The Athena Factor (22 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“I see.” Williamson was tapping information into a handheld computer unit. Then he glanced up and handed the driver's license back. “If you would step to the stern, sir, we will try not to detain you unreasonably.”
Hank took his driver's license and walked back to where
the launch's captain and mate stood. Two of the young Coast Guardsmen were still working over the Sheik's documents.
Not only had post-9/11 security made everyone jumpy, it was even worse with a Saudi sheik piloting back and forth just offshore of New York City.
Hank watched as another crewman walked up and down the deck with a piece of electronic equipment—a sensor of some sort, no doubt sniffing for explosives, drugs, and who knew what other kinds of contraband.
“Does this happen a lot?” Hank asked the captain.
“Yeah. I told the Sheik to prepare. The way they watch the traffic anymore, I knew we'd get searched stem to stern. That ship out there”—he jerked his head—“it's just anchored off the limit. I've been ferrying people for the last week and a half. The Coast Guard's getting suspicious, but hey, we're clean and legal. What can they do?”
“Got me. I'm just protection.” Hank paused. “You got any idea what happens on the
ZoeGen?”
“You tell me. You were on that ship for two days.”
“I played pool, learned snooker, watched a couple of movies, and farted around on the shuffleboard. Everything forward is off-limits. And I mean it's shut up tight.”
“Then, pal, when it comes to that boat out there, you're way ahead of me.”
For the next five minutes, the Coast Guard snooped around the launch. From where he stood, Hank could tell that Sheik Abdulla's lawyer was doing most of the talking.
In the end, the Coast Guard packed up and went back to their sleek gray cutter with its whirling radars and bristling antennae. As soon as they were aboard, the diesels thrummed and white billowed out from below the fantail as she veered off.
Hank caught a glimpse of the Sheik as he watched the cutter go. A clever smile lay on his lips, his dark eyes gleaming.
The rest of the short voyage passed without interest. When the launch finally pulled in at its slip Hank recognized Neat Gray waiting with his arms crossed. The man leaned against a large white box marked PERSONAL FLOTATION DEVICES. Hank wondered whatever had happened to “life preservers.”
He liked Gray. Gray was the Sheik's man and gave orders to Hank's detail and squad leaders. He appeared to be in his early forties, a natty dresser, with blond hair that he kept neatly combed. In spite of his worried blue eyes, he seemed efficient, organized, and smart enough to let others do their jobs without trying to micromanage. A small black nylon satchel rested at Gray's feet.
Lines were cast, and the launch made fast. Able hands attached a walkway, and the Sheik followed Hank and his retinue off the launch.
That moment of awkwardness when he set foot on cement left Hank half-reeling after the pitching boat. Neal Gray straightened, picked up the satchel, and walked over, nodding to the Sheik as he stepped up to Hank's side.
“Any trouble?”
Hank shook his head. “It was more like vacation. The Coast Guard stopped us on the way back. No big deal.”
“Good.” Neal reached into the pocket of his snappy gray suit and produced an envelope. “Here you go. Instructions and a ticket. I've asked Verele if we could change your assignment, and he agreed. You're welcome to call him for verification if you'd like. Assuming you don't have any major objection, we'd like you to go home, catch a good night's sleep, and catch a plane to LA in the morning.”
“What am I doing there? An advance for the Sheik?”
Gray's sober eyes took his measure. “Not an advance. Something quite different. You'll find instructions in the envelope. Actually, we need you to look someone up, make contact, and well, bring us a sample.”
“A sample?”
“You'll see on the instructions.” Gray smiled. “It's a little unusual, and please, we'll be happy to reward you for success.” He smiled ironically and handed over the black nylon satchel. “Quite a handsome reward, if I do say so. Meanwhile, a credit card is enclosed along with a thousand dollars cash for tips and what have you.”
“What kind of sample?”
