The Enemy Within (15 page)

She nodded. “Plus, I guess that moving everything up here and unpacking it would give this new assignment of yours an awfully permanent feel?”

“Exactly.” Thorn smiled at her. “Mind you, there are compensations for being so close to Quantico.”

“Really?”

“No doubt about it.”

Helen lowered her eyes, looking even more pleased. She nodded toward the living room again. “I thought you’d at least have some pictures of you and your father together. You told me so much about him when we first met that I’ve been dying to see what he looks like.”

Dying. Thorn felt the smile on his face freeze solid.

“Peter?” She was staring at him now. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed hard and forced another faint smile. “Sorry. It’s just that my dad passed away last year. It still takes some getting used to, I guess.”

“Oh, Peter.” Helen touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” he murmured. “I’m fine.”

That wasn’t true, he realized. Whenever he thought the sorrow of his father’s death was finally behind him, some word or phrase or picture would conjure up that whole bleak period all over again. His mind was still wrestling with art ages of the proud, strong man who’d raised him. And with the images of that last terrible year.

His father had fought hard against the cancer that had invaded his body just as hard as he had fought against the
NVA
in the Vietnamese jungles. In the end, though, even big, tough John Thorn hadn’t been able to beat impossible odds.

Thorn knew that he should have visited the hospital more often during that long, lonely battle. He should have been there when his father died. But he hadn’t been able to stand it. Watching the powerful man who had been his first and only boyhood hero growing weaker with every passing day slipping away by inches had been too painful to bear. And his father had understood, even forgiven, his absence. Somehow that only made his betrayal seem worse.

He forced himself back to the present. His guilt over his father’s death was a burden for him to shoulder alone, not to inflict on Helen.

“Are you sure that you’re okay?” she asked softly, shared sorrow clear in her warm blue eyes.

He nodded decisively, determined to keep his memories and his grief to himself. “Oh, yeah. No problem.” He motioned toward the living room, seeking refuge in rough good humor. “Now clear out and let me work, woman. Unless you want cold food, that is.”

“Oh, no. Anything but that.”

Grateful that Helen understood his reluctance to dwell on the past, Thorn followed her out of the kitchen. He finished laying out their place settings on the coffee table and started opening containers with a flourish. In an attempt to chase away the blues, he announced, “Dinner is about to be served, madam. Would you care for a single main course, or would you prefer a gourmet sampling of the best of Thai haute cuisine?”

“A little bit of everything, of course.” Helen sat down on the sofa and watched him closely. “Does this mean that I don’t get a guided tour of the upstairs~”

“You actually want to see the vast, inner expanses of my mansion? All two bedrooms and two baths?” Thorn asked casually, instantly aware that he awaited her answer with anything but casual interest. He leaned over the steaming assortment of different dishes, carefully doling out portions onto each plate.

“I’d love to.” She watched his head come up in a hurry and laughed gently. “But after dinner, Peter.”

To Thorn’s considerable relief, the Thai restaurant hadn’t let him down. Each dish tasted as good as it had smelled a rare achievement for any prepared meal, let alone takeout.

At last Helen pushed her empty plate away with a small sigh. “Now, that was worth waiting for.”

“Better than Stannard’s?”

“Much better than Stannard’s,” she agreed. She leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes for a moment. “This is really nice, Peter. It’s peaceful and quiet, and best of all, it’s away from work. Miles and worlds away.”

“Have a bad week?” he asked quietly.

Helen opened her eyes and made a face. “Just a typical week.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think half the senior men in the Bureau believe I’ve gotten to where I am on the Hostage Rescue Team solely because I’m a woman… a real affirmative action aberration. The rest only want to trot me out as a showpiece for Congress or the media. You know, with a little sign around my neck that reads, ‘See, we do get it. We’re hip. We’re with it on equal rights.’ ”

Thorn snorted. “Not many showpieces kick Sergeant Major Diaz’ butt in a shooting-house competition.”

Helen smiled in fond memory. “That’s for sure.” Then she shook her head in frustration. “It just doesn’t seem to matter to the older guys in grey suits, though. I still have to prove myself to them all over again every single day.”

