Highlander - Donna Lettow [77]
MacLeod would not give in to his anger, because he knew too well that was not the way to deal with Avram. “I am not allying myself with anyone, Avram. This is not about politics. It’s about an individual woman I happen to be seeing. And who I choose to see is none of your damn business.”
“Not like you to pick the wrong side, MacLeod,” Avram said, arms crossed in front of him, egging him on.
“There is no right and wrong, Avram, not this time.”
“Wrong again.” Avram shook his head sadly. “Didn’t you learn anything in Warsaw?”
“Yes, I did. I learned that no one group of people has the right to oppress and destroy another people because of their ancestry or how they choose to worship.” He kept his voice low and nonthreatening. “Or did I get that wrong, too?”
That stopped Avram for a moment, but just a moment. “Is that what you think this is about? Since when are you so naive? You’re buying into her propaganda, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Am I?”
Avram stepped toward him, scrutinizing him intently. As the two men sized each other up, MacLeod couldn’t help but be reminded of their first meeting—the same hostility, the same inability to trust. Everything had changed since then, but apparently nothing had. They regarded each other in angry silence, resolute will battling resolute will, the only sound in the room the quiet tap, tap, tap of Methos’s foot against the carpet.
Methos could stand it no longer. “Okay, look, a priest, a rabbi, and a chihuahua went into a bar one night—”
“Pierson!” Constantine scolded.
“What?” Methos said, feigning innocence. “You all seem to be confusing what sounds to me like a pleasant roll in the hay with the start of World War III. Chill out a little, would you? She’s just here to negotiate for a few run-down blocks of real estate.”
Avram jumped on it. “A piece of the City of God! She has no right. It was taken from us, and now that we have it back, it is ours.”
“Well, I’ll make sure to tell the Jebusites,” Methos said casually, strolling over to the decanter to freshen his drink.
“Pierson, what the devil are you talking about?” Constantine was confused by the non sequitur.
MacLeod didn’t appreciate Methos’s interjecting into his debate. “Adam,” he growled warningly.
“The Jebusites, the people that shepherd boy—what was his name?—David took Jerusalem from in the first place. Under your tautology, looks like they can have their city back. Come to think of it, the Manhattan Indians may want to have a look at this, too.”
MacLeod shot him another angry look. “You stay out of this.” But Methos held his ground.
“Okay, maybe I am being facetious, but the point is, people have been fighting, and dying, over that same piece of arid hillside for nearly five thousand years. This is not an exclusive Arab/Jew thing. It runs much deeper than that.”
Avram countered, “This isn’t about land. This is about the preservation of a people. About the protection of a way of life that dates back thousands of years. I have dedicated my entire life to this.”
“And what about the Palestinian way of life? Does that mean nothing to you?” MacLeod said, and he was stunned by the intensity of the hate in Avram’s dark eyes.
“What’s happened to you, MacLeod? Once you were willing to give your life to save a handful of Jews you didn’t even know. Once you fought with us, bled with us, mourned with us.” He thrust his smoking cigar into MacLeod’s face for emphasis. “The Duncan MacLeod I remember wouldn’t allow himself to get dragged around by his dick!”
MacLeod grabbed the cigar from Avram’s hand and ground it out with such force it crumbled into leaves. Smoke swirled around them.
Chapter Fifteen
Warsaw: May 7, 1943
Smoke swirled around him, so dense he could feel it against his skin. MacLeod fought for air. For each breath of oxygen he managed to draw in, he couldn’t stop the smoke from invading his lungs, tightening his throat. Sweat dripped down his forehead, into his eyes, the heat intense and growing hotter. Guided by the light of an electric lantern reflected eerily from the