The Athena Factor (27 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“Hank”—Neal's voice was even—“take a break here. You're being too hard on yourself.”
Hank gasped. It was too soon to believe he was off the hook. “I was ahead of her! Then, bang! I'm stuck in traffic behind a wreck on a Denver freeway. By the time I figure out just how to get to this place, she's already been there!”
Neal smiled. “Christal Anaya really gets to you, huh?”
Hank swallowed hard. “There are times, I swear, if I could reach out and wrap my hands around her throat …” He stared at the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands, his fingers tightening on the air above his scotch.
Neal leaned back. “It's okay. You did all right, Hank. Sure, we'd have liked to have had our sample by now, but warning us that she was headed to Colorado made up for that.”
“It did?”
“She was already on one of our lists. She flagged one of our computer Web sites a couple of weeks ago. The lady is digging around at the edges of one of the Sheik's companies.” Neal paused. “Tell me, do you think she's capable of industrial espionage?”
Hank leaned back, considering. “Christal? I don't know. I mean, she's not one to break the rules. She's kind of by-the-book, if you know what I mean.”
Neal studied him. “You really thought I was coming to can you, didn't you?”
Hank swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Neal leaned forward. “What have you got left, Hank? Besides this job, I mean.”
“Not much.”
“Your mother's in a nursing home in upstate New York. Your support is the only thing between her and Medicare. Uh, just between the two of us, how do you think this thing with Marsha is going to work out? Will you get anything from the settlement?”
“Her firm's handling the divorce,” Hank murmured. “She's offered a settlement if I don't fight it. Fifty grand, cut and dried, and I don't contest it.”
“You going to take it?”
“Neal, if I fight it, she's going to clean me out. I'll be in hock to the lawyers alone for the next twenty years.” Then, unable to help himself, he spilled the whole story about Gonzales, Christal, the night they'd screwed in the van.
After he'd run dry, Neal sat back, a pensive look on his face. “And they never figured out how Gonzales got a camera into the van?”
“No.”
After a long silence, Neal's blue eyes narrowed. “Tell me something, Hank. How much of a stickler are you for the rule book?”
Hank straightened, a tickle of anxiety in his breast. “Where's this going?”
“Nowhere illegal, if that's what you're thinking.” Neal grinned. “You might say that where we're going, there are no laws … but the pay is
real
good. I can assure you it's not drugs, or weapons, or any of the usual ‘high risk' ventures. We do nothing that violates the law within the territorial borders of the United States.” A pause. “How would you feel about making a hundred and twenty grand a year—not counting bonuses—as a starting salary?”
“Yeah?” He perked up. “What's the catch?”
“From our perspective, it might just be you.” Neal smiled up at the bartender as the man placed the drink on the table. Neal handed him a credit card. “If you'd run a tab, I'd appreciate it.”
“Yes, sir.” The bartender retreated.
Neal sipped his drink and looked up. “Do you believe in quid pro quo? If I do something for you, you'll do something for me?”
“Like in the Mafia?”
Neal laughed. “We're trying to make up our minds if we want to invest in you for the long term. How would you feel if we looked into this Gonzales thing? Figured it out, if you will. Would that be worth anything to you?”
“Damn straight, it would.”
Neal caught him off guard when he asked, “So, how does a top agent have such a hard time catching up to an unsuspecting
woman? We thought you'd have obtained the sample within the first forty-eight hours.”
Hank took a deep breath, feeling the ax hanging over his head. “I don't know. You'd think she was being protected by LBA rather than just working for them. Look, I can handle this. All I need is—”
“Christal Anaya has become a problem,” Neal interrupted easily. “My people really need to talk to her. That's all. If you're with us, we'll let you in on the ground floor of something really big. It will mean leaving Verele … going to work for the Sheik.”
Hank frowned, feeling the earth turning soft under his feet. “I don't understand. I'm just supposed to use one of your little gizmos to get a skin sample, right?”
“The plan has changed since then. It changed when Anaya walked into that telephone service in Colorado. There are bigger things afoot here. Things worth billions that I can't tell you about yet.” Neal leaned forward, an earnest look on his face. “She's been jerking your chain, hasn't she? Come on, admit it: She's the reason you're in this mess.”
He felt the resistance run out of him. “Yeah.”
“My people need to talk to her, Hank. That's all. Just find her, help me and my crew get to her, and well, we'll talk about it later, all right?”
“You just want to talk?” Something had to be missing.
“Yep.” Neal shrugged. “Hank, what the hell have you got left to lose?”
T
hey occupied a spacious photographic studio in West Los Angeles. The photographers had just finished and were in the process of packing their film, dismantling their lights, and casing their cameras.
Christal watched as Sheela smiled and shook hands all the way around. The small group of Spanish businessmen, one
by one, took their turns holding her hands and lavishing their thanks. Rex cleared his voice from the side—a signal for Dot, who smiled like a queen as she disengaged Sheela from her admirers and led her back toward the dressing room.
Rex stepped in smoothly, saying, “Gentlemen, that was fantastic! We have rarely had such a professional and flawless shooting session.”
