Highlander - Donna Lettow [76]
“Ah, my friend, but we who remained had to live with Caligula. I think you got your revenge after all,” Constantine noted.
Methos slumped back into the corner of the settee. “That’s the last time I got involved in politics, let me tell you.”
“So that nail in the museum is yours?” MacLeod grinned with smug satisfaction, knowing he had something he could hold over Methos forever.
Methos knew it, too, and was less than pleased. “There, you see, MacLeod, we’ve all got our crosses to bear. I hope you’re happy. Now, can we just move on? No amount of brandy is worth this abuse.”
As one, the three men realized there was an Immortal approaching. “Guess that’s Avram now. I’ll be right back.” Constantine excused himself to answer the door, knocking Methos’s size twelves from the coffee table as he went by. When he was safely out of the room, MacLeod leaned forward in his chair and whispered to Methos.
“Does Marcus know you’re really … ?” MacLeod didn’t want to say it aloud for fear of being overheard.
“Methos? Not a clue. And I’d prefer to keep it that way, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, he’ll want to put me under glass and study me for posterity.”
Something was still bothering MacLeod. “Why did you come? Small talk with Immortals you’ve never met has never been your strong suit.”
“Just returning a favor I owe Marcus. Besides, I’m perfectly safe. Avram Mordecai hasn’t taken a head that wasn’t in self-defense in two thousand years. He’s too caught up in the affairs of mortals. As long as he doesn’t find out about that century I spent as a Samaritan, I’m in no danger from him.”
Constantine ushered Avram into the study. “Avram Mordecai, Adam Pierson.” Methos reached over the back of the settee to shake his hand, unwilling to relinquish his comfy spot. “And of course, you know MacLeod. Glass of wine? A little brandy?”
“None for me, thanks,” Avram said, seating himself on an ottoman across the room from MacLeod and Methos. Constantine offered him the box of smokes.
“Cigar?”
Avram selected one with a smile. “Whatever your vice, Constantine’s your man.” Constantine clipped the end of the cigar for him and handed him a lighter. “In the old days, there would have been whores in the back room,” Avram said as he lit the thing and took a few preliminary puffs.
“Why do I never get invited to those parties?” Methos groused.
“So,“ Constantine said, settling back into one of the leather armchairs with his own cigar, “I hear you had something of a near miss yesterday.”
Avram shrugged it off casually. “When you try to bargain with terrorists, you get what you deserve.” He shot a look at MacLeod. “Don’t you agree, MacLeod?”
MacLeod wondered where this was leading. “Avram, Hamas planted that bomb, not the Palestinian people. Hamas are your terrorists.”
“These days Hamas has more Palestinian support than Arafat and his merry men do, MacLeod. What does that say about your Palestinian people?” Avram challenged.
Constantine intervened. “What is this about, Avram?”
“Haven’t you heard, Marcus? Our good friend Duncan MacLeod is shacking up with a terrorist.”
MacLeod was angered by the accusation. “Maral Amina is not a terrorist.”
“No?” Avram said, standing so he could look MacLeod in the face. “Then what do you call her? That woman is the legal representative of an organization whose stated purpose is the genocide of the Jewish people. You’re shtupping Hitler, MacLeod!”
MacLeod took a long moment. He knew any immediate response he’d make would only make matters worse, and in his present state might prove violent. Another deep breath. “That was thirty years ago, Avram,” he said carefully. “The PLO has changed. The Palestinians have changed.”
“People don’t change, MacLeod. Their words may change, their propaganda may change, but what’s in their hearts doesn’t change.” Avram spoke with his body, spoke with his hands, the cigar dancing through the air. “They wanted us all dead then, they want us all dead now. And I will not roll over and let that happen. Never again. And if you ally yourself with them, you ally yourself