The two men began to run, working with an instinctive precision as each of them checked down opposite sides of the path MacLeod had traversed earlier. Still off in the distance—but oh, so much nearer—a sudden scream, a wail of anguish, rent the air. The sound cut through Paulus as if someone had stabbed a knife into his heart. He could not think of what might be happening; he must not let it distract him from his quest, though every muscle of his body, every corner of his soul, wanted to go with comfort and aid to the assailed.
Finally, he caught a glimpse of white down one of the alleyways between buildings. It was so small he almost missed it, just a little corner of fabric contrasting with the sand-colored houses around it. Not slowing his pace, Victor spun on his heel and rushed in that new direction.
It was Sister Anne, huddled in a doorway, her body shielding two small children. Their dark eyes were round with terror at the sound of his approaching footsteps. It took Sister Anne a few seconds to recognize him, and in those seconds Victor Paulus saw the ferocious spirit beneath the nun’s gentle exterior. He knew that she would fight for the children, giving her life for their safety if she must.
As recognition dawned, the ferocity died in her eyes and was replaced by intense relief. ‘Thank God you’re here,” she said. “I heard these children crying and I had to find them.”
Paulus nodded; he would not have been able to leave them either. “Let’s get you all to safety,” he replied.
Sister Anne stood, speaking sofi reassurances to the children, who wanted to shrink away from the strange man in front of them. Victor wished he had time to win their trust but right now, if they were to live, speed was all that mattered.
Crooning a few soft words of hit; own, Victor scooped one of the children, a little boy he guessed to be about age six, into his arms. Then he turned in time to see Duncan MacLeod running toward him. Again, the sight filled Paulus with confidence. With Duncan carrying one child, himself to carry the other, and Sister Anne free to run on her own, there just might be time to get everyone well hiddcr before the raiders arrived at this end of the village.
“Here,” Victor said as he thrust the little boy into Duncan’s arms. He turned and picked up the other child, a girl. Without further words, all three of the adults began to run.
There were more screams heard in the distance, anguished wails and angry, shouting voices. Gunshots. Victor glanced at Sister Anne and saw her lips moving in silent prayer even as they ran. The shadows and stealth were less important than distance now. They ran openly, hoping that no one in the neighboring buildings would point out their house in a bid for clemency—or if they did, that the measures taken would be sufficient to keep the women and children from capture.
They could hear the automobiles’ rumble again as they reached the safe house. The nuns and their children were down in the hiding hole, but Cynthia was not.
“She will not go,” Azziz said in answer to the unspoken question as he closed the door behind the new arrivals. Victor lowered the little girl in his arms down into the opening and saw her quickly enfolded into loving and reassuring arms. Then he turned to face Cynthia.
“No,” she said before he could speak. “I won’t leave you to face this danger alone.”
“You won’t have to,” MacLeod said behind him. “Victor is going down there, too.”
Paulus spun around, ready to protest, but one look at the expression on MacLeod’s face as he finished helping Sister Anne to safety stopped the words in his mouth. It was not easy to argue with a man who looked like that.
Still, he knew he must try. Victor straightened his glasses in the automatic gesture he used so often when he was speaking from a podium or in front of a large crowd. It was a gesture that gave him a few seconds’ respite to collect his words.
But after two months of working together, MacLeod must have recognized the gesture for what it was. Even as Victor was taking a breath to begin his argument, MacLeod cut him off.
“There’s no other way,” MacLeod began. “If Cynthia won’t go down there without you, you go too.”
Paulus shook his head. “I won’t run out and leave the two of you.” His glance took in Azziz, who had crossed the room and was standing impatiently ready to close the trap door in the floor and hide the evidence of the people below.
“Azziz and I will be fine,” MacLeod countered. “But you the raiders would kill instantly. You look Western. And there is Cynthia’s safety to think about. You two can help keep the children quiet. One sound could give everything away.”
These were arguments against which Paulus had no answer. MacLeod was right; he did look Western—whether American or European, it did not matter. MacLeod, having adopted native dress, could easily pass for someone of Middle Eastern descent, like so many of the Muslim raiders.
Victor held out his hand to Cynthia. Wordlessly, she took it and together they went into hiding.
Moving quickly and in unison, MacLeod and Azziz lowered the trap door back into place and covered it with the rug. Over the rug went a low table and two worn cushions on which to sit. While Azziz brought out some tea things and bits of food, MacLeod’s eyes scanned the room for any evidence of occupation other than theirs. Satisfied that all was in order, he sat down on one of the cushions. He and Azziz attempted to hide their nervousness beneath the mundane activity of a shared meal.
All the while, the noise of approaching automobiles grew closer.
“ ‘Thou shalt not fear the terror by night nor the arrow that flies by the day’,” Azziz quoted to him softly. They were offered as words of comfort, and MacLeod knew that the people below could hear them too.
MacLeod gave the man across from him a wan smile. He saw the fervor shining in Azziz’s eyes and knew that whatever might befall them, Azziz’s faith would sustain him.
For MacLeod, it was not arrows—or their modern equivalent—neither were there mortal terrors he fought within himself. His Immortality protected him. His fears were all for the people around him and whether he could protect them.
