"Ambassador, everyone expected you to get some rest." Martel stood in front of Hawkes, her hands on her hips. She had been on her way to bed when she had been made aware of his announcement. "They thought you would at least want to clean up a bit. No one thought you were . . ."
And then, sudden comprehension flooded her face. After a few seconds she remembered to close her mouth. As she began to apologize, Hawkes smiled, telling her, "Forget it. Let it be a lesson. Stopping for anything except getting down to work just gives your enemies time to get their next move organized."
"But how can you . . . I mean . . . to start a round of talks now." The young woman cocked her head to the side. Then, in a voice filled with serious concern, she asked, "Aren't you tired?"
"Exhausted."
The aide closed her mouth again, trying to think instead of simply blurting out the first thing that came into her head. Hawkes could see the effort in her face. Approving of thinking, he decided to sit back and wait to see what she said next.
"Sir, permission to be confused?"
"Permission granted," answered the ambassador with a grin. Taking pity on the bone-tired woman, he told her, "Go ahead. Ask your questions. I won't spin you."
"Thank you. That's the nicest courtesy you've shown me so far." Hawkes nodded, actually amused enough despite his fatigue to grin. Ever since Martel had saved his life he had found himself growing quite fond of the young woman. Too fond.
Damn it, he told himself, you're here to do a job, not rehearse Romeo. Leave the Shakespeare for someone with nothing better to do.
He stared at her as she moved across the room, freezing a nondescript look onto his face as he also reminded himself, And, in case you forgot . . . she's married—a newlywed—and, oh yes, in case you needed anything else to keep you from getting distracted these days, there are people trying to kill you.
Hawkes waited as his aide turned and then pulled up a chair of her own. Easing her weary self into it, she said, "You're twice my age, so I'm going to assume that after what we've been through you're at least as tired as I am."
"Ouch. Thanks," he answered with a mock show of wounded pride. "Let's just say, 'point granted.' "
"Thank you again." Pushing at her short, dark hair, Martel took a deep breath to help her stifle a yawn. Then, she bit her lower lip, exhaled through her nose, and finally asked, "Sir, how can you think of opening negotiations without any rest? We've been through so much. . . . How are you going to be able to do it—keep your guard up— especially when the hours start to drag on?"
"The hours aren't going to drag on. I didn't call for an opening to the negotiations. I just called a meeting."
His aide stared for a long moment. The woman was tired, as exhausted as everyone else that had come off the Bulldog—more so than most. Her mind raced over her conversation with Hawkes, searching for the piece she was obviously missing. Finally, knowing she was walking into a verbal trap, but not knowing how else to get the answer, she conceded, "Okay, sir. You win. I'm just too wrung out to keep up with you. All I can see is you making people angry. You want them to run off, grab all their materials and run back here, and then you don't intend to start negotiations."
The aide let a thin smile cross her face. It showed a delicate mix of helpless surrender and "I'll get you later." Hawkes liked it. Before he could say so, however, Martel added, "If a humble battery fetcher can be privy to the workings of genius . . . could you please tell me what you're up to?"
"All you had to do was ask." Hawkes raised both eyebrows mockingly. His aide felt like sticking her tongue out at him but refrained, settling for a simple scowl instead. Paying off his last comment, the ambassador told her, "We have a small advantage here. No one expected us to sit down to the tables now. We're half-dead, thirsty, tired." Hawkes feigned sniffing his armpit, then added, "We smell . . . well, I smell. But then you know what they say about diplomats. You, maybe . . ."
Martel laughed despite her fatigue. Hawkes smiled. After the past three days, he felt the serious young woman needed a good laugh.
"All right—motion passed. The entire corps smells. Anyway, we came in with everyone working under an expected given . . . no one was going to be in any shape to do any work. So, since no one expects us to do anything, no one's totally prepared. They don't have their arguments in place. Like I said, I didn't call for an opening of negotiations, I just called for a meeting."
Hawkes sat forward in his chair, his hands checking his vest pockets for something he could not seem to find. As he did so, he realized he had on the same clothes he had left the ranch in, the same outfit he had been wearing when Disraeli had found the bomb, when his home had been attacked, when he had killed Stine. Suddenly, whatever he had been searching for was forgotten. Leaning forward out of his chair until he could rest his forearms on the table between himself and Martel, he told her, "I want them all to go grab up their half-prepared statements. I want to see what they have to say before they get a chance to polish it up and craft it into wording that hides what they really mean to say."
The woman nodded, more to herself than to Hawkes. She was used to functioning with formal, by-the-numbers types. She had never seen someone like him in
