The Enemy Within

CHAPTER 5 DRY RUN

Colonel Peter Thorn sipped his instant coffee and grimaced at the awful taste. Served him right for arriving before the coffeemaker’s self-appointed caretakers turned the machine on, he thought. He bit down hard on a tired yawn.

He’d started coming in to the office before dawn partly to get an early start on the day, but mostly to avoid the Pentagon rush-hour crush he disliked so much. Although the strategy worked, coming in early didn’t mean he could leave any sooner. Mostly, he was still locked to his desk long into the evening. Since taking over the Intelligence Liaison Unit, he’d been putting in sixteen-hour days to bring himself up to speed on his analysts’ work and on the way the DOD system ran.

Those extended days and nights were paying off in knowledge and understanding, but he knew he couldn’t keep up the murderous pace for much longer. Falling asleep on a pile of reports during a meeting would probably not be the best way to build his new staff’s confidence in him, he thought wryly.

His phone buzzed suddenly, bringing him wide awake. “Thorn here.”

“Colonel, this is Sergeant Nyland in Communications. You have a secure call from Tehran. A Captain Farhad Kazemi?” The noncom stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar name.

“Put it through, Sergeant.” Thorn glanced at his computer monitor. With a little software wizardry from Joe Rossini, he’d set it to continuously display the local time in both Washington and Tehran. With eight and a half hours between them, it was still morning in D.C. It was near evening in the Iranian capital.

He heard a series of clicks and then the low hum of a carrier wave as Kazemi came on the line. “Colonel Thorn?”

The captain’s voice was slightly distorted by the satellite uplink and the scrambler but still recognisable. For the Iranians, the secure communications system they had been given was one of the first tangible technological fruits of Taleh’s quiet cooperation with the U.S. It wasn’t the newest equipment in the American electronics arsenal, but it was far more effective than anything else available to them.

“Go ahead, Captain, this is Thorn.”

“It is good to speak to you, Colonel.” Kazemi sounded genuinely glad to reach him, though he was clearly a bit surprised at the speed and ease involved in making a connection halfway around the globe. Nearly two decades of revolutionary turmoil and inadequate maintenance had left the domestic Iranian telephone system in complete chaos. “Please hold for a moment, sir. General Taleh will be here shortly.”

Thorn arched an eyebrow in surprise. Although he hadn’t known exactly what to expect when he and Rossini asked the Iranians for their take on the rumored terrorist recruiting in Bosnia, he certainly had not expected a direct response from Amir Taleh himself. Commanders of Taleh’s high rank rarely worked the detail side of the intelligence game. With the radicals still in control of some parts of the Iranian government, he must be keeping the precise extent of his rapprochement with the U.S. a closely held secret.

The Iranian general’s firm, confident voice came on the line. “Good morning, Peter.”

Thorn sat up straighter. “Evening, sir.”

“Shall we dispense with discussing the weather and the other usual pleasantries? I am afraid that my time is at a premium just now. Captain Kazemi guards my schedule like a jealous lion and he informs me that I have a staff meeting in short order.”

Thorn smiled to himself. After days spent wading through Pentagon doublespeak, Taleh’s plain, blunt manner was a welcome breath of fresh air. “Of course.”

“Good,” the Iranian said. “Then let us cut to the heart of the matter. I have questioned my intelligence officers about these rumors from Bosnia.” He paused briefly before continuing. “They confirm some of the reports you passed on to Kazemi.”

“So someone is recruiting Bosnian Muslims as terrorists?”

“So it appears,” Taleh agreed somberly. “However, they do not believe this recruiting effort is as widespread as your own intelligence agencies fear.”

“Oh?”

“It is the old story of the marketplace, Peter. One timid man sees a shadow and within the hour all have heard that an army of ghosts has gathered.” Thorn could almost hear the other man’s shrug. “I suspect such a process is at work in Bosnia. One man offered training abroad becomes ten men in the telling and retelling. And ten men recruited as terrorists becomes a thousand or ten thousand summoned to a new jihad as word is passed from wagging tongues to straining ears.”

“I hope you’re right.” Thorn knew the Iranian had a good point. The rumors the various Western intelligence agencies were picking up could easily be stories blown out of proportion “echoes” bouncing back and forth from a single, small kernel of truth. But even ten wellarmed, well-trained terrorists could wreak almost as much havoc as a larger force.

He said as much to Taleh.

“That is true,” the Iranian said. “I assure you, I do not take this news lightly, Peter. I have no wish to see our mutual enemies regaining any of their strength no matter how weak they are now.”

“Do your intelligence people have any kind of a fix on who’s behind all this?” Thorn asked. If Taleh could just point him in the right direction, he and Rossini could put pressure on the CIA and the other agencies to focus the resources needed to find these bastards. To pinpoint them while they were still training. To keep them under close and constant watch. And then to smash them before they could act against the West.

The Iranian disappointed him. “I am afraid we have no solid evidence.” He sighed. “It is a difficult matter. There are many different Muslim factions in Bosnia almost as many as there are countries here in the Middle East. They have adopted as their own the quarrels and petty jealousies that tear us apart. They spend almost as much time killing each other as they do fighting the Serbs.

“In any case, the more radical groups have little use for Iran now,” Taleh continued. “When I broke the hold of the HizbAllah over my nation, we lost what little influence we had over the fanatics. Their allegiances have shifted.”

“To Baghdad?” Thorn asked, mentally fanning the deck of hostile Islamic powers and picking the most powerful among them.

“I think it is likely,” Taleh agreed. “The Iraqis have ample reason to hate America and its allies.”

Thorn nodded to himself. The Iranian general’s theory fit neatly into the composite picture of the current Islamic terrorism threat that Rossini and his analysts were putting together. Communications intercepts and reports from human sources already showed that the surviving fragments of the HizbAllah, Hammas, and other radical groups were drifting into Baghdad’s orbit. If Bosnian Muslims were being rounded up for a new terrorist campaign, the Iraq government was clearly the prime suspect.

“I wish that I could have been more helpful. I promise, you will be the first to know if I learn anything more.”

“Thank you. I’ll be grateful for any assistance you can provide,” Thorn said. “In the meantime, we’ll keep probing on our end.”

“Of course. Go with God, Peter.”

The connection to Tehran broke, leaving Thorn listening to a dial tone. He put the phone down, stood up, and poked his head outside his office.

His secretary, a prim, middle-aged woman, was just hanging her purse on the back of her chair.

“Peggy, will you ask Joe Rossini to see me as soon as he comes in? I just had a call we need to discuss.”

Thorn pulled his head back inside before she could reply and sat down again at his keyboard. Hesitantly at first and then with increasing speed, he began typing in the commands needed to pull up the latest files on Iraq and its Ba’thist regime.

General Amir Taleh turned away from his desk to find nix, military aide watching him intently.

“Do they know, General?” Kazemi asked quietly.

Taleh shook his head firmly. “No.” He shrugged. “As we thought, Farhad, the Americans have heard whispers in the wind. Nothing more. He thought for a moment longer, pondering what Thorn had told him. Abruptly, he made a decision. “Nonetheless, the risks of our Bosnian enterprise are no longer worth the reward. We already have the men we need. Instruct General Sa’idi to close down our operations there immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Taleh nodded to himself. The agents he had commissioned to find recruits had been cautious, using cutouts and false papers to shield their true identities. Even if Thorn kept “probing,” there should be no direct trail for the American to follow back to Iran. He looked up. Kazemi was still watching him.

“Do you think the American colonel believed what you told him, General?”

“For now.” Taleh smiled thinly at his subordinate. “Peter Thorn is a very determined, very intelligent man, Farhad. But he has one fatal weakness. He is an honest man who sees his own virtues in others. He does not understand that candor is a luxury for the strong. The weak cannot afford such nobility.”

Kazemi nodded.

“My old friend also puts too much faith in the common bond between soldiers.” Taleh frowned slightly. “There is such a bond, but there are ties which are stronger those of blood and those to the one, true God. One may respect an enemy and yet remain committed to his destruction. After all, even the great Saladin and Richard the Lion-Hearted broke bread together and spoke as friends. But either would gladly have slashed the other out of the saddle on a battlefield.”

He dismissed the whole question with an impatient wave. “We have more urgent matters to deal with than one American colonel, Farhad. Speak to Sa’idi and then bring me the latest personnel reports from the Masegarh training camp. I want to go over the composition of the strike teams again.”

“Yes, sir.” Kazemi hurried out to obey his orders.

Taleh moved closer to a large-scale map pinned to one of his office walls. He studied it for a few moments, weighing and rejecting alternate plans. Convinced again that his original strategic concepts were still valid, he turned his gaze toward the calendar posted beside the map. No, he thought in satisfaction, Thorn and his compatriots would not pierce the veil he had drawn across their eyes not in the time left to them.

Colonel Peter Thorn glanced at his team as they crouched to either side of a locked door. Like him, each man was clad from head to toe in dark-colored clothing and body armor. Black Kevlar helmets, shatterproof goggles, and flame-resistant Nomex balaclavas protected their heads. Their assault vests and leg pouches held an arsenal of grenades, spare pistol and SMG magazines, and other gear. Each of the four men held a German-made Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun in his gloved hands.

“Sniper One, ready. No target.”

“Sniper Two, ready. No target.”

Thorn tensed as the whispered reports from the two-man sniper teams he’d posted outside sounded in his earphones. They confirmed what he’d suspected from the moment his assault force infiltrated this compound. All the terrorists and hostages were inside the room in front of him. And the bad guys were being very, very careful. They were staying well away from the windows and any exposure to his long-range firepower.

Great. This was going to be a bitch.

He pointed to the door and held up two fingers, signaling the type of breaching charge he wanted.

Staff Sergeant Callaway, the team’s demolitions expert, nodded sharply, eyes bright behind his thick goggles. The tall, broad-shouldered noncom laid his weapon aside, yanked open the Velcro tab on one of his assault vest’s gadget pouches, and carefully extracted a thin sheet of explosive rolled into a cylinder. Moving slowly and surely, he straightened up, unrolling the demo charge at the same time.

Thorn spoke softly into the radio mike taped to his throat. “Team Lead. Five seconds.” He tightened his grip on his MP5 and tugged a beer-can-shaped flash/bang grenade out of his left leg pouch. “Four. Three…”

Callaway slapped the paper-thin sheet of explosive onto the door, triggered the detonator, and whirled away.

“One.”

WHUMMP! The door blew inward and slammed down onto the floor. Special timers had detonated the top of the demo charge a split second ahead of the bottom, directing the blast downward.

Without waiting, Thorn rolled out, lobbed his grenade through the smoke, and rolled back against the wall. “Grenade! Go! Go!”

His number two man glided through the doorway and moved left just as the flash/bang went off in a rippling, blinding, deafening series of flashes and staccato explosions that would confuse and disorient anyone inside the room.

Thorn followed him into the smoke, sliding to the right with his submachine gun at shoulder level, ready to fire. He kept moving along the wall, his eyes scanning back and forth through the arc he’d assigned himself The adrenaline pouring into his system seemed to be stretching time itself. Every dazzling flash from the exploding grenade lit the room like a giant, slow-motion strobe light.

Motion tugged at the corner of his left eye. He spun in that direction, aiming, centering the target coming at him in his rear sights. A woman wearing a jacket and skirt loomed out of the smoke. His finger relaxed minutely on the trigger.

Her hands were full.

Thorn’s trained instincts took over. He squeezed off a three-round burst that knocked the halfseen figure backward to the floor. He spun right, still moving forward, hunting new enemies in the grey haze. Submachine guns stuttered briefly off to his left as other members of the team engaged targets of their own.

He edged past an overturned desk. There! More movement off to his right. He whirled that way, seeing a man rising to his knees. His MP5 came up and centered on the man’s chest.

Thorn fought off the urge to fire. The kneeling man was unarmed. He barked out a command. “You! Down! Now!” He emphasised the order with the muzzle of his submachine gun.

The man dropped facedown and lay still.

Thorn scanned through his arc again, searching for further signs of movement. Any movement. Nothing. He looked again, even harder this time. Still nothing. His pulse began slowing, falling toward normal. “Team Lead. Right side is clear.”

His backup man echoed his assessment. “Number Three. Confirmed. Right side is clear.”

More voices flooded through his earphones as the rest of the assault team checked in.

“This is Two. Left side is clear.”

“Number Four. Confirmed.”

Thorn waited for a final report from his snipers before allowing himself to relax. They had good news. None of the terrorists had escaped the room during the assault team’s attack. He spoke into his throat mike. “Control, this is Team Lead. Exercise complete.”

A laconic voice answered. “Roger, Lead. Exercise complete. Weapons safe.”

Thorn and the others snapped their safety catches on and stood easy.

Recessed overhead lights came on suddenly, illuminating the shooting room. High-speed fans kicked in with a low, vibrating hum, clearing the smoke still hanging in the air.

Thorn glanced around at the assault team’s handiwork. Mannequins and pop-up targets the hostages and terrorists were scattered through the make-believe office. Those shown carrying weapons were bullet-riddled. Those that were unarmed looked intact.

“Congratulations, gentlemen. You’ve survived another jaunt through the Delta Force House of Horrors. And better yet, you did it without killing any of the people you were trying to save. This time. By the grace of God.”

The familiar sarcastic voice from the open doorway brought Thorn around with a smile on his face.

Sergeant Major Roberto “TOW” Diaz strode into the room and stopped with his hands on his hips, surveying the situation before him with a mildly disgusted look. The short, muscular, dark-haired man, the senior NCO in Delta Force’s A Squadron, exuded raw energy and strength even at rest. Intensely competitive, he worked hard to stay in the kind of physical shape that routinely let him outmarch, outfight, and outlast men ten or fifteen years younger. No one who saw him in the field would have guessed that he was forty-five.

“Fourteen point two seconds to clear one friggin’ room,” Diaz announced, apparently to the world at large. He looked at each man in turn before shaking his head. “That’s slow, gentlemen. Awful slow.”

He paused significantly. “My arthritic grandmother could rip this place apart faster than that.”

There was a low rumble from the back of the room. “Hell, Tow, your grandmother can fly to the god damned moon on her own power. According to you, anyway.”

Diaz grinned. “Maybe so, Nick.” He glanced at Thorn and his grin got wider. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected more from a team leader who spends most of his time these days sitting on his butt at the Pentagon.”

Thorn hung his head in mock shame. “Mea culpa, Sergeant Major. I am but a lowly staff weenie now. Ignore my august rank and close, personal friendship with your new CO. Pour out your wrath on my trembling shoulders. But, please, oh please, spare my beloved men.”

The room erupted in laughter.

Diaz was the first to sober up. “Okay, okay.” He held up a hand for silence. “Let’s run through the overall results before I walk you through one-on-one.

“First, you accomplished your mission. Four of four bad guys are down and dead. Four of four hostages are secure and safe.” He shrugged. “Your time was bad, but your accuracy was good. The computer scores you at ninety-four point four percent. For those of you who barely scraped through first-grade math, that means that seventeen out of the eighteen rounds you fired hit their targets.”

Thorn nodded to himself, pleased by that. Not many outfits in the world could go into such a confused close-quarters battle and shoot with such precision. At least some of his skills were still intact. He listened to the rest of the sergeant major’s general critique with a somewhat lighter heart.

His satisfaction faded when the other man led him across to the dummy terrorist he’d gunned down.

Diaz prodded the shredded female mannequin with the toe of a combat boot. He looked up at Thorn. “You hesitated.”

Thorn replayed the confrontation in his mind and nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do it again,” the sergeant major said sternly. “A woman… a kid… it doesn’t matter. The round they fire will kill you just as dead. Look at the hands first. Always. Got it?”

Thorn nodded again, acknowledging the fairness of the criticism. Delta Force troops needed lightning reflexes and absolute confidence in their own judgment. A soldier who was too slow or too unsure in action could get himself and a lot of other people killed.

Confident that his message had been heard and understood, Diaz turned away, focusing his mind and sharp tongue on the next man in line.

Thorn exhaled softly. It could have been worse a lot worse.

Debrief over, Peter Thorn trotted down the central stairs of the House of Horrors the Delta Force nickname for the three-story building it used to rehearse assaults and hostage rescues. Besides the areas used for room-clearing drills, there were stairwells and elevator shafts so teams could practice every aspect of urban warfare. One large room even held the mock-up of part of a wide-body airliner fuselage.

