The Athena Factor (26 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“You must really like the guy.”
“I hate people who lead me astray. Mostly because they remind me how stupid I was. If I'm ever stupid, Lymon, don't remind me of it, okay?”
“Yeah. Images of butane lighters are filling my fertile imagination. I got the message.” He lifted an eyebrow, hazel eyes attentive. “I've been meaning to ask: Do you think it's a coincidence that Hank goes into personal security just after you do?”
“I don't know,” she answered honestly. “I had no contact with him after I left the Bureau. The only link between the two of us would have been Sid.”
“And he wouldn't have said anything to Abrams.” Lymon wiggled his shoulders as he scrunched lower into the seat. “The coincidence bothers me. I don't know, Christal; it's like we're dancing around the peripheries but not seeing what ties the whole puzzle together.”
“If it's a puzzle,” she countered. “I mean, you're just assuming that Genesis Athena, Sheik Abdulla, the celeb hits, and Hank are related.”
He mulled it over. “All right, you're the one with the weird spooky gift and the brouhaha grandma. What's your take? Are they related, or not?”
“Related,” she muttered, unhappy with herself for saying it. “For the life of me, I don't know why, but I think when it comes to me, it will all fit like a glove.”
A wild burst of applause broke out as Sheela stood, waved to the crowd, and took Mike Bullard's hand.
“What about her?” Lymon's voice was barely a whisper. “Will she be safe, Christal?”
Christal paused, lowering her voice to match his. “You should marry her, Lymon.”
“Sure,” he breathed.
“Julia Roberts married Danny Moder, her cameraman. And Anne Heche married her cameraman, too. Sharon Stone married Phil Bronstein, a newspaper editor.”
“Christal?”
“Huh?”
“Shut up.” He rose too quickly to his feet, lifting his sleeve to say, “Paul, she's on the way. We'll meet you at the door within five.”
In her earpiece, Christal heard,
“Roger, boss. Paparazzi are here in a drove. Tell Sheela to be on deck and ready for them.”
Christal rose, straightened her tweed skirt, and followed after Lymon. She would be slightly behind Sheela and to one side as they left the building. Dot had gathered her things and stepped into line as Lymon explained about the paparazzi.
Sheik Abdulla's face hung in the back of Christal's mind.
“¡El mal ojo!”
her grandmother's voice spoke from beyond the grave.
“He is evil, child, and he wants you!”
 
 
Hank Abrams sipped coffee from a disposable Tim Horton's cup and glanced around the spacious lobby of the Westin Harbor Castle. At this time of morning, the place was like a tomb. Only the desk clerk stood behind the polished counter. Passing the registration desk, he lifted one of the house phones from the receiver and punched
O.
After three rings, a voice informed him,
“Hotel operator.”
“Yes, could you connect me with Christal Anaya's room, please?”
“One moment.”
Hank pursed his lips and scowled uncertainly as he monitored the lobby. It had taken him two days to discover that Sheela Marks had packed up and flown to Toronto to film scenes on location. He'd scrambled to get here, then scrambled for another day and a half to find Christal's hotel.
Damn it, I'm headed for a fuckup again.
He hated the feeling of inadequacy that had plagued him since the Gonzales fiasco. When he rubbed his cheeks he could feel stubble. Hell of a thing. He used to be perfectly groomed. The way he lived now, rustling from one motel to another, he barely had time to wash his clothes.
Now he had her located. All it would take was a touch, just a moment in her presence, and he could call it quits and return
to New York. He ran the gimmick through his head: He'd say he was with building maintenance, eh? The phones had gone down—been hacked by pranksters, eh? Was she Melinda Arbuckle in room 4312? When she said no, he'd ask to which room he'd been connected.
The phone rang five times before the operator broke in to state,
“I'm sorry, sir. It appears that Ms. Anaya isn't in her room. Would you care to leave a message on her voice mail?”
“No, thanks.” He grimaced as he hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to five. Where the hell was she? Christ, at this time of morning, the old Christal would have been lost in REM sleep.
He started to turn when the elevator dinged and Christal stepped out, a black nylon suitcase hanging from a strap at her shoulder. She was dressed in a professional pantsuit with a light gray cotton jacket.
