Zealot (23 page)

“You, Duncan? It’s my fault. I should have known better,” she said, unsuccessfully attempting to repin her hair as they walked
down the corridor. “Everything was so confused this morning, I just wasn’t thinking.” Passing a ladies’ washroom, she turned
to Assad. “Do you mind?” Taking it in stride, Assad banged loudly on the door several times, then opened it, calling out to
see if anyone was using it. Hearing no response, he went in to secure the room while MacLeod and Maral waited outside. After
a few moments, he returned, indicating it was safe. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and went in.

MacLeod and Assad stood outside the washroom in strained silence. MacLeod’s attempts to make conversation—“Is this your first
time in Paris?” “How about that World Cup final?” “So, what do you do when you’re not a spy?”—seemed to fall on deaf ears.
He was relieved when Maral emerged a few minutes later, every hair in its proper place.

“I should go in now,” she said. “It’s nearly time.” Assad led the way down the hall.

The guards stationed at the negotiation room opened the doors as Maral arrived. The centerpiece of the room was a long oaken
table, Arabs ranged along one side, Israelis along the other. The Bloods and the Crips, ready to rumble, MacLeod thought.
He entered the room with Maral and Assad, but Farid stopped them just inside the door, pointing to MacLeod. “No,” the security
chief said very firmly. “Out.”

This time, MacLeod knew not to argue. While his first thought was Maral’s protection, he could sense immediately he was an
outsider in this place where two warring peoples were trying to work out their future, and his stranger’s presence would not
be appreciated here. With a nod of his head to Farid and a wink of encouragement to Maral, he made a quick exit from the room.

He started down a corridor, checking out the building. He noted the video surveillance system and the placement of the security
forces posted throughout the area—Israeli, Palestinian, and French personnel working together to ensure the safety of the
negotiations—and his confidence in their ability to keep Maral safe rose. After completing a circuit of the Ministry of Education
facility and seeing for himself that everything seemed well in hand, MacLeod left the building reassured.

A few members of the press corps perked up as he came out, but for the most part the press were killing time until the delegates
would reemerge by playing cards in the back of news vans, gossiping with their colleagues, catching a quick nap. MacLeod skirted
around them and started down the street.

As he walked, the smell of coffee called out to him. He realized that in the confusion of the morning, he never did get that
cup of coffee he wanted, much less have time for any breakfast. He followed the scent of freshly ground beans as they lured
him to a small coffeehouse less than a block from the building that housed the negotiations. The perfect spot for a leisurely
newspaper, a pot of coffee, and a bite to eat.

But just as he was about to enter the café, he was alerted to the presence of another Immortal nearby. His eyes scanned the
street, but the source was not evident.
So much for that coffee
, MacLeod thought, moving off in the direction of the sensation.

He strode cautiously down the street, his hand itching for his
katana
, but not here, too public. MacLeod contented himself with the knowledge that it was at hand should he need it. He passed
several shops and a vacant storefront. Closer, but still no Immortal. Beyond the empty store, an alleyway.

There. MacLeod stopped just short of the alley, collected himself for a moment, then turned the corner, ready for anything.

“Well, if it isn’t the
goy
!”
Anything
hadn’t really included the sight of Avram Mordecai in a dark suit and a security earpiece, flanked by two more Israeli security
men who eyed MacLeod’s battle-ready stance suspiciously. Avram, on the other hand, was beaming at him. “Wow, are you out of
context.”

“Avram? What are you doing here?” MacLeod tried to be circumspect in the presence of Avram’s “friends.”

“Don’t you read the papers, MacLeod? Making sure terrorists don’t bring Paris down around our ears before the Jerusalem peace
talks are over. Israel calls, and I answer, same as always.” Avram turned to his colleagues. “Keep searching along the perimeter.
I’ll catch up.”

As the Israeli security team moved off, MacLeod said, “I was just going around the corner for a coffee. You got a few minutes?”

“For you, I’ve got all the time in the world.” The two old comrades walked back toward the café. “God, it’s great to see you
again,” Avram said, slapping MacLeod on the arm with almost boyish enthusiasm.

