The Athena Factor

  Dot was building up to say something when Lymon waved her down. “Go with it, Christal. Hell, you’ve been here for twenty-four hours, and we’ve already got results.”

  “What?” Dot asked. “We’d have found that shit on the Web site eventually.”

  Lymon wondered, “But would we have dealt with it as effectively?”

  “Hey!” Christal straightened. “You didn’t take my advice, did you? I was dead tired. Not thinking.”

  Lymon gave her a soldier’s grin. “Hey, Chris, this is the private sector. You’re not a fed anymore. You get paid for results here. It would have been such a pain in the ass to travel all the way to Kuala Lumpur to bust the guy’s legs and then have to speak politely to him. It would have hurt my facial muscles.”

  “Right. Glad to be of service, but the laws that control—”

  “Come on, Christal.” Lymon headed for the door. “We don’t have time to chat. We’re almost late as it is.”

  With fingertips, Hank Abrams drew designs in the moist surface of the glass. The bar’s soft lighting cast amber tones through the bourbon. The tremble had left his hands. He still hated them.

  Self-loathing was a terrible thing. He didn’t understand it. Ever since Marsha had thrown him out of the house, he’d wanted to hurt himself. To take something jagged and sharp—a broken bottle, twisted rusty tin—and rake his arms and chest. He wanted to sting and bleed.

  God, we’re fucked-up creatures! He stared at his fingers as they traced figure eights on the sweating tumbler and tried to ignore the sounds of the bar. Patrons were talking in low tones, laughing. A table of men no more than two steps away were talking football. He fumed at the easy jocularity in their voices. They still had lives. Homes, wives, jobs to return to.

  His eyes narrowed, remembering Christal. Her eyes were looking into his, smoky and challenging. He could remember the light in her ink-black hair, the set of her sharp cheeks. Narrow at the waist, she filled a pair of jeans perfectly. God, he’d wanted her from the moment he’d first seen her.

  Enough to totally fuck up your life?

  It shouldn’t have happened that way. Hell, it had just been the two of them in the surveillance van. How had anyone been able to get pictures? Who would have known they’d fuck that night? It had been the first time—the only time. Nothing planned, really—it had just happened. As if the moon and stars had been in the right alignment.

  In his misery he’d remained unaware of the man. Surprised, he looked up to see a thin dark-complected face, thick black eyebrows, a narrow nose, and terse mouth. The guy wore a fedora and a dark suit coat. His eyes looked like black marbles.

  “Yeah?” Hank asked.

  “May I sit?” The guy indicated the other chair.

  “Uh, I’d appreciate it if you took one of those tables over there.” He pointed across the bar. “Got someone coming, you know?”

  The man’s eyes never left Hank’s as he pulled out a chair and sat. “You look like a man looking for a job.”

  On the verge of telling Fedora to fuck off, Hank hesitated. “And just what makes you think that?”

  Fedora shrugged.

  Hank flicked a finger to indicate the hat. “That’s a little dated, isn’t it? If you’re trying to look like a 1930s gangster, you’ve got the part down pat. But for the twenty-first century it makes you look a little hokey.”

  “I am Salim, Mr. Abrams.”

  Hank’s alarm bells began going off. He straightened. “Just how the hell would you know my name?”

  “A mutual friend.” Salim smiled. “For the moment his name need not concern us. Let us just say that he thinks you got a bum rap. He contacted me about your situation.”

  “And when I find out who, I’m going to bust his ass,” Hank muttered darkly. “I don’t need any son of a bitch fucking with my life just now. And I sure as hell don’t need you and whatever your scheme is. I’ve got enough trouble.”

  Salim smiled. “I have no scheme, Mr. Abrams. I come to offer you a job.” He touched the tips of his fingers together. “My sources tell me that you had Gonzales, but for an unfortunate circumstance. We were impressed by that.”

  Hank tightened his fingers around his glass. “You want to know something? Your loudmouthed friend in the Bureau is going to get his balls chopped off one of these days.”

  Salim shrugged. “Where are they going to transfer you to?”

