The Immortal Page 4

  I thought I would pass out the moment my head hit the pillow, but not even the quiet sigh of passing traffic and the steady applause of fluttering oak leaves outside my window could lull me to sleep. An hour after going to bed I felt more wide-awake than I had been at dinner with Kurt, and I could find no explanation for my sudden second wind.

  Muttering in frustration, I threw back the comforter, then realized I had covered Tux, the black-and-white stray who slept every night at the foot of my bed. Apologizing, I yanked the comforter off the cat. Tux opened one yellow eye and yawned, then curled tighter into a ball and went back to sleep. I scowled at him as I reached for my robe. Apparently my part-time cat didn’t feel his responsibilities included keeping me company in the middle of the night.

  Wrapped in the warmth of my heavy chenille robe, I padded to the computer on my kitchen table and punched the power on. As the machine beeped and flashed, I looked over the notes I had jotted down as I listened to Rory’s message. Darien Synn—Rory had spelled the last name—represented the Global Union, was based in Rome, and was visiting New York for only a short time.

  “I don’t know what to make of this guy,” Rory had said in conclusion. “He seemed polite enough on the telephone but didn’t volunteer any information about the job. But I thought you’d want to see him.”

  Because you don’t have any other work . . . Rory didn’t need to add the obvious.

  Once the computer finished its warmup routine, I clicked on the Internet icon. Almost instantly, the Excite search engine appeared onscreen, and I typed in my search criteria:

  “Global Union” + “Darien Synn”

  I tapped the enter key, then leaned forward as the ISDN connection whisked the search results to my screen. Global Union, or Unione Globale, as it was known in Rome, apparently had a Web page that featured Darien Synn’s name.

  I clicked on the link, and an instant later I found myself studying a lively Web page featuring a revolving globe, the blue flag of the European Union, and a color photograph of a strikingly handsome man with dark hair and even darker eyes. Was this Darien Synn? I leaned closer to read the caption: “Santos D. Justus, president and founder of Global Union, welcomes you to a new world through peace.”

  I lifted a brow. Well. If Darien Synn looked anything like his boss, tomorrow’s meeting might be more pleasant than I had hoped.

  The Web page offered little to explain why Global Union might be interested in a jury consultant, only a brief overview of the organization itself:

  Global Union, headquartered in the heart of ancient Rome, is the culmination of a vision. Santos D. Justus, the Italian ambassador to the Western European Union, has long sought to find a common path for the people of the world to unite in peace.

  The article ended with a quote from Justus:

  The world’s leaders have struggled to overcome national differences in the United Nations and other world organizations, but true change will only be implemented when it begins in the hearts of the common people. Those common people—rich and poor, young and old—share a dream of world peace and freedom. They are the foundation of Global Union.

  The common people? I tapped my fingernails against the edge of the keyboard, turning the phrase over in my mind. How did Justus define “common people”? No matter what he meant, one fact was crystal clear—Justus was savvy enough to understand that the masses would never make a profound difference without leadership, and he had stepped forward to lead this particular herd. The name of Santos D. Justus, whoever he was, obviously carried some weight in Italy. And though he might be trying to organize a grass-roots political movement, from the look of his photograph, there wasn’t a thing about Santos D. Justus I’d call common.

  I skimmed the rest of the page and spied Darien Synn’s name listed with the organization’s board of directors. The remainder of the material consisted of politically correct drivel about peace being the only doorway through which an individual could find lasting happiness, and the Doorway of Peace lay beyond the Hall of Understanding . . .

  Eager to leave the land of mystic lollipops and sentimental axioms, I clicked on the search icon, then typed: “Santos D. Justus”

  The search brought up several links, most of which led to reports about the European Union and the Western European Union, or WEU. Unfamiliar with the latter organization, I jotted down the initials in my notebook.

