The Athena Factor (24 page)

Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor

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“I'm bummed. One of our missing geneticists, Nancy Hartlee, was found floating off Long Island. I'm just hoping that Mike Harris, the guy from UCLA who had to take a pee, and Cindy Creedmore, my girl from George Washington U, aren't doing the same.” He tried to cheer up. “But I've got news for you.”

“What, Sid?”

“A couple of things. You asked me to get your car out of hock at Dulles. I got the keys you mailed me and had Andersen drop me off. I found the car, paid the chit, and drove it home. It's out beside my house. Claire isn't worried about it, and it's not hurting anything sitting there. No hurry. Pick it
up whenever. Uh”âhe glanced at the ticket on the corner of his deskâ“you owe me fifty-four eighty-five.”

“Thanks, Sid! You're a life saver. The check's in the mail as soon as I hang up.”

“How's life in LA? Still sun, smog, and too much work?”

“We're leaving tomorrow for Toronto. Sheela's on location there. We're staying at the Toronto Westin Harbor Castle if you need us.”

“Good. I like Toronto. Get to Tim Horton's for me, will you? Check out those chocolate donuts they make. And drink a bottle of Upper Canada Dark. You can only get it in Ontario. Along that line, I've got something for you.”

“Is it fattening or alcoholic?”

“Neither. Genesis Athena. You wanted me to stick the name into my computer?”

“Yeah?”

“Biotech.”

“What?”

“It's a biotech firm. The head offices are in Yemen, of all places. Not exactly what you'd call the steaming hub of biotechnological activity, but I guess they got a good deal on land or something. That, and looking at the prospectus, there's a lot of Arab ownership.”

“So why would â¦”
There was a pause.
“Arab, did you say?”

“Have I developed a stutter, or is this just a bad connection?”

“Sid, can you fax me what you've got?”

“Yeah, Chris. Same fax number you told me before?”

“That's it.”

“It's on the way.”

“I owe you one.”

“I can't wait to collect.”

“Sid?”

“Yeah, Chris?”

“Has Hank been in touch?”

Sid frowned. “No. Should he have been?”

“He's here. Trying to find me. If he does call, you don't know anything. Nothing. Got that?”

“Uh, are you just being paranoid, or does this have a purpose?”

“We think he might have some interest in getting close to one of Lymon's principals. Nothing firm, mind you, and we doubt illegal, but, well, just keep it under your hat, all right?”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, you know I'd do anything for Lymon. As to Hank, well, when he calls, I haven't heard a thing since you left DC.”

“You're a pal, Sid. I love you. Take care.”

And then she was gone.

“You love me?” He smiled wistfully. “If I could only be so lucky.”

T
hen unions had driven a lot of filmmakers to Canada. Shooting costs were cheaper, the people more friendly, and, most ironic of all, the city lent itself to many different interpretations of the good old USA.

Sheela considered that irony as she sat in front of her penthouse window and looked out at the night. Her room was high in the Westin Harbor Castle. Three hundred feet below, she could see the marina hemmed by rocky jetties that enclosed a little harbor on the shores of Lake Ontario. Boats floated on black water illuminated by the city lights. She could see more dots of light out on Island Park where the last of the ferries had crossed.

To the west, just out of her view, red-and-white Air Canada planes periodically took off from a compact lakeside airport. They were small, mostly twin-engined or equipped with floats as they headed for the wild Canadian northland.

Looking out beyond Island Park and across the water, she could see several ships, their lights nothing more than yellow dots in the night. South and slightly west, across the
international border, Buffalo, New York, radiated its light into the low clouds. South-southeast, she could see Rochester's telltale glow.

Toronto.
Home.
But was it? Yes, it was Canada, but it didn't feel like home. The red-and-white Canadian flags with her beloved maple leaf warmed her soul, as did the familiar sight of the big yellow Bay department store signs, the red Scotia Bank, and finding CBC on the television in the morningâalthough she had no idea who the hosts were these days.

The weight of the loonies and toonies in her hands weren't the same as dollars, and even though she had told the reporter from the
Globe and Mail
that it was good to be home, she now had to question the veracity of that.

Home had been Saskatchewan. Not Ontario. What was it about Canada that it seemed to be independent worlds separated by an even greater distance than she felt between Regina and LA? It was only after living in the States that she had come to see how fragmented the notion of unity really was in the Canadian psyche. Quebec, Ontario, and the western provinces might have been three different countries, with the maritime provinces as some peripheral satellites orbiting out there in the foggy east somewhere.

