Hawkes froze. Feeling something moving in her hand, he shifted his eyes in that direction. Opening his fingers, he saw several of hers flex—once, then again. His breath stopped, choking in his throat. His head snapped back in the direction of hers just in time for him to see her eyelids flutter, to hear, "Ben?"
It was a soft, struggling whisper, but it brought air rushing back into his lungs, hope into his soul, as he whispered back, "Dina? Dina—are you awake? Can you hear me?"
"Oh, Ben . . ."
Her voice was weak, distant. Her words were not slurred, however, and suddenly the ambassador had to restrain himself from shouting. Squeezing her hand, he asked with fearful excitement, "Can you feel that? Can you see me?"
His questions not registering, she said, "You did it. You saved us."
"How do you feel? Can you feel your toes? Your fingers? Can you move your fingers?''
"No," she answered weakly. "I can't move my fingers." After a moment's pause, she continued, "You're holding them too tightly."
He looked down at their hands, then shifted his gaze up to her face. He saw her eyes opening fully, saw the twinkle in them, saw the unsteady smile working to spread across her face. Releasing his crushing hold on her fingers, he smiled himself, asking, "Better?"
"I don't know," she answered with mock seriousness. "Think I'll be able to play the piano when I get out of here?"
"I don't know why not," he told her, knowing what was coming. He waited as she took a deep breath and then gave him the punch line.
"That's great," she said first, then added, "I could never play before, you know."
"I know."
"Oh," she teased him, her voice still faint. "You've heard that one before."
"That joke, dear girl, is older than radio waves. Everyone's heard it before."
"You're just a mean old bully," she teased him again, her voice even fainter.
"Yes," he agreed. "And you're in intensive care for a number of good reasons. So, let me ask—do you want anything? Food? Drink? Are you in pain?" When she shook her head in response to all his questions, he said,
"Then why don't you close those beautiful green eyes of yours and get some more sleep?'' When she started to protest, he scowled at her, then said, "I won't go anywhere. You go back to sleep. We'll talk again when you wake up."
Martel tried to summon the energy to disagree, but she could not. Even as she told him no, her eyelids closed and she fell back into unconsciousness. Hawkes noted, however, that the smile she had worn since she had first opened her eyes and seen him standing above her did not fade. Patting her hand gently, he bent down and kissed her forehead, then returned to his chair across the room. The ambassador started to sit down, then suddenly stopped. Grabbing up the chair, he crossed the room with it, and placed it down next to the bed.
Then he sat down. Finally certain that his aide would be all right, he closed his own eyes and got his first real rest since entering the emergency unit. His own smile did not leave his face any faster than Martel's had left hers.
25
"SO,"ASKED HAWKES, "HOW ARE WE FEELING NOW?"
"Outside of the pain," his aide responded, "I feel swell."
Martel had slept for another seven hours. When she awoke the second time, she felt much stronger and far more alert. She was surprised to find that Hawkes had not left the room, that he had abandoned the negotiations to stay with her. A notion crossed her mind, one that involved feelings between her and the ambassador—but she dismissed it at once.
Then, suddenly, her eyes met his and she saw something that made her call it back for further consideration. Looking up at him, she started to speak, but felt the words catching in her throat. It did not matter. She could tell by his reaction that he understood—that he knew what she was going to ask. She could see the awkward embarrassment in his face.
"Ambassador, back on the Bulldog Igave you a story about being the next person in the system rotation. You thought I was lying. You were right."
Hawkes's face did not move. Giving him a moment to think, she continued, "The next person in the rotation was nowhere near close enough. So when my boss heard what you were up to, he pulled the right strings to get me the assignment."
"That right?"
"Umm hmm. He sent me to the subcontinent on an over-the-ice-cap one-seat rocket shuttle."
"Spared no expense," interjected the ambassador. His mind was racing, wondering just where her confession was leading.
"If he couldn't get me the assignment, I was to get as close to you as possible, anyway—stay near your back." Still weak, the woman paused for a breath, then added, "Val said you were too impulsive for your own good."
"Val?" Hawkes's eyes lit up. Suddenly everything made sense. "Val Hensen. That's how you could catch up to me—that's how you were able to get a gun on the Bulldog."
"The commander is very thorough." Martel gave the ambassador a coded message from his old commanding officer, a string of words that would mean something only to a soldier from Hensen's former brigade. Hearing the words, Hawkes nodded thoughtfully, suddenly realizing a number of things.
"Then you're not married. At least . . . you weren't on your honeymoon."
"No," she said, holding back something not important at that moment. "No honeymoon. Val picked that story out. He said it was best to present a professional front that would keep some distance between us."
"Well, yes," answered the ambassador slowly, old sections of his past suddenly flooding his brain, "I suppose that was probably the best approach." Hawkes closed his eyes for a moment, fighting old pains. Opening them again, he said, "Val would