MacLeod had to agree. Although a half a century had passed between them, it seemed like only minutes since they had worked,
fought, ate, and died together as one. It felt like they were immediately back in sync, as they’d been in War-saw. “I tried
to find you again after the war. I was afraid you hadn’t made it.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Avram laughed. “I’m Indestructible Man! Faster than a speeding bullet, more lives than Wile E. Coyote.”
He paused to open the door to the coffeehouse. “It was chaos after the war. I went through a whole list of new names, new
identities, you know how it goes. The British were after me for smuggling refugees into Israel, had to get them off my back.”

They took a table by the window, from which they could see the Ministry building, and placed their order. MacLeod explained,
“It wasn’t until I met Marcus Constantine a few years back that I found out you were still out there raising hell.”

“Good old Marcus,” Avram said with a fond smile. “I didn’t know you two knew each other. Hey, he’s invited me for drinks at
his place tomorrow night, you should come. Then, when he starts rambling on about the Roman conquest of Galatia, I’ll have
someone
interesting
to talk to.” They shared a laugh.

Their coffees arrived and Avram raised his cup in a toast. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“
L’chayim
, ” MacLeod returned.

Avram chuckled. “Showoff.” Then his eyes got a far away look and MacLeod realized he was listening to his headset. Avram set
his coffee cup down in a daze, concentrating, then his eyes focused and he swung into action, pushing back from the table.
“Sorry to stiff you, Duncan. Put it on my tab. Duty calls.” Avram raced out the door.

Through the window, MacLeod could see the members of the press scrambling in front of the Ministry of Education building as
people hurried out the doors, evacuating into the street. He threw a couple of bills on the table and hurried out after Avram.

Avram pressed through the confused crowd milling in the street outside the building until he reached one of the uniformed
French security men trying to maintain order in chaos. “Where’s your commanding officer?” Avram shouted over the crowd noise,
and the cop indicated his superior, twenty yards away.

Avram ran toward the officer, flashing his ID and yelling, “Get these people out of here! Remember Oklahoma City—the whole
block could go!” As he reached the man, he explained more calmly, “Start moving them around the corner, as far away as possible—if
that thing blows, this is the last place you want to be.” The French officer spoke rapidly into his radio, instructing his
men to follow Avram’s orders. Before he had even finished, Avram was already racing away into the building.

An Israeli security agent had found a bomb in a second-floor men’s room, hidden in the back of a toilet stall. He had immediately
called for an evacuation. It was a design all too familiar to Israeli bomb experts. The terrorist organization Hamas had used
one exactly like it to destroy an Israeli courthouse in the occupied town of Nabulus only six months before. Avram knew if
the bomb detonated, it would take out a good chunk of the Ministry of Education building.

He also knew that this bomb wouldn’t actually detonate. It mimicked the Hamas bomb down to the smallest detail, except for
a small defect in the wiring. As he was building it, he, knew it wouldn’t go off because he’d never intended it to go off.
Not this time. This bomb, so obviously planted by Hamas, was merely a smoke screen, a ruse to compound the fear, the mistrust,
the paranoia that was already rampant between the two negotiating powers. With it Avram hoped to blow open a hole in the negotiations
much bigger than any actual explosive device could achieve.

Avram played the part of heroic security agent in the face of danger well, rushing into the threatened building, ensuring
that all the delegates had been evacuated, personally shepherding the last few—two Israelis and that Palestinian woman—across
the street and around the corner to safety. As they came around the corner, he saw Duncan MacLeod break out of the crowd,
through the police line, and run toward him.

Avram smiled. Same old MacLeod, always the white knight, rushing to assist him. He started to call to him to let him know
everything was under control. “Duncan—”

“Doon-can,” the Palestinian woman called out over him, and she hurried to MacLeod. Avram watched him throw his arms protectively
around her, and she responded with a hard kiss on MacLeod’s lips.

Avram’s smile slipped away, and his blood turned to ice. Well, that certainly put a whole new spin on everything. He turned
on his heel and started back to the Ministry of Education building to assist in the removal of the Hamas bomb.

