The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  “Permesso.” Asher shouldered his way through the crowd, tossed a pleasant smile over his shoulder, and walked calmly toward the Publications Department.

  I sighed in relief as the elevator doors closed. For a couple of hours last night I had planned to go straight to Signora Casale and explain that we had to fire her favorite translator, but Kurt had put my fears to rest. Now I wanted to go, but getting myself dismissed would not be so simple. Rory would have to come up with a case so convincing that Synn and Justus would understand that my presence was absolutely required in New York. Even if they complained and threatened, which they might, as long as I had a compelling case waiting in Manhattan, they would surely sympathize with my situation and allow me to escape with my reputation untarnished.

  I went to my office and followed up my telephone message with an e-mail, reminding Rory to check on the flurry of inquiries that had arrived right after the Mitchell verdict. Less than two months had passed, so it was entirely possible that some of those lawyers were still looking for a jury consultant. And there was always the Boston mayor and his indictment for racketeering . . .

  I sighed as I clicked the send button. I had dreamed of international prospects when I first came to Rome, but right now the Manhattan Courthouse seemed imposing enough for me. Kirsten would say I had bitten off more than I could chew, and, for once, I was willing to admit she’d be right.

  Rory responded to my e-mail midafternoon, assuring me he’d received my telephone message and had begun to make calls. He was planning to work over the weekend and hoped to have a couple of good leads by Monday morning. The mayor of Boston had already hired Elaine Dawson.

  I drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the shock that shook me. Why was Elaine working the East Coast? Had she warned me away from Global Union in hopes that I’d take the job out of sheer stubbornness? It’d be just like her to do something so underhanded and conniving . . .

  But it didn’t matter. Racketeering meant extortion, loansharking, bribery, and obstruction of justice, and I knew the mayor of Boston wouldn’t have been indicted unless the prosecution had piled up a mountain of evidence against him. I didn’t have to read the mayor to be 98 percent sure he was guilty. When I got home, I’d find a noble cause to champion—maybe I could find a group of orphans fighting eviction or a breast cancer patient suing her tight-fisted HMO. With the sweet scent of world peace about me, I’d turn my case into a cause célèbre. Elaine could have the dirt bags; from this day forward I was only going to work for noble causes and innocent parties.

  I typed Rory a quick thank-you note, then turned and began to rummage through my desk drawers, searching for personal items I didn’t want to leave behind. If all went well, by this time next week I’d be sitting at my desk in Manhattan, maybe planning a trip to Kirsten’s for the weekend. My sister was entering her eighth month now and was bound to be grumpy . . .

  I smiled, relishing the thought.

  I spent the weekend in a kind of contented fog. I sent my clothes out to be laundered, polished my leather shoes, and spent all Sunday afternoon trying to determine the best way to arrange things in my suitcases. I used my laptop to check for e-mail every hour, hoping Rory would send a message. Being a devoted churchgoer, he didn’t. By Sunday midnight, six in the evening in Manhattan, I felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting.

  On Monday morning, I caught a cab to work and greeted the receptionist as I always did, hoping she wouldn’t notice the frayed edges of my smile. I slipped into my office without exchanging the usual morning pleasantries with the fifth-floor staff hovering around the coffee maker, then pressed the power button on my computer monitor. These computers remained connected to the Internet at all times, so if Rory had sent a message, it should be in my mailbox . . .

  Bingo, I had mail. I clicked on the mailbox icon and saw three interdepartmental memos from Global Union, a note from Kirsten, and two pieces of spam, each offering me the chance to become a millionaire through Internet stocks. These I deleted without a second glance, then I took a moment to read Kirsten’s note. She and family were fine, and the babe-to-be was giving her fits at night.

  “But I can’t help being in love with the little guy,” she wrote. “I could sit for hours and play the pushing game. When I know he’s awake, I’ll push on my belly and he’ll kick back. I can almost see him swimming in his little sac, pumping those little legs to let me know he’s doing well.”

