“Don’t be preposterous.”
“Who,” he asked mildly, “is being preposterous? You developed from a random association of deoxyribonucleic acids that programmed the synthesis of proteins into a specific pattern of organic compounds. You are the building, not the blueprint. And since you, yourself, didn’t draw the blueprint, what do you care if we initiate the construction of additional buildings?”
“I’m going to tear you apart over this.”
He chuckled, stepping back to watch as Sheela swung her feet unsteadily to the floor. Asza glanced at the Sheik, who made a small gesture with his fingers. The nurse bowed, walking on noiseless white shoes to let herself out through an ornate door. Sheela caught a glimpse of a suited guard outside. An automatic weapon hung ominously from a strap over his shoulder.
An armed guard? What was he afraid of? Lymon!
“Ms. Marks,” the Sheik said as he filled a small cup with steaming coffee, “I am not an unreasonable man. I understand and feel for your confusion. As we speak, the world is unprepared for the reality of Genesis Athena.”
“Got that right.” She placed a hand to her stomach. That empty nauseous feeling had to be hunger. How long had it been since she’d eaten? She considered trying to stand and gave it up, her head still woozy.
“Eventually, perhaps, there will be some consensus in international law about the disposition of an individual’s DNA. Most governments, however, have been reluctant to venture into such murky and obscure waters.”
“Why?”
He turned back to the machine, supple fingers plying the levers. “Politicians, for the most part, are not particularly bright or creative people. By nature they are deal makers, looking for the lowest common denominator which will maintain social stability. They do not take kindly to tackling intellectual challenges which will redefine the human condition. Thinking, especially about philosophical matters, causes them a great deal of distress. For the moment they believe it is easier—and benefits society—to allow anyone who wishes to patent any sequences of DNA they happen discover. Think of it as the carrot offered to biotech firms for their investment in recording the human genome and discovering a host of other medical applications.”
“There’s still time to change it.” She smiled grimly. “Who knows, I might just be the woman to push it through.”
He shook his head as he filled a second cup of coffee. “I think not, Ms. Marks. The cat is out of the sack, and it would be way too much trouble to chase it down again.” He looked up. “Cream or sugar?”
She felt a subtle vibration, and barely sensed movement. The Sheik, too, seemed to hesitate, a faint frown marring his forehead. Then he dismissed it, and lifted an eyebrow. “This is my own special blend, Ms. Marks. You must be famished by now.”
“Black, please.” Sheela gave in. The smell of the coffee might have been the most wonderful thing she’d ever experienced. Her stomach growled.
As he handed her one of the delicate blue and white cups, he added, “I am also a realist. I understand that the value placed on your DNA is the result of your hard work, risk, and perseverance. In essence, but for your energy and talent, it would only be so many nucleic acids strung between pentase sugars. A mere one of six billion, if you will.”
“What a delightful way to think of it.”
“But valid, nonetheless.”
“And?”
“And I am willing to offer you a royalty on all revenues we make off your genotype. If you involve yourself in the sales and marketing, we would be happy to offer you a higher percentage, one negotiated on your participation. But for now, if we assume all obligation for marketing and publicity, we will send you a statement biannually for three percent of our net.”
Shit! He was serious. He wanted her to help sell her clones!
“I’m sorry it can’t be more, but one never knows. You might take some action which damages the value before we recoup our investment in you.”
“Such as?”
His shoulder lifted slightly. “We know the genetic and degenerative diseases you are predisposed to and can compensate for them, but what if you ruin our investment through a willful act?”
“How could I do that?” She tried to keep the anticipation out of her voice.
“Suicide.”
An image of her father’s face flashed in her mind as she said flatly, “Not a chance.”
“Questionable religious or political associations could damage your value.” His lips quirked. “Say, a newfound affiliation with the Raelians.”
“Raelians? I think that’s a bit unlikely. As to the politics, I’ll keep that in mind next time ambitious Democrats swing through town on a fund-raiser.”
