Highlander - Donna Lettow [19]
Four Arab men in suits and surly looks were waiting for him inside. They surrounded him as soon as he entered. “Masá al-kháyr,” MacLeod bade them good evening in his friendliest voice, flashing his most sincere smile. It never paid to piss off guys carrying automatic weapons under their coats before finding out what their problem was.
“Duncan MacLeod?” asked one of them, an older man in a traditional Arab headdress, the kaffiyeh, and MacLeod nodded.
“Dr. Amina is expecting me,” he said and immediately two of the other suits each grabbed him by an arm. This wasn’t exactly what he expected on a first date. He looked at the two men holding him, then at the older man in the kaffiyeh, who was regarding him sternly. “You wouldn’t happen to be her father, would you? Look, I promise, I’ll have her home by midnight,” he joked, but the Palestinian was not amused.
“Search him,” he commanded, his face implacable. The suit holding MacLeod’s right arm pulled MacLeod’s wallet and a small box in colorful gift wrap from his jacket and tossed them to the older man. The fourth suit proceeded to pat down MacLeod’s chest and under his arms.
“Hey, watch it, that tickles,” MacLeod protested. The Palestinian, ignoring him, frisked him around the waist, then up and down each leg. MacLeod pulled away. “Sorry, buddy, you’re not my type.” The friendly edge was beginning to wear off his voice.
“He’s clean,” the one frisking him reported to his boss. The two suits restraining MacLeod released him.
“Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen.” MacLeod casually tugged the sleeves of his jacket back into position. “What do we do next? Retinal scans? IQ tests? Or do I get to see Dr. Amina now?” At the older man’s nod, one of his men began to speak quietly into a small walkie-talkie.
Kaffiyeh tore the paper from the box and opened it, scrutinizing the contents. Apparently convinced the palm-sized box didn’t contain an incendiary device, he closed the box and made a halfhearted attempt to stuff it back into its wrapping. Then he opened MacLeod’s wallet and gave it a cursory look before handing them both back. “Our apologies, Mr. MacLeod,” he said, anything but apologetic. “She will be down directly. Please wait here.” He indicated a chair in full view of all corners of the room.
“And you’re not going to tell me what this is about, are you?” MacLeod asked as he put away his wallet and tattered gift. The Palestinian merely turned and walked away. “Somehow, I knew that was a rhetorical question.” MacLeod sat down in the specified chair, drumming his fingers on his thighs as he waited for Maral. There were others in the lobby seemingly going about their business, all of them careful not to be caught watching him, but he could feel a dozen eyes burning into him in secret. It was a relief when he saw Maral coming across the lobby toward him a few minutes later.
He moved toward her, took her hand in his and kissed it gently. “Káyf hálik?” he greeted her in her native language, asking her how she was.
Maral smiled at him. “Mabsúta, Duncan,” she assured him she was well, and the words were warm and throaty. Her hair was still worn up in combs, but she had exchanged her conservative suit for a moss-colored dress that swirled around her calves and brought out the burnished gold in her skin. It was Paris haute couture and yet somehow still the epitome of Arab modesty. MacLeod couldn’t decide whether it was the dress that enhanced Maral’s natural beauty, or Maral who enhanced the dress’s.
“You look magnificent,” he said, meaning every word of it.
She laughed. “How often does a girl get to Pans?” She did a quick little turn in front of him. “I don’t think I’ve worn anything quite this fancy since my wedding.”
Over one arm Maral carried a silk shawl in whirls of greens and golds adorned by intricate beadwork. “May I?” MacLeod took the shawl from her and draped it around her shoulders. “Spring nights here can still be chilly, but we don’t have too far to