Zealot by Donna Lettow Page B

pain. “Forty-three people were murdered outside a mosque in Hebron yesterday by an extremist Jewish student with an automatic
     weapon.”
    That would explain the smell of paranoia in the lobby, the heightened security. He understood immediately. “And you’re afraid
     of retaliation.”
    Maral nodded. “All of the peoples of Palestine are children of thousands of years of blood feuds and retribution. A Jewish
     attack like this will only lead to an Arab counterattack Then an Israeli response, then a Palestinian uprising. And then the
     military will crack down, and the next thing you know, five years of compromise and negotiation and movement—however so slowly—toward
     peace could be gone. All because of one fanatic. Everything we fought for. Everything we’ve gained. We will be prisoners again
     in our own country.” MacLeod caught a glimpse of the combination of eloquence and a had edge of steel that bred a strong negotiator.
     “We cannot let that happen.”
    “Then you
are
in danger?”
    “No more here than in Ramallah, I think. But you see, don’t you, why Farid and his security people would not allow me to go
     to dinner with such a charming, mysterious stranger without proper”—she looked at stern-faced Assad and his brooding associate
     and said wryly—”chaperones?”
    “Well, the more the merrier, I always say.” MacLeod took Maral’s arm and started toward the door. He glanced back at Assad.
     “You coming, Toto?”
    “I will drive,” Assad announced.
    “I thought we’d walk,” MacLeod said. “The restaurant’s only a few blocks away, and it’s a nice night. C’mon, the exercise’ll
     do you good.”
    “I will drive,” Assad reiterated.
    “I’m afraid Farid has picked a different restaurant for us,” Maral told MacLeod apologetically, “one he knows is secure. I
     hope you don’t mind. It was either this, or I would be having room service one in my hotel room again.”
    MacLeod smiled at her. “It’s fine. I don’t care where we eat or what we eat, as long as it’s with you.”
    Maral laughed. “I’m beginning to think you have the patience of a saint, Duncan MacLeod.”
    “If it keeps you from becoming a martyr, I can be anything you like.” He ushered her through the revolving doors to a dark
     Town Car waiting outside.
    The ride to the restaurant was an uncomfortable one, Maral sandwiched in the backseat between MacLeod and the sullen Arab
     whose name MacLeod still didn’t know. With the two bodyguards listening to their every word, it wasn’t the best place for
     conversation beyond remarks about the weather and the sorry state of Parisian traffic. It was to everyone’s relief when they
     finally arrived at the restaurant.
    MacLeod escorted Maral inside to find the place completely empty. “I hope this isn’t a commentary on the food,” he remarked,
     surveying the empty tables.
    “We have it all to ourselves this evening,” Maral explained. “Just the four of us? How romantic.”
    The owner of the establishment, a rotund Frenchman with a handlebar mustache, hurried over to greet them and ushered them
     to a table. MacLeod helped seat Maral and then sat himself down opposite her. The two bodyguards took up their positions,
     standing like twin towers of doom and gloom at the corners of the table.
    Maral removed her shawl and draped it on the back of the empty chair to her right, but the silk was slippery and slid from
     the chair to the floor. Immediately, both guards swooped in to rescue it as if throwing themselves on a live grenade. Maral
     had to laugh at how ridiculous they looked, and once she’d started, found she couldn’t stop. “I can’t do this,” she said through
     her laughter.“This is all too surreal. I’ll never get used to it.” Tears came to her eyes, though whether they were tears
     of laughter or frustration at their situation, MacLeod couldn’t tell.
    He got up and pulled two nearby tables a little closer to the table where