She turned at a slight knock. “Come in.”

The door opened, and she could see the main room as Lymon entered with a six-pack of what looked like beer hanging from his hand. He was dressed neatly, wearing a blazer and tie, his legs in cotton trousers.

“I brought something.”

“Beer?” she asked, squinting at the six-pack.

“Upper Canada Dark,” he replied. “Something Christal said we had to try based upon an old friend's recommendation.”

She gave him a look from under lowered brows. “I've got a screen call tomorrow at five a.m. Does that mean anything to you?”

He glanced around her room, took in the laid-back covers of the bed, smooth and folded as the turndown service had left them. Only a blind idiot could fail to notice that she was still fully dressed as she sat in her chair before the window.

In an inoffensive tone he said, “Apparently it means more to me than it does to you. If you had been sacked out according to plan, you wouldn't have heard that faintest of knocks.”

“No, I suppose not.” She pointed. “The opener is over there, assuming they're not twist offs.”

He walked to the counter, pulled out two bottles, and levered the tops off, calling, “Glass?”

“No.” She frowned as she took the bottle and studied it in the half-light, “You know, most Canadian beer is pretty weak. It's not like the microbrews you're used to.”

“I'll take my chances.” He lifted the long neck, sipped, and smiled.

Sheela lifted her bottle and washed some of the effervescent brew over her tongue. “That's really good.”

Lymon stood silently, staring out at the dark lake below. “Quite a view.”

“Your room doesn't have this?”

He shrugged. “I get the CN Tower, a glimpse of the white top of the ballpark, and a nice panorama of downtown.” He turned. “How's the shooting going?”

“Funny you should ask.” She used a toe to tap the script she'd dropped on the floor by the chair leg. “Without Manny, we've actually moved ahead of schedule. You tell me, Lymon, how does a prick like that get to be so important?”

“Women drool over him.” He chuckled. “Christal said that even she had to do a double take when he walked out at the photo shoot.”

“She's a pretty sharp cookie, isn't she?”

Lymon nodded. “I wish I could have hired her when I first started in this business.”

“I haven't seen her for the last couple of days.”

“Since we were shooting inside the Royal Ontario Museum security was tighter than on the street. I turned her loose to do her research.”

“What's she found?”

“Why do you think a biotech firm would have a link to your Web site?”

Sheela closed her eyes as she leaned back in the padded
chair and sipped the mellow dark beer. “I have no idea, Lymon. The Web site is Dot's domain. What did she say?”

“She said that you don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Genesis Athena throws you pennies from heaven. Their check clears each month.”

“Maybe I'll ask when I do
The Mike Bullard Show
tomorrow evening.” She cracked an eye and glanced across at the clock next to her bed. “God, is that the time?”

“You have to be up in five hours.” Lymon's voice was soft. “I was afraid that you weren't sleeping.”

“Yes, Doctor. I'll just suck down my suds and collapse.”

“I worry about you.”

The way he said it warmed her heart. “I'll be fine, Lymon.” She paused. “What's the word on your mysterious Arab?”

“Thankfully, there is nothing to report.” He frowned. “Here's a curious twist. The day before we left, Christal's, uh, I guess you could call him âex,' showed up.”

“The one from New York?”

“Yep. He wanted to see her something fierce. Offered her a job and, get this, even five grand just to meet with him.”

Sheela opened her eyes and turned her head to stare. Lymon's craggy features were softly illuminated by the light filtering through the tall window. She could see the firm set of his lips, the way he rocked up on his toes. “That worries you?”

“He was with Sheik Abdulla in New York. Then he shows up trying to get a line on Christal. Why don't I like that scenario?”

“You think he'd try to use Christal to get to me?”

“Maybe. Not that it would do him much good. If he thinks that she'd tumble into his arms and help him do evil, he's a sadly mistaken young boy.”

“Did you meet him?”

“He came to the office looking for her.”

“What did you think?”

“Attractive, sharp, self-possessed, but not one hundred percent on his game. He tried to follow me to Christal's. Did a shabby job of it. Not what Christal's description would
have led me to believe about his talents.” He paused. “Curious, don't you think? First Christal goes into protection, and then he does? Is that just coincidence?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “What else does an ex-FBI agent do? Private investigation? Police work? There aren't that many allied fields, are there?”