“You might become involved in criminal activity such as drug dealing, involvement in homicide, or sexual aberrations with children or livestock.”
Livestock?
She shook her head and made a face. “Maybe you’ve guessed, but I didn’t come here looking for money.”
“Indeed?” He gave her a grim smile. “Then what?” Before she could answer, he said, “Ah, but of course, justice! The great grail to which we all aspire in the end.” His thin lips curled. “And just how, Ms. Marks, did you intend on obtaining your justice? Perhaps through a legal suit, since your attorney was the only party privy to your arrival?”
“How did you know that?”
He shrugged off her question. “We operate in international waters. You would have to file suit against us in a Yemeni court. I am a personal friend and supporter of President Salih. Our law is Islamic. I don’t think you would appreciate or approve of the final judgment.”
“Your people stole my DNA in the United States.”
“For which I deeply apologize, and offer a financial restitution.” He shrugged. “What is your embarrassment worth, Ms. Marks? Perhaps I could make a fifty percent investment in your next film?”
“Look, I want my stolen DNA destroyed. I want your guarantee that you won’t use it to make little Sheela babies. You do that, and I’ll collect my people—including Christal Anaya—and be out of here on the next boat. After that, you and I will have no further association. Deal?”
He studied her through half-lidded eyes. “Ms. Marks, you are a formidable woman, but you are not in any position to be making demands. Genesis Athena has fulfilled its obligations to you. I have given you my offer. I think it is a very generous one.” His smile sharpened. “Do you wish to accept?”
“No, actually, I think we’ll do this the hard way. In the courts.” She tried to stand, swayed, and sat down again, clutching at her empty coffee cup.
“You will need time to recover from the anesthetic, Ms. Marks,” the Sheik observed dryly. “Perhaps we will talk again when you’re feeling a little better.” He raised his voice, calling, “Achmed!”
The door opened to reveal the armed guard. A quick mix of Arabic passed between them, and Asza appeared with a wheelchair. She smiled as she locked the wheels in front of Sheela, asking, “Are you ready, Ms. Marks?”
“For what?”
“I’m here to take you back to your quarters. You’ll feel a great deal better after you’ve eaten and slept.”
She helped Sheela move into the wheelchair. “Thanks for the coffee,” Sheela called over her shoulder. “But we’re not through yet.”
His waspish smile mocked her. “No. But we will be … and very soon, Ms. Marks.”
The door cut off any reply.
52
By placing heel to toe, Lymon could make eight steps in one direction and five in the other. The cramped steel cubicle had been painted in thick layers of white, and a single recessed bulb glowed from behind a wire mesh screwed to the ceiling. The heavy waterproof hatch that opened to the corridor had been firmly dogged. Whoever the thoughtful party had been who had remodeled it, he’d forgotten to leave a handle on the inside.
The room was naked of fixtures or furniture. Sid squatted in one corner, a tired look on his face. His hands wer
e limply propped on his knees, wrists protruding from his rumpled suit coat. Standing above him, Lymon could see Sid’s scalp beginning to gleam through sparse dark hair on the top of his head. God, Sid was too fucking young to be going bald.
“Sorry I got you into this,” Lymon told him hollowly.
“Wasn’t your fault, boss. I sent Christal to you, if you’ll recall.” He smiled sheepishly. “Funny thing about Christal. Shit just happens around her. But for her, we’d have never found the lynchpin that tied my geneticists to your tampon theft. It’s like—hell, I don’t know—she’s some sort of lightning magnet, you know?”
“Believe me, I’ve been figuring that out.” Lymon paced anxiously back to the door, shoving on it with all his might. That did him about as much good as dining on dinosaurs.
Lymon felt a faint vibration through the hull and a subtle shift in his balance. They were moving. Headed where? Farther out to sea where the bodies wouldn’t be washing into the shipping lanes like Nancy Hartlee’s?
