Day of Wrath

CHAPTER ONE SHADOWED WOODS

The shadow cast by the giant Mi-26 helicopter rippled over mile after mile of evergreen forest brushing across vast stands of northern pine, spruce, and fir trees. Many of the trees were dead or dying, choked by acid rains and smog-laden winds from Russian mines, smelters, and industrial plants. Wherever the forest thinned, pools of standing water glistened in the pale sunlight.

Much of northern Russia was a tangled mix of woodland and swamp.

A lean, tough-looking man sat next to one of the helicopter’s fuselage windows, staring down at the ground. From a distance, his taut, sun-darkened face looked boyish. The illusion disappeared up close.

Years spent in the field and in command had put lines around his steady green eyes. And the same stresses and strains had turned some of his light brown hair gray.

Colonel Peter Thorn frowned.

They were more than one hundred miles out from the Arkhangelsk airport, and nothing in the view below had changed. Except for a thin strip of settled land around the fringes of the White Sea, this stretch of Russia six hundred miles north of Moscow was empty. There were no roads. No buildings. No signs of human life. A few villages had sprung up over the centuries and then vanished. Even Stalin’s prison camps, the gulags, had been abandoned — left to rot and molder and sink back into the swampy wilderness.

Thorn looked away, shifting around in his fold-down seat to face the helicopter’s cavernous interior.

“Hell of a country, isn’t it?” the tall, gaunt man seated next to him said into his ear, pitching his voice just high enough to be heard over the clattering roar of the Mi-26’s engines and rotor.

“Probably hasn’t changed much since the last Ice Age.”

Thorn nodded. The tall man, Robert Nielsen, was a pilot and aeronautical engineer by training, not a geologist, but he had a good eye for terrain. Stone Age hunters following the retreating glaciers north would have moved through the same dark, wet woods.

Thorn grimaced. “Bad place for a crash.”

“There’s no good spot, Colonel,” Nielsen said tersely. The head of the National Transportation Safety Board’s investigative team tapped the open map on his lap. “But I’ll admit our access to this site stinks. It’s more than fifty miles to the nearest road or railhead. The Russians are going to have to ferry everything in by air. Tents. Food and water. Floodlights. Generators. Everything.”

Thorn glanced back at the large cargo crates piled high across the Mi-26’s rear clamshell doors. Besides the eight Americans and their assigned Russian interpreter, this heavy-lift helicopter held nearly twenty tons of equipment and supplies. He fought down the urge to tell the other man he had an excellent grasp of the obvious. Their situation was awkward enough without crossing swords so early.

Anyway, he understood why the NTSB’s chief investigator was so clearly off balance. When an aircraft went down in the U.S Nielsen and his six-man “go-team” were in complete command from the moment they touched down at the crash site.

Here they were only consultants — and unwanted consultants at that.

Russia’s Federal Aviation Authority was touchy about its prerogatives.

Moscow had only agreed to accept an NTSB observer team because American nuclear experts were among those killed in the An-32 crash. The Americans could ask questions, provide technical assistance, and offer opinions. Final authority, though, would remain firmly in Russian hands.

The Russian argument was simple: It was their aircraft. Flying in their airspace. And it had crashed in their sovereign territory.

All of which put Nielsen in a grade-A bind. Thorn had seen his type before. Like any investigator worth his salt, he was a control freak.

When the cause of any given accident could lie in something as small as a pinhead-sized piece of twisted metal, somebody-one man had to be in charge. And Nielsen was used to being in charge.

Thorn grinned wryly to himself. Perceptive diagnosis, Colonel, he thought. But where exactly does that leave you?

The honest answer was — even further removed from the real action than the NTSB investigator.

If mechanical failure or pilot error had brought down the inspection team’s An-32 transport, Nielsen, his team, and their Russian counterparts would all have roles to play. If terrorism or sabotage were involved, the Russian Ministry of the Interior, the MVD, and the FBI would take over the investigation. In contrast, as a liaison officer from the U.S.“s On-Site Inspection Agency, Thorn had precisely zero real authority. He was an observer — a consultant to consultants.

And that was not a position he found comfortable.