  Ten minutes later, after wading through several barely comprehensible bureaucratic reports, I had formed a clearer picture: inaugurated in 1955, the ten-nation WEU—composed of France, Germany, the United Kingdom, Italy, Spain, Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Portugal, and Greece—was originally intended to provide for cooperation in economic, social, cultural, and defense matters. In recent years, however, the WEU had served mainly as a defense organization similar to NATO. As recently as the summer of 1999, certain voices within the European Union and the WEU had called for integration of the two groups, but not all nations in the two separate organizations were willing to unite.

  I reached for my notebook and made a note of this particular conflict. Could Synn or Justus be planning to take one of these organizations to court?

  I bookmarked a couple of the more interesting pages, then yawned. A profound and peaceful weariness had settled over me like a blanket. I pressed the monitor’s power button, making the room go dark. The heat came on as I wandered back to bed, and as the radiators clanged and hissed, I gathered my robe to my throat, my eyes burning from exhaustion.

  It had been a long day, and a torturously long trial. I had earned a vacation, but until my firm had bankrolled a cushion of at least six months’ operating expenses, I couldn’t afford to take even a single day off . . . particularly if the coming day offered the chance to sign a new client.

  I climbed under the comforter and felt Tux rearrange himself so his soft little body nestled against my leg.

  We slept.

  THREE

  ALONE IN HIS APARTMENT, ASHER GENZANO SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE bed and leaned his elbows upon his knees. A small black-and-white television on the bureau cast a gray light over the spare furnishings, pushing back the gloom of early morning.

  Outside his window, three ecological operators emptied a row of city-supplied Dumpsters into the churning jaws of a garbage truck. Through the quiet of dawn, Asher heard a baritone voice echoing over the nearly deserted piazza. “I turisti sono difettosi quanto i residenti,” the man said, complaining that the tourists created as much trash as the residents.

  The garbage truck whined and shifted its gears; the garbage collectors moved away. Asher leaned forward and focused on the television, tensing as the camera scanned a crowd of officials on a platform. After a panoramic shot of the European Union headquarters in Brussels, the cameraman centered on a dark-haired man who stepped forward and waved to the crowd.

  “Bonjour, good morning,” he called, lowering his hand to grip the lectern. His dark gaze scanned the crowd, then seemed to focus upon the television camera. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, choosing to address the gathering in English, “it is with great humility that on behalf of my beloved Italy I accept the presidency of the Western European Union. Furthermore, it is with great pleasure that I announce the beginning of negotiations to unite the nations of the WEU and the European Union. We will do anything we must to ensure peace for Europe and harmony for all the world’s people.”

  A wave of applause rippled throughout the crowd, and an Italian interpreter spoke over the sound, interpreting the address for viewers in Rome.

  The camera drew back, and the Brussels scene vanished, replaced by two newscasters from the local television station in Rome. The announcers smiled and briefly debated whether the new president, Santos D. Justus, might be able to accomplish what so many others deemed impossible, then the news broke for a commercial.

  As a sensuous female voice extolled the elegance and comfort of Ferragamo shoes, Asher moved to the small desk in the front room, pulled his fountain
pen from a chipped coffee mug, then drew a blue leather journal toward him. Carefully he opened to a blank page, smoothed the seam with his broad thumbnail, and began to write.

  Is this the man? He speaks of unity and peace. He pleases the crowd and seems to possess an unusual charisma . . . like the others. Furthermore, he is Roman, of the people who destroyed the Temple, just as the prophet Daniel prophesied.

  Asher paused, feeling suddenly limp with weariness. How could he know whether or not to proceed? He had walked into evil’s lair before, betrayed nation and conscience and soul to be certain he had found the one.

  His heart ached, torn by the familiar pain, the ageless remorse. Indecision was like a demon in his head, taunting him with what-ifs and supposing. What if this was not the man? What if this was not the place or the time? He could wait for more signs, he could fast and pray, but if he waited he might confront the man too late. And he could never be certain, not if he sat and worried forever, because the evil one always had others waiting for tomorrow and all the tomorrows beyond that . . .

