“I’m not. As the card says, LBA is a security firm. Our only interest is in keeping our clients safe. I swear, I’m not here to steal your clients. If you have any questions you can call our California office and get confirmation.”
The blonde considered it for a moment. “Well, okay. You seem nice. It’s like, we send the monthly bill out FedEx, and a check shows up the same way. I remember that now that I think about it. I have to sign for it.”
“Do you do the setup here? You know, write the questions and add the voices?”
“We can.” She glanced at the blue screen, her finger running down a line of numbers. “But not for Genesis Athena. They do all that in-house.” She grinned. “But I got to be the voice for ColoHigh Fashions once.”
“Wow!” Christal forced a smile. “So, I’m to understand that you’re just a phone service? That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s us. If, like, you guys at”—she squinted at the card—“at LBA need a system, we’d be, you know, really glad to be it. But you’ll have to talk to Bill and Simon.”
“When they get back from the marathon.”
“Yeah, like, isn’t that cool? You know? They’re old—in their late thirties—and they can still run!”
“Yeah, cool.”
Christal thanked the girl and turned. When she walked down the stairs, she shook her head. Genesis Athena really is in Yemen, for God’s sake?
Yemen. Just catty-corner across the Arabian Peninsula from Qatar. Sheik Amud Abdulla called Qatar home. She was chewing on that thought as she climbed into her rental, closed the door, and started the engine to stimulate the air-conditioning.
She lifted her cell and punched in Lymon’s number. He answered on the third ring.
“Bridges.”
“Lymon? Anaya. Listen, I’m sitting in front of our address in Colorado. You’re going to love it The place is just a phone service. Genesis Athena isn’t here.”
“So, where are they?”
“You ready for this?”
“Shoot.”
“Aden, as in Yemen. A country on the southwestern tip of the Arabian Peninsula. Sid was right; it wasn’t a ruse.” She related her visit to Cy-Bert and gave him the mailing address she’d taken from the computer.
A pause. “Did you determine if our friend Abdulla has any connection?”
“All they’ve got is a telephone contract with Genesis Athena. You should know, however, that if you ever need a phone service, the airhead at the desk will be happy to write LBA a contract. Lymon, my best guess is that this place is a cutout.”
“So what do you think this means for us?”
“Well, for one thing, I think it’s a cinch that whoever Genesis Athena is, they don’t want to be easily found. And that, boss, really has my whiskers quivering, as Grandma used to say.”
“I’ll bring this up with Dot when I see her this afternoon.”
“Right. Uh, what now? Do you want me back in Toronto, or to head for the barn?”
“Sheela’s wrapping her shooting here tomorrow morning. It’s up to you, Christal.”
She was considering that when a dark blue Chevy Lumina pulled into the parking lot and rolled to a stop two spaces down from hers. The guy was jerking his door open as he killed the engine.
Christal blinked twice and gaped. “Lymon,” she said in a sober voice, “Hank Abrams just drove in and jumped out of his car. He’s headed right into the Cy-Bert building.”
“What? Are you sure?”
She put her Buick into reverse and backed out, making sure she cleared the lot before she floored the accelerator.
“Christal?” Lymon was barking from halfway across the continent. “Christal? Are you all right?” For the moment she couldn’t answer. Hank hadn’t looked right. He’d been unshaven, his clothes rumpled and his hair mussed. That grainy expression reminded her of a man who wasn’t sleeping well, someone haunted by depression and frustration.
“Christal? Are you there?”
“Lymon, I’m spooked,” she added as she took a right onto 128th. “How the hell did he know I was going to be here?”
The lounge at the Hollywood Hilton had only a few patrons. Hank Abrams sat at a small table next to the far wall and hunched in the cloth-backed chair. He stared uneasily down at the glass of Glenfiddich, neat. Strains of sixties and seventies music drifted down from the speakers. Behind the bar, the bartender—dressed in a puffy white shirt and black slacks—was tapping keys on his computer register.
