“Not very far.” Thorn shrugged, wishing for the hundredth time that he hadn’t tied his tie quite so tight. The dark blue jacket, starched white shirt, and black bow tie of the Army’s regulation dress uniform won him a lot of admiring female glances at formal dinners and other official functions, but they never rested easily on his shoulders. He preferred more comfortable working clothes.
“What the hell is the CIA’s problem?” Henderson frowned. “They fighting some kind of turf war with you?”
“Maybe a little.” Thorn waved off another drink from a passing waiter and turned back to the subject at hand. He repeated Joe Rossini’s reasoning. “But the main glitch is that Langley has different priorities. They’re trying to keep Congress happy by looking for the next big issue. Nukes. Drugs. You name it.”
He shook his head. “The way they see it, terrorism is pretty much a dead horse for right now anyway. The Iranians knocked the crap out of the HizbAllah and the rest so badly that nobody believes they’re in shape to do more than run for cover.”
“You think Langley might be right?” Farrell eyed him closely over his drink.
“Could be,” Thorn admitted reluctantly. “Like Taleh said, I could be chasing ghosts. We sure haven’t been able to pin down anything solid in those first reports.”
“But…” Farrell prompted him.
Thorn nodded. “That little prickling feeling at the back of my neck isn’t going away. The HizbAllah may be on the ropes, but desperate men take desperate chances. I think there could be real trouble brewing out there somewhere and I’d rather not find out about it the hard way.”
“Okay,” Farrell said firmly. “Keep after it. There may not be any pot of gold at the end of your rainbow, but looking can’t hurt.” His mouth tightened. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll see if I can get you some satellite time and better access to Langley’s
HUMINT
sources.”
Thorn felt better.
HUMINT
, the intelligence jargon for information obtained from human agents, was crucial to effective counterterrorist work. Even the most sophisticated spy satellites couldn’t find terrorist training camps unless you pointed them at the right general area. If the
CIA
could bribe, blackmail, or bug someone in Bosnia with direct knowledge of this rumored terrorist recruiting campaign, he and Joe Rossini could start zeroing in on the right target.
“That would be great, sir.” He swallowed the last remnants of his gin and tonic and put the glass down on a nearby table. “I’ll phone my office first thing and have them send down ”
A woman’s languid southern drawl cut him off. “Why, Sam Farrell and Peter Thorn, I am appalled. Talking business on a social occasion? You ought to be ashamed. And you, too, Bill Henderson.”
They turned in unison like guilty schoolboys to see Louisa Farrell, the general’s wife, smiling at them. She wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense, but her violet eyes, elegantly styled silver hair, and natural poise made her what
TOW
Diazwould call “a powerfully handsome woman.”
She swept in among them and took Thorn by the arm. “Now, you just come with me, Peter. You can talk shop with these two boorish misfits anytime. But I don’t see enough of you these days.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Thorn surrendered to the pleasantly inevitable. He half turned toward Farrell. “With your permission, sir?”
The general grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of standing in my wife’s way, Colonel. They don’t pay me enough. I’ll pick up the pieces later.”
What exactly did he mean by that? Thorn wondered.
Louisa Farrell answered his unspoken question. “Come along, Peter. I have someone I’d like you to meet. A new friend of mine. I think you’ll like her.”
Oops. It must be his turn again in the pet bachelor circus center ring. Most Delta Force operators were married and none of their wives seemed able to resist playing matchmaker. The general’s wife was one of the most determined.
“Look, Louisa,” Thorn protested. “I’m not looking for a bride right now.”
“You hush up, now.” She laughed. “You can squirm and toss and turn all you like, but it won’t put me off my stride. You hear me, Peter Thorn?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugged inwardly. He’d just have to shut up and soldier through the rest of the evenin& Idly, he wondered who the lSOC officers’ wives’ club had selected as the ideal Mrs. Thorn this time.
Louisa Farrell didn’t keep him in suspense. She led him straight to a corner table near the jukebox. A tall, pretty woman rose gracefully at their approach.
“Peter, this is Helen Gray. Helen, I’d like you to meet Colonel Peter Thorn.”