“No. I suppose not. I'm just concerned, is all. It's a pattern I can't explain. If I can't explain it, it makes me nervous. The more nervous I get, the more I want to explain things.”

She placed the beer to one side and stood, walking on bare feet to stand behind him. Wrapping her arms around him, she placed her cheek on his shoulder. “It will be all right, Lymon. You will keep me safe. You always have.”

“Ah, yes,” he chided bitterly, “just like in that hallway in New York, and then, of course, there's my triumph in the ladies' room at the Beverly Wilshire.”

“I wasn't hurt, was I?” she asked.

“You could have been.”

She said nothing, tightening her hold, feeling the hard muscle lining his ribs and belly. For a long time, she stood like that, allowing his warmth to seep into her cool body.

Finally, she took a deep breath, let him go, and said, “I can sleep now, Lymon. Thank you.”

He turned, brushed his lips across her hair, and walked silently to the door, where he let himself out into the main room.

The place was called Rotterdam, a microbrewery several blocks north of the Toronto Bluejays' ballpark. It didn't look like much from the outside; just a sign, the walls made of rough-sided ruddy brick. Inside, it was raucous, popular, and filled with the young and vigorous. Through gaps in the back wall Christal could see shiny stainless steel vats where various kinds of beer and ale were brewed. The white wood walls had been scarred by years of occupancy. Posters hung here and there on the walls, and a series of large blackboard
menus listed various brews and foods, all chalked in with different-colored block letters.

A hockey game ensorcelled a clutch of husky young men at the far end of the main room. They wore numbered jerseys and were accompanied by two rather nubile young women wearing cutoff shorts and stretch shirts a size too small for the breasts they'd stuffed into them.

The wreckage of a fish-and-chips dinner basket was pushed off to Christal's left, and a half-full glass of the establishment's famed stout sat to her right. The bar napkin before her was stuck to the table, but still served to fulfill its God-given purpose as a notepad.

On the napkin top, she had printed GENESIS ATHENA. Then she had defined the terms. Genesis: to produce, to give birth to, to create. Athena: ancient Greek goddess of knowledge, first in war, symbol of the city of Athens, goddess of wisdom and knowledge, born fully formed from the forehead of Zeus.

She considered the relationship of the two words together. Athena, sprung full-blown from the forehead of Zeus; how had she been born?

“Use a fire ax?” she muttered, thinking about extracting Athena from Zeus' forehead bone. Did that mean heads had anything to do with the assaults? Mel Gibson's razor scuzz came from the head. But that flew in the face of Sheela's tampon and urine. Nor did it fit the harpoon shot at Brad Pitt's butt.

“A sample?” she asked under her breath. At that moment the room exploded with cries as someone scored a goal on the hockey game playing at the other end of the room.

What was it that Lymon had said about Hollywood celebrities? That they paid for their success with pieces of themselves? Pieces, like had been taken from Manny de Clerk's penis? She frowned, thinking of witches, and the desires that led them to possess.

Lymon's words returned to haunt her:
“Under all the flashbulbs, fancy dresses, and long shiny cars, the world is feeding off of her blood and sucking at her soul.”

Christal reached into her purse and pulled out the Genesis Athena flier that the kid had handed her at the benefit:

GENESIS ATHENA MAKES DREAMS COME TRUE. YOU CAN BRING HER INTO YOUR LIFE.

Below was the image of Sheela Marks smiling out at the world.

“All right, I'll bite.” Christal reached into her bag for her cell phone and dialed the 1-800 number on the flyer. She pressed
send
and waited through three rings before an automated voice said,
“Greetings! Welcome to Genesis Athena, the home of the stars! Please use the touch-tone pad on your telephone to enter
the
first name and then push the pound sign before entering the last name of the celebrity or star that you admire the most.”

Christal turned the phone so she could punch 7-4-3-3-5-2-#-6-2-7-5-7.

The automated voice said,
“According to your selection, you have chosen â¦”
Another voice supplied,
“Sheela Marks.”

Christal smiled. Then the first voice resumed,
“If this is correct, please press
1.”

Christal pushed the
1
on her keypad and heard the tone.

“For our free celebrity bio, press
1
now.”

Christal repeated the operation.

“If you consider yourself to be Sheela's greatest fan, press
1
now.”

Christal did.

“Sheela Marks has something special. When she smiles, the world is illuminated in light. If you dream of her night and day, press
1.”

Christal made a face as she complied.