Authors: W. Michael Gear

The Athena Factor (25 page)

BOOK: The Athena Factor

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“We think you might have what it takes to join Sheela Marks' most exclusive circle of admirers. If you agree, press
1
now.”

Christal pressed.

“Please enter your name and address starting with street, box, city, state, postal code, or zip now. Speak slowly and clearly for our voice recognition software.”

Christal, caught off balance, sputtered, “Uh, I'm Lisa Bridges, 12256 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite Two, West Hollywood,
California, 91210.” She had only a moment to wonder if giving the LBA office address had been the right snap decision.

“Lisa Bridges, 12256 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite Two, West Hollywood, California, 91210.”
The voice repeated it perfectly.
“If this is correct, press
1
now.”

Christal punched the button.

“Enter your phone number now and press pound.”

Christal entered her phone.

“Thank you for calling Genesis Athena and sharing your love of Sheela Marks. We will be mailing our Sheela Marks packet to you today. Please look for it in your box. If you do not receive it within the next week, please call this number again.”
A pause.
“We'll be sharing your dreams of Sheela.”
Then a click indicated the end of the conversation.

The group at the far end whooped again as two hockey players slammed headlong into each other and tumbled onto the ice.

S
id Harness glanced at his watch. Twenty-eight minutes after noon. He still had two minutes before Lymon was supposed to call. Sid used the time to peel back the paper that wrapped his turkey-and-provolone sandwich. He was sitting at a white vinyl-clad table in a Subway off Thomas Circle. Looking out the window, he could just see the statue of the corroded general sitting on his dark bronze horse. Traffic wheeled around below the general's feet. He was scowling out, theoretically with the same grim determination that had held the line at Chickamauga, Franklin, and Nashville.

The lunch crowd clogged the small restaurant, and behind the glass counter, two dark-skinned people, perhaps Pakistani or Iranian, hustled back and forth, slapping meat, lettuce, peppers, cheeses, and tomatoes onto buns.

It was a good place. Loud, crowded, and hectic. If anyone overheard, they'd only get bits and pieces. Sid had wedged himself into a small corner table, his back to the room. He sipped at the Coke he'd bought and could barely hear the Commerce Department secretaries bitching about their boss at the crowded table behind him. The good-looking blonde kept banging his chair back with hers.

Sid's phone rang a half second after he'd taken his first bite. Swallowing, he washed it down with the Coke and opened his cell. “Harness.”

“Sid? Lymon.”

“I was just sitting here, thinking I ought to be billing you by the hour.”

“Okay.”
Lymon paused.
“Is that legal?”

“Hell no! But then, neither is what I'm doing for you. You'd think I was was working for LBA instead of you-know-who.” He glanced around uneasily, satisfied that people were more interested in slamming lunch and getting back to the grind than eavesdropping on wayward FBI agents.

“Did you get what I need?”

“If I got your message correctly, you wanted to know where the toll-free number you gave me was physically located. Your tax dollars have allowed me to ascertain that that phone number is answered at 98376 Virginia Avenue in Broomfield, Colorado.”

“Colorado?”

“That's what the divine oracle that lives inside the computer said. If you need to know more, you're going to have to cast tea leaves, or do a little old-fashioned detective-type footwork.”

“Right. Thanks Sid. What about the Sheik?”

“He's a curious guy. Hails from warm, sunny, sandy Qatar. That's a small country about midway down the east side of the Persian Gulf.”

“I know where Qatar is. We spent a weekend floating out in the harbor there, remember? R and R compliments of the good old USN.”

“Yeah, I do seem to recall that, but then I have the keen
brain of a highly trained federal agent. You're just a marshmallow celebrity guard guy these days.”

“Do you want to get to the point?”

“The Sheik's richâowns a fleet of tankers and freighters that handle about ten percent of the shipping going in and out of the Persian Gulf. He also has major investments in real estate around the world. You might be interested to know that he's big in your business.”

“Yeah, pictures, I know.”

