Zealot by Donna Lettow

…” Rivka begged.
    In the distance, another explosion sounded. Avram was torn. This was the moment he and the surviving youth of the Ghetto had
     worked and drilled endlessly for—when the Germans would return in force to eradicate the last remaining Jews in Warsaw and
     the Jews would finally rise up with weapons and face their murderers in battle. His people needed him. But, this Immortal,
     this Gentile, this
goy
MacLeod…he could prove a danger to his people as well…He looked from Rivka’s eager eyes to MacLeod. “Well,” he said after
     a long moment, praying he was making the right decision, “if Shimon and Rivka vouch for you…” Sometimes he could only go with
     his gut feeling. He reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a grenade, handing it to MacLeod. “Here, you’ll probably
     need this. Now go, you and Rivka keep your promise. Give Shimon my regards. Tell him he still owes me two tickets to the pictures.”
     He turned and climbed into the cargo truck.
    “Avram!” MacLeod called after him, and Avram hung out the window. “I’ll be back to help when the rabbi’s safe.”
    “Sure you will,
goy
,” Avram called back, unconvinced. He threw the truck into gear and drove off.

Chapter Four

    Paris: The Present
    MacLeod pulled his Citroën close in behind the truck stopped in front of the Hôtel Lutétia, tossing his keys to a uniformed
     doorman as he got out. As he adjusted his gray turtleneck sweater and buttoned the single button of his blue sports coat over
     it, he thought he could almost detect the vaguest shiver of nervousness in his stomach.
    Some things never changed, not even after four hundred years. Certainly first dates hadn’t changed—all the possibilities,
     all the uncertainties. At least he wouldn’t have to meet Maral’s parents. The thought brought a rueful smile to his lips.
     Fighting the most despicable Kern or Kalas on the planet had always been easier than facing a girl’s parents for the first
     time. With a deep relaxation breath he entered the great revolving doors and passed into the grand lobby of the hotel.
    Four Arab men in suits and surly looks were waiting for him inside. They surrounded him as soon as he entered. “
Masá al-kháyr
,” MacLeod bade them good evening in his friendliest voice, flashing his most sincere smile. It never paid to piss off guys
     carrying automatic weapons under their coats before finding out what their problem was.
    “Duncan MacLeod?” asked one of them, an older man in a traditional Arab headdress, the
kaffiyeh
, and MacLeod nodded.
    “Dr. Amina is expecting me,” he said and immediately two of the other suits each grabbed him by an arm. This wasn’t exactly
     what he expected on a first date. He looked at the two men holding him, then at the older man in the
kaffiyeh
, who was regarding him sternly. “You wouldn’t happen to be her father, would you? Look, I promise, I’ll have her home by
     midnight,” he joked, but the Palestinian was not amused.
    “Search him,” he commanded, his face implacable. The suit holding MacLeod’s right arm pulled MacLeod’s wallet and a small
     box in colorful gift wrap from his jacket and tossed them to the older man. The fourth suit proceeded to pat down MacLeod’s
     chest and under his arms.
    “Hey, watch it, that tickles,” MacLeod protested. The Palestinian, ignoring him, frisked him around the waist, then up and
     down each leg. MacLeod pulled away. “Sorry, buddy, you’re not my type.” The friendly edge was beginning to wear off his voice.
    “He’s clean,” the one frisking him reported to his boss. The two suits restraining MacLeod released him.
    “Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen.” MacLeod casually tugged the sleeves of his jacket back into position. “What do we do
     next? Retinal scans? IQ tests? Or do I get to see Dr. Amina now?” At the older man’s nod, one of his men began to speak quietly
     into a small walkie-talkie.
    Kaffiyeh
tore the paper