An Evening at Joe's (5 page)

She had ten minutes alone before Philippe pounded on the door of her room at the Hotel de Paris.

"Darling!" Amanda flung the door open. She took in Philippe's glare, the Baroness' composed face, and the professionally bland looks of the Hotel Security team standing behind the Immortal. "If I'd known it was a party, I'd have ordered room service."

"We're going to search your rooms," Philippe began. "If you try to stop us—"

"But why ever should I do that?" Amanda asked. She swung the door open wide. "Come in, boys. Make yourselves at home."

Philippe brushed past her; the others followed. It took less than ten minutes for Philippe to work his way to her jewelry box. He lifted it, felt for a false bottom before he even bothered to open it up. When he lifted the lid, Amanda heard his sharp intake of breath. The room froze.

Gently, Philippe drew the necklace from the box. Light danced over it, sparkling, brilliant, unmistakable.

Philippe approached the woman in black. He held out his hand, bowed his head slightly. "Madame la Baroness," Philippe asked formally, "is this your necklace?"

"I—"

"Don't be absurd, darling," Amanda's voice cut in, languid, bored. She rose from the chair she'd been lounging in. "Why in the world would the Baroness wear paste?"

Philippe whirled to face her. "What?" he asked.

"Paste. Fakes. Falsies. Here"—she tossed her jeweler's loupe at him—"Take a good look."

He did, peering through the glass at the glittering necklace for what seemed an eternity.

"I had a copy made some time ago," Amanda continued. "What can I say, Baroness? The Star of Athena is so beautiful, so legendary, so difficult to fence." She turned back to Philippe. "I couldn't have the real thing, of course, but I saw no reason not to have a copy. Childish, perhaps, but illegal?"

"The real one's here somewhere." Philippe nodded to the security team, who continued their search. "If I have to rip through every pillow, tear down the walls—"

"You'll have quite a hotel bill on your hands. And you won't find it, Philippe," Amanda added, quietly. "I promise you. You won't find anything at all."

And he didn't. Forty minutes later, Philippe and his men were forced to admit defeat. The Baroness, who hadn't spoken a word during the entire search, abruptly rose from her chair, glared once at Philippe, then disappeared out the door. The security men looked to him, then, reluctantly, followed the Baroness. Amanda smiled gently at the Immortal.

"Sorry, darling. Win some..."

He didn't let her finish. Philippe grabbed her arm, hard. "This isn't over, Amanda," he managed finally. "We both know it's not over." And he was gone.

Amanda packed quickly. Not that she'd be able to shake Philippe forever, of course, but she might be able to buy some cooling-off time. She checked her watch: 1:40 A.M. Maybe she could rouse one of the helicopter pilots and get a private flight out....

It was not to be. Amanda felt the Buzz the moment she stepped from the hotel. She cast around; Philippe was nowhere in sight. She dropped her bags and moved carefully around the side of the building, her back to the wall. A wide stone walkway, deserted at this time of night, ran behind the hotel, linking it to the Casino. She found him there, waiting for her, sword in hand.

"We have no quarrel, Philippe." Amanda circled him cautiously.

"Draw your sword," he answered.

Amanda heard the regret in his voice, and the uncompromising steel. Reluctantly, she obeyed. Her blade appeared as if by magic; centuries of wielding it had molded the hilt to fit her as if she'd been born with a sword in her hand. Which, in a way, she had.

She parried the first blow and felt a familiar rush of excitement, her confidence in her own ability to survive mingling with a flicker of fear. But her exhilaration was short-lived. Philippe was a powerful fighter, an experienced swordsman. She could only duck and parry so long before she would be forced to kill, or be killed. And, attached as she was to her own neck, Amanda didn't want to be the one to end Philippe's extraordinary life.

She deflected another attack. "Philippe," she began, "listen to me." She backed up slowly, leading him up the stone steps to the courtyard behind Monaco's Casino. She quickly judged the distance between her and the ornate, second-story balcony, then made a run for it. In three great strides, she hurled herself straight up the terraced flower beds. She leapt as he dove for her legs; grabbing the iron bars of the balcony, she swung herself up and over the metal railing. It was a feat, she knew, that Philippe would not be able to duplicate, and it bought her a few precious moments.

"I will be damned," she continued, catching her breath, "if either of us loses our head over a worthless piece of paste."

"Bon Dieu!" he roared, as he desperately looked for a way to reach her. "Now you mock me!"

"No, Philippe, really, I—"

She jumped hack as Philippe slammed his sword through the railing, narrowly missing her ankle. His voice shook with anger and frustration. "Where is the Star of Athena?"

"I have no idea.... Brussels?" she ventured. "Vienna, possibly. Oh, not the whole necklace, of course," Amanda continued. "The diamonds would have been sold off long ago. But the Sapphire itself, she would never have been able to get rid of it, it's too well-known...."

"She? She, who?"

Amanda looked down at him pityingly. "Why the Baroness, of course. Who did you think?"

"At first," Amanda explained, "I thought Isabelle Jauverne had the copy made, knowing the Baron would try to get it back." They were back at the Loews Hotel, in Philippe's suite. He had ordered champagne and room service in exchange for the full story—and a cessation of hostilities.

"How did you know she hadn't?"