Counting the time he’d spent as a West Point cadet, Thorn had been in the U.S. Army for twenty-two years. He’d commanded troops for most of those years — first an airborne infantry platoon, then a company, then elite Delta Force commandos, and finally a full Delta Force squadron.

He’d viewed his various staff postings as necessary evils — as the hoops the Army made you jump through before you got to do the fun stuff like leading soldiers in the field.

But now he was stuck riding a desk inside the O.S.I.A’s Dulles Airport headquarters. So stuck that he’d never get another chance to command an Army combat unit. Officially, he was there to add his counterterrorist expertise to the O.S.I.A staff. Terrorists with nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons were one of Washington’s biggest nightmares. Unofficially, he knew the powers that be viewed his assignment to the inspection agency as a way to keep him quiet until they could edge him out of the Army altogether.

After all, Thorn thought grimly, you couldn’t tell the President of the United States to go to hell without paying the piper.

Irritated with himself for dwelling unprofitably on the past, he pushed away his regrets. He’d known what he was doing, and he’d known the price he was likely to pay for disobeying a White House order. What mattered now was the job at hand.

Even if Nielsen and the others couldn’t see what he was doing aboard this helicopter, Thorn was determined to make himself useful. If an accident had downed the An-32, he could at least help out with the grunt work-searching for wreckage, bodies, and personal effects. If they turned up evidence that sabotage had brought down the Russian plane, he would move hell and high water to help the FBI and the MVD find the bastards who were responsible. He owed John Avery and the others on the O.S.I.A inspection team that much.

The Mi-26 banked suddenly, spiraling tightly to the right and losing altitude in the turn.

Thorn looked down. They were orbiting a patch of forest that at first looked no different than any other for hundreds of miles around. Even this far from any industrial city, dead pine trees stood out among the survivors — stark brown, branching skeletons against a dark green backdrop.

“There it is!” Nielsen said urgently.

Thorn followed the other man’s nod and saw the An-32 crash site for the first time. When it slammed into the forest canopy, the turboprop had torn a long, jagged scar across the countryside — splintering trees, gouging the earth, and flattening the undergrowth for several hundred yards. Blackened scorch marks showed where aviation fuel spraying from the mangled wreckage had ignited.

The Mi-26 continued its orbit, slowing further to hover over an area several hundred meters east of the crash site.

Orange panels laid across the muddy ground in a ragged clearing marked a makeshift landing pad. A Russianmade Mi-8 helicopter sat off to one side of the clearing. Mechanics and other ground crewmen swarmed over the smaller bird, refueling it and attaching a cargo-carrying sling.

Thorn mentally crossed his fingers. He hoped the Mi-26 pilot had perfect depth perception. With its rotor turning, the giant heavy-lift helicopter was more than a hundred and thirty feet long. From this high up, trying to set it down in the space available looked akin to threading a sewing needle with a garden hose. If they came down too far in one direction, they’d hit the trees. Too far in the other, and they’d slam into the parked Mi8 and half a dozen fuel drums. Neither alternative seemed particularly appealing.

Almost without thinking, he fingered the thin, almost invisible scar running across his nose and down under his right eye.

That scar and a couple of small metal pins in his right cheekbone were souvenirs of a helicopter crash he’d survived as a young captain.

Walking away from one whirlybird crack-up was enough for a lifetime, he decided.

Turbines howling, the Mi-26 slipped lower, slid right, then back left, and settled in to land with a heavy, jarring thump. Almost immediately, the engine noise changed pitch, sliding down the scale as the pilots throttled back. The helicopter’s massive rotors spun slower and slower and then stopped.

They were down.

Thorn breathed out softly, unbuckled his seat belt, snagged his travel kit from under the seat, and stood up — grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. To stay fit at forty, he relied on a rigorous daily exercise regime, and too much sitting left him stiff. Unfortunately, except for a five-minute stop at Arkhangelsk to board this helo, they had been in the air since leaving Andrews Air Force Base the day before. And the aisles aboard Air Force passenger jets were too narrow for running or vigorous calisthenics.

He controlled his mounting impatience while Nielsen and the others carefully gathered their own gear and assembled at the forward left side door. For now, this was the NTSB’s show. They were entitled to set the pace. Air accident investigations always put a premium on slow, methodical, and absolutely painstaking work. No matter how tough it might be, he would have to rein in his own innate impulse to push for rapid, decisive action.

At least he couldn’t fault their working clothes. All of the civilians wore plain jeans, long-sleeve shirts, waterproof jackets, and hiking boots. His woodland camouflage-pattern battle dress and combat boots were equally practical. Suits and neckties and dress uniforms had no place this far out in the wilderness.

A Russian helicopter crewman emerged from the flight deck, pushed his way through the waiting Americans, and unlatched the side door. It fell open, becoming a set of steps down to the ground.

Thorn followed Nielsen, his team, and their interpreter outside, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs to scan the surrounding area.

Stumps and sheared-off branches poked through the mud in places, showing where engineers had blown down trees to make this crude landing pad. Several large drab canvas tents were clustered at the far end of the clearing. Urged on by shouting NCOS and junior officers, teams of young Russian conscripts in mudsmeared uniforms were busy erecting more tents along the treeline.

Other soldiers were hard at work stringing floodlights through the nearby woods. Chainsaws whined off in the distance.

The dull, pulsing roar of diesel-powered electrical generators throbbed in counterpoint.

Some of the Russian troops had stripped down to sweatstained Tshirts.

Spring came late this far north, but it was cool — not cold. He guessed the temperature was somewhere in the high fifties. Smells lingered in the still ain-an acrid, sickly-sweet mix of spilled aviation gas and raw sewage from hastily dug latrines.

Two men — one older and balding, the other younger and fair-haired, stood just beyond the arc of the Mi-26’s now motionless rotor blades.

A reception committee. His heartbeat quickened when he saw the familiar face of the tall, darkhaired woman waiting with them. Thorn lengthened his stride to catch up with Nielsen and the rest of the NTSB team.

The older man stepped forward to meet them. He growled something in terse, guttural Russian to their interpreter, folded his arms, and stood waiting — silent and apparently utterly uninterested in any response.

“This is First Deputy Director Leonid Mamontov of the Federal Aviation Authority,” the interpreter said hurriedly. He hesitated and then went on. “The Deputy Director welcomes you to Russia and looks forward to close cooperation in this important investigation. He has prepared a preliminary briefing in the headquarters tent.”

While Nielsen made his own introductions, Thorn carefully eyed the short, stocky, unsmiling man in front of them, sure that the interpreter had massively shaded his translation. Mamontov looked more likely to welcome close-quarters combat with his American counterparts than cooperation.

The Russian official raised a single bushy eyebrow when Nielsen introduced him. Then he simply grunted, shook his head in disgust, and swung away, stomping toward the largest tent across the clearing.

Nielsen shrugged apologetically to Thorn and hurried after the Russian — followed closely by the interpreter and the rest of his team.

Terrific, Thorn thought grimly. This mission was off to a bangup start. If others at the accident scene shared this bureaucrat’s evident disdain, they were all in for a very rough ride.

A polite cough broke his bleak train of thought. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, he quickly turned back to face the man and woman who had accompanied Mamontov to meet the helicopter.

They were still standing close by, waiting to be noticed.

“I apologize for Director Mamontov’s behavior, Colonel,” the man said quietly in almost flawless English. Then he grinned, showing white, perfect teeth. “But I assure you it is nothing personal. The minister does not like soldiers or policemen of any sort. Whether they are American or Russian is immaterial.”

Still smiling, the younger Russian held out his hand. “I am Major Alexei Koniev of the Ministry of the Interior, by the way. So I, too, am one of Mamontov’s untouchables.”

Careful to hide his surprise, Thorn shook hands with the slender, fair-haired man. “Glad to meet you, Major.”

He wouldn’t have suspected Koniev was a plainclothes policeman — especially not one with such a high rank. He looked too young and his clothes seemed wrong somehow. The Russian’s jacket, shirt, and jeans, though clearly rugged and durable, were also immaculately tailored and expensivelooking.

Faint warning bells rang in Thorn’s mind. MVD officers were charged with protecting Russia against everything from outright rebellion to organized crime — a sort of National Guard and FBI all rolled up into one. But they were also notoriously poorly paid.

So how could this Koniev character afford the latest Western outdoor wear?

He knew one of the possible answers to that question. The need to pad their skinflint salaries led a lot of MVD officers down the road to corruption. Russia’s powerful criminal syndicates were only too willing to distribute generous bribes to bury their hooks deep inside the government and its law enforcement agencies.

He made a mental note to keep a close eye on Koniev. His first impressions of the MVD officer were favorable. But first impressions could get you killed. And even old friends could betray you. He’d learned that lesson the hard way in Iran two years before.

“Permit me to introduce you to my American colleague, Special Agent Helen Gray of your FBI,” Koniev continued.

Thorn turned to the slim, pretty, darkhaired woman at the Russian major’s side, noting the faint smile she was trying unsuccessfully to conceal. Her eyes seemed even bluer than he remembered.

“Thank you, Major,” he said gravely. “But Special Agent Gray and I already know each other fairly well.”

She nodded calmly. “I thought you might try to poke your nose under this tent, Colonel Thorn. But I didn’t see your name on the flight manifest. How exactly did you manage to swing an invitation from the NTSB?”

“Held my breath. Refused to eat my lunch. Threatened to wire their office coffeepots with C-4. All the usual stuff,” Thorn said flatly.

He shrugged. “They finally caved in.”

Helen laughed softly. “I see you’re still as smooth and charming as ever, Peter.”

Koniev had been swinging his head from one to the other in growing puzzlement. Now he snapped his fingers. “Ah! Now I understand. You are old friends, yes?”

Without taking his eyes off Helen Gray, Thorn answered quietly, “Yes, Major, that’s right. We’re old friends. Very old friends.”

Colonel Peter Thorn wearily pushed back the hood of the rubberized chemical protection suit he’d been given. He wiped the sweat and dirt off his brow. After spending two hours tramping across the crash site with Major Koniev, he needed a breather.

He and the MVD officer were alone on this trek. True to form, Helen Gray had surveyed the debris field on her own as soon as she’d arrived on the scene. Right now she was busy setting up the joint FBI/MVD investigative team’s communications and coordinating their plans with Mamontov and Nielsen.

His thoughts strayed to Helen. The female FBI agent was the only woman who had ever really gotten under his skin.

Thorn shook his head ruefully. Why use the past tense? His heart still skipped a beat whenever he saw her. Or talked to her.

Or even thought about her.

Certainly, when he’d argued his way onto this mission, he’d hoped their paths might cross. After all, even this long after the end of the Cold War, the official American community in Moscow was still a small, close-knit world. And they hadn’t seen each other for six long months — not since the FBI had sent her to Moscow as a legal attache.

A couple of eagerly anticipated visits had been shortcircuited by work emergencies — both on her end. As a legal attache, Helen was the FBI’s eyes and ears inside Russian law enforcement.

With drug trafficking, smuggling, and contract killing all on the rise, her workload kept piling up.

Other attempts to meet had also fallen by the wayside. Even their weekly phone calls had begun to sound impersonal somehow — cold and unsatisfying, however warm the words.

Thorn sighed. Seeing Helen in the flesh brought all his memories of her, his longing for her, to the surface. Somehow he would have to find time to be alone with her — to see if he still held her heart the way she gripped his. If nothing else, that would at least offer a small measure of relief from the grim task at hand.

Reluctantly, he forced himself back into the ugly present.

Back in D.C. he had believed the doomed An-32 had come down in rough, trackless country. Now he was sure that it had crashed in hell — probably somewhere near the marshy banks of the River Styx.

The impact had scattered pieces of the aircraft and its passengers across a nightmarish landscape of dense, dark forest and brush-choked pools of stagnant water. The stench of rotting vegetation, charred wood, and burnt human flesh hung in the sluggish, unmoving ain-separate odors that blended in an invisible, sickening fog.

Midges and other biting insects swarmed in thick black clouds beneath the trees and above the marshy ground.

“Christ!” Thorn slapped at a stinging fly, smearing blood across his cheek. He glanced at Koniev. “I can think of better places to spend a few days, Major.”

“This region will never appear in our new tourist brochures, that is true,” the Russian officer agreed tiredly. He sighed. “We are in the midst of what some call the Devil’s Eden. Personally, I do not believe even the devil would want this country for his own.” The younger man mopped his own forehead and then quickly wiped his hand off on the gray, rubber-coated fabric of his protective suit.

With so much wreckage still strewn through the woods and the swamp, Thorn realized that the suits were a necessary safeguard.

They were also hot, confining, and horribly uncomfortable.

Even in the cool weather of the northern Russian spring, wearing them while engaged in heavy labor meant risking dehydration and heat stroke.

The sound of splashing and weary, repeated commands drew his attention back to the work crews they were observing.

Barely visible through the trees, a line of Russian soldiers moved slowly through the tangled undergrowth. Their baggy protective suits made them look like gray, wrinkled ghosts in the gathering evening gloom. Hunched over to see more clearly, they poked and probed through every thicket and scumcoated pond — searching for debris from the crash.

Technical experts from the Federal Aviation Authority followed close behind the search line. They charted the precise position of smaller pieces of wreckage or human remains before crews came in to haul them away. Larger chunks of torn metal were tagged and left in place for later removal by winchequipped helicopters.

Koniev frowned. “The work proceeds at a glacial pace, I am afraid.”

He sounded embarrassed. “This plane came down four days ago. Four days ago! And only now does the recovery effort truly begin!”

Thorn shook his head. “From what I’ve seen so far, Major, your people have worked miracles just getting this much done so fast.”

He meant that. Seeing what the Russians were up against at first hand revealed the true magnitude of their task. Search planes had finally found the An-32 crash site two days after the aircraft disappeared off air traffic control radar. From then on, the search, rescue, and investigative teams had been in a race against time and miserable conditions. Considering the logistical strain involved in setting up and supplying a sizable base camp by air, their progress really was nothing short of remarkable.

Thorn spotted movement off to one end of the search line.

Two Russian soldiers paced into view, moving carefully and scanning the woods all around them. Each carried an AK-74 assault rifle at the ready.

He nodded toward the sentries. “You expecting trouble, Major?”

“Perhaps.” The MVD officer hesitated and then went on.

“There are many predators in these woods, Colonel. Bears. Foxes. Even wolves.”

True enough, Thorn thought. But not all wolves ran on four legs. He noticed that the armed guards spent at least as much time watching the search team as they did the surrounding forest.

He suspected the Russians were trying to make sure their poorly paid rescue workers didn’t loot any of the crash victims’ personal effects.

He and Koniev stepped aside, clearing the narrow path for two panting conscripts carrying a large black plastic bag back toward the camp.

Part of the bag snagged a low-hanging branch and ripped open, revealing a blackened lump of flesh that was barely identifiable as a human torso. One of the soldiers muttered a tired apology and hastily shifted his grip to close the gash in the body bag.

Thorn’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen death in almost every form on the battlefield or in the aftermath of terrorist atrocities. But no one could ever be fully prepared for the havoc a highspeed impact could wreak on the human body.

He heard Koniev gag and then quickly take a deep, shuddering breath.

He turned to look at the young MVD officer. “Are you all right, Major?”

“Yes.” The other man looked pale, but otherwise in control.

He straightened his shoulders. “Have you seen enough, Colonel? It will be dark soon.”

Thorn nodded sharply, pushing the image of that blistered corpse out of his mind. “Yeah. I’ve seen enough. For now. But I’ll be back here at first light.”

Colonel Peter Thorn stopped near a small tent set up beneath a tall pine tree and buttoned his uniform jacket. His breath steamed in the chilly night air. The temperature had dropped rapidly after darkdipping close to the freezing mark.

He stood still for a moment longer, gathering his thoughts while making sure he wasn’t being observed. Private quarters were the sole concession Helen Gray had accepted as lone woman on the investigative team. She had worked damned hard to be accepted on her merits in the male-dominated precincts of the FBI. And, for all their Soviet-era propaganda boasts about building a truly equal society, the Russians remained an even more intensely conservative lot. Getting caught visiting her tent alone after sundown could easily put her professional reputation at risk. He was determined to avoid that if possible.

Floodlights lit the compound and surrounding forest with a cold, harsh, sharp-edged glare that made the blackness outside the light absolute.

The smell of cheap tobacco and cooked beets wafted from the crowded tents used to house Russian enlisted men. But there were no signs of movement among the trees.

After a long, hard, backbreaking day at the crash site, the search effort had shut down for the night. Moscow would have to ferry in more men, equipment, and supplies before they could accelerate the recovery operation onto a twenty-four-hour cycle.

Thorn turned back toward Helen’s tent and then stopped dead in his tracks. Maybe he should wait and see her the next morning.

Maybe he was pushing too fast.

He shook his head, angry at himself for wavering. He’d been awarded medals for bravery under fire. Right now, though, none of them meant a damned thing. What the hell was his problem?

If she still loved him, everything would be fine. And if she didn’t love him anymore? Well, better to find that out now — to force a clean, crisp break before their screwed-up emotions started interfering with their work. This investigation had to come first. It was time to start acting like a man and a soldier instead of a scared teenager.

He took a quick, deep breath, squared his shoulders, and tapped softly on the canvas tent flap. “Helen? Can I come in?”

“Peter?” The tent flap opened, spilling a warmer light onto the dark and muddy ground. Helen stood in the opening, framed against the glow from a lantern. She eyed him calmly for a second and then motioned him inside, closing the flap behind him.

Her tent contained little beyond a cot made up with rough wool Russian Army blankets, a couple of battered wooden folding chairs, her travel bag and laptop PC, and an empty supply crate that apparently served as a desk. And, of course, Helen herself.

Thorn tried to ignore the pulse pounding in his ears. Even in travel-worn jeans and a heavy green fisherman’s sweater, she was lovely. Her wavy black hair silhouetted a heart-shaped face and stunning blue eyes.

He wanted to kiss her, but he held back. They’d been apart for too long. He couldn’t read her mood with any certainty. It seemed best to play it safe.

“How have you been, Helen?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been fine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Thorn obeyed gladly, relieved to hear the bantering tone in her voice. That was a lot more like the Helen Gray he’d come to know and love over the past two years.

She sat down gracefully on the cot facing him and said more, seriously, “I really was surprised to see you pop out of that helicopter, you know.”

“I know,” he answered simply. “I almost didn’t.”

“Oh?”

Thorn shrugged. “I wasn’t exaggerating much when I said I had to hold my breath and throw a tantrum to win a spot on the team. Even then my boss practically told me that he’d yank me back to D.C. the second he heard any complaints from the NTSB … or from the Russians, for that matter. I’m the inspection agency’s liaison here on sufferance.”

Since a team from the On-Site Inspection Agency had been aboard the downed Russian plane, both Washington and Moscow were willing to allow an observer from the agency at the crash site — somebody who could help identify the victims, round up their personal and professional effects, and funnel reports back to O.S.I.A’s Washington headquarters. But none of the top officials involved in either capital were likely to have much patience with him if he pissed off the experts tasked with the real work of investigating the crash.

Helen leaned forward and asked softly, “Is O.S.I.A really that bad, Peter?”

“It’s Siberia without the perks.” Thorn tried smiling and failed.

“Seriously, I have a nice carpeted office, a nice new computer, and a nice clean desk. but nothing important or interesting ever comes across that desk. I write reports analyzing terrorist threats that go straight into a circular file somewhere. And the rest of the time I sit around waiting to answer questions that are never asked.”

He snorted in disgust. “I’m forty years old, Helen, and I’m stuck behind a desk when I should be out leading troops. But I wouldn’t mind that so much if they’d at least let me do the job they hired me for.”

“Then why not resign?” Helen asked bluntly. “Why stay in the Army if they won’t let you do what you’re best at?”

Resign? Leave the Army? Thorn pondered that for a split second and then shook his head decisively. “Can’t do that. They can fire me if they want to, but I won’t quit.”

She frowned.

