Tessa worked her way through the crowded sidewalk, stopping to watch a juggler, laughing as he managed to get a flustered bystander to help him with his act.  There was some kind of festival along the Champs Elysees, but then festivals were a common occurrence in this festive city. 

           She felt slightly conspicuous in her guide outfit.  It made her a target for tourists, who approached her frequently to ask directions.  While she spoke English fairly fluently, and her Italian wasn't too terrible, her Spanish was a little halting, and her German almost non-existent.  Then of course, there were the Japanese visitors who asked questions with such earnest, eager smiles, and deep bows, and all Tessa could do was smile and bow in return.  It was embarrassing.

           At last she made it through the crowd and down the steps to the quay where the boat was docked.  Antonio, the captain of their little barge, although that title seemed rather pretentious for the circumstances, was scowling, as usual.  They had lost several days of business because of the weather and the street fair would probably reduce the tourist traffic again.  She smiled at him, as much in rebellion of his foul mood as anything.  She liked spending the afternoon in the rarity of a thin Springtime sun, but there were certain disadvantages; namely, of reciting the same speech for the two hundredth time, answering the same questions until her voice was hoarse, while perched on an uncomfortable stool, a cold wind blowing her long hair into a rat's nest.  But she was a contrarian by nature, and if Antonio was going to be nasty, well, then she would be just as perky as she could possibly manage. 

           Bond eyed the colorful crowd uneasily, then scanned the rooftops.  He had stayed slightly ahead and to the left of his charge, while MacLeod stayed on his post slightly behind and to the right.  He had to admit MacLeod knew his business, and his comments regarding the placement of men, the route they would travel, and his ability to notice the smallest details of the people around him were all impressive.  He wished he could figure out why his instincts were warning him that MacLeod was not what he purported to be.

           He certainly seemed to know every street and back alley of Paris with the intimacy of a native, with even the names of the shopkeepers on his tongue, greeting them all like old friends in unaccented French. If Bond hadn't known better, he could easily have been convinced that the man was a native Parisian. 

           Havel paused, greeting some well wishers who recognized him, and both his bodyguards paused with him, eyes both on the crowd and on those who had approached the playwright.  Then Vaclav turned to MacLeod and Bond felt a sting of annoyance since he was supposed to be in charge of security. 

           After a brief conversation in Czech, MacLeod waved him over.

           “Vaclav says he's been told there is an exhibit at Les Halles showing the designers’ renderings of the sets for the plays.  He wants to go there and talk to them,” MacLeod advised.

           “We haven't checked that area.  It's a just a glorified shopping mall,” Bond frowned, then turned to his charge and said slowly.  “I'm sorry, sir, but it's too dangerous.”

           The look Havel gave him was infuriating, part parentally condescending, and part the mischievousness of an errant child.   “Too dangerous for you, perhaps, Mr. Bond,” he said carefully in order to make sure he was understood.  “But we Czechs are made of stronger stuff,” and off he went, slipping through the crowd, forcing Bond and MacLeod to scurry after him to keep up.

           Bond had to pull out his two-way radio on the escalator down into the underground shopping area, telling his team to adjust their positions  The action made him more conspicuous than he wanted to be, and there was no easy way to deploy the men to be sure and cover the area sufficiently.   In the meantime, Havel seemed to take an almost perverse pleasure in winding in and out of the maze of shops, gradually working his way towards the exhibit at the center of the glass-domed atrium.  Bond threw a frustrated look at MacLeod, but the man seemed unperturbed, calmly blending into the teeming foot-traffic.  If you didn't know better you wouldn't even be aware that he was never more than five feet from the small, mustached man in the green overcoat.

           Bond stopped dead still when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw MacLeod suddenly grab Havel’s elbow, pulling him in close.  Bond automatically moved in front, his hand moving to the PKW inside his shoulder holster, his eyes scanning the crowd.

           “What is it?!” he snapped.

           But MacLeod didn't answer for several seconds, his eyes scanning the crowd.  “What did you see?!” Bond insisted.

           “Get him out of here,” MacLeod ordered gruffly, and before Bond could respond, the Scot had literally disappeared.