“He likes being seen with pretty women, especially movie stars and high-profile models. He likes to squire them around the world in his private 757.” He lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, I heard that he does sensitive things for both the Bureau and the Company down at the big L.”

The big L was Sid's personal slang for the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley.

“I see. Anything that you can tell me that might relate to my client?”

“No. He seems to be a legit Arab businessman who has decided that the future lies with the West rather than the dogmatic rag-heads who want to go back to the Middle Ages. No conspicuous ties to terrorism, Al Qaeda, bad guys in Iran, or anything that would blacklist him.”

“How about biotech? Is he invested in that?”

“Odd that you should mention it. Yeah. He owns several companies that are into genetic engineering. They're agricultural. You know, drought-resistant corn and tomatoes, that sort of thing.” Sid paused, wondering why it hadn't registered when he skimmed the memo he'd requested on Sheik Amud Abdulla.
Genetics?

“Sid? Christal is here. She wants to know if you got any answer from the guys at Quantico about the questionnaire.”

“Put her on.”

He waited and heard Christal's voice.
“Hey, Sid. What's happening?”

“My cold turkey sandwich is sitting undigested in front of me. It's a hot day in DC. My investigation is spinning its wheels in loose sand. I think Peter is going to make me
shelve my kidnapped scientists if I don't have anything by the end of the week.”

“Kidnapping cases don't suit you. What did the shrinks say?”

Sid pulled out his notepad and a pen. “Where can I fax the report to you?” She gave him a phone number, and he added, “You'll have to read the fine print, but head shrink Russ Tanner thought it was a test. You know, the sort psychologists give people to profile their personalities. He said that the changing questions were routine. If you answer something that gets a hit, the program changes to ask you more specific questions. Uh, say you've got a neurosis about being compulsively neat. It tailors itself to determine just how fucked up you really are.”

“All this is in the report?”

“Yeah, I'll fax it to you as soon as I get back to the office. Do me a favor, huh? Deep-six the paperwork when you get it. I don't want anything coming back to haunt my sleep.”

“For you, Sid, anything. Lymon and I will burn it in the trash can after we read it. Then we'll flush the ashes down the john.”

He grinned as he took a bite of his sandwich. Through a mouthful he said, “You know, Chris, spy work really suits you.”

The greenroom for
The Mike Bullard Show
at the studio in downtown Toronto was well stocked. Christal glanced past Lymon as Rob Sawyer, a Canadian science fiction author, opened the refrigerator and removed a can of pop. Sawyer was up next, having just won a Canadian literary award.

She reclined on a gray fabric-upholstered couch and glanced up at the television monitor as a round of applause broke out for Sheela. The television in the corner of the small room showed Sheela as she walked out on stage clad in a pastel blue Ungaro wraparound.

People in the greenroom went silent as Sheela walked up to Bullard and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“That's my Sheela,” Dot whispered. She sat in the chair opposite them, a sheaf of papers in her hands, reading glasses down on her nose as she watched Sheela take her seat and smile out at the live audience. The orchestra was playing the theme to
Blood Rage
. When the music died away, Bullard began teasing Sheela about her Oscar and why she had come to Toronto to shoot
Jagged Cat.

Christal glanced at Lymon, seeing the longing in his expression as he watched Sheela on the monitor. “You okay?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Yeah,” he muttered, tearing his attention from the screen. “It's been busy. What's Sid's fax look like?”

She tapped a roll of paper in her lap. “I failed the test, Lymon. That's why the Web site cut me off. It makes perfect sense.”

“Explain. You were the one talking to Sid.”

She glanced around the crowded room. Sheela had been the headline star. Everyone in the greenroom was fixed on the TV. “You've got to see the questionnaire for what it really is: some sort of a tool for evaluating the people taking it. Whatever Genesis Athena is looking for, I gave it the wrong information.”

“Okay. Such as?”

“Well, for instance, I listed the wrong interests under hobbies. I think I said something flippant about stamp collecting and big game hunting. That's not what they were looking for.”

“Right.” Lymon frowned. “What do you think they're after?”

