes at me. “I am sorry, signorina. They are such a handful. I will be back to clean your room as soon as I have delivered the mail.”

  I smiled and closed the door, a little curious about her last comment. Her house was not large; in fact, I thought mine was the only apartment. How much mail could she have to deliver?

  I didn’t have time to debate the question, for a moment later someone knocked on my door again. This time the young man who had driven me yesterday stood outside, and he lifted a brow as I greeted him with a timid smile. “Signorina Fischer? Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” I picked up my jacket, purse, and briefcase, and a moment later, Angelo seated me in the back of the luxurious blue sedan. As the car leaped from the curb and fought through the snarled traffic, I found myself studying the broad sidewalks and streets I had tentatively explored the afternoon before. I had been amazed at the variety of shops, restaurants, and monuments within walking distance of my residenza, and an unexpected thought popped into my brain: Why not buy an Italian designer wedding gown? I’d be putting my time in Rome to good use, and Kurt couldn’t say I hadn’t thought about him if I found and bought the perfect wedding dress . . .

  “How do you like Roma?” Angelo called, catching my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Is it much like America?”

  “In some ways, yes.” I smoothed my skirt and pushed the hem toward my knees. For some reason I couldn’t name, the bold, dark stares of Italian men made me want to run for cover. “But in other ways Rome is very different. I live in Manhattan, so I’m used to the crowds and the noise.”

  The driver braked abruptly to avoid a droning moped that veered into his path, then continued as if nothing had happened. “I want to go to America some day. I have family in New York.”

  I turned to watch two men on the street corner, both of whom were waving their hands to punctuate a vehement argument.

  “If all American women are as beautiful as you”—Angelo’s dark eyes held more than a hint of flirtation when I looked up—“I would like to leave tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said, turning to look out the side window again. “My fiancé would appreciate the compliment.”

  Angelo grinned and turned his attention back to the road, and a moment later we pulled up outside a stately building of brownish-red stone. I had not seen a single skyscraper in Rome, but this building was taller than average—I counted seven stories.

  The driver opened my door, then grinned and announced, “The red palace. Home of Il Presidente’s Unione Globale.”

  A sign on the outside of the building confirmed Angelo’s announcement in English, Italian, and French. After thanking him with a smile, I went through the glass entrance doors, paused at the reception desk to give my name,
and was immediately escorted into an office near the front of the building.

  A dark-haired woman with snapping eyes rose from behind a desk, then took my outstretched hand between both of hers. “Signorina Fischer, how happy I am to meet you! I am Maura Casale, personnel director for Il Presidente.”

  The personnel director appeared to be forty-five, with jet-black hair that flowed from a center part and gathered at the nape of her neck in a soft ponytail. Her figure was curving and regal, her clothing understated and elegant. She moved with the graceful air of a woman who is at home in many worlds, and I could see in a glance why Santos Justus had hired her.

  She gestured toward a chair, which I took, then Mrs. Casale picked up a phone, murmured something in Italian, then replaced it and smiled at me. “Il Direttore asked to be notified the moment you arrived,” she explained. “He will be with us in a moment.”

  I was looking forward to finally meeting the charismatic Santos D. Justus, but Reverend Synn appeared in the doorway a moment later. I had my second unofficial Italian lesson: Il Direttore and Il Presidente were not the same person.

  “Signorina Fischer, a delight to see you again.” Synn shook my hand almost as enthusiastically as the personnel director had. “We are so glad you have joined our team. We have much work for you to do.”

  “I’m happy to be here.”

  I stood, wondering what to do next, but Synn waved a hand in my direction and took a half step back. “I will leave you now with Signora Casale. She will explain our hiring procedures and make sure you are well acquainted with what we require in an employee. Thank you again, signorina, and if there is anything we can do to facilitate your stay in Rome, do not hesitate to let us know.”

  I turned my attention back to the older woman. Like most Italians I had seen on the streets, she wore a tailored blouse, a skirt of fine black wool, dark stockings, and low leather heels. I was wearing a suit too, but compared to the Italians’ relaxed elegance, my cranberry-colored skirt and jacket felt a trifle gaudy.

  “First, let me show you to your office,” she said, leading the way. “You are fortunate, for you are on the fifth floor and in a private corner of the building. Il Direttore specified that you are to work without interruption if you so desire.”

  “Il Direttore is Reverend Synn, correct?”

  “Yes.” She flashed me a smile. “Reverend Synn is the director of our organization; Santos Justus is the president. You will find that people here usually address men of importance by their titles. It is a mark of honor and distinction.”

  I made a mental note to include this peculiarity among my list of things to remember about Rome and Romans. Already I had discerned that Italian traffic cops were more flexible than their Manhattan counterparts and that Italians’ body language was much more expressive than Americans’. During my walk yesterday, I noticed that men routinely greeted each other with an embrace and a kiss, and it was not unusual to see women walking arm in arm along the street. The Italians were not afraid of human touch. Americans seemed positively standoffish in comparison.

  After a quick trip in the elevator, Signora Casale led me into a spacious office, far larger than the cramped space Rory and I rented in Manhattan. A pair of leather guest chairs sat before the mahogany desk; a leather sofa stretched out along one wall. Behind the desk stood a wonderful executive chair, with brown leather that looked as soft as butter.