Gray grinned. “Skin, actually, or a couple of strands of hair would do. Like I said, the instructions are inside. If you
have any questions, call Salim. He's done this sort of thing for us before.”
“That's it?”
“Pretty much. I'll debrief you when you get back.”
“Who am I getting a sample of?”
“Your girlfriend.” Neal's grin was suggestive. “She's tripped a couple of our switches and caught the Sheik's interest. We thought you were the guy to get a line on her.”
“Huh? Why me? I mean, when we parted it wasn't exactly amicable.”
“Yeah, well, I'm sure you'll think of something.” In a mocking voice, he said, “Give my love to the stars.”
With that Neal turned on his heel, walking to catch up with the Sheik's party.
Hank hefted the ballistic nylon bag. Maybe five pounds. Well, what the hell, the Sheik was the guy paying the bills.
Anaya!
He couldn't wait to see her face.
C
hristal leaned forward after the plates were cleared and placed her elbows on the table. She gave Tony a clear-eyed appraisal as waiters bustled past their table and other diners bent to their conversations. The restaurant, called Madre's, belonged to Jennifer Lopez. Christal approved of that. She thought highly of any Latina, Chicana, or Hispanic, however defined, who made something of herself through hard work and brains. Never mind the mess with Ben Affleck.
Was Tony making some kind of politically correct statement in bringing her here? No matter. The food had been okay, and the atmosphere, if too frenetic, was still worth experiencing. If nothing else, she could tell her mother about it one day.
“So, Christal”—Tony leaned back—“you've made it. You're in LA. How does it feel to be part of the team?”
She studied him as she considered the question. He was wearing a blue Dewey and Durham blazer over a white silk shirt by Dior. The latter hung open down to the sternum. Probably to show off the golden necklace that covered his breastbone.
Tony's eyes betrayed a subtle excitement as he watched her. During the meal, he had gone to the restroom no less than three times for reasons she could only speculate on. Since he hadn't come back with white powder at the corners of his nostrils and his pupils seemed normal, she assumed it had been to double-check his appearance. That or his bladder was volumetrically challenged.
“Part of the team?”
“Sheela's team. You know, me, Rex, Dot, Lymon. All of us. I tell you, babe, we're—”
“Tony, how many times have I asked you not to call me ‘babe'?”
“Yeah, well, like, it's a part of the language, you know? The way we talk out here. And it isn't just that you're a knockout. I mean, you can really sail out here, Christal.”
“I get seasick.”
“It's like … You … Huh? Seasick?”
“I was raised in New Mexico. The one time I rode a boat out on the ocean, I got sick. It wasn't pretty.”
He looked confused. “What are we talking about?”
“You said I could really sail. I've seen those little sailboats down at the marinas. It looks bouncy.”
“No way! You jacking me, Christal? I mean you could have it all. Do it right and you could take off like a rocket.” He flashed her the kind of smile that made an orthodontist tingle with satisfaction. “You don't know it, but you've got a quality that I think would melt the lens. It's a no-bullshit presence. A sense of self. Strong, you know? Like a ‘here I am' statement. Look at me. See me. Be me. Solid chutzpah, babe.”
“Right. You think I could be a movie star?” She gave him a mocking look.
He leaned forward, challenge in his sparkling blue eyes. “You know, Christal, a lot of chicks would jump at a chance
like this. You don't wanna stay in celebrity protection. I can see it in you. Not when you got a chance to reach out and pull in a chunk of the sky.” He extended his arm, hand closing into a grasping fist. “Now, that's not to say it's gonna be easy. You get me? I mean, it isn't any trite figure of speech when I say it's a jungle out there.”
“Let me guess, you're the great white hunter?” She arched an eyebrow. “If I just place myself in your hands, well, it might or might not work out, right?”
He gave her a grin. “I didn't do so bad with Sheela.”
“Stow it, Tony. I'm not buying. If you're going to do the hard sell, try it with Patsy from Peoria. I've been around the block a time or two.”