“Jesus, Helen. I know that sounds stubborn, even muleheaded. But I’m a soldier. That’s all I’ve ever been. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be since I was just a kid.” Thorn paused, remembering the pride he’d felt as a little boy watching his soldier father march past with that green beret sitting proudly on his head. “I took an oath to serve my country. I’ll honor that oath however I’m allowed. Whether it’s behind some goddamned desk. or out here in these damned woods.”

Helen’s frown faded. “Now that’s the Peter Thorn I’m used to hearing.”

Her lips curved upward into a slight smile. “Pigheaded, yes. Opinionated, yes. But not a whiner or a quitter.”

Thorn winced. “I guess I did sound pretty damned bitter, didn’t I?”

“Yep.” She reached out and put a hand gently on his knee.

“And not a bit like the same man who told me to stay in the FBI whenever I wanted to give up. Who pushed me back into the ring every time I got knocked down.”

She looked down at her lap for a moment. “I haven’t forgotten the months you spent getting me back on my feet, Peter. Not a second of them.”

Thorn nodded slowly. While leading an FBI Hostage Rescue Team raid on a terrorist safe house in northern Virginia, Helen had been badly wounded. Her doctors had warned her that her injuries might be permanent. That she might never walk unaided or without a severe limp.

Well, she’d proved them wrong. It had taken months of rigorous physical therapy — months of constant pain and hard work but she’d regained the full use of her legs.

He’d encouraged her to fight for her health and her career every step of the way. Some members of the FBI’s old-boy network would have been very happy to see her accept a presidential commendation for heroism and retire on disability. But she’d surprised them all. She’d reported back for active duty with a clean bill of health from every doctor she could corral.

Thorn smiled to himself. Helen had more courage in one of her little toes than all the bureaucrats at the FBI’s Hoover Building headquarters put together.

Her sigh startled him. He looked up and found her studying him intently.

“Peter …” She hesitated, then fell silent. She tried again.

“Peter, I think we need to talk”

“Yeah. We do,” Thorn cut in hurriedly. Those were not words he wanted to hear right now. He took his hand off hers and quickly tried to change the subject. “You’ve had more time on the ground here. What’s your first take on this plane crash? Do you buy the accident theory? Or do you think we’re looking at some kind of sabotage?”

Christ, I’m babbling like an idiot, he thought.

Helen rolled her eyes. “Peter Thorn, you are the most irritating man I’ve ever met.” She sounded exasperated beyond endurance.

Bingo.

Thorn grinned slowly. “Does that mean you still like me?”

Almost against her will, Helen matched his grin. “Probably.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I even still love you.”

Aware again of the pulse pounding in his ears, Thorn lifted the hand she had on his knee, enclosed it in his own, and pulled her slowly toward him. Her lips parted, met his gently, and then pressed back even harder.

Suddenly he felt her stiffen.

Slowly, reluctantly, Helen pulled her lips away from his. She whispered, “Someone’s outside, Peter. I just heard a twig snap.”

He sat up and faced the tent flap — watching her hand slip toward the shoulder holster hanging from a peg over her cot. Her combat reflexes were obviously still good.

Someone rapped on the canvas. “Special Agent Gray? You are still awake, I hope?”

Helen visibly relaxed. “It’s Alexei Koniev.” She sat back on the cot and smoothed her sweater into shape. “I’m awake, Major. Colonel Thorn and I were just talking. Come on in.”

Koniev slipped through the tent flap and stood looking down at them.

His eyes twinkled. “I hope I am not interrupting anything of importance.”

“Nothing much, Major,” Thorn heard himself say stiffly.

“Ah, that is good.” Koniev tossed his officer’s cap onto Helen’s improvised desk and sat down in the empty folding chair. He crossed his legs casually and leaned forward. “Perhaps we can discuss our strategy for tomorrow, then. Our game plan, I believe you Americans say?”

Thorn bit down hard on his irritation. Koniev had as much right to visit Helen’s tent as he did — maybe even more. And he couldn’t fault the Russian major for wanting to get a head start on the next day’s work. He just wished the younger man didn’t look so much at home in her company. His love life and this investigation were already complicated enough.