Zealot (2 page)

Paris: The Present

April in Paris. Despite all the threadworn clichés, there really
was
something magical about the City of Lights in spring. When the incessant winter rains and the graying slush finally went
away, the city was reborn, dressed as if by way of apology in the finest Mother Nature had to offer. With the clouds gone,
there was no doubt that whatever force had created the heavens, He or She had deliberately placed the sun so it would shine
its brightest on the streets of Paris.

As he walked along the sunny Boulevard St. Germain crowded with shoppers and tourists, Duncan MacLeod wondered what it was
that always seemed to draw him back to Paris in the springtime. After all, spring in Seacouver was perfectly nice, if a bit
damp. In fact, he’d been in any number of cities and hamlets around the world with pleasant springs. He remembered lying beneath
the cherry blossoms in old Edo with particular fondness—with Keiko, that was her name, he hadn’t thought of her in ages—not
to mention an occasional roll in the flowering heather in his native Highlands. But they just couldn’t compare with Paris.
Maybe it was something carried in the breeze that ruffled his hair as he walked. Maybe, he thought, looking around, just maybe
it was the Parisian ladies, freed from the dour wool coats and boots of winter and allowed to bloom like the city. “
Bonjour
,” he said, and smiled his most charming smile as he caught the eye of a passing young mademoiselle in a daring skirt that
went up to … there. He saw her blush just a bit and walk on with her girlfriend, giggling. When they thought he could no longer
see them, they turned and watched him with great appreciation.

He remembered the first time he’d seen Paris. It had been spring then, too. It was a crowded, noisy place filled with more
than its share of squalor and disease, but to an overgrown boy fresh out of Glenfinnan, it had seemed a place from a fairy
story. Funny how some things don’t change in four hundred years. He hadn’t stayed long in Paris that first time. Eager to
see it all and do it all, he was out and on his way to Italy before the first frost turned the leaves. It would be a long
time before he learned that the real gift of Immortality was the chance to stop and savor the sights and smells of springtime.

Or that of a duck in—what was that? Rosemary? The smell greeted him on the sidewalk. MacLeod stopped outside a crowded café
and checked the address against a card he pulled from his blazer pocket. Chez Nous. He was in the right place. A little pretentious
for his tastes, but he’d heard the food was good. “Constantine, party of two,” he told the maître d’. He knew he was a little
late, but some days just seemed made for walking.

“One moment, Monsieur.” MacLeod looked around the bistro, jammed with the well-to-do of Paris as well as a number of well-heeled
tourists, all having a late lunch. Tessa had always said it was never hard to tell the two apart.

MacLeod had his own favorite restaurants in St. Germain. Café de Flore was one, where he and Sartre had argued ’til all hours,
until finally the proprietor had bolted the door and gone home to bed, locking them inside until morning. And there was no
counting the number of times Hemingway had stuck MacLeod with the check at Les Deux Magots. He still frequented them both,
as much for the memories as the food. But the young upstart Chez Nous had recently received glowing reviews and a surprise
two stars from the
Guide Michelin
and become The In Place to dine. It was just like Constantine to choose it—the Immortal curator could so rarely be pried
out of his museum, the only restaurants he knew were ones he’d read about. “Is a table inside acceptable to Monsieur?”

“A table outside would be preferable to Monsieur.”

“Right this way.” He followed the maître d’ to a small table on the patio near the entrance, which boasted a fine view of
the busy boulevard. “Monsieur Constantine has not yet arrived,” the maître d’ informed him, handing him a menu and wine list
before departing.

That was not like Marcus Constantine. MacLeod checked his watch—twenty minutes late. Not like Constantine at all. Although
nearly a score of centuries had passed, Constantine still conducted his life the way he must have commanded the great legions
of Rome, with discipline, punctuality, and a meticulous attention to detail. It had won an empire for Rome, but it sometimes
made Constantine a pain to work with. Pity the poor museum archivist twenty minutes late for a staff meeting—at one point
in Constantine’s life, that offense would have merited flogging. Today, perhaps only a stern talking to. Still, MacLeod didn’t
envy Constantine’s staff.