  While I was reading Kirsten’s note, another letter appeared in my mailbox. I smiled with relief when I recognized Rory’s address, but I wondered at the timing. Either the message had been hung up for a while in cyberspace, or Rory was awake and on the computer at four in the morning.

  Typing a quick reply to Kirsten, I wished her well and promised to write more later. Then, hoping for good news, I clicked on Rory’s note:

  Claudia—

  Rory was murdered last night.

  The computer screen wavered before my eyes. A tide of goose flesh rippled up each arm and raced across my shoulders. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled it.

  Somehow I’d misunderstood, misread the message. It couldn’t say what I thought it said.

  As fear blew down the back of my neck, I opened my eyes and continued reading:

  Rory went to the office Saturday afternoon to go through some files—he said something about drumming up some work for you. I’ve always told him to take a cab if he’s coming home after midnight, but he took the subway . . . and someone stabbed him near the Hoyt Street station. That’s where they found him and where he died.

  I know you will want to come home, but don’t make the journey just for me. I’m going to have him cremated after the autopsy, and we’re going to have a small memorial service at the church. I don’t want the kids to remember the violence of his death—I want them to celebrate his life and his journey to heaven. Thankfully, he spent a wonderful morning with us that day, and the kids and I will always have those memories. No one—not even the monster who took his life—can rob us of those.

  Rory always said you weren’t a religious person, so I don’t know if you can understand how we feel, but I mean it when I say you don’t have to rush back on our account. We are grieving our loss, but we believe Rory is waiting for us in heaven. His hope was secure in Christ, and to die, for him, was to gain far more than this world could offer. Jesus will be our comfort until we see Rory again.

  Rory thought a great deal of you. I know he would tell you not to mourn, but to rejoice at his promotion.

  Alice Metcalf

  I stared at the computer terminal for a moment woven of eternity, then began to tremble as fearful images materialized in my mind: Rory with his family on Saturday morning, taking out the trash for Alice, playing with his two sons, maybe taking the family to the zoo . . . and then, once Jared and Jason were busy with the Nintendo, he had gone to the office. For me. To search the files for some quick job I could use as an excuse to come home. And though every New Yorker knew the subways weren’t safe after midnight, he had decided to save the cab fare and spring for the buck-fifty subway ride to Brooklyn . . . and that bargain had cost him his life.

  I gripped the edge of the desk as ice began to spread through my stomach. Now I needed to go home more than ever. Despite Alice’s reassurances, I wanted to see her, to throw my arms around her neck and apologize for sending Rory to the office on a Saturday. Though she would say it wasn’t my fault, I knew it was. Rory was ultra-responsible; he always went the extra mile. So when I called and asked him to find a compelling reason for me to come home, he had done just that.

  I shuddered at the irony.

  When I had managed to rein in my emotions so that I could talk without my chin wobbling, I took the elevator to the executive offices on the sixth floor. I knocked on Reverend Synn’s door, and his secretary ushered me in to see him at once. I was glad to find Il Direttore at his desk.

  Without taking a chair, I came directly to the point. “S
ignor, I must go home. My business associate has been murdered.”

  “E orribile!” The thin line of Synn’s mouth clamped tight for a moment, and his thick throat bobbed once as he swallowed. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday—that is, early Sunday morning in New York. He was attacked on a subway. Robbed, I suppose.” My voice quavered, so I looked down and clenched my fists in an effort to get a grip on my emotions. I did not want to cry before any of these people.

  Synn made quiet clucking sounds of sympathy. “We will send a tribute to his family, of course. Would they appreciate a spray of flowers?”

  “You don’t have to do that.” I lifted my gaze and saw him staring at me with a curious expression on his face. “I’ll take care of all those details when I arrive in New York.”

  Slowly, Synn shook his head. “I am sorry, signorina, but you cannot leave. The arrangements have all been made—you are to depart for Brussels tomorrow morning.”