Staring into the amber fluid, Hank fought the desperate desire to upend his single malt and chug the contents. As of that moment, he could still expense the high-dollar scotch, but whether he’d be able to in a matter of minutes was anyone’s guess.
God, what a relief it would be to down one after another and dull the growing ache in his soul. For those blissful hours, he could be smashed out of his head. The worry, the frustration, and disappointment would be gone.
Shit, six months ago, I was the fair-haired boy in the Bureau. Now it was all gone. He’d had a pretty wife, a nice house, a solid job. People had looked up to him as he rode the rocket to stardom.
How had he lost it all?
Christal! He closed his eyes, his hands grasping at the air, knotting until his forearms hurt.
Every failure, every fuckup, had Christal at the bottom of it. Jesus, what was she, the anti-Christ?
“Oh, yeah, like she was just here!” the cheery blonde had said. “I mean, like, you should have seen her on the stairs, you know?”
Hank rubbed his eyes. A sour churning in his stomach left him half-sick, a tickle of nausea at the bottom of this throat.
He looked up when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Neal Gray, immaculate in a charcoal Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, and matching tie, approached the table and pulled out the opposite chair.
“You look like hell,” Neal told him as he took the drink list and scanned the offerings.
“I haven’t gotten much sleep the last couple of days.” The question had been burning inside him. “When I called you from Toronto and told you she was headed for Colorado, how the hell did you know she’d be going to that place?”
Neal looked up as the bartender approached and laid a napkin on the vinyl table. “Can you make a margarita? Nothing fancy, just on ice.”
“Yeah, sure,” the bartender replied, and turned back for the bar.
Neal leaned back, his fingers twisting the edge of the napkin into a spike. He gave Hank an appraising look as he coolly studied him. The man seemed to see right through the front, penetrating Hank’s skin to read the growing desperation and fear. “Hank, your call from Toronto surprised us. How did you learn she was headed to Denver?”
“I managed to get close enough when she was checking in at the United counter. People don’t look around when they’re talking to the desk agents. It’s as if they don’t want to look suspicious or something. I overheard.” He couldn’t stand it any longer and blurted, “Look! I’m not a fuckup! I know it looks like I can’t carry out a simple assignment, but the bitch won’t even see me! Shit, I offered her five grand just to meet with me and she turned it down flat! And then, this Toronto thing, how was I supposed to know she’d be flying off with Sheela Marks? God, I swear, she’s a fucking devil!”
“Hank”—Neal’s voice was even—“take a break here. You’re being too hard on yourself.”
Hank gasped. It was too soon to believe he was off the hook. “I was ahead of her! Then, bang! I’m stuck in traffic behind a wreck on a Denver freeway. By the time I figure out just how to get to this place, she’s already been there!”
Neal smiled. “Christal Anaya really gets to you, huh?”
Hank swallowed hard. “There are times, I swear, if I could reach out and wrap my hands around her throat …” He stared at the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands, his fingers tightening on the air above his scotch.
Neal leaned back. “It’s okay. You did all right, Hank. Sure, we??
?d have liked to have had our sample by now, but warning us that she was headed to Colorado made up for that.”
“It did?”
“She was already on one of our lists. She flagged one of our computer Web sites a couple of weeks ago. The lady is digging around at the edges of one of the Sheik’s companies.” Neal paused. “Tell me, do you think she’s capable of industrial espionage?”
Hank leaned back, considering. “Christal? I don’t know. I mean, she’s not one to break the rules. She’s kind of by-the-book, if you know what I mean.”
Neal studied him. “You really thought I was coming to can you, didn’t you?”
Hank swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Neal leaned forward. “What have you got left, Hank? Besides this job, I mean.”
“Not much.”
“Your mother’s in a nursing home in upstate New York. Your support is the only thing between her and Medicare. Uh, just between the two of us, how do you think this thing with Marsha is going to work out? Will you get anything from the settlement?”
