The Athena Factor

  “But I—” She was jerked to her feet, almost fell as her chair toppled backward, and was shoved forward, reeling to catch her balance.

  “Get her out of here, Hank!” the gray-clad man told the younger. “To the Sheik’s. Fast!”

  “On the way,” Hank agreed. “Asza, keep an eye out behind us. Good luck, Neal.”

  Asza followed behind as the young man hurried Sheela toward the door.

  “You,” Neal told the guard, who was looking uncertainly back and forth. “Give me a hand.”

  The last thing Sheela saw as she was dragged through the door was Neal and her guard upending the dinner table, spilling plates and food all over the floor. As she stumbled down the hallway, a door opened, and Wyla Smith gaped, her mouth round with surprise.

  “Call nine one one,” Sheela called, only to have Hank twist her arm until she screamed. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t going to be good.

  “Lymon! You’ve got goons coming your way from both directions!” Christal’s voice came over the radio. “Find a hole, if you can.”

  “Roger.” He glanced at Sid as they hurried down a Spartan hallway marred by sturdy-looking wooden doors. He gestured. “Try your side.” And started rattling knobs on the left.

  Sid grabbed knob after knob as they ran. “Here!” He found an open one on the left, leaping inside as Lymon, catching sight of the hatch opening ahead of them, pivoted on a foot and threw himself in behind Sid.

  Sid clicked the door shut and leaned against it. They were both panting for breath as Lymon turned to survey their retreat. The first thing he noticed was that it looked like a small living room—the sort one might find in a mobile home. A TV in one corner was playing a daytime soap. On opposite ends of an overstuffed couch sat two women, staring wide-eyed and clearly startled by Lymon’s sudden appearance. Each suckled an infant on an exposed breast.

  Even as he gaped, both women pawed frantically to cover themselves, disrupting the babies, who bawled out in frustration.

  “Sorry!” Lymon said, raising his hands—only to be brutally aware of the radio in one, and pistol in the other. “Security, ma’am,” he made up, trying to grin sheepishly.

  “Who are you?” the first young woman, a twenty-something brunette, managed. Her eyes were fixed on Lymon’s pistol, as if she were staring at her own impending execution. She had the squalling baby tucked tightly against her stomach, where it kicked and punched from around the protection of her arms.

  “I’m Rick, and he’s Louie,” Lymon lied between panted breaths. “Please, relax. This is just a training exercise.”

  “Where’s the bogie?” Sid asked into his radio, eyes on the door.

  “Still in the hall,” Christal’s voice returned. “They’re proceeding slowly, carefully. They’ve just spotted the second party and are moving toward them.”

  “What model is that?” Lymon asked, indicating the brunette’s infant.

  She shot a quick glance at the blonde across from her, then said uneasily, “Elvis. They both are. We just delivered last week.” She frowned. “You’re sure you’re security?”

  “Yeah, Neal’s got us on an exercise. Training, you know. Tactical evasion.” He grinned, having almost caught his breath. “Hey, look, we apologize for just bursting in on you like this, but it’s one of those ‘make it up as you go along’ things.”

  Sid was staring incredulously at the two women and there babies. “Elvis? As in Presley?”

  Both women nodded, wariness barely abated.

  “Yours?” Lymon asked, as if just making conversation. “I mean you both delivered in the normal way?”

  Both women nodded in unison.

  “Why Elvis?” Sid asked.

  “He’s the king,” the brunette said as if that explained everything. “Look, don’t you guys ever knock?” She was starting to recover. “I mean, damn! Dr. Morris said we’d have our privacy until we finished our postnatal physicals.”

  “Look, sorry.” Lymon gave Sid a meaningful glance as he raised his phone to ask, “Central, sit-rep, please.”

  “Bogie is at end of corridor. One moment. You’re clear for the moment. Be aware of moving patrols.”

  “Roger.” Lymon indicated the door. “Let’s go, Louie.”

  Sid waved toward the women. “Good luck. Hope he can sing when he grows up.”

  Lymon cracked the door and glanced out to find the hallway empty. Sid closed the door behind them on the way out, then asked, “Rick and Louie?”

  “Didn’t you ever watch Casablanca?”

  “I prefer car chases and explosions.” Then, as they ran, “You believe that crap, that those kids were Elvis knockoffs?”

  “The really scary thing is, yeah, I believe it.” Lymon trotted for the hatch, and grabbed the wheel, turned it. This was the moment of truth. They knew it was locked from the other direction. The dogs slid, and he stepped through, seeing an intersection of corridors along with a stairway leading up to B Deck. Evidently access wasn’t restricted as you went aft. He glanced at the lock pad as the hatch clicked behind them. Going back wasn’t going to be so easy.

  “If our guesses are correct, we’re right below—”

  The radio crackled. “Lymon! Bad news. They’ve got Sheela. She’s one deck up. Better hurry.”

