Highlander - Donna Lettow [72]
Maral hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, knowing it would do no good to protest, they would find what they wanted to find. They always did. The hum of the security wand stayed low and quiet as they moved it slowly up her body, then suddenly sang out as it passed her shoulders. She and MacLeod realized what the problem was at the same moment. Making no sudden moves, she raised her hands and pulled the iron gazelles from her hair. Her hair tumbled down below her shoulders but she paid it no mind, handing the combs to a security officer with a steady gaze that said quite firmly she was not embarrassed and by no means ashamed.
MacLeod, on the other hand, was mortified. If not for his gift, so innocent in its intent, this public little drama would never have happened. The small crowd disbursed, al-Sayyeed looking a bit smug, and the security guard gave her back the combs and her purse once a final pass with the wand proved she carried no other “dangerous” objects. “I’m sorry,” MacLeod said when he was allowed to rejoin her.
“You, Duncan? It’s my fault. I should have known better,” she said, unsuccessfully attempting to repin her hair as they walked down the corridor. “Everything was so confused this morning, I just wasn’t thinking.” Passing a ladies’ washroom, she turned to Assad. “Do you mind?” Taking it in stride, Assad banged loudly on the door several times, then opened it, calling out to see if anyone was using it. Hearing no response, he went in to secure the room while MacLeod and Maral waited outside. After a few moments, he returned, indicating it was safe. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and went in.
MacLeod and Assad stood outside the washroom in strained silence. MacLeod’s attempts to make conversation—“Is this your first time in Paris?” “How about that World Cup final?” “So, what do you do when you’re not a spy?”—seemed to fall on deaf ears. He was relieved when Maral emerged a few minutes later, every hair in its proper place.
“I should go in now,” she said. “It’s nearly time.” Assad led the way down the hall.
The guards stationed at the negotiation room opened the doors as Maral arrived. The centerpiece of the room was a long oaken table, Arabs ranged along one side, Israelis along the other. The Bloods and the Crips, ready to rumble, MacLeod thought. He entered the room with Maral and Assad, but Farid stopped them just inside the door, pointing to MacLeod. “No,” the security chief said very firmly. “Out.”
This time, MacLeod knew not to argue. While his first thought was Maral’s protection, he could sense immediately he was an outsider in this place where two warring peoples were trying to work out their future, and his stranger’s presence would not be appreciated here. With a nod of his head to Farid and a wink of encouragement to Maral, he made a quick exit from the room.
He started down a corridor, checking out the building. He noted the video surveillance system and the placement of the security forces posted throughout the area—Israeli, Palestinian, and French personnel working together to ensure the safety of the negotiations—and his confidence in their ability to keep Maral safe rose. After completing a circuit of the Ministry of Education facility and seeing for himself that everything seemed well in hand, MacLeod left the building reassured.
A few members of the press corps perked up as he came out, but for the most part the press were killing time until the delegates would reemerge by playing cards in the back of news vans, gossiping with their colleagues, catching a quick nap. MacLeod skirted around them and started down the street.
As he walked, the smell of coffee called out to him. He realized that in the confusion of the morning, he never did get that cup of coffee he wanted, much less have time for any breakfast. He followed the scent of freshly ground beans as they lured him to a small coffeehouse less than