The Enemy Within

She nodded toward the tall, imposing figure of a manta stiff and fommal in a tuxedo and firmly ensconced behind a lectern at the entrance to Stannard’s oak-paneled dining room. “I tried to check in earlier, but Prince Charming there seems to think that only someone named Thorn can confirm a reservation made by someone named Thorn.”

Her voice left no doubt about her feelings toward the kind of person who would uphold such an idiotic policy. Thorn had a sudden vision involving punji sticks, barbed wire, honey, and an anthill. He shook his head, very glad he wasn’t in the other man’s pointy black shoes, and led her up to the lectern.

Thirty seconds later he was beginning to plan his own prolonged and painful revenge on the Castro d’.

He gritted his teeth and tried again. “Look, my name is Peter Thorn. I made a reservation for eight o’clock tonight two days ago. Check your book.”

“Yes, sir.” The restaurant’s maltre d’ seemed completely unimpressed.

“I have checked. Your reservation is perfectly in order.” He offered them a bland, disinterested smile. “But I am afraid we are running slightly behind schedule this evening. I will be happy to seat you as soon as the first available table opens up.”

“And just when will that be?”

“Not very long.” The other man pursed his lips, making a pretence of giving the matter some thought. “Not longer than half an hour, I would guess. Certainly not more than forty-five minutes.”

“Forty-five minutes?” Thorn held a tight rein on his temper. He’d only picked Stannard’s because some of the other officers in the Pentagon mess had described the place as a Washington landmark. He was beginning to realize that wasn’t any kind of guarantee of good service. More and more, John F. Kennedy’s description of the capital city as a place that combined southern efficiency with northern courtesy seemed right on target.

The maitre d’s bored eyes slid past him and brightened. “Ah, Senator! It is delightful to see you.”

“Thank you, Henry. My committee meeting ran a little over tonight. Can you squeeze me in?”

Thorn glanced around far enough to catch a profile made famous by years of network television news coverage and tabloid scandal.

“Of course, Senator.” The maitre d’ snatched up a leather-bound menu from his stand and gestured toward the dining room. “Please follow me, I have just the right table for you.”

Thorn watched him go through narrowed eyes. Why, that pompous, lying, no-good son of a bitch. Overhearing snatches of some of the snide, cynical conversations going on around him only fed his growing anger.

“So the chairman said to him, ‘You either play ball on this amendment, Phil, or you can kiss that new overpass goodbye…’ ”

“… the old bastard’s screwing his administrative assistant worse than he is the taxpayers…”

“We slipped some language into the rider to smooth the hicks over, but Morgan may be a problem…”

Thorn shook his head in disgust. D.C. landmar0’ dots this was not his kind of place. Worse, he was probably batting a big fat.000 in Helen’s eyes. He heard a muffled chuckle from her direction and turned toward her.

The look of amused sympathy on her face restored some of his good humor. If she wasn’t holding this fast-developing fiasco against him, it still wasn’t too late to salvage something from this evening. He shrugged ruefully. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She grinned back. “Yep. I certainly am. I say we blow this Popsicle stand. I prefer eating without all the pomp, circumstance, and hot air.”

Thorn started to relax. Maybe he’d been trying too hard to impress her. “How about Thai food?”

Helen nodded vigorously. “Now, that sounds wonderful. And the hotter the better.”

“Yes, ma’am,“he said, smiling. “There’s a little mom and-pop Thai place not far from my house that’s pretty good. If you don’t mind following me out there, that is.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I think I can manage it. You are looking at an Academy grad with straight As in surveillance and close pursuit, you know.” She paused. “Do they offer takeout at this restaurant of yours?”

He nodded.

“Great. Then we can eat at your place.”

“My place?”

Helen laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those messy bachelors, Peter. The kind that lets dirty clothes and dirty dishes pile up.”

He felt a slow, wide grin forming on his face. “Nope. I come from a long line of God-fearing men with clean bodies and dirty minds.”

She reached out and took his arm. “Oh, good. Those are the best kind.”

When Thorn first moved to the Washington, D.C., area, he’d seriously considere~renting a studio apartment in Crystal City high-rises overlooking the Pentagon. Living there would be convenient and reasonably inexpensive, he’d thought. Three days spent in one of the neighboring hotels had wiped that plan right out of his mind. Holding down a staff billet in the Pentagon’s bureaucratic swamp was draining enough. Combining that with being cooped up in a noisy cage a couple of hundred feet above street level seemed a surefire recipe for going buggy in record time.