  I stared at him across a sudden ringing silence. “But—I can’t. The family will expect me to come.”

  “We will take care of everything. I’ll personally call the New York office of Unione Globale and see that a representative attends the memorial service.”

  His hand fell upon the telephone, and as I stared at it something clicked in my brain. Memorial service? How did he know there would be a memorial service instead of a funeral? I certainly hadn’t mentioned it, and there’d been no word from New York except the message from Alice this morning.

  Rory’s voice rose from the fog of memory: Whatever you do, don’t send personal information through an intranet. Anyone with a master password to the server will be able to read your mail.

  With pulse-pounding certainty I knew Synn had read my e-mail. Why? Did he routinely read my correspondence? I grasped the back of his guest chair and held it tightly. I’d never worried about anyone reading my mail because I had no secrets worth hiding from do-gooders concerned about nothing but global peace . . .

  I shook my head and forced a smile. Asher Genzano’s paranoia was rubbing off on me. I was probably imagining everything. Maybe Synn mentioned a memorial service because that’s what Italians called such things. I didn’t know enough to feel sure of anything, but I knew I didn’t like feeling ignorant and insecure and paranoid.

  “I’m sorry, but the trip to Brussels cannot be postponed or rearranged,” Synn was saying, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me. “You and Signor Genzano will leave tomorrow morning. You should carry a small suitcase, just for appearances. Our representatives will meet you at the train station and walk you through the entire operation.” One corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile. “I am sorry about your associate, signorina. But you should take comfort in knowing what you will do tomorrow will help the entire world. Surely your friend would have approved.”

  “When I come back from this trip”—my voice sounded flat in my own ears—“will we be able to negotiate an end to my contract? I would like to return to New York as soon as possible. There are things I must handle personally.”

  His brows shot up. “But of course, signorina! As long as Il Presidente agrees. I can do nothing, however, without his approval.”

  Keenly aware of his scrutiny, I took a step toward the door. “I don’t suppose,” I said, glancing at him over my shoulder, “that you could return my passport . . . just in case an emergency arises.”

  His face twisted in a phony wince of remorse. “I am sorry, signorina, but I cannot release your travel documents until you are cleared for departure.”

  I stared at him, stung by the undeniable and dreadful fact. I was a prisoner until Santos Justus decided to release me.

  “For global peace, then.” I pressed my lips together, then nodded farewell and turned on my heel, leaving him alone.

  I spent the day reviewing a stack of personnel files Maura Casale had brought up to my office. She said it was most important that I write a summary of my interview with each employee, but I suspected the files were nothing but busywork Synn had suggested to keep me occupied. I went through the files as quickly as I could and made perfunctory notes on each.

  At seventeen o’clock, just as I was preparing to leave, I heard a knock on my office door. Before I could respond, the door opened and Asher thrust his head through the opening. “Signorina,” he gave me a tentative smile, “I wondered if I might invite you to dinner. I feel I should . . . I feel I owe you a fuller explanation of my opinions. You left rather abruptly the other night.”

  I glanced quickly up and down, reading his body language. He seemed calm, confident, and entirely sane, even apologetic. His eyes were sincere, his smile genuine, his posture relaxed.

  I offered him a forgiving smile. “That’s very kind, Asher, but I’m afraid I won’t be very good company tonight. We have the Brussels trip tomorrow, and this morning I received some very sad news. A friend of mine has died.”

  An odd expression settled over him—if it hadn’t been completely illogical, I would have said a quiver of jealousy flickered across his face. He quickly lowered his gaze, though, and kicked at the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “Do they not say misery loves company? I would hate for you to be alone if you need to talk.”

  I pressed my fingertips to my lips, a little overcome by his offer. This morning I had shared the terrible news about Rory’s death with Maura Casale, virtually guaranteeing that the entire Global Union organization would know about the tragedy by lunchtime, but Asher was the first to offer sincere condolences.

