The Athena Factor

by W. Michael Gear

  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 …” 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 ‘share-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.”

  “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.

  25

  Number 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?”