“I’m into the normal man-woman thing. Always have been. I was referring to your private equipment.”
“God, I love it when you blush.” She chugged more of her beer. “Lymon, when they finally put Jagged Cat in the can, why don’t you and I go away somewhere and I’ll let you run any kind of equipment checks you want.”
She saw a stirring in the depths of his hazel eyes as he said, “Why on earth do you think you could stand me?”
“Because you’re a man. A real one. I’m tired of all these artsy-fartsy, sensitive, soul-bleeding Hollywood types.” She turned, pulling her knee up between her hands and looking him in the eyes. “Tell me, if some woman cut off a piece of your male part, would you break down and turn into a sniveling idiot?”
His grizzled smile sent a throb through her. “Lady, the woman ain’t alive who could get that close to me with anything sharp. And if she did to me what she did to de Clerk, I’d be after her in a way she wouldn’t want to consider in her baddest nightmares.”
“You could hurt a woman?”
His expression had taken on a hard edge. “Oh, yeah.” He paused and looked uncomfortably away. “You don’t want to know.”
“What if I do?”
He studied his hands for a moment, then picked at a fingernail. “You might not like me as much as you think you do.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“Forget it.”
“Lymon, I’d like to know.”
He gave her a long and intense look before he said, “A bunch of Al Qaeda got the bright idea that if they used women, they could get close to us. That we wouldn’t suspect them. You know, given the Al Qaeda perspective on the sexes, and all. It worked, too. Three ladies in burkas. They walked right up the road, reached out from under their burkas, and tossed a bunch of grenades at us.”
“And?”
His eyes were smoldering when he looked back at her. “Me and most of my guys walked away. They didn’t. It’s a simple equation.”
“Does it bother you, this simple equation of yours?”
“Yes and no.” When he saw she wasn’t going to relent, he added, “Of course it bothers me. It bothers anyone normal when he has to kill people. I got out because I started to like it. As to those particular women, I waffle. Maybe they were innocent victims, told by men who had power over them to do this thing; and, having no other recourse, they did it. Or maybe they wanted to see us blown to bits. I don’t know which is true. But in the final analysis they were trying to kill me and my people because we were Americans. In combat you do what you’ve got to do.”
She decided to change the subject. “So, why does Krissy think she can have my baby?”
“I don’t know. Krissy’s nuts. Blow it off.”
“Yeah, but if you’ll recall, she’s filthy rich as well as insane. That’s a bad combination.”
“Yeah, a bad combination, all right.” He gave her that look that melted her insides. “Just like when security personnel mix with their clients.”
20
GENESIS ATHENA. The words flashed on the screen. For background, a faint blue image of a robe-clad woman with a nice figure, a shield, and spear—Athena, perhaps?—could be seen superimposed on the forehead of a bearded man’s face. Who? Zeus? What did that mean?
Christal sat in her kitchen, a half-empty cup of coffee to one side. She used her finger to move the cursor onto the words and watched as the arrow turned into a pointing finger. She tapped the pressure-sensitive mouse pad with her index finger and watched the letters dissolve to reveal the questionnaire.
Christal frowned, sipped her coffee, and read through the questions. They started innocuously enough. Name. Address. Sex. Occupation. Age. Level of education, and so forth.
On impulse, she pressed the Print Screen button and listened to her small printer whirring as it warmed up. Then, one by one, the pages slid out. She checked, just to see that it had indeed printed, and then returned to her screen.
“Do I want to do this?” She twitched her lips. “Sure, what have I got to lose?”
Under name, she typed in Christal Anaya.
At address, she gave her mother’s post office box in Nambe. For occupation, she stated that she was self-employed. After all, what was the sense in being honest? This was just to see what happened, right?
Under marital status she typed Single.
Children? None.
Roommates? She hesitated, considering the wisdom of stating that she lived alone, and answered Two. Sex? popped up immediately afterward. She added Female.
In the yearly income column she arbitrarily typed in $50,000. Under assets, she listed that she owned her own home, valued at one hundred and fifty thousand. She said she was financing a Honda Accord. Further, she stated that she did not have outstanding loans, and owned no stocks, bonds, or investment real estate. Her sole form of income was from her employment.
Did she have a criminal record? No.
Had she been treated for mental disorders? No.
How often did she see a physician? Once a year.
What for? Routine pelvic exam.
She was asked to numerically rank her shopping venues. She listed going to the store as one, catalog as two, by telephone as three, and Internet as four.
How many credit cards did she have? Two.
Under hobbies, she facetiously typed Stamp collecting, big game hunting, and reading romance novels.
How many times a month, week, or day, did she leave her house? She said three times a day. Did she go alone? Yes.
How many times a week did she date? She grinned maliciously as she typed Three. Did she see one man, or several? She typed Several as she said, “I’m one hot chick.”
The next question asked her to think carefully and answer honestly. How many people could she actually name that she would consider living with for a year in the same room? She thought for a while before typing As of today, none.
She was asked to imagine her bathroom. Rank the order in which the following were important to have. She chose: toilet-12, shower-11, sink-10, light-9, mirror-8, medicine cabinet-7, flooring-6, heater-5, tub-4, trash can-3, wall paper-2, window-1.