Hank turned, facing the wall with the phone to his ear. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Christal crossed the lobby, her heels clicking on the polished floor. She stepped through the glass doors at the main entrance and out to the curb.
Hank hung up the phone and hurried after her, stopping just short of the door, where he could glance past the aluminum jam. The doorman had hailed a cab and was holding the door as Christal slipped into the backseat.
Hank waited until the cab began to roll before stepping out and running up to the doorman.
“Shit!” he cried in despair as he watched the cab take a right onto the street beyond. He turned to the surprised doorman. “Did Chris say where she was headed?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “She left these, and she's going to be really upset when she realizes they're gone.”
The doorman hesitated an instant, seeing the worry on Hank's face, then sputtered, “You'd better hurry, sir. She's on her way to the airport. I heard her say the international terminal.”
“Great! Thanks!” Hank turned on his heel, sprinting for the line of cabs that waited in a line at the curve of the drive in.
Hell! If she was flying somewhere, he had to at least figure
out where. If it was back to LA, well and good. He could catch up with her there. If it was somewhere else, did he dare let her out of his sight? What if he lost her again? Verele would think he was a complete bumbling incompetent.
The cabdriver—a Sikh, given his turban—was half out of his door when Hank yanked the passenger door open and cried, “International terminal at the airport!”
He slammed the door and shook his head, wiping at the coffee he'd spilled on his pants. The Tim Horton's cup was half crushed in his hand.
N
umber 98376 Virginia Avenue was a white, prestressed concrete building in a small industrial complex just off 128th Avenue on the far northern fringes of Denver, Colorado. The buildings were new, with long expanses of darkly tinted glass. Thin strips of lawn were encompassed by white cement walks that bordered the parking lot. The grass had the manicured look of a professional lawn service, and several young trees were growing around a small pond with a delightful little fountain.
Christal pulled into the lot and took one of the visitor's spaces two down from the handicapped slot with its blue sign.
She put her Denver street map on the passenger seat and checked herself in the mirror. The afternoon sun was already starting to cook the inside of the car. Christal ran a brush through her gleaming black hair, decided that nothing offensive was in her teeth, and closed her purse before stepping out into the hot air.
God, have I really been up for twelve hours already?
It didn't seem right that she could feel used up, and it was just after midday here. The flight in from Toronto had been turbulent, just uncomfortable enough that the pilot had kept people strapped in for most of it.
The DIA airport had been plugged with people. As she'd
waited in the bowels of the B concourse for one of the shuttles, someone had said that only two of the automated trains were running. The entire time, she'd felt as if eyes were locked on her. But when she had glanced around, it was only to see a sea of faces, all looking harried and irritated.
At least Avis had been up to their usual proficiency. Her car had been waiting after the shuttle bus dropped her at the right space. From there, the drive through Denver had been stop-and-go as the highway patrol cleaned up a wreck on 1-76. The jam had given her time to really study her map. As a result she had driven straight to the address.
“All right, Genesis Athena, here I come.” She walked up to the black glass door, gripped the aluminum handle, and pulled it open. Cool air washed over her as she stepped into a small lobby. Three chairs and a compact couch seemed to have surrounded and captured a small wooden table off to the right. In the corner a potted plant lived in tropical splendor under the fluorescent lights. To her left a stairway led up to the second floor, while a hallway was blocked off with a wooden double door.
Christal noticed a building directory on the wall beside the stairs and walked over. White plastic letters were inserted into a black background and denoted the occupants in different suites. Five businesses called the building home, but none of them was named Genesis Athena.
“The plot thickens,” she whispered as she studied the choices. She immediately discarded the two engineering firms, decided that the fishing lure company was out, and hesitated as she studied the last two.
She discarded AlpenGlo Publishing and went with Cy-Bert as the most likely candidate. It was located in Suite 201. Christal climbed the textured cement stairs and passed through the fire door. Cy-Bert occupied the first suite of offices to the right. The door was wooden with a brass knob. A slit of window beside it gave her a view of a reception area and several doors leading into the rear.
Christal stepped in and walked to the desk, where a young woman in her early twenties looked up from a Kat Martin romance she was reading.
