save the Chambords! We must get back the prototype! Get me my slackshellip;"
"Whoa, you're by no means recovered, my boy. Besides, you don't have anything here but that darling hospital gown of yours." As Marty opened his mouth to complain, Peter hurried on. "Now you just lie back again, lad. Perhaps in a few days, right?" He paused. "I have a critical question for you. Can you build a DNA computer, something so we can fight back?"
"No, Peter. I'm sorry. What happened ishellip;I didn't just hop on a plane and arrive unannounced at Emile's lab. No, he called me in Washington and intrigued me with his great secret, his molecular computer. He needed me to show him how to make the most out of operating it. So that was my end of our partnership. Emile's, of course, was creating the machine himself. Everything was in his notes. Do you have his notes?"
"No one's been able to find them."
"I was afraid that was the situation."
After Peter had reassured Marty that everything possible was being done, he made two calls, using the standard phone by Marty's bedside. That finished, he and Marty talked longer.
As he prepared to leave, Peter said soberly, "You're in excellent hands here, Marty. Lochiel's a hell of a doctor and a soldier. He'll make sure no one can get to you, and he'll monitor your health. A coma's nothing to fool around with. Even an overeducated egghead like you knows that. Meanwhile, I have a bit of work to do myself, then I'll be back before you can say Jack the Ripper."
" 'Jack the Ripper.' Very funny." Marty gave a small nod of the head in tribute. "Personally, I prefer Pete the Sticker."
"Oh?"
"Much more appropriate, Peter. After all, that nasty, sharp stiletto of yours saved our lives in the hospital. Ergo: Pete the Sticker."
"There's that."
As Peter returned the smile, the two men accidentally looked into each other's eyes. Both smiled wider. Then they averted their gazes.
"I suppose I'll be all right," Marty grumbled. "Goodness knows, I'm safer here than with you and all the trouble you can get yourself into." Then he brightened. "I forgot. It puzzles me."
"What puzzles you?"
"The painting. Well, not really a paintinghellip;a print copy of a painting. It was Emile's, and it was missing, too. I wonder why? Why on earth would terrorists want that?"
"What print, Marty?" Peter was impatient. He was already making plans in his mind. "Missing from where?"
"Emile's laboratory. It was his print of the famous The Grand Army Retreats from Moscow painting. You know it. Everyone does. It's the one in which Napoleon is riding his white horse, his chin sunk on his chest, with his ragged troops trudging through the snow behind him. They've been badly beaten. I think it was after the battle for Moscow. Now, why would terrorists steal that? It wasn't valuable. Just a print, after all. Not the real painting."
Peter shook his head. "I don't know, Marty."
"Odd, isn't it?" Marty mused. He stroked his chin, looking for a meaning.
Washington, D.C.
Fred Klein sat in the presidential bedroom, chewing again on the stem of his unlit pipe. There had been moments in the last few days when his jaw had been so tight he had nearly bitten through the stem. He had faced other crises of great magnitude and desperation, but never anything as tense and uncertain as this. It was the sense of impotence, the knowledge that if the enemy wanted to use the DNA computer there would be no defense against it. All their mighty weapons, built so carefully and expensively over the last half century, were useless, although they gave a feeling of security to the uninformed and unimaginative. In the end, all they had were the intelligence services. A few agents following a faint trail, like a single hunter in a planet-sized wilderness.
President Castilla came in from his sitting room, shed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and flopped into a heavy leather armchair. "That was Pat Remia over at 10 Downing. Seems they've lost a top generalGeneral Mooreand they think it's the doing of our terrorists." He leaned back, resting his head against the chair, his eyes closed.
"I know," Klein said. The light behind him reflected on his face, emphasizing the receding hairline and the deepening ravines in his face.
"Did you hear what General Henze thinks of our tactics? Our progress?"
Klein nodded.
"And?"
"He's wrong."
The president shook his head and pursed his lips. "I'm worried, Fred. General Henze says he's unimpressed by Smith's prospects