What on earth was that about? She sipped her coffee, perplexed at the nature of the question.
How often did she go to the movies? Twice a month.
Who were her two favorite stars? She chose Sheela Marks and Manuel de Clerk.
If she had to choose one movie on a given night, would she choose to see Sheela or de Clerk? Without hesitation she typed in Sheela’s name.
How many times did she see Sheela on screen, VHS, TV, or DVD in a given year, month, week, day? Christal opted for three times a year.
At that moment, a line of text appeared in bright blue, stating,
THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION IN TAKING THE GENESIS ATHENA QUESTIONNAIRE. ALL INFORMATION IS COMPLETELY CONFIDENTIAL AND USED FOR GENESIS ATHENA’S ONGOING MARKET RESEARCH. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR YOUR TIME.
Christal hit her page up button, but nothing happened. Then a small icon appeared at the lower left-hand corner—a box that said
EXIT NOW.
Christal clicked it, and the screen returned her to the Sheela Marks’ Web site where she had originated. The little Genesis Athena patch key was now colorless. When Christal rolled the cursor down and tapped it, nothing happened.
“Now, that’s weird,” she muttered.
Leaning back she tossed off the last of her cold coffee and picked up the sheets she had copied with the Print Screen command. She started at the top, thinking about the answers she had given, and then stopped short.
“Wait a minute.” Her frown deepened. “That’s not the same question I was asked.”
She stared, sure that she hadn’t been asked how many close friends she had. Or to choose which of those friends she would tell an embarrassing secret.
She tapped the cursor again where it rested on the Genesis Athena patch. Still nothing.
“I don’t get it.
I know I didn’t answer this question.”
Scanning down the pages, she found others that she hadn’t seen. If that was the case, if it wasn’t just her faulty memory, what the hell did it mean?
Sid Harness took a sip from his cup and grimaced. He knew without asking that Sam Murphy had made the coffee. Murphy came from South Dakota. He had grown up on a cattle ranch on the fringe of the Black Hills. Supposedly cowboys made coffee that would “float a horseshoe.” It was bullshit. People in the West made coffee like water. If a person wanted real coffee, he had to go to Seattle or the East Coast.
With his mind knotted around that, Sid walked to his small office and flipped on the lights. He was still burping Claire’s breakfast of eggs and sausage. She liked the really spicy stuff.
Sid sat down at his desk and awakened his computer. His In basket had no more than five memos in it. A good day. But Pete Wirthing was out for the week, so the official BS had slowed to a trickle. Some papers sat in the rack on his fax, but he ignored them for the moment.
Pulling up his e-mail, Sid scanned through the communiqués from Los Angeles and Boston. Nothing had happened on the disappearance of the missing geneticists from either city.
He read through the official junk mail sent from the office of personnel, the Justice Department, as well as the Bureau per se, and ditched it.
Then a note with Christal’s address popped up on the screen. Sid grinned and opened it. Christal, now there was a lady who knew how to make a breakfast.
Hi Sid:
I’m faxing a copy of a questionnaire that I pulled off of a Web page at genesisathena.com. When I filled out the questionnaire on screen the questions weren’t the same. Could you do me a real big favor and send a copy down to the behavioral science guys at Quantico? Something about this isn’t right. Which brings me to favor number two. Could you run Genesis Athena through ViCAP and NCIC when you get a spare moment? I’d be interested to know if it red-flags. I know I’m out on a limb here, asking you this. Don’t do anything that could have you standing in for an investigation from the Office of Professional Responsibilities. If you can’t do this, just e-mail me back with a simple no. I’ll understand.
Forever the Best,
Christal
Genesis Athena? Sid stared at the name. He reached for the pages in the metal carrier under the fax, discarded a couple of memos he had already read on-screen, and found the pages referred to in Christal’s e-mail.
He scanned the contents, then read the questions with a greater interest. No, it wasn’t quite right. He could see what had tripped Christal’s trigger. Something about the questions bothered him, too.
On impulse, he reached into a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and marked the delivery box NCAVC for National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime—the old Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico. What the hell. If anyone asked, he’d just tell them he was following up on a hunch.
Then he ran the name “Genesis Athena” into the computers, feeling forever thankful that the Bureau had passed beyond the old Louis Freeh days when computers were considered “optional equipment.”
While the computer chewed on the name, he typed a response to Christal.
Dear Christal:
Info sent. Computer working. No problem.
You owe me dinner.
Best,
Sid
Genesis Athena? What the hell was that?
Hank Abrams kept a hand on the railing as he stood on the port side just behind the wheelhouse. That location kept him out of the wind and sea spray. The thirty-foot launch slowed on the swells as she approached the Coast Guard cutter. Hank had never been much for boats. He had managed the journey out past the twelve-mile limit and was now more than halfway back to shore. He hoped the Coast Guard wasn’t going to take up too much time. His stomach was feeling just the least bit chancy with the rising and falling waves.
Sunset was burning a yellow halo across the New York skyline to the west. Several miles to the north, irregular white blocks of apartment buildings crowded the thin pale beach on the Long Island shore. The water here had a greenish brown tinge. Hank wondered how much of the color came from raw sewage.