"If she'd known the necklace was paste, I don't think she'd have been as eager to tear the Baron's heart out with her bare hands," Amanda reminded him. "And the Baron himself would never have paid me a hundred thousand francs to retrieve a fake."

"Aha!" exclaimed Philippe. "Then you admit you stole the necklace from Madame Jauverne?"

"Of course not," she replied, indignant. "I returned the purloined necklace—which just happened to be a brilliant fake—to its rightful owner, the Baroness du Vaulier."

"Who then paid you to take it off her hands."

"Who better?" Amanda smiled and allowed Philippe to refill her glass, just to show there were no hard feelings over his attempt at her head. "I think she knew when she married him that the Baron had, shall we say, a weak heart?" Amanda continued. "She had the fake necklace made in case he was ever tempted to buy affection with the legendary Sapphire. What she didn't realize was that the Baron also had an uncanny ability to lose at cards."

"So she was forced to sell off the diamonds, one by one, to cover his losses."

"And protect the family name."

"Yes," he agreed, "that does seem to be a concern."

"It's more than that, Philippe. It's her immortality." Amanda paused to sip her champagne. "When she realized I was in Monte Carlo, it must have seemed that all her worries were over."

At that, Philippe raised an eyebrow. She shrugged, modestly. "With my name in the report, do you think the insurance company will doubt for a moment that the Star of Athena was really stolen?"

"You do have an unsettling effect on insurance adjusters."

"It's a gift." Amanda smiled at him. "One of many."

Philippe raised his glass. "To your many gifts..." He reached over and gently began unbuttoning her blouse. "And to unwrapping them all...."

Amanda closed her eyes as Philippe's lips brushed her neck. She did so love the French.

Words To The Highlander

by Peter Hudson

"JAMES HORTON": Peter Hudson

British actor Peter Hudson is one of a number of one-time guest stars on
Highlander: The Series
who made such a positive impact that they were brought back for additional appearances. Hudson was originally to appear as evil Watcher James Horton only in two episodes (the first-season finale, "The Hunters," and the second season premiere, "The Watchers"), and in fact he died rather convincingly at the end of "The Watchers." But on
Highlander
, dead doesn't always mean gone, and in a series of spectacular revivals, Horton returned to the show again and again.

Even after he was conclusively killed, ways were found to bring him back, at first in flashbacks, then later as the embodiment of all the evil at loose in the world. Although the role came to be dubbed "Ahriman," in fact Ahriman (the Zoroastrian name for the forces of darkness) was only one face of the universal character he portrayed—and it is a great measure of Peter Hudson's success in the role of James Horton that he seemed the natural choice to give a face to the greatest evil in the world, that which different cultures call Set, or Ahriman, or Satan.

In the end, Peter Hudson made a dozen appearances on Highlander, including showing up in five out of six season finales.

Hello. This is James. A voice from the past. It's been a long time! Whatever that means for someone like you, who would seem to be free of it. Time, I mean. Who can range unfettered across the pages of History, and rise up laughing after suffering mortal wounds. Or for me, come to that. Because, like it or not, understand it or not, you have only once been sure that I was finished, and that was the very first time, when my dear cousin, Joe, sent me spinning off the back of that boat into the sea. And you all thought I was gone for good. It was understandable. In other circumstances I would have called it human error, but in your case I don't feel justified. It's true they found my body down the coast. They cleaned me up and even gave me my last rites, or so they thought.

I can still see your face as you turned and recognised me again, the dust from my tombstone eddying around you, the sledgehammer poised for another strike. You had to prove I was dead, because you were so sure that I wasn't immortal. If I was really back, then the simple division of the world into recognisable mortals and immortals was thrown into question, the narrowing of the numbers of the powerful, ever fewer and ever stronger, down to the last, the one, would be jeopardized, YOUR POWER, MacLeod, would be undermined. And do you know what I saw in your eyes at that moment, one of the moments of my existence I have most cherished until today? I saw fear.

Later, when I lured you once again onto holy ground to finish you, once and for ever, I made a grave error. I underestimated the desperate strength that fear gave you. Your force was doubled as you rose up and ran me down, sent your blade sliding between my ribs towards. my heart. And then you hesitated. Even as I felt myself slipping away, I noticed it. And I knew you were asking yourself, "Should I take his head? This mortal I've found so hard to kill? Should I draw the sword that lies concealed behind me, so close it feels within me, and strike off that blond head, strike the light from those unsmiling eyes forever, and wait for the quickening I cannot believe will come? Then at least I will be sure."

Why didn't you do it, MacLeod? Was it foolish pride? Believing that if
you
, Duncan MacLeod, saw to it that I was dead then dead I must be, and for ever?

Or was it a terrible knowledge, growing inside you like a dark flower, even as you heard my rasping breath, that there could be no quickening, no sudden surge of raw power shuddering through your frame, but that I
would
be back? I think so, Duncan—I can call you Duncan, can't I? The last time I asked you, you didn't answer me—Deep in my soul I know it to be true.

There is a very fundamental difference between us, Duncan, and its repercussions are not, I think, those that most would expect. Let us get
back
to fundamentals. You are, in your way, a holy man. That's why you high-tailed it off to that little monastery to look for inner strength. But I, too, am a holy man in
my
way. My battle against your kind is for the soul of humanity. The experiences we have shared over the years have taught me what that vitally important difference is: