Thorn laughed. “No thanks, Tow. I filled my monthly masochist quota today and I’ve got meetings all day tomorrow. Besides” he smiled crookedly “the general’s wife wants us all at her big soiree on time and smelling like roses, not like the inside of an old gym bag. And you can guess the uniform of the day.”
Diaz groaned softly. “Dress blues, Colonel?”
“Dress blues, Sergeant Major.”
Officers, senior NCOs, their wives and sweethearts crowded the dimly lit, airconditioned bar, chatting politely in small groups as white-coated waiters circulated deftly among them with trays holding drinks and hors d’oeuvres. A jukebox played in the far corner, lofting soft music, a mix of light rock and pop tunes, over the buzz of conversation.
Thorn stood close to the door with Sam Farrell and Lieutenant Colonel Bill Henderson, the tall, thin man who now commanded Delta’s A Squadron. They were talking shop.
“You getting anywhere with the CIA on this Bosnia thing, Pete?” Farrell asked.
“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 evening. 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.
