Read Online Zealot by Donna Lettow - Free Book Online Page B

know? How could she understand? She dredged the word up from his soul. “Yes.”
    Maral released his arm and her urgent energy seemed to dissipate into the empty restaurant. “Good,” she said, settling back
     into her chair, relaxed. “So Duncan MacLeod is a man of great passion and principles. I like that.” She picked up her fork
     and resumed eating, a look of satisfaction clear on her face.
    “So, Professor, does that mean I pass?” He was a man of many secrets who’d been interrogated by some of the best inquisitors
     of their generations, but had never talked, never broken. Yet this woman had found all his buttons and had played them like
     music. With a few deft cuts, she had laid bare his soul. She continued to amaze him. “Or do I have to try for extra credit?”
    “Maybe just a little homework.” That wicked look was back.
    MacLeod looked at her and felt something strong stir within him. The promise. The possibilities. “I’ll do whatever it takes,
     Professor.”
    “I’m sure you will.”
    The chirping sound of a ringing cellular phone filled the restaurant. Assad, seated at the next table pretending not to eavesdrop,
     pulled the phone out of his jacket and flipped it open. “Assad,” he announced, then listened intently. “
Halan
”—immediately—he responded. Standing up, he handed the phone to Maral and moved quickly toward the kitchen. As he left he
     barked “
Arabaya!
” to his partner, who immediately left to fetch the car.
    “Amina,” Maral said into the phone. MacLeod couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but he could follow the language of
     her body, the emotion in her face as it changed from interest to concern, briefly to fear, and then finally to sorrow. “
Iwa
,” she said heavily into the phone, but agreeing to what, MacLeod didn’t know. When she toggled off the phone, she looked
     ten years older.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    “We have to go back.” She pushed back from the table and stood, reaching for her shawl. It was clear she didn’t intend to
     tell him anything more. MacLeod took her by the hand and held it.
    “Maral, tell me what’s happened. Let me help.”
    “You want to help? Build me a world where husbands and fathers and sons aren’t gunned down in the street because of the way
     they choose to worship God.” Her words were brittle as she tried to pull away from him. He wouldn’t let her go, giving her
     a calm, steady look that plainly let her know he would patiently wait until she was ready to share her pain with him. She
     tried halfheartedly to pull away again, then acquiesced with a sigh. “The shooter yesterday. His body’s gone-someone’s stolen
     it.”
    Missing bodies always caught MacLeod’s attention. “You’re sure no one has it?”
    “The Hebron police thought the military had it. The military thought the civilian coroner’s office had it. You know how it
     goes. And by the time they realized it was gone, someone had called today claiming responsibility for the attack. An organization
     we’ve never heard of before, called
Oneg Shabbat
.”
    “Sabbath surprise?” MacLeod translated the Hebrew, releasing Maral’s hand, trying to place why he knew the name.
    Assad, returning from the kitchen, overheard him. “You know them?” he asked, reaching for his gun.
    “No,” MacLeod said, exasperated, “and put that thing away before you hurt yourself.
Oneg Shabbat
is a party for children after worship.” He stopped a moment, thinking. “But it was also the name of a group of scholars in
     Poland who documented the Holocaust and kept the records hidden from the Germans.”
    “So you have heard of them,” Assad pressed.
    MacLeod shook his head. “They died fifty years ago. And they were scholars, not fighters. It’s got to be some other group
     using the same name.”
    “Put away the gun, Assad,” Maral said, and he complied. MacLeod retrieved the shawl and draped it over Maral’s shoulders.
     She pulled it