           The rush of Immortal presence shouldn't have taken him off guard, but it did.  And he wasn't carrying his katana.  He rarely did when he was on duty around another agent because of all the questions carrying an antique Japanese sword might generate.  Besides he had not been actively in the Game for decades, except for the occasional chance encounter with an unknown, but determined Hunter.  Sometimes he thought that the various wars that seemed to spring up all over the world kept the more bloodthirsty Immortals sufficiently occupied so they didn't take out their aggressions on their own kind quite so frequently.

           There.  For about two seconds their eyes locked, both men clearly surprised at the unexpected encounter, but Mac instantly recognized that face, even though the last time he had seen it, it had been hidden behind a thick layer of white pancake makeup.  An assassin, indeed.  The same man who had murdered someone under Mac's protection a century or two ago.  He hadn't even known his name at the time, but Bond's description of Kuyler seemed to fit very nicely.  The old anger stirred and Mac could feel his face set into a grim mask as his feet moved of their own accord, not really caring that he was weaponless.  Well, except for the snub-nosed .38 tucked in the inside pocket of his down vest and the throwing blade in his boot.  But the gun was not something one used in a battle with another Immortal, and the knife was of little value against a sword.

           Now they were up the escalator, and Mac had followed his prey up the glassed-in staircase above the street into a newly-constructed area, where large signs declared the area off-limits to pedestrian traffic.  Mac ignored the warnings, taking the steps two at a time.  He had to make absolutely certain Kuyler was as far away from Vaclav as possible, to give Bond an opportunity to get the man to safety.

           The agents closed in on Havel, forming a protective wall of large bodies.  Once enough agents had arrived, Bond slipped in front, using his radio to make sure a car was waiting for them on the street.  But with every other message, he interspersed increasingly sharp calls for MacLeod to check in.  But the Scot wasn't answering.

           Damn the man!  Bond was swearing under his breath as he ushered a white-faced Havel into the car.  Police had converged on the scene as well, led by an eager young Lieutenant LeBrun.

           “Canvas the area!” Bond snapped at him, and warned LeBrun to watch out for an agent who was on the chase.  He got into the car and shouted at the driver to head back to the hotel, grateful to see the police escort converging around them.  They roared away in a cacophony of sirens, and Havel was probably safe for the moment, but Bond ground his teeth.  He should have been the one to spot the assassin.  It was his job to take those kinds of risks, and now he had a fellow agent out there, alone, without backup.  And so often he was accused not being a team player, Bond thought with a grimace.

           Mac ignored the urgent calls on his radio to check in, finally tossing it away as he ran, not wanting the noise to be any further distraction.  This was now Immortal business.

           He reached the top of the stairs to a circular observation deck and stopped, carefully looking around.  He could feel him.  Close.  He turned, but there was no place for the man to hide, then he felt a small displacement of air and he swirled, freezing as Kuyler lightly dropped from the scaffolding above, the point of his sword teasing ominously against Mac's throat.  “Give up, MacLeod, and I won't dismember you before I take your head.”

           The man's arrogant sneer marred an otherwise unremarkable face.  Kuyler was a man who hid behind a mask of costume and makeup, and having an unmemorable face was a professional asset.  But Kuyler's ego was apparent in the long white silk scarf draped artfully around the neck of a black turtle neck.  The two men were a study in contrasts.  One olive skinned, hard and muscular, dressed in scruffy work clothes and the other pale, lithe and graceful in form-fitting silk and cashmere, wielding a clean-lined broadsword with a negligent flip of his wrist.

           But MacLeod was not about to give up anything.

           “Go to hell,” he smiled malevolently and with a twist of his body and arms slid the blade away from his throat and knocked Kuyler on his ass, simultaneously looking around for a weapon of some sort.  Kuyler leapt to his feet with the grace of a professional gymnast while  Mac jumped onto a ledge above the seating area and grabbed for a loose scaffolding pipe, barely managing to fend off a flurry of blows, using the pipe as both weapon and shield, the martial arts skills he had honed over several centuries vital in keeping Kuyler’s deadly blade at a distance.

