Highlander - Donna Lettow [18]
“I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he said, “and we don’t need guns.”
“I am Avram ben Mordecai of…” he thought for a moment, trying to match MacLeod, “the House of Judah. And I don’t have time for this Immortal bullshit right now. Get out of the truck.”
MacLeod got down from the truck and Avram slid across the seat to exit behind him, gun still trained on the back of MacLeod’s head.
“Why are you here?” Avram demanded.
“I came to help.”
“Funny, you don’t look Jewish.” A threat.
MacLeod turned to face him. “I didn’t realize that was a prerequisite for compassion.”
“These days, it is.” Avram studied him closely, taking in the too-small coat, the Star of David. “You know, goy, I could shoot you right now and take your head.”
“You could,” MacLeod acknowledged. “But I think you have more important things to do. And I have a promise to keep to Zalman Mendelsohn.”
“The Rebbe?” Then he realized, “You wear his coat!” He pressed the gun closer to MacLeod’s face. “What have you done to the Rebbe, you bastard?”
“Tzaddik, don’t!” a young voice cried out. Keeping his pistol to MacLeod’s face, Avram turned his head to see Rivka racing down the block toward them.
MacLeod called to her in alarm, “Rivka, stay back!” but she kept running.
“Tzaddik, don’t hurt him. Shimon sent him—all the way from Paris!” Reaching them, Rivka threw her arms around MacLeod protectively. “We’re going to get the Rebbe out of the Ghetto!”
“Shimon? You’ve seen Shimon?”
MacLeod nodded. “He made it to Paris. He’s with the Resistance.” Avram stepped back from him, regarding him intently but not dropping his gun. The two men sized each other up. MacLeod thought he could sense that Avram was much like himself, a man of honor. From blocks away, they could still hear the sound of sporadic gunfire. “Listen to your heart, Avram,” MacLeod appealed to him urgently. “Believe me. Trust me. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just want to help Shimon’s father. And your people need you back there.” Avram’s expression didn’t change. “If you don’t believe me, then send the child away and we’ll settle this honorably.”
“Tzaddik, please …” Rivka begged.
In the distance, another explosion sounded. Avram was torn. This was the moment he and the surviving youth of the Ghetto had worked and drilled endlessly for—when the Germans would return in force to eradicate the last remaining Jews in Warsaw and the Jews would finally rise up with weapons and face their murderers in battle. His people needed him. But, this Immortal, this Gentile, this goy MacLeod…he could prove a danger to his people as well…He looked from Rivka’s eager eyes to MacLeod. “Well,” he said after a long moment, praying he was making the right decision, “if Shimon and Rivka vouch for you…” Sometimes he could only go with his gut feeling. He reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a grenade, handing it to MacLeod. “Here, you’ll probably need this. Now go, you and Rivka keep your promise. Give Shimon my regards. Tell him he still owes me two tickets to the pictures.” He turned and climbed into the cargo truck.
“Avram!” MacLeod called after him, and Avram hung out the window. “I’ll be back to help when the rabbi’s safe.”
“Sure you will, goy,” Avram called back, unconvinced. He threw the truck into gear and drove off.
Chapter Four
Paris: The Present
MacLeod pulled his Citroën close in behind the truck stopped in front of the Hôtel Lutétia, tossing his keys to a uniformed doorman as he got out. As he adjusted his gray turtleneck sweater and buttoned the single button of his blue sports coat over it, he thought he could almost detect the vaguest shiver of nervousness in his stomach.
Some things never changed, not even after four hundred years. Certainly first dates hadn’t changed—all the possibilities, all the uncertainties. At least he wouldn’t have to meet Maral’s parents. The thought brought a rueful smile to his lips. Fighting the most despicable Kern or Kalas on the planet had always been easier than facing a girl’s parents for the first time.