Highlander: The Measure of a Man

by Nancy Holder

  And yet, she didn’t look a thing like either of them. Different features, different hair, different build. What was it then, her eyes?

  MacLeod’s hands were unsteady as he prepared Japanese green tea, swirling the boiling water over the loose leaves in a one-handed ceramic pot from Kyoto. If you sent her, you selected well, Machiavelli, he thought, as he inhaled the fragrant steam. Promotion of a pawn to queen, that’s what you’re after, isn’t it?

  She was curled up on his sofa, her boots removed. She was looking at his pages of calligraphy, staring at each one for perhaps fifteen seconds, laying it down carefully, staring at the next one.

  She didn’t hear him approach; he searched her profile for clues about her identity. She was pale, with the ivory complexion so flattering to redheads, but tinged with a pallor born of nervousness and exhaustion. Her lashes were full and long. Tessa’s had been so. Her mouth was rich. Debra’s had been so.

  But was her reason for being here more like Maria Angelina’s?

  “It’s bokuseki,” he said. “One of the seven traditional martial arts.”

  “Painting?” she asked in surprise.

  “The stroke of a pen, the stroke of a sword,” he answered lightly, although he was uncomfortable. He wished she had not seen the pages. To a practiced eye, they revealed far more about him than he wished. The teachings of bokuseki held that the brush brought forth the depths of the unconscious, teaching the painter of the ten thousand things of the universe, sending him from the present moment to beyond time. Since Tessa’s death, he had struggled hard to rediscover the inner core of serenity vital to a warrior’s survival.

  “Here.” He held out a Japanese teacup brimming with fresh green tea.

  She put down his papers, accepted the hot liquid gratefully, holding her teacup in the correct Japanese way, and sipped.

  He sat down at the other end of the couch. She moved her feet, sitting upright. The pulse at her throat jumped. Despite his caution, he found himself wishing to put her at ease.

  Methos often chided him for his chivalrous attitude toward women. If she’d been a male Immortal, they’d be fighting by now unless the man had divulged who and what he really was. He knew that, and yet he could do nothing but allow this woman to lounge on his couch and drink his tea.

  She smelled of an early morning on the heather. Her hair was wind-tossed as if by the wind dancing the craggy hills and meadows of a time long past.

  He rose and returned to the kitchen to rinse the sink. Though to the casual observer he might have appeared engrossed in his task, he was acutely aware of each sound she made. She sat quietly. He asked without looking at her, “Where are you staying?”

  She didn’t answer. He walked to the couch and looked down at her.

  The teacup, empty, lay on its side where she had dropped it onto the couch. In the growing shadows of the cloudy afternoon, the light played over her face, her closed eyes. Her shallow breathing indicated a respite from deep, overwhelming fatigue.

  She must feel safe here. With him.

  His heart tugged. Watch it, watch it, he told himself. You fell for this before, in 1655.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he muttered aloud, and went to the linen closet to get her a blanket.

  Hours later, while he sat in the darkness and worked on the puzzle of Woodrich’s revelations and Machiavelli’s chess moves, his attention roamed repeatedly to the still figure on the couch. She scarcely moved. She was going to have a neck ache when she awoke. As his mind wandered, he caught himself imagining giving her a neck massage; then, his hands stroking downward along her taut spine, the knotted muscles at the small of her back. He became aware of his detailed fantasy and shook his head at himself. What he was doing smacked of voyeurism.

  With a grunt he rose from his chair to make more tea.

  “Oh,” she whispered, raising her head. He stopped. “I’m… please, I’m sorry. What time is it? I should go.”

  “It’s late. You can stay on the couch, or downstairs.”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly, but her tone was hopeful. She was afraid to go out. By her movements and the way she had carried herself on the street, he guessed she realized she couldn’t protect herself very well.

  She laughed shortly. “This is all so strange. This worrying about other Immortals.” She ran her hand through her hair. “But most of our existence is strange, isn’t it?” She looked to him for confirmation.