He cocked his head, the blue eyes narrowing. “You think this is all a gig to get into your pants?”
“Funny you should bring that up, but yeah, I do. And you know what? There's just room enough in my britches for me.”
He threw his head back and laughed, genuinely amused. “You know, Christal, you're all right. Here you sit, in the presence of one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, and you're too cool!” He tapped long fingers on the table. “That wounds me. I'm one of the hottest agents in this biz, and you're blowing me off.”
“Shit happens,” she added sweetly.
“Okay, I'll bite. So why'd you say yes to dinner?”
“Because I promised, and I broke it. I keep my promises.” She glanced around at the other patrons, mostly well dressed, manicured, and affluent. “Maybe that doesn't happen a lot in Hollywood, but I'm me. Call me a lamb among wolves.”
His eyes had changed, cooling, calculating. For the first time she realized that he was indeed a man worth taking seriously. “Somehow, I don't think you're any innocent lamb, Christal.”
“Hey. New Mexico kid in from the sticks, that kind of thing.”
“I heard you were a lawyer.”
“I've got a law degree, and once upon a time I passed the
New Mexico bar.” She shrugged. “That's not really a lawyer.”
“So, what, then?”
“I was looking for challenge.”
“You're kidding! Leaving a law practice for the FBI? Let me get this straight. You thought working your way up in a law firm wasn't going to be a challenge?”
She ran her napkin through her fingers, folding it into pleats. “How do I say this so that you'll understand? I had something in my gut. No, maybe it was a chip on my shoulder. Do you know what lawyers, especially young ones like me, get stuck doing? It's a world of paper, of books and research. I was tired of offices and libraries. I wanted to get out in the world, find bad guys, and bust their balls.”
He gave her an evaluative stare before saying, “What did he do to you?”
“Who?”
“The guy that set you off like this.”
“It wasn't any one guy. Or girl, for that matter. The men in my life, going back to my father, have been good or bad, or a combination of each. I've dealt with my share of
cabrónes
as well as nice decent guys.” She shook her head. “No, this was something different. Maybe wanderlust of the blood. I wanted to be able to look back and say, hey, I did that. Can you follow?”
“Yeah, I follow. You wanted high adventure.”
“What about you? Did you wake up one morning and say ‘I'm going to be a talent agent'?”
“Nah. I started as the receptionist.” Tony made a disparaging gesture. “Day after day, I sat there, watching the people coming through the door, learning, you know? Producers would sit in the lobby, bitching or bragging, and I'd hear it.” He smiled. “Hey, it was cool! I was working for peanuts. You know, just for the chance to be close to the action. At first it was for bragging rights. To tell the chicks that I knew what films Halle Berry was going to be starring in. Or that I'd heard Harold Becker tell Margaret Riley this dirty joke.”
“You've made it a bit beyond the reception desk.” She
could see the gleam in his eyes. Tony liked to talk about himself.
“That's the thing, babe. I started going in and telling the boss, ‘Hey, this guy's hot for Drew Barrymore.' So I sort of worked my way into the system, and pretty soon I was being invited to lunches and parties. Just to circulate, listen, and report back to the boss. Then it was planning sessions. Say, maybe the Coens wanted one of our clients; how did we know when we'd reached a contract breaker?”
A soft smile rode his lips as he stared into the past. “Then, one day, I realized I was telling the old man more than he was telling me. It was epiphany, right? Wham! I'm actually
doing
this. Clients were feeling me out for what the boss was going to say. Did I think it was the right deal, the right role—I was dishing out the whole enchilada.”
“So you were made a partner?”
Tony shook his head. “Nah, I laid my plans. Started dealing with the clients. When the leverage was right, I walked, and I took about half of them with me.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Weird. You wouldn't believe how many stayed that I thought would come with me. But the ones who did were enough. I'd learned the ropes, you know. I knew which knot to pick at and how to retie it into a killer deal.” He gave her an evil grin. “And, babe, I'm
good
!”