His faith was not like Azziz’s, or like that of the five nuns hiding in silence in that darkened hole beneath the floor. But he did believe, now as he had when he was a boy, that good must always triumph over evil. Somehow. Eventually.
The sounds of the automobiles had changed from a distant rumble to a close-range roar. MacLeod could hear how one of the engines coughed unevenly with a missing valve. That sound became the dominant one, as if the other vehicles had made a turn but this one kept coming in their direction.
It stopped outside the door. Once again MacLeod glanced at Azziz. The young Sudanese man gave a little nod; he was ready to play his part—as was MacLeod.
The door to the house was suddenly thrown open and three men with automatic weapons burst into the room. MacLeod and Azziz both affected surprise, scrambling to their feet in an attitude of innocence disrupted.
“Where are they?” one of the men asked in rapid Arabic. “We are told you are hiding women here—white women. Christians,” he spat the word.
Azziz shook his head. “There is no one here but myself and my cousin, the son of my mother’s brother.”
The leader walked over to MacLeod and stared at him intently. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Hamza el Kahir,” MacLeod replied, also speaking Arabic and using the name of his Immortal friend, now three centuries dead. He hoped that all Hamza had taught him, so long ago, would stay with him now.
“There are no women here,” he repeated what Azziz had just said. “Search if you wish. We are honest men who serve the will of Allah. We have nothing to hide.”
The man continued to stare at MacLeod as he motioned for his men to search the house. MacLeod met his eyes calmly, refusing to flinch at the sounds coming from the other rooms. Are they being intentionally destructive? he wondered as he heard the sound of glass breaking. Are they trying to raise a reaction ?
MacLeod still did not move a muscle, not even to look over and see how A
zziz was doing. He just had to trust that the younger man, so strong in his faith, would be strong enough in physical will—and well rehearsed enough—to continue to be steady.
The men came back from their search of the other rooms. MacLeod could see that the leader was not satisfied that they found nothing, but neither could he argue with the evidence of his own eyes. Wordlessly, he again motioned to his men and they headed toward the door.
Then the leader’s eyes narrowed. MacLeod knew what was to come as surely as if aim had already been taken. His mind raced, searching for the means to reassure the man before Azziz’s life became forfeit.
‘The one true God is Allah,” MacLeod said quickly the words he knew Azziz would never say, “and Mohammed is His prophet.”
They were words of Muslim ritual, as familiar as invoking the Trinity in the Christian church… and their utterance, spoken in perfect Arabic, took the leader by surprise. He stared at MacLeod a few brief seconds longer, then turned and followed his men out the door.
The automobile engine sputtered to life again. The men drove off, but MacLeod knew the threat was not over. Victor Paulus and his companions would have to stay hidden for a while yet. This house would be watched; any unusual activity or the sound of voices other than MacLeod’s and Azziz’s could well bring death to them all.
Finally, when he judged enough time had passed, MacLeod nodded to Azziz. The young man went quickly to the window and looked out. Once he signaled MacLeod that all was clear, Duncan moved his cushion aside and knelt down to whisper through the floor.
“Victor,” he called softly. “Is everyone all right?”
“Yes,” Paulus’s voice was muffled but understandable. “Most of the children are exhausted. They’ve fallen asleep in the darkness.”
“Good,” MacLeod answered. “You should all try to sleep. We’ll let you out when we can, but it’s going to be a long night.”
“I understand,” Victor said. “Do what you must. We’ll be fine.”
MacLeod stood, admiring the man’s calmness and his courage. It would be very difficult, hiding in such a place for an unknown amount of time, unable to see, hardly able to hear, knowing that your existence depended upon other people—and that if things went wrong, there was no escape. MacLeod was not certain he could have done it; he would have wanted to take his chances and fight his way clear.
But Victor Paulus’s presence would help keep the others calm; he and the nuns would take care of the children.
And Cynthia, Paulus’s fiancee? Though he had worked with her for two months, she was something of an unknown factor to MacLeod. She was always by Victor’s side, and so MacLeod had not had the chance to find out her history. How long had she been alive? Where had she come from and, when danger closed in as it was doing now. just how much could she be trusted? These were all questions MacLeod had yet to answer.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the lack of knowledge worried him.
Chapter Three
The next few hours were some of the slowest in Duncan MacLeod’s long life. He and Azziz waited in the house until long after the sound of the automobiles had faded from hearing. Only then did MacLeod venture out into the village to see what damage the raiders had done.
The wails that had torn through the air earlier had subsided. In their place they had left a silent grief that was all the more terrible to see, as people went about the business of mourning their dead or their captured. He passed one old woman, sitting splay-legged in the dust, cradling the body of her dead son. The cross around the man’s throat proclaimed the reason for his death.
The scene was repeated over and over until MacLeod wanted to retch at the carnage. Victor Paulus would not remain here until his replacement arrived, as was the original plan. No one would remain in this village. Tonight they would all go out to meet the transport that would take them south.
As MacLeod walked back to the house that was safe no more, he readied the arguments he would need to convince Paulus. The man could be stubborn.
