Free Day Of Wrath by Larry Bond Page B

worst of his sins.
    Mcdowell turned back to Helen. “All right, Agent Gray. Now that you’re done flirting with Colonel Thorn here, maybe you can fill me in on your progress-or lack thereof-on this investigation.”’ He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got half an hour before my helicopter ferries me out of this dump and back to Arkhangelsk, so let’s not waste any more time.”
    Thorn felt his hands straighten into killing edges. With an effort, he forced them to relax. This bastard needed a lesson in manners, but it would have to be a verbal lesson. He stepped forward. “Hold it right there, you son of a—”
    “Colonel Thorn!” Helen exclaimed.
    He stopped and stared at her. Her bright blue eyes were icecold now.
    “You’re out of line, Colonel,” she said sharply. “This is an FBI matter.”
    Thorn suddenly realized what he’d almost done. He’d allowed Mcdowell’s insults to push him to the brink of interfering in Helen’s professional life. And that would have been catastrophic for helen-and for them.
    For all its progress in the past decades, the FBI’s upper reaches were still mostly a male preserve. As one of the first women to serve in the Hostage Rescue Team, and now as one of the Bureau’s topranking legal attaches, Helen was still swimming against the tide. No matter how chivalrous it might feel, jumping in to fight her battle with Mcdowell would only put everything she’d achieved at peril.
    He just hoped Helen would forgive him for dragging her so close to the edge.
    Swallowing hard, Thorn spun on his heel and left without another word.
    The White House, Washington, D.C. The Blue Room of the White House was brimming with men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns, mingling with each other and trying to figure out who the important players were.
    Waistcoated waiters circulated with trays of beautifully presented hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne.
    The richly furnished room clearly awed some of the guests with its French Empire furniture, luxurious gold drapes, and portraits of early presidents adorning the royal blue walls. It was an elegant and imposing setting, offering a glimpse of power and luxury that came naturally to few Americans.
    Prince Ibrahim al Saud sipped a glass of mineral water and studied the glittering crowd through narrowed eyes. He was not one to be impressed by such surroundings. Even though he was only one of thousands of princes in Saudi Arabia, he’d been born to privilege and wealth-and the power that wealth provided.
    The prince was relatively inconspicuous among all the other Middle Easterners invited to this reception and dinner for the visiting Egyptian President. Only a few of the guests recognized him on sight, and then usually as the chairman of Caraco.
    The ebb and flow in the crowded room brought an elegantly coiffed elderly woman into the small circle of guests around Ibrahim. Diamonds sparkled on her fingers and ears. She looked in his direction, clearly intrigued.
    One of the men who headed Caraco’s Washington office whispered the pertinent information in his ear: “Mrs. Carleton. Her husband is the Undersecretary of State for Arab Affairs. She’s an avid gardener.
    Famous for her roses.”
    Ibrahim nodded briefly. Carleton’s wife? How ironic. He moved closer to the woman. “My dear Mrs. Carleton, what a pleasure to meet you.”
    She smiled back, though less certainly. “Thank you, Mr … ?”
    “My apologies, Mrs. Carleton. Of course you do not know me.
    Please forgive my impertinence, but your fame precedes you.” He bowed.
    “My name is Prince Ibrahim al Saud.” , Her eyes widened slightly.
    “Your Highness. The pleasure is all mine.” She still seemed uncertain. “But what fame are you referring to?”
    “Why, to your garden, Mrs. Carleton,” Ibrahim replied. “I’m sure you know that your beautiful roses are the talk of all Washington.
    Such natural beauty carries a special significance for those of us reared in the barren