A babble of accented voices chimed in agreement. Christal smiled to herself. She'd listened to the three Spaniards as they had talked during the shoot. Their Castilian accent hadn't masked the sexual innuendo as they ogled Sheela during the photo session.
While the photographers continued to disassemble their equipment, a crew began collapsing the series of backdrops. The stage had alternately consisted of scenes from downtown Madrid, Toledo, Seville, and other Spanish cities. One in particular was of the Escorial illuminated by a wash of yellow light. Sheela had modeled various fashions before each, and the photographers had shot roll after roll of photos for the new catalog, billboards, and other media.
Electric fans on either side had created breezes to ruffle Sheela's hair and toss her coattails. That had been the last scene. Christal watched as the techs rolled the big backdrop into a long tube.
Rex caught Christal's eye and gave the slightest nod of his head before shooting a meaningful glance toward the dressing room.
Christal picked up her purse, walking wide around the tripods and stepping past the fan to take the narrow hallway to the rear. The dressing room was a haphazard affair: panels set up to screen Sheela from the main room.
Dot stood with her arms crossed, watching as Sheela slipped out of a long-knit MaxMara dress and handed it to a young woman who replaced it on a hanger and hung it on a wardrobe rack in the rear.
“How'd we do?” Sheela asked as she pulled on her slim denim Blujeanious pants and straightened.
Dot glanced back at Christal, nodded, then turned her attention to Sheela as she reached for a red-patterned top by
Guess. “Under all the hype, they're happy. Rex is going to stay behind and stroke their collective manhoods.”
“Figuratively, I hope.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Dot said dryly.
“Whatever it takes.” Sheela wearily pulled the top on and fluffed her red-blond hair over her shoulders. She glanced at Christal; with stunning quickness exhaustion had replaced the sparkle she'd shown during the session. “What do you think?”
“I don't see how you keep from falling over.” Christal stopped short. “You about ready?”
“Get me home, James.” Sheela stifled a yawn, grabbed up her Marc Jacobs purse, and pointed at the door. “Dot, I'll see you tomorrow at my trailer on the lot. You can brief me on my schedule then. I'm going home to fall into bed.”
“See you then,” Dot agreed.
Christal lifted her cuff mike and said, “Paul? We're on the way.”
“
Roger. Uh, Christal? There's a guy out here, looks like a lost electrician. He's across the
alley …
maybe ten yards away. He's got a toolbox and seems to be killing time. Just thought you should know.”
“Right. I'll keep an eye out when we step out the back door.” She gestured to Sheela. “We're ready.”
Christal led the way down the narrow hallway to the sign that read EXIT. She pushed on the crash bar and stepped out. The alley was just off Santa Monica Boulevard, bounded by trash Dumpsters, bits of paper, and a couple of empty bottles. The alleged electrician stood across the alley and stared at her from across the hood of the polished limo. He had on a yellow hard hat; a leather tool belt filled with pliers, hammers, and such; and wore a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans over brown work boots.
“Come on, Sheela,” Christal stepped over and opened the rear limo door.
“Ah, I love this job,” Sheela was saying as she stepped outside. “The glamor of the alleys, hotel kitchens, back doors, and—”
The flash took Christal by complete surprise. She blinked,
wheeling to see the “electrician.” His toolbox was open at his feet, and a large Nikon filled his hands. Instinctively Christal placed herself between Sheela and the paparazzo. The flash continued to pulse as the automatic camera captured Sheela's rapid duck into the limo.
“Hey!” Christal cried, her anger rising. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”
“It's a free country,” the paparazzo called back, grinning from behind his lens. “God bless the First Amendment!”
“Maggot!” Christal slipped in behind Sheela and pulled the door shut as she clicked the locks down. “Shit!” She felt humiliated.
“Tricky,” Paul called over his shoulder as he slipped the car into gear. “I've never seen that workman ruse before.”
Sheela leaned back and closed her eyes. “It's all right. It was only one guy this times”
“God, they're like a bunch of mangy coyotes,” Christal muttered as she studied Sheela with worried eyes. During the photo shoot Sheela had been electric. Then, in the dressing room, she had gone from glittering, smiling energy to sacked lint in an instant. Now she looked hollow and half-digested.
“You need some time off,” Christal said softly. “It's none of my business, but given your schedule, I wouldn't have traded a day off for that photo session—no matter what it paid.”
Sheela barely smiled, cracking one eye to study Christal. “So, you think I looked that bad?”
“No, you were stunning. I would have thought you lived for that moment alone. Now you're even more hammered than before.”
“Christal, I had to do it. What, you don't think today was worth a million and a half? Not to mention they're boxing up everything I wore today and shipping it to the house. Freebies, you see. All the better if I happen to be wearing one of the pieces when the cameras go off.”
Christal blinked. “You're kidding! A million and a whole fall wardrobe for six hours of photos?”
“That's right.” Sheela closed her eyes.
“Man, am I in the wrong business. I guess a million five
makes up for all the hassle. On the way over here, I thought you were going to fall over from exhaustion. Then, all of a sudden, you were just burning at a hundred and ten watts.”
“It's a trick. A thing you learn.” Sheela shrugged it off.
