“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?”