“Hello. Can I help you?” Excited blue eyes met Christal's.
“I hope so. I'm Christal Anaya,” she replied as she laid a business card on the counter. “I'm with LBA. We're a security firm in Los Angeles. It is our understanding that Genesis Athena has a telephone number that is registered to this address.”
The blue eyes grew serious, and the girl pursed thin pink lips. Christal could see the dusting of freckles on her nose. “Genesis Athena … let's see.” She wheeled to one side and tapped at a computer console. After several seconds, she said, “Oh, yeah. Here it is.” She turned the monitor so that Christal could see the name gleaming on the blue screen. The familiar phone number was listed, as well as an address.
Christal bent around so that she could read it. “Is that address right?”
“Uh, yeah,” the young woman admitted. “Uh, I guess so. You'd have to talk to Bill and Simon. They run Cy-Bert. Uh, they're not here now. They're running a marathon in Boulder today.”
“Do you mind if I write that down?” Christal was already jotting: Genesis Athena—643 Sa'Dah Street, Aden, Yemen.
“Uh, I guess.”
Christal could feel a big chunk of the mystery slide into place. Yemen? That fit what Sid had told them. She asked, “So, how does a Yemeni company have a Colorado telephone address?”
“Oh”—the young woman waved it away—“we have over six hundred clients here, you know? It's like we do all the phones for them. You know, like if you want to have a number and give out information? We do all the ordering and things for telemarketing companies.”
“Such as?”
“Well, like, you know, if you sell stuff, right? Like DVDs, or clothes, or stuff? You can call one of our numbers and our computers take your order. You know, they ask for, like, which product you saw in their catalog? Then you type in your account number, the item number, and your credit card
number, and confirm your address, and the company warehouse sends you the thing you ordered.”
“I see.”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Do you have a number for Genesis Athena in Yemen?”
The ditzy blonde hesitated. “Wow. I don't know if I can give you that. It's like a company secret. Like, what if you're from another company that does the same thing that ours does?”
“I'm not. As the card says, LBA is a security firm. Our only interest is in keeping our clients safe. I swear, I'm not here to steal your clients. If you have any questions you can call our California office and get confirmation.”
The blonde considered it for a moment. “Well, okay. You seem nice. It's like, we send the monthly bill out FedEx, and a check shows up the same way. I remember that now that I think about it. I have to sign for it.”
“Do you do the setup here? You know, write the questions and add the voices?”
“We can.” She glanced at the blue screen, her finger running down a line of numbers. “But not for Genesis Athena. They do all that in-house.” She grinned. “But I got to be the voice for ColoHigh Fashions once.”
“Wow!” Christal forced a smile. “So, I'm to understand that you're just a phone service? That's it?”
“Yeah, that's us. If, like, you guys at”—she squinted at the card—“at LBA need a system, we'd be, you know, really glad to be it. But you'll have to talk to Bill and Simon.”
“When they get back from the marathon.”
“Yeah, like, isn't that cool? You know? They're old—in their late thirties—and they can still run!”
“Yeah, cool.”
Christal thanked the girl and turned. When she walked down the stairs, she shook her head.
Genesis Athena really is in Yemen, for God's sake?
Yemen. Just catty-corner across the Arabian Peninsula from Qatar. Sheik Amud Abdulla called Qatar home. She was chewing on that thought as she climbed into her rental, closed the door, and started the engine to stimulate the air-conditioning.
She lifted her cell and punched in Lymon's number. He answered on the third ring.
“Bridges.”
“Lymon? Anaya. Listen, I'm sitting in front of our address in Colorado. You're going to love it The place is just a phone service. Genesis Athena isn't here.”
“So, where are they?”
“You ready for this?”
“Shoot.”
“Aden, as in Yemen. A country on the southwestern tip of the Arabian Peninsula. Sid was right; it wasn't a ruse.” She related her visit to Cy-Bert and gave him the mailing address she'd taken from the computer.
A pause.
“Did you determine if our friend Abdulla has any connection?”
“All they've got is a telephone contract with Genesis Athena. You should know, however, that if you ever need a phone service, the airhead at the desk will be happy to write LBA a contract. Lymon, my best guess is that this place is a cutout.”