But now it was the General’s turn to be late. MacLeod’s first thought was of a chance encounter with another Immortal. Marcus
Constantine may have taken himself out of the Immortal Game, but that didn’t mean the Game wouldn’t inevitably catch up with
him. It was a part of being Immortal, like eating and breathing, that at any time another of your kind could challenge you
for your head. But MacLeod didn’t dwell on the possibility for long. It was more likely he’d been delayed by a traffic accident
or a student demonstration, much more common in Metropolitan Paris than the occasional beheading.

The wine steward appeared by MacLeod’s side, hovering in officious silence while he scanned the wine list. Arriving before
Constantine meant that for once he got to choose the wine. Constantine’s taste in wine tended to run to sweet, cloying vintages
or wines aged practically to vinegar. While these may have been the height of fashion in Nero’s day, MacLeod’s tastes had
been cultivated in far more civilized times. A quick glance at the menu told him Chez Nous specialized in the cooking of the
south of France. Perfect. “L’Hermitage from Chavi. The 1990 if you have it.” A proper wine for Provencal cooking.

While he waited for the wine, and for Constantine, to arrive, MacLeod watched the crowds go by along the boulevard, past the
galleries and designer boutiques. He found himself, almost without thinking, naming where the obvious tourists had come from.
The middle-aged couple in the matching brown coats and sensible shoes? German. The elderly man and woman? French, but not
Parisian. Probably up from the South. It was a game he and Tessa would play for hours over coffee at a café or while strolling
along the Seine. The only rule was you had to guess before hearing them speak. The two young lovers, no more than eighteen
either of them, were too easy—English, his football jersey gave them away. Three blond women window-shopping at the jewelers
across the way were more difficult. Obviously sisters, probably Scandinavian … Norwegian?

The woman walking past them caught his immediate attention. Her skin, the golden brown of sunset, bespoke a Middle Eastern
heritage, but her walk, the way she carried herself, sure and confident, betrayed her time in the West. American, perhaps?
But not by birth, he thought—she still carried the glow of the sands of Araby in her veins. She dressed simply, modestly.
On most women her dark conservative suit would be severe, out of place on the fashion-conscious streets of Paris; on her,
it created an aura of power and heightened, not hid, her natural beauty. MacLeod watched her with interest as she moved through
the crowd until the wine steward offered him a taste of the wine he’d ordered for his approval.

MacLeod took a sip. “Delicious,” he said, and the
sommellier
filled both his glass and the one at Constantine’s empty place before departing. MacLeod scanned the passing crowds again
for another glimpse of that woman. But she was gone.

The maître d’ stepped into his line of sight. “Duncan MacLeod?” he asked, and MacLeod nodded. “There is a call for you.” He
handed MacLeod a portable phone and returned to his post.

“MacLeod.”

“Ah, Duncan, thank goodness I caught you,” said the voice on the other end.

“Marcus, where are you?”

“I am
so
sorry, Duncan, but there’s been a slight emergency at the museum. I won’t be able to meet you for lunch.” Constantine’s voice
was apologetic.

“Come on, Marcus, what kind of ‘emergency’ can there be at an antiquities museum?”

“You’d be surprised. At the moment I’m tied up to my ears in red tape.”

MacLeod laughed. “Now
there’s
a pretty image.”

“Funny,” he heard Constantine say. “Can you meet me at the museum just after closing?”

“Sure, I suppose,” MacLeod began, “but what about—”

“Perfect! Have to run, Duncan. See you at five.” Constantine hung up before MacLeod could finish.

Great
. He’d been stood up. It certainly wasn’t the first time, but on the rare occasions it had happened in the past, the person
standing him up had usually been a bit more … shapely than Marcus Constantine. He took a drink from his glass. At least the
wine was good. He looked around for the maître d’ to return the phone and found him at his podium near the entrance.

“I’m sorry, Madame,” the maître d’ said in a practiced monotone to another patron as MacLeod set down the phone, “but without
a reservation, I cannot seat you.
C’est impossible
,” and MacLeod realized he was addressing the same remarkable Arab woman he’d seen on the street.

“You’re sure there is
nothing
you can do?” she asked, her French a bit hesitant but her voice as smooth and rich as her skin. She slipped the maître d’
a wad of francs.

