The Athena Factor

  Christal flipped back her wet hair as she waded for the steps. She wiped water from her olive skin and stared thoughtfully at the wet footprints she followed.

  A business. Did she believe that? That Genesis Athena was just a huge amoral Goliath crashing its way through people’s lives?

  April was already under the shower, rinsing the chlorine away. She turned her back to the spray as Christal walked in.

  “Here’s the deal, Anaya. Somewhere down the line Genesis Athena and its personnel will be held responsible for their actions. Time and money, along with charitable actions, can lessen the blow, dull the sharp tongue of censure, but we’ll still have to face the music.”

  “Damn right.” Crystal twisted the knobs and rinsed under the warm water. She felt truly clean for the first time in days.

  April shut off her faucet, water trickling down her tanned skin. The beads of it glistened in the bright overhead lights. She stood defiantly, head back, breasts high, her firm thighs slightly apart. “We’re not fools. Everything that we’re doing now will eventually come out. At least, that’s how we have to plan for the future. Knowing that, it will serve us in the long run to make amends for our mistakes now.”

  Christal turned off the water and walked over to face her. “Is that what you told Nancy Hartlee? What about the other slaves you’ve got locked up down below?”

  April stepped over and pressed a tile beside the mirrored wall.

  Christal jumped as warm dry air began blowing out of slim vents artfully fitted between the sections of mirror. She braced herself, squinting into the warm rush. In awe she watched her mirrored reflection. Her skin was moving as if under an invisible caress. As the jets changed, her breasts slowly lifted and rolled. The pressure sharpened her cheekbones, outlined her abs, and lifted her black hair. As it dried, it began to flow out behind her in a raven wave. She had never seen herself like this: a Native goddess, firm and slim, brown and muscular.

  “Quite the thing, isn’t it?” April asked beside her. “Lean into it. Shake your hair out. If you turn, it will slick the water away.”

  Eyes slitted against the wind, Christal studied the woman as she posed before the mirrors, her actions slow, graceful, almost like tai chi. Copperhead laughed aloud as the waves of air rolled over her body.

  Christal tried to match her movements, turning slowly, trying to balance gracefully against the pushing air. It felt great. No wonder the rich lived like they did.

  April touched the tile again; the warm air vanished as if but a memory. She was looking Christal up and down as if she were a prize racehorse rather than a security risk. A faint smile curled the woman’s lips. “Bottom line: It’s business. We’d prefer to fix the problem now rather than take the loss in the long run.”

  Christal walked into the locker room, gaze fixing dismally on her grungy clothes where they lay on the redwood bench.

  “Put on the new ones.” April might have been reading her mind. “Leave those. I’ll have them laundered and delivered to you later.”

  As Christal inspected the locker’s contents, she found a new brassiere and panties, still in packaging. When she dressed in one of the new white blouses, she wasn’t surprised to discover it was her size exactly. Fix the problem? Take the loss in the long run? Just what, exactly, was Copperhead after?

  “What would it take?” April asked as she hooked her bra clips. “Our terms, once you boil down all the bullshit lawyer talk, are that you drop any and all charges, that you sign a nondisclosure agreement, and that you never reveal any of the things you have learned here or elsewhere about Genesis Athena.”

  Christal considered for a moment and said, “Five million.”

  April laughed. “Not a chance.”

  “So, what’s your counteroffer?”

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  “What makes you think I wouldn’t take it and spill my guts later anyway?”

  April’s gray gaze cut like diamond. “Because we’re a business, Anaya. You have a basic understanding of our capabilities, resources, and resolve. I think you know that we’ll use them if we have to. We’ll keep our end of the bargain only as long as you keep yours.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Christal pulled the classy gray skirt up and zipped it. “Let’s go have this meeting.”

  April worked her arms into her pantsuit and stopped long enough to pull a brush from one of the vanity drawers to brush her shoulder-length hair.

  “You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  April reached over and pressed the keypad on the door lock plate. She opened it and led the way out into the marble-columned lobby. Christal barely cleared the door before she came up short.