“I think they wanted obsession. That's why the bathroom questions were so important. I answered practically; their psychologists were looking for some different order in the importance of bathroom fixtures.”

“Huh? You lost me.” He crossed his arms.

“All right, let's say that someone compulsive filled out that questionnaire. After a toilet and sink, they might say a mirror was the next most important thing.”

“Why?”

She was fishing, knowing that she was out of her league here. “Because an obsessive person might need to see themselves,
to constantly be reassured that their hair is in place, that nothing is stuck in their teeth.”

Lymon grinned. “Okay, so we should have had Tony take the test.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She frowned. “But my guess is that your old friend Krissy might have been a better choice.”

Lymon started, his gaze prying at her. “Krissy's a nut. She's obsessed with â¦” He whistled softly. “Jesus, is that what you're getting at?”

“Look, it's just the way my mind works, okay? Grandma said I had the gift. It's the closest I can come to an explanation for a hunch like this.”

“How often are your hunches proven right?”

She met his stare. “Often enough that I don't question them.”

“So, you're thinking Genesis Athena is designed to recognize obsessive-compulsive disorders?”

She nodded. “I'm not sure why, Lymon. That part eludes me. I'm booked on a United flight to Denver in the morning. Maybe it will make sense when I find their offices. Broomfield? That's a curious place for their headquarters, but maybe by going there, I'll figure it out. If I find out it's a mental institution, some of the pieces will have fallen in place. If not, we'll see what comes in the mail when we get back to LA, but I'm betting that their Sheela packet will have something in it that will act as a lure for the lunatic fringe.”

Lymon was staring off into the distance. “Did Krissy ever answer your e-mail asking about her having Sheela's baby?”

“No.”

“We could have nailed her on that. Even sending an e-mail is in violation of her restraining order.”

“Do you think Genesis Athena is run by one of Sheela's wacko fans?”

“After seeing the âshare-la-Sheela' site I guess I can believe anything. My inclination is that it's probably harmless.” Worry lined his brow. “I'm more concerned about the Arab angle and what Abdulla wants. He's rich, powerful, and sniffing around Sheela. He's got my hackles up. He's a threat; I can just feel it.”

“Yeah, me too.” Christal rubbed her arms uncomfortably. “You weren't the one who got eye-raped right there in front of God and everyone.”

Lymon nodded in concern. “On that line, maybe your buddy Hank is Abdulla's new bird dog. Sid said that the good Sheik likes pretty girls, right? If you'd taken that job you might be jetting around the world in posh luxury rather than sitting here waiting on the Mike and Sheela show.”

The crowd burst out laughing as Sheela made a joke about the tampon theft. It seemed that the story still hadn't died.

“Get a life, boss. I'd rather be a maid at Motel Six in Albuquerque than spend a single second in that guy's presence. Grandma would have said he had
el mal ojo,
the evil eye. The man's bad news. End of story.”

“Here, here”

Yes, evil,
a voice whispered in Christal's head.
And he wants you!
A cold shiver ran through her. Out of nowhere, she asked, “Do you think he's behind the celeb hits?”

“What? Where did that come from?”

“I was just thinking how creepy Abdulla was, and it popped out.”

Lymon glanced up as Mike Bullard and Sheela laughed together. They had moved on to telling some joke about ice fishing in Saskatchewan. Christal decided it was something peculiarly Canadian in humor.

Lymon said, “I could see some obsessed male Arab having an interest in a pretty woman's tampon. Kinky, but possible. As to Mel Gibson's razor scuzz and shooting a dart into Brad Pitt's butt? Well, there you've got me.”

“You know,” Christal mused, “Hank works for Abdulla. Maybe we should have met with him. We could have stripped him naked, hung him up by his thumbs, and squeezed him for information. I think he'd have spilled his guts with the right persuasion.”

Lymon gave her a careful scrutiny. “Are you always this edgy?”

She fixed a plastic smile. “Only when I imagine the expression on Hank's face when I flick my Bic under his scrotum.”

BOOK: The Athena Factor

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