           But Kuyler landed a low kick, sending MacLeod down with a grunt, the pipe skittering and clattering out of reach down the stairs.  Mac rolled, then he was on his feet.  Without protection from Kuyler’s sword, he would have to shoot the other Immortal, drawing unwanted attention to a man who would simply heal and come after him again.  The pipe had slipped a full flight down and Mac barely reached it in time, grabbing it and swirling to fend off the blade already whistling  towards his neck.  Another well-placed kick bought Mac more time to retreat to the next landing, but the next level down was the underground exit, where innocent bystanders swarmed in droves. Then he heard the distinctive two-tone siren of approaching police cars.  With Kuyler at his back and the police in front, he paused, his brain working furiously.  If the police caught Kuyler, it would raise a whole host of questions about why he hadn't used his gun, why the man had a sword.

           Forced to make a quick decision with few options, with one final frustrated look at the other Immortal poised with his sword ready to strike, he crossed his arms protectively in front of his face and crashed through the window glass, dashing straight out to the street towards the approaching emergency vehicles.

           He leapt down the steps, hoping to be across the street and away, just a distant running figure for the police to wonder about, but it was not to be.  Instead, he barely managed to avoid being hit full on by on the police car barreling around the corner.  He tucked himself into a ball and rolled, taking the blow on his shoulder and rolling over the hood of the car, landing on his feet on the other side just as a surprised young gendarme opened the door and stepped out.  Their eyes locked for a second, then MacLeod turned and ran across the nearest bridge, looking carefully behind him to make sure the police were following him instead of looking for anyone else.  Now he needed to disappear so he sped up, dashing down the stairs onto the quay.  If he was really quick….he leapt, and just barely made it to the rail of a tour boat that had already begun to pull away from the quay.

           “Hey!  What are you doing?” a female voice demanded in an outraged shout as he crawled over the railing into a crowded row of passengers.  He looked up, and almost stumbled as he was captivated by a pair of beautiful blue eyes framed by long, golden hair, billowing in the wind.

           “Sorry.  Didn't want to miss the boat,” Mac answered, a little breathless, then quickly climbed into the middle of the crowd to find a seat, aware that the young guide was scanning the quay and the bridge, noting the scurrying figures above with an intelligent, calculating look.

           “What do you think you're doing?” she demanded imperiously.

           “Uh, I didn't want to miss the tour,” he improvised, and it came out almost like a question. 

           “Is this the way you always make an entrance?”  It sounded as if she didn't know whether to be angry or amused at the dramatic interruption.

           “I wanted to make an impression,” Mac said, a grin spreading across his face at the pretty guide's consternation.

           Her mouth couldn't hold the frown she had affected, and one side quirked upwards.  “Well, you have,” she acknowledged with a gleam of laughter in her eyes.  “You could have been hurt,” duty compelled her to insist.  “There's another boat in fifteen minutes.”

           Mac was offered a pretzel by a woman sitting next to him, who seemed to be getting some enjoyment out of the commotion he had caused.  “I wanted this one,” he replied.  And it was the truth, he realized as he caught and held the beautiful woman's challenging gaze.  Oh, yes, he wanted this one very much. 

           Something connected between them and for a second she was speechless.  “I….you…”  She stopped, finally managing to avert her eyes from his, blushing furiously.  “I'm sorry for this interruption, ladies and gentlemen.  I told you Paris was full of surprises.”  Her eyes kept wandering back to her unexpected passenger as she continued her lecture.  “Behind you, we have the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  Construction began in 1163 and was completed in 1343.”

           Mac was utterly captivated as he watched the young Frenchwoman.  There was something so very alive above her every move, and he couldn't keep himself from raising his hand.

           “Yes,” she acknowledged him reluctantly.  “What do you want?”

           “It was completed in 1345,” he corrected her.  When she cocked a dubious eyebrow at him, he looked around at the crowd, addressing them.  “Notre Dame was completed in 1345.”

           “How do you know?” the guide asked pertly.  “I suppose you were there.” 

           Yes, she was flirting with him, Mac decided, delighted at the prospect.  Definitely flirting.  “Actually, it was a little bit before my time,” he answered, with an irreverent grin.

           “Anyway,” she continued, studiously ignoring him, “as I said, construction was completed in 1340…”

           “Five,” Mac stated definitively.

           “…three,” she countered with a stubborn look at her intrusive passenger, but her eyes had a glint of humor and Mac was certain she was enjoying the exchange. 