  “You’ll get used to it.” He wasn’t sure he had. “Perhaps you’d better stay here. I’ll take the couch.”

  “How do you know,” she said, smiling awkwardly, “that I won’t get my sword and sneak over here and…”

  “I don’t.” That bastard. What hold did he have on her to make her do this? “To bed,” he said.

  She flushed, nodded. “Yes.”

  He led her past the kitchen area, his thoughts on that empty bed and the sweet and terrible nightmares of lost love that awaited him on the couch. Not alone, not tonight, he thought.

  She fidgeted while he got himself some bedclothes, a pillow, and a robe. When he brushed past her, she jumped.

  “You should have everything,” he said. “I keep extra toiletries in the bathroom. If there’s anything you need—” he was given pause by her uneasiness, the way she almost touched his arm, as if for comfort—“let me know.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He went into the bathroom, pulled off his sweater and stood bare-chested in the room; then, cursing himself for a fool, he opened the door and stepped out.

  “Oh,” she murmured, coloring. She had been in the midst of undressing. She wore a black camisole and tap pants edged with black lace; her feet were bare.

  “I, do you have another pillow?” she asked. “I was going to look for your linen closet.”

  Or for something of interest to Machiavelli? He said, “There should be one on top of the extra folded blanket,” and brushed past her. He walked into the living room area and got her sword. He handed it to her.

  She smiled wanly and took it. “Great minds think alike,” she said. “Well, good night.” Her gaze ran up and down the length of his body, resting on his bare chest, his shoulders. His face. Evidently she was pleased with what she saw; her mouth curved and her cheeks turned pink.

  “Good night.” He crossed to the couch and made it up. Outside, the storm broke. Lightning shattered the shadows along the wall and thunder threw sonic booms against the panes. The rain tor-rented down in thick, mercury-colored buckets. He was glad he hadn’t sent her out in it.

  Had Machiavelli?

  The fog wrapped around Tokyo Tower as Machiavelli stood on the upper observation deck. On a clear day you could see Tokyo Disneyland from here. On a day like today, when you could see nothing, you could pretend you stood in the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

  His cell phone rang. With a rush of anticipation, he flicked it open, eager to hear MacLeod’s voice.

  “It’s ‘Umeko.’” She laughed.

  “Si, cara mia.”

  “Sammi followed MacLeod home. She’s in his house.”

  “Excellent. You did well, my darling.”

  She took a breath. “Will it be soon?”

  “Yes, very soon. I promise you. I have promised you from the start, haven’t I?”

  “Yes. I’ve done everything you’ve asked—”

  “And I will do what you have asked.” He made kissing noises. “Come home. I’ll send the boys out there to deal with him.”

  “All right. I’m counting the hours until I’m with you again.”

  “I, as well, beautiful lady.”

  He disconnected her.

  Stupid cow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Draw them in with the prospect of gain, then take them by confusion.”

  —Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Conscious of the presence of a woman in his house, MacLeod rose at dawn and went running instead of going through his forms. Dressing in navy blue sweats
, he had been both eager and reluctant to leave the apartment: she was too near, too close, for comfort. He had tossed and turned all night, not dreaming of loss, but imagining pleasure.

  For all of wanting her, he trusted her less in sunlight than the romantic close quarters of a stormy night. Who knew what she had been sent to retrieve? Perhaps at this very moment, she was bugging his apartment or modifying his computer to Machiavelli’s precise specifications. Leaving her alone was tantamount to giving her permission to do whatever she wanted. Correction: what Machiavelli wanted.

  What neither of them knew was that MacLeod never left anything to chance, nor was he sloppy with his privacy. He kept nothing in his loft that he would miss or that could be used against him, including everything on his computers. After all, a thief—or another Immortal—could break in at a most inopportune moment.

  Still, to be on the safe side, he had left out for her a computer he no longer used. Last night while she slept, he had moved both his laptop and desktop into the dojo.

  His instinct was to hop a plane to Japan. That would probably accomplish nothing, and if he knew Machiavelli, be very dangerous to boot. Fools rushed in, young fools; Immortals who had managed to live for four hundred years moved wisely and slow.