As the launch pulled up abreast of the cutter, Hank studied the long gray boat with its distinctive red stripe. Uniformed crewmen were watching him through binoculars. The big fifty on the bow was shrouded in weather-protected tarping. Glancing behind, Hank could see Sheik Abdulla standing in his immaculate suit, his lawyer and two bodyguards to either side and behind him.
Don’t ask, don’t tell. But just what, he wondered, was he not supposed to tell? For two days he and the Sheik’s personal bodyguards had been sequestered aboard the ZoeGen out beyond the twelve-mile limit. They had been given nicely furnished cabins on C Deck with access to the afterdeck. Food had been delivered to a nice dining room on D Deck. They had the use of a game room there with billiards, shuffleboard, and video games, as well as a small theater stocked with DVDs. Secure doors had restricted any access to the forward part of the ship. From their area, they couldn’t even see anything forward. Hank had been told to stay aft, and he had obeyed orders, taking the time to lounge, read from the collection of paperback novels, and watch the television.
The Sheik had appeared as if by magic, told them to pack, and within a half hour they were headed back toward the wharf in Brooklyn.
At least until the Coast Guard had pulled alongside.
Should I be worried? About what? He shot a quick look at the slim launch. If it was drugs, they could be anywhere aboard, but no one seemed the slightest bit worried as the Guardsmen made the tricky crossing from the cutter. Hank watched them clamber up and over the railing.
Hank made his way to the midships, where the Guardsmen were asking for identification. They looked so young in their gray shirts and dark pants. The model 92 Berettas on their web belts, however, gave them an ominous presence.
“Your identification, sir?” a young man asked, watching him with serious brown eyes. The name WILLIAMSON was stenciled on the Guardsman’s breast pocket.
Hank handed over his driver’s license, realizing for the first time how professional politeness could effectively tell a person he wasn’t jack shit.
“What is your citizenship, Mr. Abrams?” the young man asked, his brown eyes comparing the driver’s license photo with Hank’s face.
“American. I’m currently living in New York.” Hank could see one of the other Guardsmen carefully checking the Sheik’s passport and talking into the radio clipped to his shoulder.
“What is your business aboard this boat, sir?” came the crisp question.
“I work for Verele Security. Our offices are at 175 Fifth Avenue. The Sheik”—he pointed—“is a client. I was detailed to accompany him to the ZoeGen.” He fished out one of his business cards.
“And your business aboard the ZoeGen?”
Hank spread his arms. “Honestly, Officer, I cannot tell you. I’m just the hired help. I didn’t even see the Sheik until a couple of hours ago.”
“I see.” Williamson was tapping information into a handheld computer unit. Then he glanced up and handed the driver’s license back. “If you would step to the stern, sir, we will try not to detain you unreasonably.”
Hank took his driver’s license and walked back to where the launch’s captain and mate stood. Two of the young Coast Guardsmen were still working over the Sheik’s documents.
Not only had post-9/11 security made everyone jumpy, it was even worse with a Saudi sheik piloting back and forth just offshore of New York City.
Hank watched as another crewman walked up and down the deck with a piece of electronic equipment—a sensor of some sort, no doubt sniffing for explosives, drugs, and who knew what other kinds of contraband.
“Does this happen a lot?” Hank asked the captain.
“Yeah. I told the Sheik to prepare. The way they watch the traffic anymore, I knew we’d get searched stem to stern. That ship out there”—he jerked his head?
??“it’s just anchored off the limit. I’ve been ferrying people for the last week and a half. The Coast Guard’s getting suspicious, but hey, we’re clean and legal. What can they do?”
“Got me. I’m just protection.” Hank paused. “You got any idea what happens on the ZoeGen?”
“You tell me. You were on that ship for two days.”
“I played pool, learned snooker, watched a couple of movies, and farted around on the shuffleboard. Everything forward is off-limits. And I mean it’s shut up tight.”
“Then, pal, when it comes to that boat out there, you’re way ahead of me.”
For the next five minutes, the Coast Guard snooped around the launch. From where he stood, Hank could tell that Sheik Abdulla’s lawyer was doing most of the talking.
In the end, the Coast Guard packed up and went back to their sleek gray cutter with its whirling radars and bristling antennae. As soon as they were aboard, the diesels thrummed and white billowed out from below the fantail as she veered off.
Hank caught a glimpse of the Sheik as he watched the cutter go. A clever smile lay on his lips, his dark eyes gleaming.
The rest of the short voyage passed without interest. When the launch finally pulled in at its slip Hank recognized Neat Gray waiting with his arms crossed. The man leaned against a large white box marked PERSONAL FLOTATION DEVICES. Hank wondered whatever had happened to “life preservers.”
He liked Gray. Gray was the Sheik’s man and gave orders to Hank’s detail and squad leaders. He appeared to be in his early forties, a natty dresser, with blond hair that he kept neatly combed. In spite of his worried blue eyes, he seemed efficient, organized, and smart enough to let others do their jobs without trying to micromanage. A small black nylon satchel rested at Gray’s feet.