  Sheik Amud Abdulla—backed by two sturdy-looking men—stood waiting for them. He was dressed in a sleek black silk suit and was smiling, a gleam in his dark brown eyes. He nodded to April as though in satisfied approbation.

  Christal’s guts squirmed when the man turned his raptorial attention to her. He started with her feet, gaze slowly rising, savoring, as he took in her legs, the fitted skirt, white blouse, and tailored suit coat. Christal swallowed hard when he fixed on her face, a dreamy smile on his lips.

  “Your meeting is canceled,” the Sheik said in perfect English. “Miss Hayes, please take Miss Anaya back to her quarters. We wouldn’t want to cause her fatigue in her current condition.”

  43

  June Rosen answered on the first ring: “Lymon Bridges Associates. How may I help you?”

  Lymon leaned back behind the steering wheel in his rental car. He and Sid had picked a small commercial lot across the street from the Brooklyn charter boat service, paid the shop owner to let them sit, and set up camp. “It’s Lymon. I was just checking in. Anything happening I should know about?”

  “The police called. They’ve still got nothing on Christal’s disappearance. On the same subject, her mother called twice yesterday asking if there was news. Agent Harness’ wife called—”

  “Yeah, Sid checked in with Claire a little while ago.” Lymon glanced across the seat and out the passenger window at the taunting gates of the charter service. “He’s got his home fires covered, but his squad supervisor in Washington is starting to chafe at his continued use of personal time.”

  “And last, but definitely not least, Rex was here yesterday. He insisted that you had a file of his on your desk. I took him back and watched him like a hawk to make sure he didn’t get into anything.”

  “Was he a good boy?”

  “For the most part. He seemed to fix on your notepad, and frowned. You’d scribbled ‘Genesis Athena’ there.”

  Lymon considered that. “I think it’s all right.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Waiting in a parking lot across from the charter service in Brooklyn. We’ve seen people going in and out all morning, but none of them was Sheela. It’s been long enough we’re wondering if we made the right move.”

  “If you need moral support, call. In the meantime, I’ve got two new clients. I’m sending Salvatore as detail leader to cover one and Wu for the other.”

  “Good work, June. Do what you have to.”

  “You, too.”

  Lymon canceled the call just as Sid came walking up with a box of donuts and two cups of coffee in a carrier. He opened the passenger door and slipped into the seat. “Sorry, boss, but the only chocolate donuts had those little sprinkles on them, so that’s what you got. But me, I got my crème-filled.”

  “Got the receipt?” Lymon asked as he took coffee and a donut.

  Sid handed it over, and Lymon carefully noted the expense, folded it double, and placed it in his pocket. “Did you know that IRS stands for Invasive Rectal Service?”

  Sid gave him a sidelong glance. “Huh?”

  “You know, that feeling you get every April fifteenth when you bend over and spread.”

  “Do I detect a note of latent hostility?”

  “You don’t have to deal with the paperwork. Yet.” r />
  Sid sipped his coffee. “There you go again, trying to woo me away from serving my country with—Whoa! Cab pulling up.”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Lymon reached for the binoculars and watched as a brown-haired woman in the backseat leaned to the little drawer and paid the driver. The trunk sprang open. Next the cabbie got out and walked around to remove a familiar suitcase. The woman had stepped out from behind the cab.

  “It’s her!” Lymon snapped the binoculars down and shoved them into his pocket. “Brown wig and darker complexion, but I’d know that walk anywhere.”

  “Let’s roll,” Sid said as he popped the door open.

  Lymon was already out, striding purposefully across the street. He could hear Sid’s steps ringing on the pavement behind him.

  A middle-aged woman they had watched arrive earlier stepped out of the covered walkway smiling. Lymon was close enough to hear her say, “Jennifer! I’m so glad you made it! Any trouble?”

  Jennifer? Was she still pretending to be Jennifer Weaver? Using the account Felix had told them about?