“Was Sheela with you from the beginning?”
“Nope. She was pissed at her agent at ICM. A little bird told me. Landing Sheela was like, the best, you know? Awesome. Tricky shit, but I was at the right place, at the right time, with the right deal. Cool.”
His smile was infectious. Christal sat back, relaxing for the first time. “You want my opinion?”
“Sure.”
“You're a rogue.”
“Damn straight.”
“But a charming one … once you stop dishing out that hotshot agent bullshit. Play that game with bimbos, Tony. Don't waste it on an intelligent woman.”
One of his golden eyebrows rose. “So, wow! Does that
mean, like, I've still got a chance with the mysterious and enigmatic Christal?”
“Don't bet on it.”
His grin was impish. “I'll take that as a challenge.”
“Whatever. It's your funeral.”
“Hey, babe, you're dealing with Tony Zell here. It's cool. I can bide my time, dazzle you with brilliance. Just wait, you'll see. I'm going to charm you like you've never been charmed before.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Hey, I'm like one of those Indian fakirs with a flute. I'll get you out of your basket yet. I tell you, I can already imagine you swaying to the music.”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned forward, her hair spilling around her shoulders. “Just remember, Tony, I'm not one of your cobras.”
“Yeah?”
“For sure. This time you've come face to face with a desert-tough New Mexican
culebra
.”
“What's that?”
“More than you can handle.”
He pushed back in the chair, laughing from deep in his belly. “You're a cool one, Christal. Really cool.”
 
 
Lymon sat at his office desk going through the receipts. He had a cup of coffee within reach of his right hand. Behind him the computer screen glowed with his favorite screen saver, a series of motorcycles: some road racers, others touring bikes, an occasional flying motocross machine, and a trials rider balancing atop a huge boulder on a skinny Gas Gas. A Nanci Griffith CD was set just above the audible range to keep his emotions in check.
He needed Nanci Griffith's soothing voice. If he didn't do something to calm himself through the arduous process of dealing with the bits of paper, he'd go slightly berserk and break something.
Why did paperwork have to be such a miserable hassle?
He assumed it was because the people who wrote the tax laws, ran the IRS, and operated major accounting houses were both socially and sexually handicapped. Bug-eyed geeks with skinny arms and soft round bellies instead of real people.
He took a moment, imagining them: bald-headed, wearing white shirts with thin black ties and gray rumpled slacks. They were smooth-shaven and pale skinned. They carried shiny pens in their pockets. He could visualize their soft white fingers as they danced on the calculator keys and tape spooled out of the machines. Every now and then they would look across at each other and grin maliciously. It was because they knew that while they might be impotent wimps, they had the last laugh.
In the end all the tough guys like Lymon Bridges were doomed to spend endless and meaningless hours of their lives pushing paper, totaling columns, balancing books, and organizing receipts instead of enjoying their tough-stud, action-filled lives out in the sun.
“Maybe for fun I'll go beat up an accountant.” Lymon savored the fantasy as he stapled a pile of New York receipts together for June's attention.
He leaned back, scowling at the different piles of paper on his desk. Someone had told him that the tax code was contained in bound books that stood eight feet high when stacked atop each other. If it demonstrated anything it was a measure of the success of the American economy. Nothing else would explain a GDP that could support so many nonproductive parasites feeding off the sweat of the productive few.
Voices carried down the hallway from June's desk, and he wondered who had come in.
He was halfway through Paul's expense report when the voices grew louder. Lymon lifted an eyebrow and waited.
He heard June's emphatic “No!” and pushed his chair back before getting to his feet. Stepping into the hallway he could see the man standing in front of June's desk. He was a handsome sort, midtwenties, maybe thirty, middle height, square shoulders, in a dark suit coat. The guy was dark-haired, shaven, but with that dark shadow to the cheeks that
indicated a thick beard. He had a strong jaw, straight nose, and brown eyes that now locked with June's.

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