Highlander - Donna Lettow [103]
Chapter Twenty
Paris: The Present
As MacLeod pulled up beside the Musée National des Antiquités, he had a vague premonition that something was wrong. He had remained at the hospital until he was sure Maral was out of immediate danger. He’d left her sleeping peacefully in her hospital room, ably protected by Farid, and returned to the barge. It was already three o’clock when he retrieved Constantine’s message from his answering machine. He left the Citroën in a loading dock and ran into the museum, the tails of his black overcoat fluttering wildly in his wake.
The lobby was empty, the last of the patrons gone for the day. As MacLeod hurried through it and into the glassed-in cloister walk through the sculpture garden that connected Constantine’s exhibit to the rest of the museum, he noted that it seemed the employees had gone home for the day as well. He was midway down the walk when he heard an explosion. Simultaneously he could feel a vibration in his soul—there was a Quickening.
MacLeod broke into a full run just as another explosion rocked the cloister. The fire alarm began to sound its urgent wail. He slammed through the massive wood doors leading to the marble gallery, not waiting for them to swing open at their own automated pace. “Marcus!” he screamed out over the alarms and the lightning and the water cascading from the ceiling.
He found the giant rend in the temporary wall of the entranceway near the Arch of Titus. Drawing his katana, feeling the weight of it in his hand, he pushed through the hole into another corridor. He ran in the direction where he could sense an Immortal. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the Quickening ended and all that remained were the sound of the alarms and the sprays of water dousing the fires.
“Marcus!” he called out again, but the sensation grew farther and farther away, until it was gone entirely. MacLeod’s heart went black. Had Constantine been the victor, he wouldn’t have run from his own museum.
Dear God. Marcus. MacLeod stood in the doorway of the Temple room for a long minute, unable to will himself to enter, but unwilling to abandon his friend, even to go after his killer. And MacLeod had no doubt about the killer’s identity.
He finally moved into the room, close to the body sprawled across the fragments of the broken Temple. In the back of his mind, he could hear Constantine’s voice. “And never, ever get involved in the politics of Palestine. It will only bring you grief.”
“You were more right than you’ll ever know, Marcus,” he said, his voice husky with sorrow. He reached out and touched his friend’s body, trying to convince himself that it was real, that this awful thing had happened to a man who meant no harm to anyone. He saw the boot knife embedded in Constantine’s chest and pulled it out angrily.
Then, in the debris near the body, he spotted the gray figurine Constantine had identified as his own. He was right, it wasn’t a very good likeness. With a fierce shake of his head to fend off any tears, MacLeod thrust the figurine and the knife into the pockets of his overcoat and stormed from the room.
There was no trace of Avram in or around the museum. MacLeod knew there wouldn’t be, but he had to look anyway. He had to keep moving, had to keep busy, or the full impact of Constantine’s loss would cripple him.
The Hôtel Renaissance was next, the safe haven of the Israeli delegation. An enormous crowd of reporters was gathered in front of the stately building, barely held in check by a ring of security operatives. Their weapons weren’t drawn, but the men in the suits made it obvious they meant business.
MacLeod double-parked the Citroën against a news van and forced his way through the mob, not caring who or how many he jostled and elbowed on his way to the front. Avram wasn’t among the security team. No surprise.
A dark man on an angry mission, he pushed past a security guard and made it as far