  “No trouble,” Sheela’s voice answered as she faced the woman. But not Sheela’s voice. She sounded somehow small, insecure.

  “Excuse me!” Lymon called, quickening his step. He saw Sheela turn—recognized her face despite the brown hair, but the brown eyes would have fooled him. Play along, Lymon, until you know what’s coming down.

  Sheela gasped with recognition as Lymon said, “Jennifer? Can we have a word?”

  The middle-aged woman stepped forward, a frown on her face. “Who are you?”

  “Jennifer’s security firm, ma’am.” Lymon pointed to Sid. “This is Agent Harness, and I’m Detail Leader Bridges. Jennifer is our principal.”

  The woman was watching him with a hawklike intensity, trying to gauge his veracity. Sheela, on the other hand, looked like a spotlighted deer: anger, confusion, and disbelief all boiling under her pinched expression.

  “Lymon,” she finally hissed, “what are you doing here?”

  He gave her a bluff smile. “Look, Jennifer, when you hired us, you hired the best. We’re just doing what we’re paid to do.”

  “Lymon!” she cried, trying to find the words. He could see incipient panic on her face. Every instinct in his body and soul was to grab her, cover, and run.

  “Jennifer, it’s all right.” He held his hands up. “You didn’t hire us to make moral or ethical judgments on your life. We’re not priests, we’re protection. Period.” He glanced at the middle-aged woman. “She’s not doing anything illegal, is she?”

  “What? No!” the woman cried. “Ms. Weaver is here on personal business.”

  “Then there’s no call for alarm.” Lymon shrugged. He recalled the character, saw the vampish insecurity she was projecting straight from her stellar on-screen performance in Joy’s Girl.

  “Lymon,” Sheela growled, “I don’t have time for this now! I have a boat to catch.”

  Lymon glanced at the other woman. She had her arms crossed, clearly on the verge of calling for help. “How long are you going to be gone for?”

  By now, Sheela was recovering. He’d seen that steely glint before, knew that hardening of the mouth. She was getting pissed. No way he’d be able to talk her out of this. Instead, he nodded at Sid. “Go get our bags.”

  “What?” Sheela cried.

  “Ma’am, my job is your personal safety. If you have a problem with that, you can fire me right now. Right here.” He hoped his eyes communicated his desperation as his stare bored into her brown contacts. “I don’t know what you’re into, but as your security, I advise against it.”

  She seemed to waver, on the verge of actually telling him to go to hell. “All right, Lymon. Come on.” She turned. “There’s lodging for them?”

  The hard woman was watching him through eyes that would have burned holes in cement. “There will be an additional charge, Ms. Weaver, but yes.”

  “It’s all right. I can pay.” Arrogance was in Sheela’s voice as she waved it off as a minor annoyance. She seemed to be firmly back in character.

  Sid was already waddling back across the street, various bags under both arms as he dodged a garbage truck that came barreling down the street.

  Lymon gave a professional nod, wondering what the hell Sheela was doing. He was unable to read the emotion behind her dark brown contacts. From the set of her mouth, however, he figured he was in for a real tongue-lashing when they finally had some privacy.

  Did she reach up, grab him by the throat, and choke the living daylights out of him, or did she throw her arms around him and kiss him full on the lips?

  Sheela considered both options as she sat on the cushions inside the covered cabin on the forty-foot launch. She was one of sixteen passengers aboard. Lymon and Sid Harness leaned against the rail at the stern, no more than ten feet behind her. They might have been passengers on a pleasure cruise for all the concern they showed. Their luggage was piled next to hers on the deck.

  On the right, across the murky water, the lower Manhattan skyline passed, and Long Island’s blocky buildings crowded the shoreline to the left.

  Among the other passengers were two very pregnant young women on the opposite bench. They acted as if they knew each other, but Sheela couldn’t hear their conversation over the roar of the twin engines. In the front, a sickly looking man who might have been in his midtwenties was traveling with a woman who seemed to be his nurse. A young couple sat immediately across from her—a man and his wife—both in their midtwenties. They had been introduced as Bill and Wyla Smith.