“Her firm’s handling the divorce,” Hank murmured. “She’s offered a settlement if I don’t fight it. Fifty grand, cut and dried, and I don’t contest it.”
“You going to take it?”
“Neal, if I fight it, she’s going to clean me out. I’ll be in hock to the lawyers alone for the next twenty years.” Then, unable to help himself, he spilled the whole story about Gonzales, Christal, the night they’d screwed in the van.
After he’d run dry, Neal sat back, a pensive look on his face. “And they never figured out how Gonzales got a camera into the van?”
“No.”
After a long silence, Neal’s blue eyes narrowed. “Tell me something, Hank. How much of a stickler are you for the rule book?”
Hank straightened, a tickle of anxiety in his breast. “Where’s this going?”
“Nowhere illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Neal grinned. “You might say that where we’re going, there are no laws … but the pay is real good. I can assure you it’s not drugs, or weapons, or any of the usual ‘high risk’ ventures. We do nothing that violates the law within the territorial borders of the United States.” A pause. “How would you feel about making a hundred and twenty grand a year—not counting bonuses—as a starting salary?”
“Yeah?” He perked up. “What’s the catch?”
“From our perspective, it might just be you.” Neal smiled up at the bartender as the man placed the drink on the table. Neal handed him a credit card. “If you’d run a tab, I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, sir.” The bartender retreated.
Neal sipped his drink and looked up. “Do you believe in quid pro quo? If I do something for you, you’ll do something for me?”
“Like in the Mafia?”
Neal laughed. “We’re trying to make up our minds if we want to invest in you for the long term. How would you feel if we looked into this Gonzales thing? Figured it out, if you will. Would that be worth anything to you?”
“Damn straight, it would.”
Neal caught him off guard when he asked, “So, how does a top agent have such a hard time catching up to an unsuspecting woman? We thought you’d have obtained the sample within the first forty-eight hours.”
Hank took a deep breath, feeling the ax hanging over his head. “I don’t know. You’d think she was being protected by LBA rather than just working for them. Look, I can handle this. All I need is—”
“Christal Anaya has become a problem,” Neal interrupted easily. “My people really need to talk to her. That’s all. If you’re with us, we’ll let you in on the ground floor of something really big. It will mean leaving Verele … going to work for the Sheik.”
Hank frowned, feeling the earth turning soft under his feet. “I don’t understand. I’m just supposed to use one of your little gizmos to get a skin sample, right?”
“The plan has changed since then. It changed when Anaya walked into that telephone service in Colorado. There are bigger things afoot here. Things worth billions that I can’t tell you about yet.” Neal leaned forward, an earnest look on his face. “She’s been jerking your chain, hasn’t she? Come on, admit it: She’s the reason you’re in this mess.”
He felt the resistance run out of him. “Yeah.”
“My people need to talk to her, Hank. That’s all. Just find her, help me and my crew get to her, and well, we’ll talk about it later, all right?”
“You just want to talk?” Something had to be missing.
“Yep.” Neal shrugged. “Hank, what the hell have you got left to lose?”
26
They occupied a spacious photographic studio in West Los Angeles. The photographers had just finished and were in the process of packing their film, dismantling their lights, and casing their cameras.
Christal watched as Sheela smiled and shook hands all the way around. The small group of Spanish businessmen, one by one, took their turns holding her hands and lavishing their thanks. Rex cleared his voice from the side—a signal for Dot, who smiled like a queen as she disengaged Sheela from her admirers and led her back toward the dressing room.
Rex stepped in smoothly, saying, “Gentlemen, that was fantastic! We have rarely had such a professional and flawless shooting session.”
A babble of accented voices chimed in agreement. Christal smiled to herself. She’d listened to the three Spaniards as they had talked during the shoot. Their Castilian accent hadn’t masked the sexual innuendo as they ogled Sheela during the photo session.