           Mac knew as much about Paris’ history as almost anyone alive, had lived there on and off for over three hundred years, but still he enjoyed the tour enormously, watching the guide's hair blow across her eyes, watching her gesture with hands as expressive as an artist, seeing the color in her lovely cheekbones rise each time their eyes met.  All too soon, the boat pulled into its next stop.  He knew that Bond would be furious with him for disappearing like he had, but still he lingered, the last passenger to exit.

           “Thank you,” he stopped at the top of the gangplank.  “I'm sorry if I frightened you.”

           “I am not that easily frightened,” she insisted.  “But it was a foolish thing to do.”

           “It was worth it,” he said softly, slipping a fifty Franc note into her hand.

           She looked at it and frowned.  “This is too…”

           “You made my afternoon,” Mac insisted.  “My name is Duncan MacLeod.”  He offered his hand, but she just looked at him, one eyebrow lifted.

           “Well, Duncan MacLeod,” she answered saucily, “Next time try buying a ticket ahead of time like everyone else.” She turned to retreat into the boat, but looked back briefly, and the gleam in her eye and the impish grin on her lips belied her scolding words. 

           “Nice of you to drop by,” Bond smiled tightly as he motioned MacLeod into Havel’s hotel room. 

           MacLeod nodded slightly as he entered, then headed for the open bottle of vodka sitting on top of the television set, unwrapped a plastic glass from the bathroom and poured himself a drink.  Havel was sitting in the corner of the small room, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, watching the other two men.

           Bond studiously leaned against the wall, waiting for the Scot to reveal what had occurred, deliberately letting the silence extend.  His studied calm was usually enough to make others nervous but MacLeod seemed impervious to the tension.  Once his drink was prepared, MacLeod leaned casually against the small dresser and took a sip.

           “What did you tell the police?” MacLeod asked.

           The man had balls, Bond had to give him that.  Instead of offering up information, he was demanding it.

           Bond was silent, just cocking an eyebrow at the other man. 

           MacLeod sighed and gave in to a small smile of resignation.  “I spotted a man with a gun in the crowd and went after him, thought I saw him board a tourist boat, but evidently he had given me the slip.  Nearly got run over by a police car as I did, though.”

           “Interesting,” Bond commented.  “And can you describe this man with a gun?”

           Mac shrugged.  “I only saw him at a distance.  Medium height.  Brown hair.  Mid thirties.  Wore a black turtleneck sweater and pants.  White scarf around his neck.  No special features that I could spot from a distance.  Kept his face away from me most of the time.  The guy was a pro.  It was a fluke that I spotted the gun at all.”

           “A fluke,” Bond frowned.  “And your not checking in by radio?  Was that also a fluke?”

           “I was trying to chase the man and the bloody radio was a noisy distraction, Bond.  Until your people can devise a radio that doesn't broadcast where I am to everyone within a thirty foot radius, the damn thing is just a nuisance!”

           “I’ll pass your request onto the “Q” section,” Bond responded wryly.  “And getting the police to join the chase?  Was that also a nuisance, or were you just determined to play Lone Ranger?  I'm told that you didn't nearly get run over, that you were hit, dented the poor policeman's car.  He'll probably spend the rest of the week filling out paperwork.”

           MacLeod raised an eyebrow.  “Do I look like I've been hit by a car?” he asked. 

           Bond smiled tightly, but didn't reply, turning instead to Havel.  “I think it would be best to cancel this evening's presentation, sir, for your own safety.”

           Havel took a long drag on his cigarette.  His hand was shaking slightly, but he let out his breath with a sigh and stubbed out the butt.  “No,” he shook his head.  “If I cancel, they have won.  I have great faith in you and Duncan, Mr. Bond.  But I am a little tired.  Perhaps I will rest before this evening's performances.”

           “An excellent idea,” Bond agreed, admiring the man's quiet courage.  He signaled to MacLeod and they left the room, nodding to the guard at the door as they left.

           The two men entered the elevator, standing quietly as the doors closed and it started to move downward.  Bond hit the “stop” button and rounded on his fellow agent, shoving him hard up against the back of the elevator.  “All right, MacLeod.  No more bullshit.  What the hell is going on?”

