Highlander - Donna Lettow [41]
“You were pretty certain I’d come through on this, Marcus,” MacLeod noted, and Constantine just smiled, knowingly.
The jangle of MacLeod’s cell phone added to the general clamor in the gallery. He flipped it open. “MacLeod.”
“Doon-can?” her voice purred velvet in his ear.
“Maral,” he said, and watched Constantine raise an indulgent eyebrow at the softening of his voice. “Are you all right?”
He could hear her sigh through the phone. “Arafat left the negotiation in a huff and the Israeli foreign minister broke off the session. I need … I don’t know what I need …”
“How about a hug? For a start.” Constantine’s face broke into an almost patronizing smile, and MacLeod waved him away.
“That would be lovely,” she agreed. “But they won’t let me out. I’m suffocating here. Can you rescue me?”
“One knight in shining armor, coming right up.”
“Really? You’ll help me?” The joy in her voice was clear even over the ragged cellular connection.
“Daring rescues, my specialty. I’m on my way. Wear comfortable shoes.” MacLeod toggled off the phone and turned to Constantine, who was grinning with fatherly pride. “I think I’ll be going now.”
“I won’t wait up.”
“You don’t have to be so smug,” MacLeod said, starting from the room.
“You don’t have to look so happy,” Constantine countered, as MacLeod left.
Chapter Eight
Tel Aviv, Israel: The Present
The four o’clock train from Haifa was late. The four o’clock train from Haifa was always late. Inside the crowded Arlozorov Railway Station, it was stifling hot. The antiquated air-conditioning system was out of commission again, as it so often was, and Avram, seated on a bench near the gate where the train from Haifa would someday arrive, berated himself for his choice of garb.
Heavy black suit, black overcoat, black-rimmed spectacles, black felt hat pulled low and tight around his ears to conceal his close-cropped hair and anchor the false prayer curls he wore, he was traveling as one of the ultra-orthodox haredim, one of the “black hats” as they were known colloquially throughout Israel. Packed tightly on the bench between an enormous Jewish matron and an unwashed European backpacker, he was certain he was dying. If it was the purpose of the “black hats” to suffer before God, they succeeded admirably. He admired their discipline, but wanted nothing more than to strip off the oppressive black wool and plunge into the Mediterranean, so blue and inviting just a little over a mile away.
The arrival of the train brought some relief as his seatmates hurried off to meet it. Avram stayed where he was, his briefcase on his lap, watching from beneath the brim of his hat as the passengers just off the train from Haifa passed through the gate and into the railway station. Businessmen mostly, returning from a day of transacting business in the northern city. A number of tourists rushed through the station, afraid to miss their connection to Jerusalem. More backpackers, French and Italian, off in search of the youth hostel. As the surge of people off the train began to thin, he spotted a small group of Israeli soldiers in uniform, three men and a woman, coming through the gate with duffel bags slung over their backs. Avram watched them pass his position, laughing and joking with each other in that easy camaraderie that’s forged in the trenches. As they started to exit the railway station, he picked up his briefcase and followed them out.
The four walked to a nearby bus stop, Avram not far behind them. After a brief wait in the blazing sun, the bus arrived and the soldiers boarded along with a handful of civilians. Avram followed, choosing a seat near the front of the bus behind the driver,