Highlander - Donna Lettow [74]
An Israeli security agent had found a bomb in a second-floor men’s room, hidden in the back of a toilet stall. He had immediately called for an evacuation. It was a design all too familiar to Israeli bomb experts. The terrorist organization Hamas had used one exactly like it to destroy an Israeli courthouse in the occupied town of Nabulus only six months before. Avram knew if the bomb detonated, it would take out a good chunk of the Ministry of Education building.
He also knew that this bomb wouldn’t actually detonate. It mimicked the Hamas bomb down to the smallest detail, except for a small defect in the wiring. As he was building it, he, knew it wouldn’t go off because he’d never intended it to go off. Not this time. This bomb, so obviously planted by Hamas, was merely a smoke screen, a ruse to compound the fear, the mistrust, the paranoia that was already rampant between the two negotiating powers. With it Avram hoped to blow open a hole in the negotiations much bigger than any actual explosive device could achieve.
Avram played the part of heroic security agent in the face of danger well, rushing into the threatened building, ensuring that all the delegates had been evacuated, personally shepherding the last few—two Israelis and that Palestinian woman—across the street and around the corner to safety. As they came around the corner, he saw Duncan MacLeod break out of the crowd, through the police line, and run toward him.
Avram smiled. Same old MacLeod, always the white knight, rushing to assist him. He started to call to him to let him know everything was under control. “Duncan—”
“Doon-can,” the Palestinian woman called out over him, and she hurried to MacLeod. Avram watched him throw his arms protectively around her, and she responded with a hard kiss on MacLeod’s lips.
Avram’s smile slipped away, and his blood turned to ice. Well, that certainly put a whole new spin on everything. He turned on his heel and started back to the Ministry of Education building to assist in the removal of the Hamas bomb.
Although the wine was sometimes suspect, one could always be assured of a fine brandy in the home of Marcus Constantine. MacLeod leaned back in a leather armchair that smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old books with a snifter of Constantine’s best and listened politely to the curator’s tales of the gala opening of his new exhibit the evening before.
“Then, we’re standing in the middle of the holographic reenactment of the siege of Alesia and the Minister of Culture says to me”—he cleared his throat dramatically and assumed the officious bluster of the French politician—” ‘This heroic battle and this magnificent exhibition. I stand in awe of these two great Gallic triumphs!’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him, A), that the Gauls were crushed at Alesia and, B), that I am not now, nor have I ever been, French.” Constantine was amused by the very notion.
“So what did you say?” MacLeod was quite curious, as Constantine was often known to speak his mind, damn the consequences.
“Just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded like any good academic with an eye to future funding.”
MacLeod had to laugh. “Really, Marcus, sucking up doesn’t seem like your line of work.”
“Trust me, after four hundred years of serving Roman emperors, ‘sucking up,’ as you call it, becomes second nature if you want to survive. Modern academe’s not that different than Imperial Rome, truth be told.” Constantine raised his glass in mock tribute.
As MacLeod poured himself a bit more from the crystal decanter on the small table between their chairs, Constantine remarked, “So, I saw that Arab