“So what do you think this means for us?”
“Well, for one thing, I think it's a cinch that whoever Genesis Athena is, they don't want to be easily found. And that, boss, really has my whiskers quivering, as Grandma used to say.”
“I'll bring this up with Dot when I see her this afternoon.”
“Right. Uh, what now? Do you want me back in Toronto, or to head for the barn?”
“Sheela's wrapping her shooting here tomorrow morning. It's up to you, Christal.”
She was considering that when a dark blue Chevy Lumina pulled into the parking lot and rolled to a stop two spaces down from hers. The guy was jerking his door open as he killed the engine.
Christal blinked twice and gaped. “Lymon,” she said in a sober voice, “Hank Abrams just drove in and jumped out of his car. He's headed right into the Cy-Bert building.”
“What? Are you sure?”
She put her Buick into reverse and backed out, making sure she cleared the lot before she floored the accelerator.
“Christal?”
Lymon was barking from halfway across the continent.
“Christal? Are you all right?”
For the moment she couldn't answer. Hank hadn't looked right. He'd been unshaven, his clothes rumpled and his hair mussed. That grainy expression reminded her of a man who wasn't sleeping well, someone haunted by depression and frustration.
“Christal? Are you there?”
“Lymon, I'm spooked,” she added as she took a right onto 128th. “How the hell did he know I was going to be here?”
 
 
The lounge at the Hollywood Hilton had only a few patrons. Hank Abrams sat at a small table next to the far wall and hunched in the cloth-backed chair. He stared uneasily down at the glass of Glenfiddich, neat. Strains of sixties and seventies music drifted down from the speakers. Behind the bar, the bartender—dressed in a puffy white shirt and black slacks—was tapping keys on his computer register.
Staring into the amber fluid, Hank fought the desperate desire to upend his single malt and chug the contents. As of that moment, he could still expense the high-dollar scotch, but whether he'd be able to in a matter of minutes was anyone's guess.
God, what a relief it would be to down one after another and dull the growing ache in his soul. For those blissful hours, he could be smashed out of his head. The worry, the frustration, and disappointment would be gone.
Shit, six months ago, I was the fair-haired boy in the Bureau
. Now it was all gone. He'd had a pretty wife, a nice house, a solid job. People had looked up to him as he rode the rocket to stardom.
How had he lost it all?
Christal!
He closed his eyes, his hands grasping at the air, knotting until his forearms hurt.
Every failure, every fuckup, had Christal at the bottom of it. Jesus, what was she, the anti-Christ?
“
Oh, yeah, like she was just here!”
the cheery blonde had said.
“I mean, like, you should have seen her on the stairs, you know?”
Hank rubbed his eyes. A sour churning in his stomach left him half-sick, a tickle of nausea at the bottom of this throat.
He looked up when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Neal Gray, immaculate in a charcoal Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, and matching tie, approached the table and pulled out the opposite chair.
“You look like hell,” Neal told him as he took the drink list and scanned the offerings.
“I haven't gotten much sleep the last couple of days.” The question had been burning inside him. “When I called you from Toronto and told you she was headed for Colorado, how the hell did you know she'd be going to that place?”
Neal looked up as the bartender approached and laid a napkin on the vinyl table. “Can you make a margarita? Nothing fancy, just on ice.”
“Yeah, sure,” the bartender replied, and turned back for the bar.
Neal leaned back, his fingers twisting the edge of the napkin into a spike. He gave Hank an appraising look as he coolly studied him. The man seemed to see right through the front, penetrating Hank's skin to read the growing desperation and fear. “Hank, your call from Toronto surprised us. How did you learn she was headed to Denver?”
“I managed to get close enough when she was checking in at the United counter. People don't look around when they're talking to the desk agents. It's as if they don't want to look suspicious or something. I overheard.” He couldn't stand it any longer and blurted, “Look! I'm not a fuckup! I know it looks like I can't carry out a simple assignment, but the bitch won't even see me! Shit, I offered her five grand just to meet with me and she turned it down flat! And then, this Toronto thing, how was I supposed to know she'd be flying off with Sheela Marks? God, I swear, she's a fucking devil!”

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