The Athena Factor (52 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“Such as?”
“An irregularity”
“Brian, I'm right in the middle of something.”
Everly gave him that old familiar “You're an idiot” look that had grated on Gregor's nerves from the moment they'd met.
“What is it?”
“Something that you apparently missed on the Sheela Marks' chromosome six. But, what the hell, what are a couple of spare nucleotides? It's probably nothing, right, mate?”
“Where are you?”
“Lab six.”
“Be right there.” Brian flipped his PDA closed, gave one last look through the window, and headed for the door.
“Asshole Aussie! Who does he think he is? Crocodile Dundee?”
 
 
Past the tennis courts on B Deck, Lymon led them to a blank wall. The steel here had been painted white, but he could see where all the windows but one had been welded over with steel plate. An armed guard stood before the only door, a serious-looking hatch with a sophisticated lock plate and numerical pad. The guard was a big guy, and he held an MP5 sub gun in both hands. His smoky dark brown eyes seemed to say “Try me” as he watched Lymon and Sid approach. He spoke softly into a collar mike, the sibilant Arabic barely audible.
“What now, boss?” Sid asked, eyeing the guy.
“We smile … and try something else.” Lymon did just that, trying to act nonchalant as he stared around, noting the cameras and the two stairways that led to the roof. Both were closed off with the metal-grated doors. Above, just visible over the lip of the roof, was the unmistakable protrusion of a helicopter blade.
“Looks to me like that's our ride out of here.” Lymon gave the slightest nod, but Sid had already picked it up. “Yeah, assuming we can get someone to fly the thing.”
“You still tuned up from our stint in the Marines?” Lymon turned, leading the way back past the tennis courts.
“Hey,” Sid answered. “That was for five minutes, with a real pilot in the other seat. We don't even know what kind of machine that is up there. I'd kill us faster in that helicopter than that goon back there would with that sub gun.”
“Just a thought.” Lymon led the way down the stairs to the B Deck. This time it was empty, the bathing couple having gone in. The dining room had been occupied as they went out. Supper time. Lymon's belly kept reminding him.
“How's your ability with locks?”
“Damn good, as you well know.”
“That was a handy little skill you picked up. Saved our asses a couple of times, if you'll recall. Not to mention the advantages it gave us in getting into the AAFES warehouse at Camp Bondsteel.”
“We damn near got hung over that, too.”
“Yeah, but we didn't.” Lymon stopped by the pool, picking up one of the sections of aluminum rod from the cleaning accessories. “Let's see how far we get.”
“We're gonna regret this.”
“There's only one camera that points at the grating leading down to C Deck.” Lymon ran the pole back and forth in his hands. “The lock looked like a simple one. If I jar that camera just a bit out of alignment …”
“I hope Claire's satisfied with my life insurance and pension.”
“I guess she'll have to be, huh?”
O
n two different occasions in the post-9/11 world, Christal had run headlong into racial discrimination. The first time was in December of 2001 when she was asked to deplane from a commuter plane taking her from DIA in Denver to Albuquerque. The pilot, a guy with a Massachusetts accent, had said he was uncomfortable with her aboard. Only her FBI credentials and the assent of the other passengers,
most of them locals who knew what Hispanics looked like, had allowed her to continue the flight.
The second time had been in Charlotte, North Carolina, a couple of months later, when she was singled out and taken into a back room, where a female security officer had had her undress while her luggage was dismantled piece by piece because she looked “suspicious.” That time they had tried to take her FBI shield and folder to see if it had been “reproduced.”
A call to the Charlotte Field Office—where she'd been visiting—finally got her off the hook to fly, fuming, back to DC. Now, for the first time, she could actually use her dark complexion to her advantage. If all those screeners could be wrong, so, too, might the
ZoeGen
security guy, Hans.
Assuming this doesn't just get me killed.
But then, if she was going to get the hell out of there, risks had to be taken. God knew, Sheela was taking one hell of a chance just setting foot on the
ZoeGen.
The white uniform fit a little tighter than Christal would have liked. It hugged her hips and breasts a little too snugly for comfort. Nevertheless, she stood slightly behind Brian Everly where he sat peering into a microscope, and tried to look like she was jotting notes in a folder he had given her.
Surreptitiously, she glanced from the corner of her eye, seeing the camera that clung to the corner of the ceiling like a malevolent gremlin. The bulge in her skirt pocket was unsettling, as much for what it was as for what it represented.
Am I going to be able to do this?
God, it was one thing to think about it, to rehearse it in the mind's eye, but quite another to carry it out.
She took a deep breath, trying to still the pounding of her heart. In the polished surface of a stainless steel autoclave she checked her reflection: white uniform, her dark hair secured modestly behind her neck, and a pinned white technician's hat. A facial mask hung at half-staff, Brian having informed her that it was part of the uniform, as were the latex gloves protruding from her left pocket.