  “Why should I talk to you?” Even through the slight buzz, his cop’s instincts were vibrating. “In fact, why shouldn’t I just pick up the phone and call a couple of friends of mine? Here you are, whack, right out of the blue, knowing all about me, and no doubt about to pitch something that’s too good to be true. Why do I smell shit?”

  Salim smiled thinly. “This isn’t a movie, Special Agent Abrams. I do not represent a drug cartel or money laundering ring looking to exploit a down-on-his-luck agent. Here’s my card.” He flipped out a business card. “Take some time. Do some research—through the Bureau, if you’d like.”

  Hank narrowed his eyes, feeling the tingle around his senses. Wishing now that the guy had shown up two drinks ago before the bourbon had slipped its muzzy fingers through his brain.

  The card proclaimed VERELE SECURITY. It gave a New York City address and phone with an e-mail address.

  “Security, huh?”

  “We’re licensed and registered. We specialize in executive protection.” Salim gave him a faint smile. “We work for the good guys, too.”

  “So, why come to me?”

  “Let me return to my question: Where are they transferring you to?”

  “El Paso. You ever been to El Paso?”

  Salim shook his head.

  “Me neither. But, shit, I guess I’m going.” He glanced up. “You know where I live?”

  “I have your address. When I called there, Mrs. Abrams said she didn’t know where you were, or care, for that matter.”

  “Right.”

  “Your personal relations do not concern me. I’ve been sent to see if you’d be interested in executive security. Finding people is never hard. Local police will generally work for us when they’re off-duty. But finding good people is always a challenge. Depending on your capabilities, the wages can be quite good. And, well, how do I say this, the environment will be a great deal more salubrious than in El Paso.”

  Suspicion bubbled up in his blood. First the photos were taped to his door for Marsha to find. Now this guy shows up? It tasted like an ambush to him, but who was the leak in the Bureau?

  “Before I go any further, I need to know who sent you to me.”

  Salim studied him for a moment with sharp brown eyes. “Fair enough. The assistant director. For reasons that I would hope you could understand, we would appreciate your discretion in this matter. Please don’t charge into his office tomorrow morning demanding at the top of your lungs to know if he referred you to us.”

  Hank frowned. “The AD? The guy who just canned my ass?”

  Salim sat back and removed his hat. “Agent Abrams, you have been around long enough to know that good people are often caught in situations that spiral out of control. The Gonzales case is one of those. As to how that camera got placed in the van, who knows? Gonzales didn’t get to where he is by being an idiot. He knew you were closing in, and he fought back.” He lifted a thoughtful eyebrow. “It’s only a guess, Mr. Abrams, but I’d say that all things in perspective, professionally destroying you and Agent Anaya was his only way out. He wanted you beaten and broken … with your personal and professional lives destroyed.”

  Had Gonzales sent the photos to Marsha just like he’d sent them to Peter Wirthing? They’d been in a plain manila envelope, labeled in black ink. Both times. “I’ll get the son of a bitch in the end.”

  Salim waited in respectful silence, then said, “Not from El Paso, you won’t. And not through the Bureau. He’s wise to you.”

  “Is that why you hunted me down? Because of Gonzales?”

  “No. I’m h
ere because you are a highly trained agent with skills that my company could use. As far as Mr. Gonzales is concerned, he’s beaten you. You and he were playing a very high-stakes game. A smart man understands that. That he managed to exploit such a minor weakness is an example of not only his skill, but yours. You can let what happened crawl around under your skin until you end up broken, bitter, and ruined; or you can accept that at this time and place, Mr. Gonzales squeaked out the narrowest of victories. Your choice is to drown in self-pity or go on to bigger and better things.”

  “Which you are here to provide.”

  “Maybe. I haven’t made up my mind yet. And the final decision will rest with my boss in New York. You’re half drunk, surly, and depressed.”

  “What do you pay?”

  “If you can convince us that you are worth it, we would start your salary at sixty thousand a year. Please remember the if in that sentence. You must prove your worth to us. If you’ve got chops, it would rise. Security supervisors in my company make between one hundred and one-fifty a year.” He smiled. “That, of course, does not include any gratuities that our clients might feel obligated to bestow upon you for services rendered. Our clients include some of the richest men in the world. To some of them, a twenty-thousand-dollar tip is but a pittance.”