He handed them back to her in a huff. “No, Madame,” he said firmly, then walked away. MacLeod wondered if he’d been offended
by the amount or by the thought of being bribed by a woman. Obviously disappointed, the woman put the money into a jacket
pocket and turned to leave.

“I think I can help,” MacLeod found himself saying almost before he realized it.

She stopped and turned to him, her dark eyes taking in his finely chiseled features, his well-kempt ponytail, his body so
obviously fit and muscular beneath the tailored blazer. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, clearly liking what she saw. “Yes?”

“I …” Under the full power of her smile, he nearly found himself tongue-tied. Four hundred years of experience stripped away
and for a solitary instant he was once again Duncan MacLeod the Chieftain’s son, pretty good with a sword but shy and awkward
around the lassies. But only for an instant, then Duncan MacLeod the charmer kicked into action. “My lunch appointment just
canceled and I’ve got a fantastic Hermitage that’d be a shame to waste. Care to join me?”

“What if I told you I didn’t drink?” He could tell she was interested, testing him.

“What if I confessed that was only a ruse so I might have the pleasure of your company?” He turned on his own thousandwatt
smile and watched her reserve start to melt.

“Well …”

“I’ll be the perfect gentleman. Scout’s honor.”

“I’m sure you will,” she relented, unable to resist those eyes. With a quick glance back toward the street, she offered MacLeod
her hand, and he escorted her to his table. As they passed the maître d’, she smiled her most demure smile and gave him a
little wave, startling the maître d’. “Arrogant little bigot,” MacLeod heard her mutter under her breath in Arabic as he ushered
her to Constantine’s place.

MacLeod looked back at the maître d’. “Don’t mind him. He’s French,” he said in Arabic. Then he switched to English, playing
a hunch. “I’m sure he’s like that with everyone.”

The woman sighed as she settled into her chair. “Maybe some days I’m just more paranoid than others.” Then she looked up at
MacLeod with new appreciation, realizing he’d tricked her into answering him in English as well. “So, you know a little Arabic,
Mr.… ?”

“MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod. A little. And your English is impeccable, Miss,” he noticed a gold band on her finger, “Mrs.… ?”

“
Doctor
Amina,” she stressed. “I’m … no longer married. And you may call me Maral.” The “r” rumbled in the back of her throat like
a contented cat’s.

“Maral,” he echoed. He liked the way that felt.

The waiter approached their table and rattled off the day’s specials. Maral ordered “just a salade nicoise.” The waiter waited
patiently for MacLeod to order, but MacLeod was admiring Maral’s hair. It was thick and long, caught in simple but elegant
combs up onto her head, where it shone black as burnished jet in the Parisian sunlight. He had a sudden urge to reach out
and gently remove the combs, to watch the hair cascade around her shoulders … “Duncan?” He loved the way she pronounced his
name. “Doon-can?” Maral reached up and touched her hair self-consciously. “Were you planning on having any
food
with your wine?”

“Right. Food.” MacLeod covered quickly. “I’ll have the dorade grillée and some pommes frites.” Then he dismissed the waiter
and turned to Maral. “So you’re a doctor?”

“PhD,” she replied. “Chairman of the Western Studies department at Bir Zeit University.”

“In Israel?”

She shrugged. “That depends on whom you ask. It’s in Ramallah, a little town on the West Bank. It’s where I was born.”

“You’re Palestinian,” MacLeod said. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” MacLead wasn’t prepared for the intensity of her defensiveness.

“Your accent. I couldn’t quite place it.” He thought for a moment. “But you’ve spent some time in the States, haven’t you?”

Maral bristled. “Would you like to see my identity papers? How about my travel permits?” As she busied herself with her water
glass, MacLeod could feel a wall click into place between them. He’d obviously rubbed a sore wound.

“Maral, I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. He turned his charm up a notch. “If you let me take my foot out of my mouth, I’ll make
it up to you. Promise.” He smiled a wee smile, hoping she’d follow suit.

After a long moment she finally did, her smile a little wry, her dark eyes a little sad. “I’m sorry, too, Duncan. I’m usually
not like this. It’s the end of a very difficult, very disappointing week.” She looked beyond MacLeod toward the gothic spires
of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, towering over the next block. “I just thought maybe Paris would be different somehow. I always
thought that Paris would be magical.”