Thorn was busy reevaluating his first hasty impression. This woman wasn’t just pretty she was beautiful. Short, wavy black hair framed a heart-shaped face and the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. An elegant, form-fitting black dress showed off a slender body with curves in all the right places. He couldn’t guess her age any closer than a vague feeling that she was definitely over twenty-five but probably under thirty.
He had to admit to himself that he was impressed. This evening might turn out to be a lot more enjoyable than he’d first imagined. He held out his hand. “How do you do, Miss Gray?”
She shook it firmly and smiled politely. “I do pretty well, Colonel Thorn.” Her voice was quiet, but it held a note of utter self-confidence.
Thorn was even more impressed. Maybe the Fort Bragg ladies’ circle was doing a better screening job these days. Helen Gray was certainly a far cry from the usual run-of-the mill debutante or charm school graduate they tried to fix him up with. Whatever else she might be, this woman clearly wasn’t a stereotypical, wilting southern belle. He wondered exactly what she was doing at the base.
When several minutes of friendly but noncommittal conversation failed to yield an answer, he decided on a direct approach. “So what do you do for a living, Miss Gray?”
He saw Louisa Farrell hiding a smile and wondered what was so funny.
Helen didn’t bother hiding her own amusement. She smiled, impishly this time, over her wineglass. “It’s Special Agent Gray, actually, Colonel Thorn. And I lead the
HRT
section exercising here right now.”
It took an effort to close his mouth. “You’re with the FBI?”
Helen nodded briefly. “You’re not surprised that a woman can beat your men at their own game, are you?”
Thorn noticed that her blue eyes, once warm and maybe even inviting, were a little colder now. Clearly, this was dangerous ground. Screw it. He opted for honesty. “Not really, Miss Gray.” He looked her up and down. “It’s just that I’m having a lot of trouble visualising you in a black ski mask and body armor.”
He held his breath, waiting for either a verbal explosion or a glassful of Chardonnay in the face.
Instead, she laughed delightedly. “That’s not exactly a politically correct thing to say, Colonel.”
Thorn smiled broadly. “I’m not exactly a politically correct kind of guy.”
Louisa Farrell patted his upper arm. “I can certainly vouch for that, my dear.” She inclined her head toward Helen and loudly whispered. “But Peter’s not all that bad not for a Neanderthal door-kicker, that is.”
Helen laughed again. “I believe it.”
Somebody turned up the volume on the jukebox and put on one of the older, slower tunes a fifties classic. Louisa took that as a clue to slip away. “If you’ll both excuse me, I do believe I’ll try to find my husband and force him to dance with me.” A few other couples were already out on the floor, swaying in time with the beat.
Thorn studied them for a few seconds, working up his nerve. Then he turned to Helen. “Much as I hate to spoil my knuckle-dragging image, I have to admit that looks like fun.” He hesitated, suddenly surprised to discover how afraid he was that she’d refuse. “Would you care to dance, Miss Gray?”
“I’d love to, Colonel.”
Thorn led her out onto the floor, still perplexed by his earlier hesitation. Up to now, he’d never let any woman, or anything else for that matter, throw him off his stride like this. So what was so different about this one woman?
He forgot to worry about it as she slid into his arms.
Thorn moved in time with the music and with Helen for several minutes, content at first in the comfortable feeling of her body pressed lightly against his. He was conscious, though, of a growing desire to learn more about her. When the song ended and someone else put on a louder, faster tune from the seventies, he seized his opportunity. “Mind if we sit this one out, Miss Gray?”
“Only if you stop calling me Miss Gray,” she replied. “Deal?”
Thorn grinned. “All right… Helen.” Her first name seemed to flow very easily over his lips. He followed her off the floor, again admiring her beauty and grace.
They found a table far enough away from the jukebox so they could hear each other speak. He smiled across at her. “I hope your shoes are still intact. I’m afraid that dancing isn’t my strong suit. I took some classes at West Point, but not much stayed with me.”
Helen laughed. “Lucky you! My father was so afraid that I was becoming too much of a tomboy that he made me take cotillion with my sisters for three years!” Cotillion. That explained some of her grace. Thorn flagged down a waiter and secured two fresh glasses of white wine. “Sisters? I guess the Gray family’s a pretty big clan, then?”