  “This is lovely.” My eyes rose to the wide window, through which I could see the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance. “Oh, what a gorgeous view!”

  “Il Direttore thought you would like it.” Signora Casale clasped her hands together. “When you are ready, you can call for me, and I will come up and explain our procedures.”

  “I am ready now, signora.” I set my briefcase and purse on the desk, then gestured toward the couch. From her manner and words I could tell that this woman had been instructed to consider me her superior, but I wanted her as an ally, not an underling. I would need assistance in Rome, and Maura Casale seemed capable and willing to give it.

  She moved to the sofa. Instead of sitting behind the desk, which would have reinforced my superior role, I sat next to her on the sofa, physically establishing my equality.

  She smiled—a simple smile, no teeth showing—and waited for me to begin.

  I turned the tables and invited her to initiate the discussion. “Why don’t you tell me how I can help you and the people of Global Union?”

  Her left eyebrow rose a fraction, then her smile relaxed slightly. “Unemployment figures in Italy are high,” she said, resting her hands on her lap, “and we have had no shortage of applicants to fill our available positions. I don’t know how much you know about Italy, but our people typically compete for jobs through a candidate evaluation process known as a concorso.”

  She waited, brow uplifted, for permission to continue.

  “I don’t know anything about the concorso,” I answered. “Please go on.”

  She nodded. “The concorso, which takes place over a three-day period, consists of a written exam and interview to test the candidate’s skills. We also run extensive background checks, and no one who is not raccomandati for a job can proceed through the process.”

  “Raccomandati?” I tried the word out on my tongue. “Recommended?”

  “Si.” She smiled again, more naturally this time. “Ordinarily we would have no problem, for the Italian network is thorough and all applicants would be known to us, but Il Presidente wants Unione Globale to be an international organization. So we are hiring many foreigners and have no way to do a thorough check on their backgrounds. So Il Direttore suggested you might be able to assist us.” She pursed her lips in a thoughtful expression. “I understand that you . . . read people’s minds?”

  “Not quite.” I shook my head. “I read people, not their minds. People tell us many things through their body language, their expressions, even the clothing they choose to wear. I can tell a great deal about a person, but I can’t read minds. No one can.”

  Her smile deepened into laughter. “Thank heaven.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  We shared a laugh, then she took a deep breath and composed herself. “It is my understanding that you will interview the applicants after they leave my office. The applicants will not think this unusual, for they are accustomed to several days of interviews.”

  “That would work very well. I usually only need a few moments to get an overall picture of each personality, but occasionally I might need to call someone back.” I pressed my hands together and tried to explain. “Some people are harder to read than others, and it will take me some time to adjust to the differences between Europeans and Americans.”

  “I understand.”

  She glanced toward the hallway, betraying her eagerness to get back to work, so I stood, signaling an end to the conversation. “Thank you, signora. You have been most helpful.”

  A relieved smile spread over her face. “Please call me if you need anything,” she said, moving toward the door as she spoke. “I am at your disposal.”

  I smiled and watched her go, certain I had made at least one friend in Santos Justus’s empire.

  I had been at my desk only ten minutes—barely enough time to learn the whereabouts of paper, pen, and paper clips—when Il Direttore himself leaned through the open doorway. “May I have a private word?” he asked, regarding me with an intense but secret expression.

  “Certainly.” I stood as he entered and closed the door behind him, but he waved an excusing hand in my direction, then lowered himself into one of the two leather chairs facing my desk.

  “You have met Signora Casale? She has explained our procedures?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Did she explain how we want you to conduct the interviews?”

  “Not specifically.” I picked up a pencil. “Why don’t you tell me if you are looking for anything in particular?”

  The line of Synn�
��s mouth tightened a fraction. “Italy is not a stable country,” he said, leaning closer. “There have been fifty-five Italian governments since the end of the Second World War, and with each election we face the possibility of another collapse. Global Union intends to remain above the fray of national politics, but we cannot deny that we must suffer along with our host country—and there are some in the Italian government who do not appreciate Justus’s effort to focus upon world peace and cooperation.”

  He paused, apparently expecting me to respond. “So you are saying”— I sought the right words—“that we may encounter . . . opposition to our efforts?”

  “Enemies, Signorina Fischer, from within and without.” He sat back and crossed his thick arms across his chest. “Infiltrators. You must watch for signs of treachery. For liars. For cheats and thieves. We have hundreds of applicants and only a few available positions in Rome, so we want only the best and most loyal people. If anyone at all proves suspect in thought, word, or deed, do not hesitate to dismiss that person from the concorso.”

  In thought? Had they all read that blasted People article? I pressed my hands to the desk and leaned forward. “Reverend Synn, I can usually interpret a person’s character, but I know no one who can read another person’s thoughts.”

  Synn straightened, an expression of satisfaction showing in his eyes. “I believe you are up to the task we have hired you to perform. We have every confidence in you.”

  I offered him my thanks, but as he left the office I wondered if I had been transported to a place where people expected miracles I couldn’t perform.

  My first task was broad—before I could ascertain whether or not a particular person would be qualified to work for Global Union, I had to understand as much as possible about Santos D. Justus and the organization itself.

  Rory had been kind enough to search out and print several articles about the man called Il Presidente, and I planned to glean as many additional facts as I could from the present employees of Global Union—assuming they’d be willing to talk to me over lunches and espresso breaks.