Sid said, “You know, I believe that story about her grandma being a witch. It has to be some deep-seated occult thing. Nobody else could draw this much shit down.” He frowned. “Assuming Christal’s here.”
“She’s here. Her kidnappers are here, which means they probably brought her here.” Lymon smacked the thick hatch with the meaty bottom of his fist. “No, actually, I hope she’s someplace else. This is starting to look a little grim. You felt this thing start to move?”
“Yep. And I don’t think they’re headed in to the navy pier in Manhattan, either.” A pause. “How do you think they got onto us so fast? Neal Gray?”
“Maybe. Hell, it could have been Hank. He might have seen us come aboard.” Lymon shook his head. “They were ahead of us from step one. As soon as they had us separated, they took Sheela. Then, when they had the other clients safely out of the way, they swept us up like bugs on a waxed hardwood floor.”
Sid smacked his lips, the frown deepening on his forehead. Finally he asked, “So, what do you think they’re going to do with us?”
“What can they do to us? Charge us with bringing guns aboard?” Lymon slapped his arms to his side, lying: “Nah, my guess is that they’re putting pressure on Sheela, and when it’s all finished and she agrees to whatever they want, we’ll be bundled aboard that launch and sent back to shore.”
Sid gave him a flat look.
“What else can they do?” Lymon cried, trying to believe it himself. “You’re an FBI agent. People are going to be missing you. There’s a kidnapping involved. Sheela is here. They’ve got to cut some kind of deal with her. Whatever it is, we’ll be part of it.”
“Uh-huh.” Sid stared at his hands, expression tight. “You know, I never did right by Claire.”
“What the hell brought that in out of the blue?”
“I should have treated her better.” He looked away. “She always hated DC.”
“So, when you get out of here, move someplace else.”
“I will.” But he said it flatly, then looked up. “Lymon, let’s be honest, shall we? We know an awful lot about them. Who their people are, what they’re doing.”
“You’re a federal agent. They won’t mess with you.”
“Joe Hanson, one of the guys at the WMFO, was taken out when I first got assigned there. Held hostage for a couple of days; the bad guys liquored him up and drove him off a cliff. Being an agent isn’t always sacrosanct.”
“Sheela will work it out.” Lymon rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s going to mean a chunk out of her hide, one way or another, but she’ll do it.”
“And then?”
“You and I will spend the rest of our lives worshiping at her feet. I don’t know what they’ll ask of her, but you can bet it won’t be easy.”
Sid was watching him. “She’d do that? Sell her soul to save us?”
Lymon sighed, nodded reluctantly, and sank down on the cold steel floor beside Sid. “You don’t know her like I do. It’s the price she’s always had to pay to do what had to be done. She gives up little pieces of her soul for other people all the time. Most of them, like Rex, are sophisticated cannibals who devour her bit by tiny bit. It’s a wonder she’s not a hollow shell these days.”
“Yeah, well, I hope for both our sakes that you’re right.”
For long moments Lymon fixed his gaze on the endless white of their tiny cell. “It’s all backwards. I’m supposed to be saving her. It’s my job.”
Silence.
Sid softly asked, “You think Christal’s all right?”
“Yeah.” But he didn’t mean it. “How’d Hank Abrams end up being such a shit?”
“Bad genes.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“The guy’s always been an asshole!” Sid exclaimed. “You just cut an asshole a little more slack if he happens to be on your team.”
“What turned him to the Dark side?”
“Money, ambition, the chance to screw Christal …” Sid went white. “Shit, you don’t think …”
Lymon pursed his lips. “Maybe. It’s a crummy world. Assuming we’re all dropped someplace with our hearts still beating and allowed to go home, we’re going to have to treat those ladies with a great deal of compassion and care.”
“You think that’s the price of our freedom?”