  He ran steadily, his breath steaming as he wiped his face with the towel around his neck. After five miles, he headed for home.

  Savory breakfast odors greeted his return: bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. She had two plates warming in the oven, and poured two cups of coffee as he came into the apartment.

  “Good morning,” she said. She seemed happy as she handed him a cup. Then their fingers touched, and she jerked as if his skin had burned her.

  “Thanks.” He drank and indicated the plates. “That smells good.” He daubed his face. “I’ll take a shower. Don’t wait for me.”

  She said, “I don’t mind,” and carried her cup to the window and peered out. “It’s so dreary here.”

  “Outside it is,” he said softly, and carried his coffee to the bathroom.

  The computer in Senator Anthony Beauchard’s home office was on. At Machiavelli’s direction, operatives had installed surveillance equipment in Beauchard’s computer months ago. Whenever it was on, Machiavelli could flip a few switches and listen to everything the man said. His next plan had been to install a camera. But it was probably too late for that.

  “You’ve got to hide me, Tony. They’re after me. They’re gonna kill me.”

  “Alan, are you crazy? Who? What have you done?”

  “Tony, listen, um, I’m involved in something. I have some other people I helped.”

  “Helped? What are you talking about? Who’d you help? If you told that bastard Thurman anything—”

  Machiavelli smiled. Jeffrey Thurman was Beauchard’s main rival in his bid for the nomination.

  “No, it was nothing like that. I, ah, I…”

  “Get out of here. I don’t want to know about anything you’re messed up in.”

  Machiavelli picked up his phone and dialed a number. After one ring, the connection was made.

  “Si, maestro?” Ruffio answered.

  “Caro mio, come sta? As I predicted, Woodrich went to the senator’s home.”

  “Bravo! We’re only one kilometer away.”

  “Grab Woodrich as soon as he leaves.

  “Si.”

  “Don’t let anyone see you. Get him to the plane.”

  Machiavelli hung up and listened. In Beauchard’s office, the conversation was becoming more heated.

  “Did anyone see you come here? Were you followed?”

  “I’d know if I was being trailed, wouldn’t I? I work for the goddamn NSA. Tony, get me out of the country. Put me somewhere safe in Italy with your people.”

  “You promised never to bring that up. We’re Beauchards now, not Boccarinos.” A fine old mob family. Machiavelli knew them well. Like the Japanese, the Italians had also appreciated the idea of Beauchard as president, though for more immediately apparent reasons. Such as the Boccarino mob syndicate, run by Beauchard’s friends and relations.

  “I’m in trouble with the people you’re involved with. They want to kill me.”

  “People?”

  “The Japanese. Nick Macchio.”

  “Macchio? I’m not involved with him.”

  “Tony, yes, you are. He’s ah, I sold him something. I…”

  “You sold him some information about me?”

  “No!”

  “You sold a foreigner secrets? Do you know that’s treason? How am I involved? Did you use my name? Use my computer account somehow?”

  Machiavelli shook his head. The senator was practically computer illiterate. But now he knew too much, or was on the verge of it. In his panic, Alan was not thinking very well.

  “Protect me. I’m begging you. I helped you—”

  There was the sound of a fist on a desk. “I never asked for your help. Never. You compromised me, Alan. If anyone ever finds out about all that information you sent me, my career is over. And now you tell me there’s more crap you’ve gotten me into?”

  Another noise like a pounding. “You didn’t ask, but you didn’t complain! I believed in you. In what you wanted to do for our country. Take America back!” There was a jerking sound. “Tony, is your office rigged? Are we being taped?”

  “Who do you think I am, Richard Nixon? How can you talk about America? You’re just some two-bit spy.”

  A click. Madonna, did someone have a gun?

  “Tony, what are you doing?”

  “Get out.”

  “Tony, no. We’re friends.”

  “We knew each other when we were boys. There’s a difference.”

