Highlander - Donna Lettow [23]
She did not relent. “Then think about this: Was Scotland’s William Wallace really that different than Yasser Arafat?”
“It’s not that simple anymore.”
“Isn’t it? One man’s terrorist is another man’s hero. Whether they fight for the freedom to raise sheep in the Highlands or the Golan Heights.” She reached across the table to grab him by the arm, almost blinding him with her intensity. “Hasn’t there ever been anything in your life so precious you were willing to fight for it?”
How could she know? How could she understand? She dredged the word up from his soul. “Yes.”
Maral released his arm and her urgent energy seemed to dissipate into the empty restaurant. “Good,” she said, settling back into her chair, relaxed. “So Duncan MacLeod is a man of great passion and principles. I like that.” She picked up her fork and resumed eating, a look of satisfaction clear on her face.
“So, Professor, does that mean I pass?” He was a man of many secrets who’d been interrogated by some of the best inquisitors of their generations, but had never talked, never broken. Yet this woman had found all his buttons and had played them like music. With a few deft cuts, she had laid bare his soul. She continued to amaze him. “Or do I have to try for extra credit?”
“Maybe just a little homework.” That wicked look was back.
MacLeod looked at her and felt something strong stir within him. The promise. The possibilities. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Professor.”
“I’m sure you will.”
The chirping sound of a ringing cellular phone filled the restaurant. Assad, seated at the next table pretending not to eavesdrop, pulled the phone out of his jacket and flipped it open. “Assad,” he announced, then listened intently. “Halan”—immediately—he responded. Standing up, he handed the phone to Maral and moved quickly toward the kitchen. As he left he barked “Arabaya!” to his partner, who immediately left to fetch the car.
“Amina,” Maral said into the phone. MacLeod couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but he could follow the language of her body, the emotion in her face as it changed from interest to concern, briefly to fear, and then finally to sorrow. “Iwa,” she said heavily into the phone, but agreeing to what, MacLeod didn’t know. When she toggled off the phone, she looked ten years older.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“We have to go back.” She pushed back from the table and stood, reaching for her shawl. It was clear she didn’t intend to tell him anything more. MacLeod took her by the hand and held it.
“Maral, tell me what’s happened. Let me help.”
“You want to help? Build me a world where husbands and fathers and sons aren’t gunned down in the street because of the way they choose to worship God.” Her words were brittle as she tried to pull away from him. He wouldn’t let her go, giving her a calm, steady look that plainly let her know he would patiently wait until she was ready to share her pain with him. She tried halfheartedly to pull away again, then acquiesced with a sigh. “The shooter yesterday. His body’s gone-someone’s stolen it.”
Missing bodies always caught MacLeod’s attention. “You’re sure no one has it?”
“The Hebron police thought the military had it. The military thought the civilian coroner’s office had it. You know how it goes. And by the time they realized it was gone, someone had called today claiming responsibility for the attack. An organization we’ve never heard of before, called Oneg Shabbat.”
“Sabbath surprise?” MacLeod translated the Hebrew, releasing Maral’s hand, trying to place why he knew the name.
Assad, returning from the kitchen, overheard him. “You know them?” he asked, reaching for his gun.
“No,” MacLeod said, exasperated, “and put that thing away before you hurt yourself. Oneg Shabbat is a party for children after worship.” He stopped a moment, thinking.