Although the wine was sometimes suspect, one could always be assured of a fine brandy in the home of Marcus Constantine. MacLeod
leaned back in a leather armchair that smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old books with a snifter of Constantine’s best
and listened politely to the curator’s tales of the gala opening of his new exhibit the evening before.

“Then, we’re standing in the middle of the holographic reenactment of the siege of Alesia and the Minister of Culture says
to me”—he cleared his throat dramatically and assumed the officious bluster of the French politician—” ‘This heroic battle
and this magnificent exhibition. I stand in awe of these two great Gallic triumphs!’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him,
A), that the Gauls were crushed at Alesia and, B), that I am not now, nor have I ever been, French.” Constantine was amused
by the very notion.

“So what
did
you say?” MacLeod was quite curious, as Constantine was often known to speak his mind, damn the consequences.

“Just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded like any good academic with an eye to future funding.”

MacLeod had to laugh. “Really, Marcus, sucking up doesn’t seem like your line of work.”

“Trust me, after four hundred years of serving Roman emperors, ‘sucking up,’ as you call it, becomes second nature if you
want to survive. Modern academe’s not that different than Imperial Rome, truth be told.” Constantine raised his glass in mock
tribute.

As MacLeod poured himself a bit more from the crystal decanter on the small table between their chairs, Constantine remarked,
“So, I saw that Arab woman of yours on the television news last night. Very pretty.” MacLeod shot him a look. “What?”

“There’s more to her than that, Marcus.”

“Oh, please, has the world become so politically correct that a man can’t comment on a woman’s looks anymore? Or vice versa,
for that matter.” Constantine threw up his hands with a laugh. “it was a ten-second video clip, Duncan. She may indeed have
the intellect of Einstein and the wisdom of Solomon, but in ten seconds I’m afraid all I had time to notice was her lovely
face. So sue me. Cigar?” He opened a box of cigars and offered it to MacLeod, who shook his head no. “You really care for
her, don’t you?”

“We’ve only known each other a few days,” MacLeod said, as if that answered the question.

“Since when did that matter? Or am I more out of touch with the world than I realized?” Constantine asked with a fond smile.

The approach of a fellow Immortal spared MacLeod from answering. “Avram?” he wondered.

Constantine checked the elaborate grandfather clock across the room. “Probably not. Avram phoned to say he’d be a few minutes
late. But I’ve invited another friend to join us. It’s rare that a group of us can get together without someone losing their
head over it, so I thought I’d take advantage of it. If you’ll excuse me …” He started for the foyer before the doorbell had
even begun to chime.

“I don’t believe you two have met,” MacLeod heard Constantine say as he returned. “Adam Pierson, this is—”

“Oh, we’ve met,” MacLeod said as he saw Methos lounge in the doorway of the study in his oversize pullover and grungy raincoat.
The five-thousand-year-old man was still playing at the perennial graduate student. “But I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

Methos shrugged out of his raincoat and dropped himself down on the settee. “It’s hard to be a Classicist in Paris and avoid
the Big Kahuna of antiquities for very long.”

“Glass of wine, Pierson?”

“I don’t suppose you have anything that tastes like it was bottled within this century? No, I didn’t think so.” He propped
his Doc Martens up on the coffee table and eyed MacLeod’s snifter. “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

Constantine handed Methos a glass of brandy, then pushed his feet off the furniture. Returning to his seat near MacLeod, he
said, “Turns out, we’d met before. I helped him out of a little jam once.”

“Marcus …” Methos said, a hint of threat in his voice. Constantine gleefully ignored him.

“What was it? Thirty-four? Thirty-five? Our young friend here was Remus, a slave in the household of one Valerius Petronius,
Senator, and the horrifying force of nature that was his wife, Druscilla.”

“Marcus, I’m warning you …”

MacLeod was enjoying the show. He’d never seen Methos squirm quite so much. “
You
were a slave?”

“It was all part of a plan,” Methos said a little more petulantly than he probably would have liked. “I was Valerius’s
advisor
.” He put his feet back up on the coffee table with a loud thud and a glare at Constantine.