The House of Horrors was the centerpiece of the $75-million compound known rather unimaginatively as the Security Operations Training Facility. It was the home base for the Delta Force. Besides the shooting house, the complex contained vertical walls used to rehearse cliff climbing and rappelling. There were extensive firing ranges where commandos could hone their skills with a variety of weapons and explosives. Other areas allowed them to practice combat driving, escape, and evasion.

Racquetball and basketball courts, weight rooms, an Olympic-sized pool, and a sauna helped Delta Force soldiers stay in peak physical condition. And when they were off duty, they could relax in the compound’s living quarters, cafeterias, and separate squadron bars. Essentially, the facility was a small, totally self-contained city hidden by berms, electric fences, and pine trees in a distant corner of Fort Bragg. Guards and sensors ringed its boundaries, making sure that nobody got in or out without a top-security clearance.

Thorn came outside into the sweltering heat of a North Carolina summer afternoon and immediately slowed to a walk. Breathing deeply to clear the last traces of smoke and cordite from his lungs, he yanked the helmet and black balaclava off his head and ran a trembling hand through his sweaty, tangled hair.

He frowned. Muscles that ordinarily wouldn’t even have noticed the effort he’d just put them through were already aching. Jesus, he thought wearily, two weeks behind a desk and I’m already falling apart. Technically, he’d just come down to Bragg for a meeting with Major General Farrell and the rest of the JSOC staff. Tagging along on today’s exercise had been his own bright idea. Well, maybe it hadn’t been so bright. Disgusted, he headed toward the BOQ and the nearest cold shower.

TOW Diaz came up from behind and punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re getting old, Pete. Or soft. Or both.”

“No shit,” Thorn growled. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He glanced at the barrel-cheated noncom walking beside him. “How’s everyone at home, Tow? Nadine and the kids all okay?”

“They’re good. Real good.” Diaz’ leathery face wrinkled up in a smile that was pure paternal pride. “You heard that Jimmy got into the Point?”

Thorn nodded. “I heard.” At eighteen, James Diaz was the oldest of the sergeant major’s four children. Winning admission to the U.S. Military Academy had been the kid’s lifelong dream one aided and abetted by his soldier father. “That’s great news, Sergeant Major.”

“Sure is.”

“So no big college tuition bills for you,” Thorn teased.

“Nope.” Diaz looked smug. “A. few plane tickets, a few hotel bills for the Army-Navy game, and a little spending money. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.” Thorn paused significantly. “Of course, when Jimmy graduates, he’ll outrank you. Could get kind of awkward saluting your own son all the time.”

Diaz shrugged. “So maybe I’ll just take my twenty-plus, retire, and go soak up the sun somewhere.”

“Right.” Thorn snorted. The sergeant major was as much an Army brat as he was. The only way the service would put TOW Diaz out to pasture would be at bayonet point.

He changed the subject by nodding over his shoulder at the building behind them. “Which outfit holds the House of Horrors’ trophy these days? Still A Squadron? Or have you let your guys screw up and give it to B or C?”

Now it was Diaz’ turn to look disgusted. “Would you believe a Trigging HRT section eked out a win yesterday?

Shaved a full quarter second off our best time.”

Thorn whistled in amazement. The Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT, was the FBI’s counterpart to the Army’s Delta Force and the Navy’s SEAL Team Six. The FBI had jurisdiction over terrorist attacks or hostage-takings inside the United States itself. All three organisations collaborated on counter terror tactics and training. All three were also highly competitive.

He shook his head. “The Hoover boys just got lucky, I guess.”

“Sure they did,” the sergeant major agreed. He motioned toward an eight-man section jagging past them in full assault gear. “That’s why I have our guys out working night and day to develop their good luck.”

Thorn winced inside. Diaz hated to lose at anything. Maybe he had picked a good time to transfer to the Pentagon after all.

“You down here for much longer, Pete?” The NCO turned toward him.

“Want to give the course another go-around tomorrow?”

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.

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.

“Well,” she said, nodding back toward the knot of officers standing near the doorway. “What did you think of Peter Thorn?”

“He’s an interesting man.” Helen took a last sip of wine, carefully considering her response. “A very interesting man.”