“As to the shoot, doing it is partly prestige. My face is going to be all over Spain. Gwyneth Paltrow, George Clooney, Sharon Stone—a lot of American actors have done the El Corte Inglés shoot. It's the most prestigious department store chain in charming Espana. Doing their shoot is one of those notches you cut into your pistol on the way up.”
“But you just flew in with the morning doves.” Christal glanced at her watch. “Uh, you didn't even get to go home before coming here.”
Sheela gave her a wan smile. “What's the matter, Christal? Fame and fortune not all that you thought it would be?”
“It never is, is it?”
“No.” She lowered her voice. “We had to schedule that shoot for this morning. I'm due on the set tomorrow at five. We only had today as a travel day. Bernard wants to finish up my scenes this week. It will put him four million and two weeks ahead on time and budget—and he's going to need every cent of that in postproduction to fix all the Manny scenes.”
“That encounter with Copperhead really did him in, huh?”
“There wasn't that much there to start with.” She seemed to be talking in her sleep. “He's a pretty face. No guts. They don't make many men with guts these days.”
“Lymon included?” Christal ventured.
“Lymon is definitely excluded. He's the only man I—”
“Yeah, I know.” Christal glanced out the tinted window as they turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Sunset was burning yellow through the smog and glistening off of the surrounding traffic. People were walking along the sidewalks, passing the businesses that alternately sold donuts, video disks, tattoos, lotions, cameras, and furniture from behind glass windows and beneath colorful signs. When she looked back, Sheela was watching her through heavy lids.
“You know?”
Christal nodded, feeling a pull on her long hair where the seat trapped it. “Is it really so impossible?”
Sheela closed her eyes again. “You remember that guy with the camera back there?
People
or
Us
or
National Enquirer
will hand him a couple of hundred for that roll.” A pause. “Do you have any idea how much they'd pay for a shot of Lymon and me in an intimate situation?”
“A bundle, I suppose.” She softly snapped her fingers to get Sheela to look at her before she made a slight nod toward Paul and lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
“He knows,” Sheela answered softly. “But thank you for your discretion.” She straightened, stretching her arms out in front of her. “Why am I telling you this? God I
am
tired. It's a warning of what I might blurt when I'm half-asleep.”
“It's okay,” Christal said. “Look, Sheela, if you ever need a confidante, I can keep my mouth shut.”
Sheela cranked an eye half-open again. “You know … you could make a fortune with what you could learn. Any of the big rags would pay a bundle for an inside story on Sheela Marks.”
Christal laughed out loud. “I could make a fortune smuggling coke in from Colombia, or doing hits for organized crime.” She paused, giving Sheela a wry smile. “Sorry. Not a chance. Look, I'm a native New Mexican. We're genetically predisposed to both poverty and loyalty. I guess I'll just have to keep your secrets. Anything else would be a denial of my ethnic and cultural heritage.”
Sheela smiled at that. “You're just all right, Christal Anaya. A good friend. I don't have many friends.”
She paused. “If I'm going to be your friend, I've got to tell you, I think you're killing yourself with this schedule. You keep it up, and something's going to snap.”
“I get a break as soon as we wrap
Jagged
Cat.
If I get too woozy, there are always ways of keeping sharp.”
“Chemicals?”
Sheela's eyes remained closed. “I hear censure in your voice.”
“Yeah. How many stars OD or wind up so brain-fried on that stuff that they kill their careers?”
“Most,” she whispered softly. “It's so easy. Just a little pill … and you're back. Sparkling like a Bulgari diamond and feeling as smooth as an Olay body rub. Suddenly, you're riding a jetting wave that carries you up and up, rising out of a dull grayness.”
“And then it smacks you like a bug on a bumper unless you take another one.”
“People just don't understand. I can't quit, can't call in sick. Too many people depend on me. Tomaso, Dot, Rex, Tony, Bernard, the studio.” Her voice weakened. “I carry them all, Christal. Without me, they're nothing.”
“You can't carry them all forever.”
“I'm running out of me,” Sheela murmured softly. “Running out … empty inside …”
“Hey, just get what sleep you can. I'll wake you when we're home.”
Sheela said, “Thank you, Christal,” before she nodded off.
Christal studied her face, wondering at the classic lines that had smiled down on millions from the screen. The woman made magic for the multitudes, was worshiped around the globe. So much so that a Spanish department store would chase her down and pay her a million and a half for wearing their clothes in front of a camera. All that, but Sheela couldn't be with the man she loved?
Is it worth it?
 
 
“You all right?” Lymon asked as Sheela wobbled on her feet. He caught her arm, steadying her.
She blinked and looked owlishly around the paved lot behind the studio. A row of trailers lurked along one of the high walls, each with a thick black electrical cable, water hose, and flexible sewer line running from beneath to fixtures in the pavement. The early-morning sky had an orange tone, deepened by pollution and the fires burning up in the Angeles forest. The weather guys said the wind would be changing sometime after noon to blow it all inland.
Sheela tightened her grip on Lymon and shook her head,
as if to rid herself of a bothersome insect. “Just tired, Lymon. Look, get me to my trailer. That's all. I've got time to sleep while the grips and set designers do their thing.”

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