Lymon studied the calluses on his hands. “If that’s what it takes to buy our freedom, Sheela will go through with it. But what about later? What do you say when you’re looking her in the eyes? ‘Thank you’ sounds a little trite. Where do you find the words to tell them the things in your soul?”
“Beats me.”
They stared at the walls in silence then, waiting, for … what?
“Think they’ll ever feed us?”
“Hank didn’t strike me as a compassionate, caring kind of guy.”
Lymon took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He just sat, one finger on the pulse in his wrist. He was fully aware of each beat of his heart. How much longer was he going to be able to enjoy that sensation?
Truth was, Sid had a high probability of being right. It would be just as easy to march them to the railing in the middle of the night, pop a cap into each of their skulls, and let them drop over the side. As to Sheela, she could disappear into some mansion in the Yemeni back country, and no one would be the wiser. Christal? For all he knew, she’d already fallen prey to something terrible.
He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the greased dogs on the hatch slide back. It was Sid’s elbow that brought him to his feet. He started and gaped.
Christal stood in the open hatch, a heavy bag hanging from one hand. She was decked out in a too-tight white nurse’s uniform. Grinning, she said, “Hi, boss. Hi, Sid. So, tell me, did I miss much?”
As Christal swung the heavy bag across the room to Lymon, she said, “I found that on a table in the security center. All those guns and a flash-bang! I’d never have guessed they were yours except for the billfolds, and I’d know Sid’s lockpicks anywhere.”
“How the hell did you find us?” Sid cried, stepping forward to throw his arms around her.
“I was having the most fascinating talk with a guy named Vince up in the security center. Did you know that they’ve got the most incredible system of cameras and microphones on this boat? You can hear a mouse fart three decks away.”
She watched Lymon work the slide to check the round in the chamber, and then shove the HK into its underarm holster.
Sid—grinning from ear to ear—let her loose, asking, “Are you all right?” as he took his turn at the bag. He grinned as he stuffed his precious lockpicks and his billfold into pockets. Last came a set of keys, a small Maglite, and a Spyderco folder.
“Fine, but we’d better be rolling. We’re two decks down from the security center. It’s not far, but it’s still dicey. I could have left you here, safe, but I took a chance on springing you when I did. It’s a gamble either way.”
“Where’s the other g
un?” Sid asked as he shoved his billfold into his back pocket.
“I’ve got it. Let’s beat feet.” She turned, starting down the corridor and pulling the HK Compact from her right hip pocket. “This isn’t a sure thing by any means. A whole lot of shit could still come down.”
“Where are Hank and his goons?” Lymon asked from behind her.
“Right now they’re in a strategy session with the Sheik. Sheela was up in his stateroom, or whatever the hell you call it. It’s like a castle atop the A Deck behind the stack. Pretty ritzy place, I’d guess. It’s also the only place on this hulk that isn’t wired.”
“You saw Sheela?”
“Yeah.” Christal shot a hard look over her shoulder. “She looks a little wobbly. Just a guess, mind you, but I think they’re keeping her disoriented, maybe as a means of softening her up, or maybe it’s just for security reasons.”
“How long have you been here?” Sid asked.
“Seems like forever. I don’t know. Last thing I remember was going home with groceries in LA, seeing Hank behind me on the steps, and bam! waking up here.”
“They just let you wander around?” Lymon asked as he stuffed things from the bag into his pockets.
She gave him the look she reserved for idiots, and added, “Boss, if they catch any of us, they’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”
Lymon was eyeing the cameras they hurried past.
“It’s all right,” Christal told him. “As long as our luck holds, no one’s at the monitors. But we sure as hell don’t want to loaf.”
“What about your friend, Vince?” Lymon shot a fast glance back the way they’d come. “I’ve had conversations with him before. He didn’t seem like the fun and forgiving kind.”
“He’s having a very close-up and personal encounter with a roll of duct tape.” She led them up a stairway. “Boss, there’s one thing you need to know.”
“Lay it on me.”
The Athena Factor Page 52