“Where the hell is he?” Brian muttered under his breath.
“It hasn't been but a couple of minutes since you called.” She glanced at the clock on the far wall. “Less than two, actually.”
He looked up at her, eyes pleading. “Are you sure you want to do this? Wouldn't it be better if it were me?”
“Have you ever had to kill someone, Brian?”
“No.” He cocked his head. “Have you?”
She gave a slight shake of the head, keeping her voice low. “But at least I was trained to. And I made the decision long ago that if I ever had to, I would.”
“Pray it doesn't come to that, right?”
She screwed her lips up, twisting the pronunciation to something similar to the Australian “Right, mate!”
A second later, the lab door whipped open and Gregor came striding in. In the quick glance Christal managed before she averted her face, he looked irritated. She concentrated on jotting nonsense in her folder as he crossed the room.
“Very well, Brian. This had better be good. Just what the hell is so damn important. Don't tell me it's some silly point mutation in an alu or something.”
“Take a look,” Brian said, tension dripping from his voice.
Later, Christal was sure it was nerves, rather than acting, that had made it sound so ominous, but Gregor slipped into the chair as Brian made way. Gregor's fingers went to the microscope focus as he rested his forehead against the viewer.
Brian gave Christal a pleading look as she reached into her pocket and removed the syringe. In answer she shot him a reassuring smile and stepped beside Gregor McEwan where he peered into the hooded microscope. “I don't see a bloody damned—”
Christal leaned down and jabbed the needle into his side just above the hip bone, saying, “Stand up, Gregor, and don't make a fucking move, or I'll squirt this shit right inside you.”
He froze, face still pressed against the viewer. “What the hell?”
“I said, stand up, and do it slowly. We wrapped elastic
around the plunger. That means if you twist away, the plunger drops. You get it?”
Gregor carefully pulled his head back, raising his eyes to meet Christal's. “Whatever you think you're doing, it's not going to work.”
“It's worked before,” Brian said too quickly. “It's your invention, after all. I filled the syringe with five ccs of your CAT delivery system. The one you developed for the psychologists.”
Gregor had stiffened.
“Five
ccs! You idiot, that would kill me!”
“Yes, quite,” Brian continued. “And in a most unpleasant way.”
“What's it do?” Christal asked. “You didn't have time to fill me in on all the details.”
“A small virus delivers a ribosomal RNA strand that inhibits the production of acetylcholine in the nerve cells. Without ACh, as it's called, the nerves cease to function. Gregor's dosage was infinitesimal, measured in microliters. It was just enough to put the brakes on choline acetyltrans-ferase, or CAT, in people with overactive production.”
“Right.” Christal nodded. “Whatever you said.”
“What do you want?” Gregor asked, smart enough to get with the program.
Christal leaned close, whispering, “I want you to stand up. As you do, you're going to put your arm around my waist. You know, just like I was your girlfriend. Get the picture? Then you and I are going to walk out of here, smiling and laughing like the old friends we are. After we're past the security door, you're going to take us to Sheela Marks' quarters. When we get there, we'll give you further instructions.”
Gregor closed his eyes, body stiff. She could almost hear his brain running through alternate endings to his current dilemma.
“Come on, Gregor,” she told him gently. “We're standing up now. If you don't come when I lift you, this plunger might drop a little, you know, from the awkward position and all.”
He came, rising slowly, gently, letting Christal wind her arm around his side. Brian, perspiration beading on his pale skin, took a moment to place a small towel over the offending needle so that it appeared to be draped over Christal's arm.
“You know, just a few microliters will cause me serious physiological damage, Brian.”
“Oh, yes. I'm quite aware.” Brian rubbed his hands together nervously. “I'm sure you're worried about seepage from the large-gauge needle, but we took the precaution of placing a small wax plug in the channel. Not much—just enough to ensure that if you cooperate, you'll be able to enjoy a long and prosperous future.”
Gregor took a deep breath. Christal could feel the fear radiating out of him. She could almost smell it, sour and acidic. When he looked down he could see the elastic-wrapped syringe protruding from just above his hip.
“Put your arm around me,” she insisted. “Do it slowly, gently.” She gave him a smile. “You were interested in me once, Gregor. I saw it in your eyes. What happened? Did I lose my charm?”
“You
can't
get off the ship! Neither can Marks and her people! This
isn't
going to work!”
“You'd better help us figure out a way to make it work, then,” Brian said, gesturing toward the door. “After you. Oh, and when we get to the box, you just tell Max to let us past, and that I'm wanted upstairs, you got that?”