  Holy God, he wrote, the words coming faster now, give me discernment.

  Show me what I must do, and guide my actions. I am ready to give all, Holy God, even if I must give my body to the destroyer again, I am ready. Show me the way to full forgiveness. Open the doors, and I will walk through them.

  The television commercials ended; the newscasters began to discuss a story about a tourist arrested for bathing in the Trevi Fountain.

  Asher capped his pen, closed his journal, and carefully slid it into an empty space on the crowded shelf behind his desk. After slipping into a light jacket, he snapped off the television in his bedroom, then moved out of the apartment, carefully locking the door behind him.

  FOUR

  WHEN DARIEN SYNN ENTERED MY OFFICE PROMPTLY AT 11:00, MY first reaction was disappointment that Synn looked nothing like his employer. I had scarcely registered that fact when horror snaked down my backbone and coiled in my belly—the man before me was the bald stranger who’d been dogging my steps the day before.

  “It is wonderful to finally meet you, Miss Fischer,” Synn said, inclining his head in a deep nod as he stretched out his hand. “And I must apologize for what must seem like appalling rudeness. I fear I startled you yesterday when I saw you outside the courtroom. I would have spoken then but did not want to distract you at such a crucial hour. I tried to speak to you last night as you were leaving, but you must not have heard me call your name.”

  With difficulty, I set my panic aside and took his hand. The man’s grip was firm and polite, and something in his down-to-earth manner made my previous anxiety seem foolish and paranoid. Smiling, I withdrew my hand and gestured to the guest chair in front of my desk. “Forgive me, Mr. Synn, if yesterday I seemed a bit unsettled. I’m always a bit on edge during a trial, and celebrity trials seem to attract . . . unusual people.”

  “I understand completely.” Synn sank gracefully into the chair, a movement completely at odds with his square, stocky appearance. His blue eyes lit up with amusement as I took my seat and met his gaze. “I am sure you are wondering what matter would compel me to follow you during a trial.”

  “You are absolutely correct,” I answered, tilting my head as I listened to his speech patterns. He spoke careful, educated English without a discernible accent, and that alone was enough to signal that he was Not From Around Here. Nearly everyone in New York had an accent of some kind.

  “I must admit I am curious,” I added, tenting my fingers. “What use would Global Union have for a jury consultant?” I tempered my smile. “Or perhaps you are here on behalf of someone else.”

  “You are correct on the first assumption; I am representing Global Union and my employer, Santos Justus.” He nodded, his bald head gleaming in the fluorescent ceiling lights. “But we do not wish to hire you as a jury consultant. We wish to employ your skills for a different enterprise.”

  I lifted a brow. “Such as?”

  Synn laughed softly. “I suppose we could use a woman with your unique abilities in many situations. But before I go further, I should ask what you know about our organization.”

  I smiled, glad I had done my homework. “I know Global Union is headquartered in Rome. I know you are a member of the board of directors, and Santos D. Justus is the founder and president. I believe you are committed to achieving world peace through a grass-roots movement, not solely through political means.” I swiveled my chair slightly. “Did I get it right?”

  Synn stroked his upper lip—a meditation gesture common throughout the world. He was thinking hard about whatever he would say next.

  “You are absolutely correct, Miss Fischer. There are a few other things you might like to know about us. First of all, the organization’s leadership now consists of the directors you mentioned—Justus, myself, and eleven other men and women, mostly Europeans. We came together two years ago, and Global Union has been little more than an idea since that time. Until a month ago, our headquarters was a post office box in Rome, our outreach only a Web page. That is all.”

  I smiled, though I couldn’t understand where the conversation was leading. “And now?”

  “Last month, one of our board members passed away, bequeathing a sizable fortune to our organization. Now that we are finally able to pursue our goals, we have purchased a building in Rome and are in the process of hiring a staff. We are putting feet to our dreams, Miss Fischer, and Justus wants to be certain we proceed properly. You are the key to our success.”