  And, when he wasn’t ranting about the end of the world, he could be pleasant company.

  I looked up at him. “That’s very kind of you, Asher. When would you like to go?”

  “As soon as you are available. I will wait downstairs near the reception area.”

  “I’ll be down soon.”

  He left, and I turned my chair toward the window, considering his request. Perhaps Kurt was right, and Asher was a harmless eccentric. I had encountered him on his own turf last Thursday night, and any conversation might have seemed a little odd in his library of a living room. Besides, compared to dealing with the horror of Rory’s death and my indentured servitude to Santos Justus, Asher’s bizarre beliefs seemed almost insignificant.

  Outside my window, the light was fading fast, color bleeding out of the air. By the time the sun rose again, Asher and I would be on our way to Brussels for a covert mission that Synn and Justus considered important. I would feel tense enough without worrying about Asher’s mental competence, so dinner with him tonight might set my mind at rest.

  I placed the last personnel file in my out basket, then touched the power button on my computer monitor. I stared at the screen for a moment after it had gone dark. Knowing Synn’s penchant for security, I didn’t doubt that he or one of his minions regularly screened incoming e-mails. And, since the computers and the network belonged to Global Union, he was perfectly within his rights to do so.

  I’d just have to make sure that any other personal correspondence came through my laptop at my old address, Pplreader@worldnet.com. The Global Union mailbox would only be for interoffice memos.

  I was in a strangely mellow mood as Asher and I left the Global Union building. The last few hours had drained me, and I was sure it showed in the drooping slope of my shoulders and the pockets under my eyes. I dragged along at Asher’s side, content to let him take the lead, and in my apathetic state I noticed that more than one woman turned her head to look at us—or rather, to look at Asher. One particularly lovely girl stood in the doorway of her shop, offering him a slanted brow and a pouting smile that he seemed not to notice.

  He was, I decided as I stared at him with newly distracted eyes, handsome in an Antonio Banderas fashion. Though he was not as careful about his appearance as Santos Justus, I thought him even more attractive than Il Presidente. Kirsten certainly would have thought so.

  Another charming signorina coming toward us smiled at Asher, then gave me the ears-back
look two female dogs give each other before deciding to fight. I smiled smoothly, betraying nothing of my annoyance, then slipped my hand through the crook of Asher’s arm, well aware of the proprietary message I was sending. Let the woman think he was off-limits. I was in no mood for a challenge.

  After nearly two months in Rome, I was becoming used to the rather bold manner of Italian men—they are not at all shy about telling a beautiful woman they appreciate her. I don’t consider myself especially beautiful, but during my first few days in Rome the constant awareness of dark, smoldering eyes raking my form made me a little uncomfortable. With one glance, some Italian men seemed able to take in every detail of a woman’s appearance, process it, and then, with a provocative tilt of a brow, flash forth an invitation. I had met flirtatious men before, but few men in America are that bold . . . or that confident. Italian men didn’t seem to know the meaning of inhibited.

  Apparently, some Italian women were equally as brazen. On the other occasions I had walked with Asher, we had been deep in conversation and I had paid little attention to passersby. Now, however, we walked like two old friends who were comfortable with each other, and I couldn’t help noticing that other women found my companion worth a second glance.

  Ignoring the more expensive ristorantes catering to tourists, I pointed toward a trattoria, knowing it would offer good food at reasonable prices. Asher shook his head and placed his hand in the small of my back, steering me to a small doorway from which wafted a symphony of wonderful scents—garlic, meat fat, and the faint tang of a wood fire.

  “This place is better,” he said, smiling at a bald man who appeared a moment after we entered. After greeting Asher like a long-lost cousin, he gestured to an empty table, and Asher thanked him. A moment later we were seated with huge napkins in our laps.

  “How did you know about this place?” I asked, glancing around. “There was no sign outside.”

  “You live in Rome long enough,” he answered, his face smooth with secrets, “and you will learn where all the best cooks live.”