  “I’ll turn myself in,” Woodrich threatened. “I’ll tell them everything. I’ll tell about your family. I’ll drag you down with me.”

  The sound of footsteps, of a scuffle. Furniture falling over.

  Machiavelli redialed the cell phone number. “Go in now, Ruffio. Immediately. Someone has a gun. Get the pigeon out of there and then kill the eagle.” Eagle stood for the senator. Pigeon for the mouthy little coward who would, unfortunately, live to see another dawn.

  Maybe two.

  “Si, mi signor.”

  Machiavelli stayed on the line.

  The splintering of a door.

  The crack of a gun.

  Shouts.

  Another crack.

  Ruffio, swearing in seventeenth-century Italian.

  Ruffio’s cell phone hitting the floor.

  Another crack.

  A thud.

  Footsteps. Running.

  Panting. Ruffio said, “I’m after the pigeon. We’re covered downstairs. The eagle’s dead.”

  “Call me later, Ruffio. Pay attention to what you’re doing.” Ruffio would be running after him now. His partner would be waiting downstairs with their car. It was imperative they get away from the scene with Woodrich intact.

  He picked up the phone and said, “Get me Iwasawa-san. I’m afraid I have bad news for him.”

  MacLeod squinted his way through the sheet of microfiche, his gaze wandering longingly to the computer at his right. It contained the library database files of indexed newspaper articles, corporate book abstracts, and every Who’s Who ever published. MacLeod had no way of knowing if Machiavelli could tell if he accessed computerized files. From what he understood, it would be possible for Machiavelli’s altered network of routers to search for proper names, key words, addresses, phone numbers—whatever Machiavelli desired.

  So he stuck to the manual means of researching, even though it took him ten times as long to do so.

  Macchio Worldwide Enterprises was the name of Machiavelli’s Venice-based multinational corporation. According to various accounts, it had been linked to many unsavory activities. A reactor built by MWE had melted down in India. His company had been accused of conducting disastrous illegal pharmaceutical trials in Thailand. MWE was linked to selling munitions to Bosnia.
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br />   In every case, MWE had not been found guilty of any crime, nor fined a single penny. No one had been able to touch him.

  That had not surprised MacLeod. But it did surprise him to discover that the Tokyo address and fax number at the bottom of “Umeko Takahashi’s” meishi did not belong to MWE. His repeated attempts to discover the name of the owner of the fax, both in English and Japanese, had gone unanswered until just before he left for the library, when MacLeod had received a short note:

  Please to excuse poor English. This place is division of Nippon Kokusai Sangyo, largest Japanese corporation. Sorry for inconvenience. I am secretary here for ill secretary.

  A temp, in other words, who apparently had not been told the routine when the other secretary went home sick.

  He finished the fiche and put in another, several pages of entries from The Directory of Japanese Corporations. He scanned the entry about Nippon Kokusai Sangyo.

  Among the products Nippon Kokusai Sangyo ships worldwide are routers. These are the boxes that intercept and direct computer messages between systems much in the manner of telephone switching stations. They are the world’s largest manufacturer. Their address is 4 Piazza Chondo, Tokyo.

  Machiavelli didn’t need Alan Woodrich’s counterpart in the hardware division of the NSA. All he wanted was the completed software. How far from completion was Woodrich, truly?

  And who had murdered Senator Anthony Beauchard? It was the top story on every TV news report, every radio station. There were no leads.

  Which led MacLeod to his own conclusions. Woodrich was implicated, of course, but it seemed more likely that Machiavelli hadn’t liked sharing Woodrich’s expertise with anyone. He had to find Woodrich and force him to tell him what was going on.

  Samantha came up beside him. She had asked to accompany him to the library while he “did his research on some antiques,” citing her fear that “Nathan” might come for her. Casually, he flicked off the fiche reader and asked, “Find anything interesting to read?”

  “Just this. I thought you might find it interesting, too.” She handed him a copy of The Prince and looked hard at him. “It’s as relevant today as when it was written.”

  There was a space of silence between them. This was a message, a step forward, either into a morass of lies or toward the truth.