  When Sheela had asked whose baby they were going to have, Wyla had replied, “Why, our own, of course. My father died of Huntington’s, and I’m going to have it as well.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Genetic screening. I have three too many trinucleotides on my fourth chromosome. Through Genesis Athena, Bill and I can make sure that our baby won’t face my fate and my father’s.”

  They went on, explaining about something called CAG nucleotide repeats that were completely beyond Sheela’s comprehension. To cut the lecture short, she asked Wyla, “But you’ve already got it? Can’t they do something about it? Cure it?”

  Bill smiled at his wife and tightened his hold on her hand. “We’ve been talking to the people at Genesis Athena. They say they can cure it through a gene therapy they’re working on. It’s still experimental. For the time being, we can afford to have the baby fixed. We’ll go back and treat Wyla when we can pay for the rest of the procedure.” A pause. “And you, Ms. Weaver?”

  She gave them an uncomfortable smile. “I’m having a Sheela Marks baby.”

  They gave her a blank look, as if they didn’t understand.

  Sheela avoided their eyes, looking at the stern. Lymon and Sid were talking to each other. What was Sid Harness, the FBI agent, doing here? Was the Bureau involved now? A thousand questions were boiling inside her.

  She caught the furtive glances they shot her way, and literally itched to stomp back there and demand to know how they had found her, what they were doing in New York, and more to the point, why the hell they hadn’t blown her cover.

  “Jennifer?” Mary Abernathy asked, coming to sit on the bench next to her. “Are you all right?” She glanced back at the men, irritation in her eyes.

  “Furious. Confused,” Sheela admitted, falling back into her role. “They treat me like a baby.”

  “I’ve called ahead to make quarters available for them the way you requested.” She paused. “We’ve put them in a suite next door to yours, but it’s a waste of money. I promise you, you won’t need your security. You’ll be under the literal nose of our excellent protective services. You are more than welcome to order your people to return to shore. You’ll have plenty of time to have them meet you at the dock when you return.”

  Sheela made a face, as if mulling it over. “No, it’s all right. They’re just doing what I pay them for. It’s just that sometimes …” She glanced up, eyes ho
llow and vulnerable. “You know, being rich isn’t all that most people think. For me, it’s like living in a cage! I can’t just be normal! Everyone wants something from me.”

  After a pause, Mary asked, “I do have to know one thing: Are they discreet?”

  Sheela answered with blunt honesty. “Believe me, there are times when I wish Lymon wasn’t such a perfect damned professional.”

  “Well, don’t worry about them.” Mary watched the bridge pass overhead. “We have relations with a lot of clients who have privacy concerns. Many of them come with security details a great deal bigger and more cumbersome than yours, believe me.”

  “Thanks.” She lowered her head, looking meek. “I’d better go back and make peace. I acted like a real shit. It was a diversion that allowed me to slip away.”

  “Then,” Mary Abernathy mused, “how did they find you?”

  “Something incredible, no doubt. Lymon’s a magician. He probably pulled a white rabbit out of his hat and it ratted me out.”

  She got to her feet and took a moment to adjust to the pitch and roll of the launch as it rose and fell on the swells. The breeze was cool off the water, wind tugging at her brown wig. Seagulls hovered off the lee, watching to see if the incomprehensible humans had food.

  To steady herself, Sheela kept one hand on the gunwale as she made her way astern. Sid cued Lymon, who turned, nodding, his face inscrutable.

  “Lymon,” she said wearily, “how the hell did you find me?”

  He glanced toward where Mary Abernathy watched before returning his stare to the billowing white wake behind them. “Could you turn your back to those people while you’re talking to me?”

  “What?” She placed her hands on the fantail, complying. “Why?”

  “Hell, Sheela, I don’t know. Just a hunch. Who is that woman, the one with the beady little Attila eyes?”

  “Mary Abernathy. She’s a nurse. She came and checked me out, set up the appointment.”

  He shot her a worried look. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”