She shrugged. “Not that big. I have two sisters, one older and one younger, and one older brother.”
Thorn smiled crookedly. “As an only child, that sounds like a pretty big family to me.” He took a drink, remembering the long evenings and quiet holidays. “I used to wonder what it would be like to have brothers and sisters. But I guess I wouldn’t trade my relationship with my dad for anything. It seems like he and I did everything together when I was growing up. Hiking… kayaking… skiing… riding, you name it.”
Helen shook her head. “Your dad sounds like quite a guy.” She hesitated. “What about your mom?”
Thorn felt his jaw tighten. “I don’t have a mother. Haven’t had one since I was a kid.”
“Oh, I’m sorry… Did she die?”
He paused, undecided about how much to tell her. They were treading in very private waters. On the other hand, he felt intuitively that he could trust this woman. “No, actually my mother left us when I was eleven after my dad came home from Nam. She said she needed more ‘space,’ that she had ‘grown up’ while he was overseas. I’m not sure either my dad or I ever really understood what she meant by that. We pretty much lost contact with her and learned to manage on our own.”
Thorn stopped almost abruptly, somewhat embarrassed at having revealed so much. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound bitter. It may have been a blessing in disguise. I probably got away with taking all sorts of crazy risks with just my dad looking after me. After she left, my dad wangled a transfer to Fort Carson, Colorado, for a couple of years.”
He pushed the conversation and his memories on to more pleasant ground. “That wasn’t a bad place to grow up, really. I rode horses all year round and skied in the winter. Heck, I even cross-country-skied to school. It was great. And then when I was thirteen we moved to Tehran so my dad could help train the Iranian Army…”
The stories of some of his teenage adventures and misadventures in Iran’s crowded capital lightened the mood considerably. But Thorn suddenly realized he’d been monopolising the conversation for far too long. He made a frantic bid to turn the spotlight back on her before she decided she had been trapped by an egomaniac. “What about you? Where did you grow up?”
“Nowhere quite so glamorous, I’m afraid.” Helen’s smile took the sting out of her words. “We lived in Indianapolis, where my dad was an executive with the phone company. Probably what you’d call a typical suburban existence. I had all the advantages of a close family, good schools with teachers who cared about me, and wonderful friends.”
She grinned broadly. “I’m practically a poster child for solid midwestern values.”
Thorn snorted. “Right. Lots of suburban girls go on to careers as an
FBI
commando.”
Helen spread her hands. “Well, of course, since I was the third kid I was always jockeying for position in the family And while my sisters fulfilled my mother’s dream by becoming charming, pretty girls who married well, I was always chasing after my brother and building forts in the backyard. I think sending me to cotillion was a last-ditch effort by my parents to make me suitable company for men.” She laughed. “Little did they know that I’d choose a profession where I’m almost exclusively surrounded by men!”
Suddenly, Helen’s watch beeped. Thorn saw her stiffen and then relax.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Eleven o’clock. I’m afraid I have to leave soon.”
“Does your ride turn into a pumpkin at 2400 hours or something?”
She chuckled. “No. But I do have an 0400 wake-up call, courtesy of your Sergeant Major Diaz. He’s challenged my team to a rematch.”
Thorn shook his head moumfully. “Remind me to see if I can get Diaz transferred to an Arctic weather station.” He looked seriously at her.
“I’d really like the chance to see you again.” “I’m based at Quantico,” she said quietly.
“That’s not very far from Washington, is it?” he asked.
“No.” The smile reached her eyes again. “It’s not.” They stood up to go. “I hope you’ll call me.”
Thorn nodded seriously. “You can count on it.”
He watched her go, slipping through the crowd with a dancer’s grace. She turned once, looked back at him, smiled one last time, and then vanished.
He shook his head, completely baffled. How had she got him to talk about his family and his childhood? Those were not things he usually discussed at the drop of a hat. Especially not to someone he’d just met. And just what the hell had he said? Whenever he tried to recall the conversation in detail, he remembered little more than a blur of voices and those warm blue eyes.
“A hell of a woman…” he murmured.
Helen Gray was still remembering the way he’d smiled back at her from across the room. Still holding her wineglass, she moved off to find Louisa Farrell and say her goodbyes.
The general’s wife found her first.