Well, so could MacLeod, when he knew he was right—and what he could not tell Paulus was that he had worked as part of such rescue operations before, starting back with the American Civil War. He knew the necessity of changing location once the safety of the “station,” as safe houses were called during the days of the Underground Railroad, was compromised.
He just had to convince Paulus.
* * *
They waited until darkness had fallen and the village had quieted into troubled slumber before MacLeod and Azziz once more removed the table and rug from over the trap door, releasing the hidden occupants into light and fresh air. They came up blinking against the sudden brightness of even the soft candlelight. Azziz had food and drink waiting for them. While he helped the women get the children started on a meal, MacLeod pulled Victor aside.
“After the raiders left, I walked through the village,” MacLeod began. “It’s time to close this house up and move the operation to safer ground.”
“I can’t just abandon these people,” Paulus answered.
“You’re not abandoning them, Victor. You’re moving on so that you can continue to help them.”
“But how can I run—”
“Look, Victor,” MacLeod cut him off. “The work you’re doing here is important. But if you’re captured or killed, the heart will go out of it. You’re more than a single person who’s free to follow his own wishes. For many of the people you work with, you’ve become a symbol—and that must be protected.”
“But—” Paulus began again. Still MacLeod would not let him continue. Not yet; not until all his arguments had been stated.
“You have work to do that no one else can accomplish. That work is back in the States. But you have to be alive and free to do it That means leaving here tonight. We’ll all take the transport south with the nuns. We can set up another house near Tungaru or Ed Dibeikir. Azziz can run it. He’s a good man, steady and reliable. If it makes you feel better, you can stay there a few days to make sure that word of the new location has begun to reach the people who need it.”
MacLeod could still see the stubborn light in Victor’s eyes, but it was beginning to fade. He pulled out his last argument and hoped it would turn the tide.
“And there is Cynthia to think about,” MacLeod continued. “She won’t leave you, and the next time the raiders come she might not be so lucky. She would make quite a prize as a concubine, with her blond hair and white skin, but the life she’d be condemned to would not be a pleasant one. You know I’m right, Victor.”
Paulus’s shoulders sagged just a little as he gave in, and he nodded. “I still feel like I’m running away,” he said.
MacLeod reached out and grasped his shoulder warmly. “Sometimes it takes more courage to retreat than to go forward,” he said. “You have to look at the strategy of the war, not just the battle.”
Paulus gave MacLeod a wan smile. “Darius used to say things like that—when he was teaching me to play chess. It seems like a lifetime ago.”
“Darius was a great man,” MacLeod agreed, feeling the whisper of loss that came every time Darius’s name was mentioned. “He understood that we live amid the greatest war of all—the war of good versus evil—and that every day, in every action we take, we choose the side on which we fight.”
Duncan spoke these words as much to himself as to Paulus. The two men stood in companionable silence for a moment, each wrapped in his own memories of the priest who had touched their lives so profoundly.
Paulus had not known of Darius’s Immortality. But he had recognized, and been shaped by, the timeless spirit of love and wisdom that had been the greatest part of Darius’s presence in the world. Now he carried that same spirit onward.
To MacLeod, Darius had been a teacher as well, but most of all he had been a friend, in a friendship that had spanned almost two centuries. When Darius had been killed—murdered—by James Horton and his band of renegade Watchers, MacLeod had felt as if a bit o
f his own heart had been cut away. In a quiet place in his soul, he still mourned his friend’s death—and he always would.
“All right, Duncan,” Paulus agreed, bringing MacLeod’s thoughts back to the problem at hand. “You’re right. We’ll leave as soon as everyone has eaten. The moon will be up soon and that will give us plenty of light to travel by. I’ll go tell Cynthia.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Victor,” MacLeod assured him.
“I hope so, Duncan. I truly hope so.”
* * *
Traveling with the children, it took them almost two hours to reach the rendezvous point for the transport. It was a rickety old truck, but it did its job and by dawn they had reached the town of Waw. For a time they were safe. But that safety was precarious at best. If help did not come on an international level, there would soon be nowhere safe in Sudan for anyone who did not follow the banner of Islam.
The reunion between Victor Paulus and the other members of his rescue operation was poignant. Their fear for his safety was obvious in their great relief at his presence.
Waw was only a brief stop for MacLeod and the nuns—a chance for a meal, to feed the children, and to change vehicles—then it was on to Zaire. MacLeod had promised to see the nuns safely to a Chapter House in Duma. From there he would travel on to Kisangani, where he could catch a flight to begin the long trip home. Once back in the States, he would confirm with members of Paulus’s World Peace Foundation that Victor would be there in a few days.
Once the nuns and the children were again settled into a truck, MacLeod turned to say good-bye to the mortal toward whom he felt both admiration and friendship. Azziz and Cynthia were with him. They both stepped forward to say their farewells first, so that MacLeod and Paulus had a moment alone.
It was Azziz who spoke, breaking the suddenly awkward silence. He enfolded MacLeod in a quick, brotherly embrace.
“ ‘The Lord watch between thee and me’,” he said as he stepped back, quoting the familiar verse from Genesis 31.
Highlander: Shadow of Obsession Page 2