“But not to your section,” Thorn suggested.

“No. Not to them.” She smiled. “They’re a pretty good bunch of guys. For Neanderthal door-kickers, that is.”

“I’ve—heard that some of us are even almost human.” Thorn started clearing dishes. “So what made you decide to go for the
HRT
anyway?”

“You mean as opposed to choosing the normal career path for a young, ambitious
FBI
agent?” Helen shrugged again. “I wanted more action and excitement than I thought I’d get behind a desk in Omaha or Duluth or Topeka. Besides, it was a chance to break some new ground. To be one of the first to do something.”

She looked up at him. “Does that make any sense?”

Thorn nodded. It made a lot of sense especially to him. They were a lot alike despite their very different upbringings, he realised. Both of them were driven to win, to succeed, to be perfect. If anything, Helen had it a little harder than he did. As one of the first women assigned to the FBI’s traditionally male counterterrorist unit, she would always have to fight the unspoken presumption that she was only there as a token female. He knew her well enough now to realize just how galling that must be.

He was also positive that Helen Gray would never take anything she hadn’t earned in a fair and open competition not a job, not a promotion, and not a trophy. The day after they’d first met, he’d gone back to Fort Bragg to review the videotapes of her section’s winning run through the House of Horrors. Any thoughts that her victory was a fluke had gone right out the window after seeing those tapes. She was good. Very good. Her assault tactics were brilliant, she improvised rapidly when things went wrong, and she was a crack shot. She made up in agility, accuracy, and intelligence whatever she might lack in raw physical strength.

Helen touched his shoulder lightly. “What are you thinking, Peter?”

Honesty overrode his native caution and fear of sounding corny. “Just that you’re the most beautiful and intelligent woman I’ve ever met.”

She laughed deep in her throat. “One hundred Coins for flattery, Colonel Thorn.” She shook her head in wonderment. “Louisa Farrell said you were dangerous. And she was right.”

Still sitting, Helen stretched lazily, arching her back and shoulders in a way that sparked a definite rise in Thorn’s pulse. He moved closer.

Helen turned her face toward his, her lips slightly parted. He kissed her, gently at first, then harder. After he’d spent what seemed an eternity exploring a soft, warm sweetness, she leaned back and looked intently into his eyes. “And what are you thinking now, Peter Thorn?”

He smiled slowly. “I was wondering just when you had to report back to Quantico.”

She pulled him down to her again. “Not until tomorrow night.”

JULY
1

Sofia, Bulgaria.

(D
MINUS
157)

Colonel Shalah Haleri paced across his small, shabby room, reached the faded, yellowing far wall, and turned back toward the window. There was nothing much to see. Bulgaria’s capital city sprawled at the foot of 2,300-meter-high Mount Vitosa, but he had chosen this rundown hotel for its anonymity, not its tourist value. The thick smog hanging over this industrial working-class neighborhood hid any clear view of the mountain’s forested slopes and ski runs.

Abruptly, he stopped pacing and returned to the battered chair and scarred writing table that were the room’s only other pieces of furniture besides an iron-frame bed and a stand. Fifteen years as a covert operative in Iran’s intelligence service had taught him many things patience among them. When you were deep in an enemy land, haste was almost always the path to failure and to death.

Mentally, he reviewed his cover story yet again. He could not afford any mistakes. This meeting he had scheduled was too important to his mission.

The fractured states of the former Warsaw Pact were rich with pickings if you had the money to spend. And Bulgaria had special items that were available nowhere else. General Taleh intended to add those resources to his arsenal. Haleri was the man charged with making the general’s intentions a reality.

Haleri’s lips twitched upward in a one-sided smile as he examined his passport. It had been issued under the name of Tarik Ibrahim, and even an intensive search would only lead any hunters back along a false trail laid all the way to Baghdad. It amused him to travel as a member of Iraq’s spy service. There was a delightful irony there, he thought.

A soft knock on the door brought him to his feet. Instinctively, his hand slid under his jacket and then stopped. He was unarmed. Even in postcommunist Bulgaria, carrying a firearm was more trouble than it was worth. If things went wrong, he would simply have to trust in God, and in the suicide capsule his masters in Tehran had thoughtfully provided.

