to visit Marty. As soon as the wireless communications were up and running again, he knew Fred Klein would be in touch.
Chapter Nine
In her usual battered flat shoes and dowdy clothes, the dark-haired woman walked timidly along the exotic Paris street, redolent in the early morning with the odors of North Africa and the Middle East.
As she peered up, Mauritania stepped from his building's vestibule. The diminutive terrorist was dressed in a loose raincoat and light corduroy trousers, looking like any Parisian workman. He glanced at her, and in that glance was the eagle eye of two decades of on-the-run experience. It missed little. Since her clothes were properly faded and cared-for, the flat shoes patched by a cheap repair shop, and the battered handbag that of a woman three times her age, as would be expected in a young but frightened soul, Mauritania was reassured. In his usually cautious way, he rounded several corners and doubled back, but the woman never appeared again. Satisfied, he entered the meacute;tro.
The woman had followed Mauritania through the first few turns, until his maneuvers convinced her he would be gone long enough for her purposes. She hurried back to his building, where the windows remained unlighted and showed no sign of activity. She picked the front-door lock, climbed the stairs to the third-floor apartment where Mauritania was staying, and picked that lock as well.
She stepped into what first appeared to be a tent in the wilds of Arabia or the heart of the Sahara. The rugs seemed to shift under her feet as if resting on sand. Carpets on the walls and ceiling closed claustrophobically in on her, and the rugs over the windows explained the dark windows at all times of the day and night. Amazed, she remained unmoving for some time, taking it all in, until she finally shook her head and went to work. Listening to be certain she was alone, she methodically searched every square inch of the rooms.
In the Pompidou Hospital, Smith sat beside the still-unconscious Marty, who lay small and frail in the muted light of the ICU. Outside the cubicle, a man in plainclothes had joined the pair of uniformed gendarmes. Marty's sheets and blankets were still smooth, as if he had not stirred in days. But that was far from true. Marty was occasionally moving on his own, and meanwhile therapists were coming in regularly to work with him.
Smith knew all this, because as soon as he had arrived, he checked Marty's computer chart. The chart also showed that his physical condition was continuing to improve. In fact, Marty would likely be moved from the ICU soon, even though he remained in a coma.
"Hi, Marty." Smith smiled at him, took his hand, which was warm and dry, and again reminisced, recalling their childhoods, the years growing up together, and college. He covered the same territory as before, but with more details, because as he recounted the past, it grew more vivid in his own mind. As he was chatting, filling the time while, more important, trying to stimulate Marty's brain, he had an idea.
"The last time we had a good long talk," Smith said, "you were still at home in Washington." He studied the sleeping features. "I heard you boarded an airplane and flew over here by yourself. Man, was I impressed. The only way I could convince you to even get near a plane was when we had trigger-happy gunmen on our tails. Remember? And now here you are, in Paris."
He waited, hoping the name of the city would elicit a response. But Marty's face remained listless.
Smith continued, "And you've been working at the Pasteur."
For the first time, he saw Marty rouse. It was almost as if a wave of energy passed through him when he heard the word Pasteur. His eyelids fluttered.
"I'll bet you wonder why I know all this," Smith continued, hope growing inside him. "The daughter of Emile Chambord"
Marty's chin quivered at the mention of the scientist's name.
"told me you arrived unannounced at her father's lab. Just walked right in and volunteered to help."
Marty's lips seemed to shape a word.
Excited, Smith leaned close. "What is it, Marty? I know you want to tell me something. It's about the Pasteur and Dr. Chambord, isn't it? Try, Marty. Try. Tell me what happened. Tell me about the DNA computer. You can do it!"
Marty's mouth opened and closed. His chubby face flushed. He was struggling to assemble thoughts and words, the effort straining his