“Yes, please,” Lucas hands him several large bills. “Scotch, if you have it, Macallan would be grand.”
“Stop checking your watch,” I say, “ye know Da is putting together some enormous military operation right now.”
“I hope not,” he frowns, “a bit too high-profile for here. Though I’m sure he’s already got half the crew mobilized."
When our beaming waiter returns, he offers a plate of dates sweetened with honey and orange blossom water, and two rather large bottles of Macallan.
“I was thinking a glass,” Lucas says.
“I’m thinking two bottles is grand because I’m not sharing mine with ye.” I grab one of them, wondering if it would be uncouth just to drink it straight from the bottle.
With a sigh, he hands me a glass, pouring one for himself. “To getting ye home safe.”
“To crossing the Atlas Mountains to find me,” I add. We tap the glasses, and I’m acutely aware of his lips as I sip from mine. Full lips in his dark beard, thicker since he’s not shaved in several days. When he laughs, his even white teeth flash, making him look like a pirate, swashbuckling his way across the high seas with that dangerous glint in his eyes.
A braw as hell pirate.
My glass is already empty and I pour another one.
“We aren’t out of Morocco yet,” he warns, still nursing his first.
“If we canna finish one of these bottles without still keeping the heid, we must renounce our Scottish heritage,” I scoff, happily halfway through my second.
His phone rings and we both reach for it. Lucas puts it on speaker.
“I have your contact,” Da says. “Ye will be the guests of my good friend, Marabout Badis Mahmoudi.”
“A holy man?” Lucas asks, surprised.
“You’ll find that Badis is a bit of everything. Marabouts can act as diplomats, teachers, advisors in local politics. He’s highly regarded in all of Morocco, but particularly among the Berbers. There are several ancient, religious sects in this region, and he is the head of one that leans toward the mystic side of faith. Fortunately, he’s in Setti Fatma hosting a huge celebration tonight. His men, Aksil and Idir should be at your hotel within the hour. I’m sending ye a picture of them.”
“Chieftain,” Lucas hesitates, clearly not wantingto insult Da, “you havecompletefaith in this man?”
“He would guard ye with his own life,” Da says with utter certainty. “We have looked out for each other in the past.”
Even as his daughter, I’ve never heard the full story of Da’s life before he married my mother and moved into the role of Chieftain. I’ve heard some things that I’d dismiss as tall tales if they were about anyone else. But Da? Anything is possible.
“Thank ye, Chieftain,” Lucas says. “We’ll see ye soon.”
Why did he add that extra deep tone when he said, “We’ll see yousoon?”
Ah well. “I love ye, Da. Tell Mum how much I love her and that I’m fine. I promise.”
“Love ye,mo chat-fiadhaich,my wildcat.” I can tell Da dinnae want to hang up, but there’s no reason to give that fecker Dubois more opportunity to track us.
The room’s quiet once again, the sounds of the street taking over, laughter and the muted murmur of diners below, the rush of the river alongside the hotel.
“Have one more drink with me?” I ask. “I dinnae think we’ll be drinking at Marabout Mahmoudi’s home.”
“One more,” Lucas relents. We eye each other, sipping our drinks, and one more turns into two. I’m feeling the warm glow in my stomach, soothing, making my muscles relax. Even Lucas looks like he’s not wound so tight.
We watch over the balcony as two men matching the picture Da sent enter the hotel. Four more men quietly take up position by the doorway.
“Are they armed, do ye think?” I ask.
Lucas is up, fitting his Glock in his shoulder holster and pulling a jacket over it. “I’m not certain, but did ye see the big one? He dinnae need a gun. He’d just tear your head off your shoulders.”
***