“Come in.”

The colonel relaxed as his visitor stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. It was the man he had been expecting the go-between. He called himself Petko Dimitrov at least this week. The Iranian suspected his real name was long forgotten.

Dimitrov was as nondescript as himself a middle-aged man with grey hair, a plain face, and expressionless eyes. We are two of a kind, Haleri thought with a touch of perverse pride. We are men who can walk through life without leaving any lasting trace of our coming or going. ~~

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ibrahim.”

“And to you.” Haleri indicated the single chair. “Please, be comfortable.”

Dimitrov set his briefcase carefully on the writing table and sat down.

The Iranian sat across from him, perched on the edge of the bed. He cleared his throat. “You have news for me?”

The Bulgarian nodded. A faint smile flashed across his lips and then vanished. It never reached his eyes. “I have spoken to my principal,” he said slowly. “The work you have requested can be done. And it can be completed in the time you have allotted.”

“Good.” Haleri paused briefly. “And the price?”

Dimitrov shrugged. “The price will be high.” He lowered his voice.

“The encryption software you need is easy. The other…” He shook his head. “The other item is difficult. It will take a great deal of thought and effort.”

Haleri nodded. He understood that. A complex task required a complex and extraordinary weapon. He pursed his lips. “How much?”

“Eight million.” Dimitrov’s eyes hardened. “There will be no bargaining, you understand? That is our price no more and no less.”

“Very well,” Haleri agreed readily. The price was higher than he had hoped, but no one in Iran could produce the weapon he sought. “Eight million dollars?”

“Dollars?” Dimitrov smiled wryly. “I hardly think so. You will pay us in German marks. Half in a week’s time. The rest on delivery.”

Again, the Iranian agreed. Within minutes their business was concluded.

As he escorted the Bulgarian to the door, Haleri asked, “Does it have a name, this weapon of yours?”

Dimitrov shrugged again. “Once you have paid, you may call it whatever you wish ” He smiled coldly. “We call it OU,~OS.”

AUGUST
3

Clearview Motor Lodge, Arlington, Virginia.

(D
MINUS
134)

Sefer Halovic let the door close behind him. The sound of it slamming shut was his signal to relax however minutely.

The first phase of his mission was over. He’d made it. He was safely in America.

Out of habit, the lean, cold-eyed Bosnian scanned the motel room. It would have looked commonplace, even drab, to any American, but it seemed luxurious to him. Two single beds half filled the room, which also held a chair, table, and television on a battered stand. The covers on the beds were a faded lime green. They almost matched the stained, gold-colored carpet. He could see several spots where the wallpaper, a speckled, ugly yellow-brown, was peeling away from the walls. He peered through an open door and saw a small bathroom, with a shower and a dripping sink.

Halovic nodded, satisfied by what he saw. Compared to the Masegarh barracks, this was palatial. More important, it was anonymous. He’d paid in cash and he’d been careful to avoid eye contact with the bored clerk. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words during the transaction hardly a serious test for his English skills.

Throwing his bag on one of the beds, he collapsed onto the other. He’d been traveling for more than three days, following a long, circuitous route specifically designed to confuse anyone trying to retrace his path later.

First he’d flown from Tehran to Rome using false papers that identified him as Hans Gruns~ald, a German salesman. From there he’d taken the train to Paris and then a flight to Montreal.

Crossing from Canada had been the mission planners’ masterstroke, Halovic realised. The U.S.-Canadian border was notoriously porous. Passport and customs checks there were infrequent at worst, nonexistent at best. He’d been lucky. The bus he’d hopped in Montreal had taken him all the way to New York without incident. From New York, he’d taken a train south to the vast, renovated bulk of Washington, D.C.’s Union Station. A taxi had brought him to this motel, one he’d picked at random out of a telephone book.

Halovic closed his eyes, trying hard to get some sleep. It was two in the afternoon, and the short nap he’d caught on the train had been no more than dozing, the uneasy rest of a soldier in enemy territory. He’d spent most of his time watching the scenery slide by while keeping a wary eye out for suspicious officials or police.