While the photographers continued to disassemble their equipment, a crew began collapsing the series of backdrops. The stage had alternately consisted of scenes from downtown Madrid, Toledo, Seville, and other Spanish cities. One in particular was of the Escorial illuminated by a wash of yellow light. Sheela had modeled various fashions before each, and the photographers had shot roll after roll of photos for the new catalog, billboards, and other media.
Electric fans on either side had created breezes to ruffle Sheela’s hair and toss her coattails. That had been the last scene. Christal watched as the techs rolled the big backdrop into a long tube.
Rex caught Christal’s eye and gave the slightest nod of his head before shooting a meaningful glance toward the dressing room.
Christal picked up her purse, walking wide around the tripods and stepping past the fan to take the narrow hallway to the rear. The dressing room was a haphazard affair: panels set up to screen Sheela from the main room.
Dot stood with her arms crossed, watching as Sheela slipped out of a long-knit MaxMara dress and handed it to a young woman who replaced it on a hanger and hung it on a wardrobe rack in the rear.
“How’d we do?” Sheela asked as she pulled on her slim denim Blujeanious pants and straightened.
Dot glanced back at Christal, nodded, then turned her attention to Sheela as she reached for a red-patterned top by Guess. “Under all the hype, they’re happy. Rex is going to stay behind and stroke their collective manhoods.”
“Figuratively, I hope.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Dot said dryly.
“Whatever it takes.” Sheela wearily pulled the top on and fluffed her red-blond hair over her shoulders. She glanced at Christal; with stunning quickness exhaustion had replaced the sparkle she’d shown during the session. “What do you think?”
“I don’t see how you keep from falling over.” Christal stopped short. “You about ready?”
“Get me home, James.” Sheela stifled a yawn, grabbed up her Marc Jacobs purse, and pointed at the door. “Dot, I’ll see you tomorrow at my trailer on the lot. You can brief me on my schedule then. I’m going home to fall into bed.”
“See you then,” Dot agreed.
Christal lifted her cuff mike and said, “Paul? We’re on the way.”
“Roger. Uh, Christal? There’s a guy out here, looks like a lost electrician. He’s across the alley … maybe ten yards away. He’s got a toolbox and seems to be k
illing time. Just thought you should know.”
“Right. I’ll keep an eye out when we step out the back door.” She gestured to Sheela. “We’re ready.”
Christal led the way down the narrow hallway to the sign that read EXIT. She pushed on the crash bar and stepped out. The alley was just off Santa Monica Boulevard, bounded by trash Dumpsters, bits of paper, and a couple of empty bottles. The alleged electrician stood across the alley and stared at her from across the hood of the polished limo. He had on a yellow hard hat; a leather tool belt filled with pliers, hammers, and such; and wore a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans over brown work boots.
“Come on, Sheela,” Christal stepped over and opened the rear limo door.
“Ah, I love this job,” Sheela was saying as she stepped outside. “The glamor of the alleys, hotel kitchens, back doors, and—”
The flash took Christal by complete surprise. She blinked, wheeling to see the “electrician.” His toolbox was open at his feet, and a large Nikon filled his hands. Instinctively Christal placed herself between Sheela and the paparazzo. The flash continued to pulse as the automatic camera captured Sheela’s rapid duck into the limo.
“Hey!” Christal cried, her anger rising. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”
“It’s a free country,” the paparazzo called back, grinning from behind his lens. “God bless the First Amendment!”
“Maggot!” Christal slipped in behind Sheela and pulled the door shut as she clicked the locks down. “Shit!” She felt humiliated.
“Tricky,” Paul called over his shoulder as he slipped the car into gear. “I’ve never seen that workman ruse before.”
Sheela leaned back and closed her eyes. “It’s all right. It was only one guy this times”
“God, they’re like a bunch of mangy coyotes,” Christal muttered as she studied Sheela with worried eyes. During the photo shoot Sheela had been electric. Then, in the dressing room, she had gone from glittering, smiling energy to sacked lint in an instant. Now she looked hollow and half-digested.