           The man's large brown eyes only widened slightly in feigned innocence.  “Nothing is going on, Commander.  I didn't exactly have time to stop and consult, with our assassin rabbitting through a carnival crowd.  My primary concern was that Vaclav was safe, and that no bystanders got hurt.  That meant I kept the man on the run as long as I could.  It was a judgment call.”  MacLeod smiled slightly and cocked his head, utterly unintimidated by Bond's ire.  “I have faith in my judgment, Bond.  It would behoove you to have a little, as well.  Now let go of my shirt or I will break your arm.”

           The two agents glared at each other for several seconds, their faces only inches apart.  MacLeod never moved, maintaining his crossed arm stance.  Bond wanted to snarl in frustration, but that would be conceding something and he controlled the urge.  Someday it would be interesting to test whether MacLeod was as good as he seemed to think he was.  He let go of the denim shirt he had gathered in his fist, taking the time to straighten MacLeod’s crumpled collar, letting a small, tight smile touch his lips.

           “I’ll be watching you, MacLeod,” Bond said softly. 

           MacLeod shrugged.  “As the Americans would say, knock yourself out.”  He reached past Bond, released the hold button on the elevator and the two descended in silence.

           “I don't trust him!” Bond snarled, pacing back and forth in front of the Section Chief's desk.  He was rarely so disturbed by working with another of his own service.  Oh, he had dealt with incompetence, venality and betrayal, but there was something about MacLeod.  He didn't fit into any of those categories, and was one of the few people he had encountered whose skills were equal -- or if Bond was being honest with himself -- might even exceed his own.  And yet the man seemed to be operating on a different plane, as though the Service was there to serve MacLeod’s agenda, not the other way around.  “He…he manipulates people,” Bond searched for the right description.  “He's all charm and smoothness and professionalism, but then is perfectly prepared to wander off and do whatever suits himself.”

           “Oh, stop it, 007,” the Section Chief was watching him from behind her desk, an amused smile playing on her lips.  She took a sip of tea from the delicate cup sitting on her desk.  “You are the last one who can afford to criticize using personal charm to deflect attention from your real agenda.  You do not have the slightest evidence that MacLeod did anything other than exactly what he said he did.  And how many times have you gone off on your own, substituting your sense of the right action for what standard procedures dictate?”

           Bond caught himself before he replied with a petulant, But that was different, response.  “He's too good.  He knows too much for someone with his level of experience.  It just doesn't feel right,” he finally replied, forcing himself to stop wandering the office and sit.  “I don't trust him.”

           “Well, I do,” the Chief leaned forward to emphasize her point.  “I've been working with him for several years.  He can be stubborn and takes a few too many personal risks, but then we have other agents like that, don't we?”  It wasn't really a question, and Bond felt his jaw clench as he examined the hands he had folded in his lap.

           “How much have we confirmed of his background?” Bond stubbornly insisted on asking, even though he knew the Lady Bulldog was getting annoyed with his paranoia.  But they were in the business of paranoia, and the Chief didn't question his additional probing.

           “We have confirmed the basic details of birth and schooling,” she affirmed.  “His having no living relatives is an advantage in our line of work, and not at all unusual.  He inherited a significant sum from an uncle and has had the financial means to travel all his life, so his facility with language and social skills is hardly surprising.  It also means that there is unlikely to be any motive for financial corruption.  He has developed an expertise in antiques, an interest he shared with his uncle, evidently, and is an expert swordsman, so I understand.”  She shrugged.  “The man is athletically gifted, has a fine mind and has never been anything other than loyal to the Crown, despite some overheard comments about Sassenachs and their historical antipathy with the Scots,” she added with a smile.  “So unless you were at the Battle of Culloden, I doubt he will hold it personally against you.”

           Bond had to smile. “Since my ancestors came from Wales, I don't think I officially qualify as a Sassenach anyway.”  He sighed, unsatisfied, but with nothing to go on other than instinct to maintain his discomfort.  “All right, I’ll let it go for now.  But I’ll be keeping a close eye on your Mr. MacLeod.”  He rose and waited for the Chief to dismiss him.

           “I'm counting on it, 007,” she smiled.

           Bond left, knowing that the Chief had no doubt said something similar to MacLeod about keeping an eye on the notoriously freewheeling 007.