  “And all I have to do is sign on the bottom line?”

  “It would depend on if you could satisfy my employer and me. Tell me, Agent Abrams, are you really any good, or are you a fuckup? Answer that question honestly. If you’re the first, come look us up. If you’re the latter, go to El Paso, bury yourself, and don’t waste either our time or your superiors’.” He stood, slipping his hat onto his head. “Good evening.”

  Hank Abrams watched him walk away, stunned and, truth be told, curious.

  11

  So, here I am, watchdog instead of wolf. The notion rolled around in Christal’s head. Sid had been right. There was life after falling on the sword. If she’d gone to war with the Bureau, she’d have been up to her neck in lawyers, facing public instead of just professional humiliation, and making nowhere near three hundred dollars a day to stand around a plush ballroom at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel trying to place names to faces she’d seen at the Cineplex down from her Virginia apartment.

  “It’s simple,” Lymon had explained to her. “All you have to do is keep an eye on Sheela. Nothing intrusive, just be close. Guests will be screened at the door, of course, and the hotel has its house security on alert. We’re just backup. Howard and Jack worked a complete advance last night. You’ll be there with me, Salavatore, and Wu.”

  Salvatore fit the bill for the old adage of tall, dark, and handsome; he had a strong jaw and fierce brown eyes. She figured him for his midthirties, really fit, with a bodybuilder’s physique. If he hadn’t been a football jock in college, she couldn’t guess them. He worked part-time for LBA. His day job, if you could call it that, was security for a software company in Venice where he worked four ten-hour shifts a week.

  Wu was short for Yan Zan Wu, a barrel-chested Chinese guy, late twenties, with a round and appropriately inscrutable face. He made her think of Odd Job in the Goldfinger movie until she discovered he worked part-time for LBA, too, while he finished his Ph.D. in physics at UCLA.

  As she tagged along in Sheela’s wake, she tried not to look conspicuous and shot lethal glances in Lymon’s direction. He was orbiting off Sheela’s left, never more than five quick paces away. She figured she could kill him later. Lymon hadn’t thought to send her back upstairs for makeup that afternoon. She’d donned her best dress, true, but now she felt like a dolt being the only woman in the room except for a bald female rock star, whose name she’d missed, without at least the benefit of blush.

  In contrast, Sheela looked ravishing in a white Narciso Rodriguez dress that complemented her red-blond hair. Her face had been made up with Paula Dorf powder, iridescent eyeliner, and apricot lip gloss.

  “So, you’re the fed?” A blond man interrupted her pique as he stepped up to her side.

  “Excuse me?” She took his measure: Blond, athletic, and tanned, he looked really good. She liked the sparkle in his blue eyes and the nonaggressive smile. Damn! The guy had enough gold hung around his neck to lure Coronado back from the grave.

  “You don’t look like a federal agent,” he added, the smile displaying nice teeth.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet. I’m Tony Zell.” He offered his hand, adding, “Sheela’s agent.”

  “Christal Anaya. Lymon Bridges Associates.” She took a step to close the distance to Sheela. “I’m the FNG.”

  “FNG?” He looked confused.

  “Fresh new girl,” she punned, watching to see if he got it. He didn’t, and she was unsure what to make of that.

  “You’re supposed to find out what happened to Sheela in New York.”

  “You don’t sound enthusiastic about that.”

  He shrugged, waving at someone who called “Hiya Tony.” “I don’t know. I’m in the minority. It was probably just a fan getting his kicks. Bragging rights, you know.”

  “He hasn’t been bragging yet,” she said, walking slowly as Sheela moved. How did the woman do it? Sheela’s smile never wavered, she seemed to know everyone, and a genuine excitement sparkled in her blue eyes. Every movement was poised, graceful, and sinuous.

  “What? So, you’ve been to every bar in New York?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “What makes you think New York?”