  I lowered my folded hands to the desktop, trying to be polite and pleasant even though I was beginning to wonder if he would speak in riddles the entire morning. “Perhaps you should spell out what you’d like me to do for you.”

  Synn leaned forward, propping one hand on his knee—the picture of eagerness. “We have hired a very skilled personnel director, Maura Casale, but the woman does not have your gift for seeing into the heart of an individual. We want you to come in for a short term—say, four to six months—and conduct separate interviews of prospective employees. Mrs. Casale will judge the qualifications of the applicants, but we want you to determine whether or not their personalities are suitable for service in our organization. We want to do good for the world, Miss Fischer, and we will require the most committed people we can employ.”

  I looked away and suppressed the urge to smile. I didn’t know where his information had come from, but it sounded as if someone had painted me as a mind reader, which I certainly am not.

  “Mr. Synn,” I said, lowering my voice to a friendly tone, “I am honored by your trust in me, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you. I cannot judge a person’s personality or trustworthiness in a ten-minute interview. Sometimes it takes days before I am able to form a full picture of an individual. When I am working on a trial, for instance, we spend hours in voir dire, and I am able to observe the jurors as they respond to a number of questions about a wide range of topics—”

  “You may take all the time you wish,” Synn interrupted. “Each employee will be interviewed for at least a week, and those who are hired will work on a probationary basis for several months. We want you to quietly work among us. Interview our applicants and our present employees, get to know them, and alert us if you sense a problem personality.”

  “I don’t sense things.” I tried to mask my annoyance but probably failed. “I believe in the physical world, Mr. Synn, and I base my conclusions on hard evidence. But suppose you tell me what sort of things might indicate a problem personality?”

  Synn looked at me, his bright, clear blue eyes direct. “Lying. Theft. Disloyalty. Pessimism. The same sort of things for which you might dismiss an employee, Miss Fischer.”

  Fire someone for being pessimistic? If that were the standard for Fischer Consulting, Inc., I’d have fired myself on several occasions.

  I drew a deep breath. “I am honored by the offer, Mr. Synn, but I’m afraid I’ve never considered international work. I am workin
g hard to establish a presence in the eastern United States.”

  “Which you have already done.”

  I narrowed my gaze at him, mentally conceding the point. “And I have to consider my firm. I can’t just shut down my Manhattan office for six months.”

  “By all means, keep your office staff here. You will be busy in the months to come. The world is a small place today, and you can be certain Mr. Justus will refer other clients to you. He is respected in Europe, and I know he will be lavish in his praise for your work.”

  The man really knew how to pile it on. Here I was, facing debt and disaster, and he was promising steady work for months to come. But I couldn’t see myself as a glorified personnel director, and I didn’t like the idea of working my way into the confidences of his employees in order to spy on them.

  “I don’t speak Italian, Mr. Synn. I can’t read people if I can’t understand what they’re saying.”

  “Most of our people speak English as well as Italian; quite a few also speak French,” Synn answered. “The European community is shrinking along with the rest of the world, and English and French seem to be the languages of choice. I promise you, language will not be a problem. Besides”—his smile deepened—“Italian is not a difficult language. I suspect you will have a gift for it.”

  Quelling a sudden urge to laugh, I rubbed a finger over my lips. He had baited me with friendliness and flattery while avoiding the promise of financial gain. I was flattered by the offer, a little intrigued by the idea of spending six months in Rome, but if this Justus fellow was operating on a shoestring budget, there was no way he’d be able to pay me enough to keep my firm afloat.

  “The stipend,” Synn said, impressing me with his own ability to read people, “would be most generous.” He pulled a business card from his inner coat pocket, wrote a figure on the card, then leaned across my desk and handed it to me.

  For a moment my brain went numb. “Nine million?”