Highlander - Donna Lettow [50]
“Hamas?” Maral stood in the doorway of the bathroom, clothed, her face full of shock. “That can’t be. We had their guarantee. They agreed to the truce. They swore—”
“That was before Hebron,” Farid pointed out. “Everything’s changed.”
“No,” she breathed, unbelieving, and all the stress and worry she’d managed to leave somewhere between her hotel room and the top of the Eiffel Tower came crashing back onto her shoulders, aging her beyond her years.
“Say your good-byes. We’re leaving now,” Farid commanded her.
MacLeod looked to Maral, who still seemed stunned by the revelation. He knew he should probably just back away and let Farid do his job. Maral’s evening of adventure, their night of mutual pleasure and comfort had ended with the cold cruel dawn of reality. Farid and his men would protect her. It’s what they were trained to do. But she just looked so lost. So all alone. And if anything were to happen to her because he’d done nothing … Instead of backing away, MacLeod stepped in. “I’m going with her.”
“Out of the question,” Farid said, taking Maral by the arm to guide her to the door.
“I don’t think you heard me,” MacLeod said, stepping in front of them, pulling Farid’s hand away from her. His voice was pleasant, but carried a hard core of steel. “I said, I’m going with her.” Even in just a towel, he could be quite intimidating. “Farid, you need me. If this is a Hamas threat, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”
“No.” Farid’s word was final. He started for the door again, gesturing Maral to follow.
“Last time, Farid,” MacLeod tried one more tack. “I stay with her, or I go to the press. What do you say?”
Farid glared at him, then inclined his head just a bit, acknowledging his defeat. “You have five minutes.”
MacLeod only needed four and half. As he emerged from the bathroom, dressed and ready to leave, he realized he’d walked into the middle of a conflict of wills.
“I will not permit this behavior,” Farid was growling at Maral. MacLeod’s first instinct was to come to her aid, but then with one look at the stern resolution on her face, he realized that when the war was with words, Maral had the situation well in hand.
“I am not your wife, Farid, and I am not your daughter. You work for the delegation, and, therefore, you work for me. You have no right to treat me any differently than you do the other delegates.”
“None of them behave as shamefully as you!”
“Bullshit!” Farid was floored by her use of such a crass Americanism. MacLeod could tell she’d done it just to watch him flinch. “Halabi is a drunkard. Al-Sayyeed has a different whore to his room every night. Don’t tell me you don’t know,” she said over his protests. “Your men are procuring them for him. And I’m sure all their security clearances are just impeccable, aren’t they?” It was clear Farid would not allow himself to be bested by a woman, but he was having trouble figuring a way out of this awkward situation. Maral, sensing this, moved in for the kill. “From now on, Farid, you treat me with the same courtesy and respect you do the men, or you and I will be having a chat with the chairman about these breaches in al-Sayyeed’s security. Do we have an understanding?”
Farid was not a man to shuffle or to hem and haw, even in defeat. He would stand his ground no matter what. His gaze was steady and his voice firm as he said, “As you say, Doctor.” He glanced at MacLeod, well aware he’d heard what transpired. “You’re ready.” It was not a question.
“After you.” MacLeod gestured toward the door, grabbing his long dark coat from the back of a chair. He took Maral’s arm and wondered, as they followed Farid out of the barge, if the security chief knew just how much she was trembling.
From the air, Paris seemed to go on forever. As Avram watched through the airplane’s tiny window, the city grew larger and larger. Descent was one of his favorite parts of flying—second only to the in-flight films. He loved the thrill of barely controlled falling.