  “Well, that’s where it happened.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? That’s where Sheela got mugged, right?”

  She shrugged. “Sheela’s not the only celeb involved here.”

  He glanced around, adding, “Uh, it’s not my place to judge, but what are you doing here?”

  “Working,” she added pleasantly as she led him another step, keeping her distance from Sheela’s knot of people. “Lymon wants me to familiarize myself with this aspect of the business.”

  “You don’t look anything like what a female FBI agent should look like.” He snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, extending one in her direction.

  “Sorry, I’m on duty. Apparently you didn’t see Miss Congeniality or you’d know FBI agents can come in all sizes and shapes.”

  He laughed at that, still offering the champagne flute. “Here, at least hold it. You’ll make me feel better.”

  She took it, looking past him, trying to concentrate on the people hovering around Sheela.

  After sipping his drink, he asked, “Why do I get the feeling that you’re only half here?”

  “Because I’m on the job, Mr. Zell. Having you here, acting like we’re having a discussion, removes attention from me. Therefore you’re welcome to walk with me, assuming you don’t get tired of talking to a wallflower.”

  “So, are you, like, always on the job?”

  “They’re paying me too much to waste precious time on myself.”

  “Hey, you’ve got to eat and sleep sometimes.”

  “Mr. Bridges doesn’t seem to think so. He has developed this early habit of calling me at odd hours.”

  He seemed to digest that for a moment. “You ever think of films? Acting, I mean. You might try a screen test sometime.”

  That broke her concentration, and she stared flatly at him. “What? Are you kidding?”

  He gave her an offhanded shrug. “I’m an agent. I’m always looking for new people. It’s what I do. It wouldn’t hurt to try. Talent comes from strange places. You’re a beautiful woman … .” He made a face, as if searching for the right word. “Moxie. That’s it. You’ve got moxie … a certain chutzpah that gives you presence.”

  She grinned crookedly before returning her attention to Sheela. “Are you hitting on me, Mr. Zell?”

  “No.” He backtracked too fast, adding to her amusement. “I’m serious about the screen test.”

  The auburn-haired woman caught Christal’s
attention. She couldn’t have said why—just a quality in the woman’s eyes, the way she moved. Call it predatory. Christal estimated her at five-foot-seven, tanned, with a classic Nordic face and burnished hair that streaked into sun-bleached yellow highlights. She wore a copper-colored form-fitting pantsuit that emphasized her muscular body. Skin-tight gloves covered her hands, and she held a flat purse the size of a hardback novel. More to the point, her serious gray eyes had fixed on Sheela with a feline intensity.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Zell.” She handed him back the untouched champagne.

  He turned, following her gaze, and took a moment to study the woman. “Quite a number.” He paused, and she could feel his gaze when it returned to her. “What is it about her that makes you nervous?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  Christal stepped around a knot of tuxedo-dressed men and smiled when one asked, “Hey, Tony! Who’s this?”

  “Business associate,” he answered smoothly. “I’ll introduce you later.”

  The copper-headed woman had moved, calmly dismissing a young man who tried to talk to her. Bingo. She wasn’t just socializing.

  At that moment Sheela said something to the people surrounding her, gave them a gracious smile, and stepped away from her party. She clutched her handbag, walking purposely toward the women’s restroom. Salvatore had picked her up, shadowing her right flank.

  To Christal’s surprise, Copperhead—as she’d tagged the woman—seemed to anticipate it and stepped into the ladies’ room door a good ten seconds ahead of Sheela.

  “Mr. Zell, it’s been nice chatting with you.”

  “Hey”—he gestured with the untouched champagne—“I don’t want to be a nuisance, but maybe dinner sometime? Nothing serious, just a chance—”

  “Sure.”

  Salvatore had posted himself at one side to wait. He seemed completely at ease.

  “Hole in your security, Lymon,” she muttered as she skipped quickly to catch the door as it swung shut behind Sheela. Bright lights, mirrors, and red velvet-covered benches furnished the powder room. The three women who sat there seemed oblivious, patting and painting, applying lipstick amidst the usual facial gyrations as they gazed into the mirrors.