“And if you don't”—Christal placed her lips next to his ear—“the plunger goes down. After that, you're dead, and we make up whatever story we want to.”
Gregor stared down at the hidden syringe. “Aye, I get the picture. Let's go. The sooner this is over, the sooner I get that damn thing oot o' my side.”
 
 
Gregor tried to swallow but couldn't. His mouth had gone dry, and his tongue stuck. With each step, he could feel the sting as the needle shifted in his flesh. Dear God, what if
they hadn't really plugged it? Would he begin to malfunction? Would his brain and muscles turn sluggish and then simply shut off?
He shot a glance at Brian. The man looked on the verge of doing something rash. The bunching of his jaw muscles, the fevered quickness of eye—it all bespoke a terrible desperation.
When he got a good look at Anaya's face, he could see a simple clear determination in the flesh of her dark brown eyes. Why the hell had he ever let her have the run of the deck down here? Of all the stupid mistakes! He almost tripped as panic built inside him.
“Easy,” Christal said smoothly, tightening her arm around his waist. “Don't miss a step. If you fall, this could all go very wrong.”
“You have no idea.” Sweat was beading on his face and trickling down from his armpits. What a horrible way to die. Having the nerves just shut off. His brain, his marvelous brain, would go inert, just become a gray-white blob of protein and fat from which no more dreams would be spun. All of it, everything he hadn't written down, would simply cease, locked forever between mute nerves that slowly suffocated in the lonely darkness of isolation.
“Last chance for a check,” Brian said as they rounded the corner to the security entrance. “You're sweating, Gregor.”
“I'm not the only one.”
“Take the towel. Wipe him off.” Christal indicated the cloth draped over the syringe.
Brian did, his pale blue eyes reflecting how close he was to panic. His movements were too quick, blocky. “Frightened, Brian?”
“You bet I am. If this goes wrong, we're all fucked, mate.”
“You always were a spineless shit,” Gregor answered as Brian replaced the towel.
“Yes,” Brian admitted, straightening. “I suppose so. But what the hell have I got to lose? You've seen to that, Gregor, so I suppose that you and I have finally come to the end of our little Greek tragedy. So, let's go play it out, shall we?”
“Move it,” Anaya said grimly, and her arm propelled Gregor
forward. “It's up to you, Greg. The next five minutes are going to determine how you live out your future. Your decision, buddy. Long and happy, or really short and miserable.”
He stopped before the lock plate, reaching out with a trembling arm. “I choose long and happy.” He pressed the button and leaned awkwardly, carefully, forward for the retinal scan. “Max? It's Gregor, open up.”
The door clicked, and Gregor summoned all of his courage to step into the box. He found a grin from somewhere, tightening his hold on Anaya's waist, and looked through the glass. Max was scrutinizing Brian, who looked terribly uncomfortable as he followed them in. He flinched as if at a gunshot when the heavy door clicked shut behind him.
“It's all right, Max,” Gregor called. “Brian's wanted upstairs. The Sheik wants to have a little discussion with him.”
“Sir?” Max asked, hesitating.
“I authorize it, all right? Don't take all fucking night!” Gregor roared, losing his patience. “I've got things to do!” He indicated Christal, who had her head half averted, as if embarrassed by his attentions.
The door clicked, and Gregor muttered under his breath as they stepped out into the hallway. His legs turned suddenly rubbery. Christal's supporting arm tightened reflexively.
“Good work,” Christal told him. “You even convinced me.”
“Fuck! Right. Thanks for nothing, you mean.”
“That's my Gregor,” Brian added from behind. “Pissy as an ant, even when he's getting a bleeding compliment. Which way?”
“Down the hall and to the right,” Christal said. “There shouldn't be any trouble going the way I went last time, right, Gregor?”
“Right. Whatever.”
“Yeah,” Christal agreed. “I'd hate like hell to step off the lift into a mass of gun-toting security guys. It might make me let loose of this plunger.”
“I just want this thing out of my side!” Gregor heard the whimper in his voice.
To his relief, the lift was waiting. They walked inside, Christal giving him a curious look. “B Deck?”
“Oddly enough, you're correct.”
“The suite with the swimming pool?”
“No. Across the hall.”
“Too bad,” she answered wryly as Brian pressed the button. “I could get used to that.”
To his complete surprise, Gregor had to fight back a smile as the image of Anaya's naked body formed in his mind. She still had no idea of what he'd done to her. Of his little joke. And that knowledge, insignificant as it might seem on the surface, gave him the first tiny ray of hope. He glanced up at the camera in the corner; the glassy round eye was staring down at him with a benevolence he could feel. Was Vince watching him, even now? He stared up at the lens, his mouth moving slowly to form the word “Help!”

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