  Lymon charged across the hallway, hammering his way up the staircase. He rounded the landing, heading up the last flight, and ran smack into one of the steel gratings. He could hear the ding as the elevator door clicked shut.

  “Shit!” He gestured at the lock. “Get on it, Sid. Faster this time.”

  Sid fumbled out his lockpicks and bent to the task.

  Lymon lifted the radio. “Where are they taking her? Can you tell?”

  “Hang on, boss. I got troubles of my own.”

  Christal watched four muscular men join up with Copperhead in the corridor outside the security center. As the latter glared up at the camera, one of the men punched in the security code; then all four massed their weight against the wheel.

  With a sense of desperation, Christal took a deep breath and leveled her pistol on the hatch. “No matter what,” she promised, “you’re not coming through.”

  The wheel turned, straining the cable tighter around the conduit. She could see the wheel shivering as the cable stretched, resisted, and held. The hatch remained inviolate until the men finally released it and shook their heads.

  Christal sighed with relief, letting the adrenaline seep out of her muscles.

  April raised her radio, changed channels, and said through the speakers, “I assume that is you in there, Ms. Anaya.”

  Christal lifted the radio. “Two things, April: One, I’ll shoot the first bastard to walk through that door—assuming, that is, that you can force it. Two, before you take me out, I’ll put a bullet in Gregor McEwan’s head.”

  Copperhead’s stalwart gaze seemed to burn right through the lens. “Let me talk to Gregor.”

  “I think not. Bad form and all. You might have some other silly code like ‘Cracked Castle.’”

  “Then how do I know you’ve got him?”

  “Sometimes you just have to take things on faith.” She smiled ironically. “Or the fact that you can’t find him anywhere else in the ship.”

  “You know you can’t win. Not in the end. Eventually you’re going to run out of water, food, perhaps even oxygen.”

  “We’ll deal with that when we get there.”

  She glanced at the line of monitors, watching as Lymon and Sid slid a steel grating aside to pile out onto the B Deck. Lymon turned, headed toward Sheela’s quarters. Christal keyed her mike. “Lymon! Don’t do it! She’s not there.”

  Lymon slid to a halt, pausing uncertainly as he raised his radio. “Where’d they take her?”

  “Deck A. The Sheik’s.”

  In the hatch monitor, Copperhead was talking into her radio.

  Christal felt the tension rising. “Lymon, April heard that. Beat feet, boss. Get the hell out of Dodge. Be aware th
at all communications are monitored from here on out.”

  “Ten-four.” She watched as Lymon and Sid talked, then split, each running a different way down the corridor.

  “So”—Copperhead’s voice came through the system—“Bridges and Harness are loose? My, but you are a pain in the ass, Anaya.” April held the radio at an angle beside her jaw, a wry look on her face. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go to work for us? Anyone as talented and adventurous as you would make an incredible asset to the organization.”

  Christal glanced up at the clock. Shit, the second hand seemed to crawl across the face. “How much?”

  “Five hundred thousand a year, plus bonuses and royalties .”

  “Last I heard, it was two hundred grand.”

  “I think we misjudged your initial worth.”

  “Yeah, keep right on misjudging.” She watched as Lymon slid to a halt and pressed the button beside the elevator. Two men were approaching the B Deck security hatch from the forward corridor. Christal cued her mike. “Run Lymon. No time.”

  He turned, beating down the hallway, feet flying. It was at that moment that Neal Gray and a second man stepped out of Sheela’s door. The agent who followed dropped into position, the black sub gun centering on Lymon’s chest.

  “No!” Christal cried, starting out of the chair.

  At precisely that moment the second team rounded the corner and charged into the corridor behind him. The shooter hesitated, afraid his burst would hit his companions.

  “Give up, Lymon!” Christal said woodenly into her mike.

  “They’ve got you boxed, and you were just a couple of ounces away from being hamburger.”

  She could see the defeat reflected on his face as he let the pistol drop and raised his hands. Gray and the others closed on him. In a knot, they hustled him along to the elevator, waited for the door, and then Christal watched Lymon being lifted to the A Deck. The last she saw, he disappeared into the Sheik’s quarters.

  “Well, Anaya”—Copperhead’s voice came smoothly through the system—“your assets are being whittled away. Do you still want to do this the hard way?”

  Christal glanced up at the clock. “You bet, bitch.”

  Sid was hurrying down C Deck, testing doors as he went. But in the monitors, Christal could see ever-increasing numbers of security personnel trotting down the corridors.

  It was just a matter of time.

  54

  It could have been déjà vu. Once they had hustled her up to the Sheik’s opulent quarters, Hank Abrams indicated that Sheela take a seat on the ornate chaise longue. The Sheik stood at his coffee machine—while light from the large windows gleamed off of his immaculate black silk suit. This time she could see his diamond cuff links as he worked the levers of the espresso machine.

  “Black again, Ms. Marks?” he asked in his clipped English.

  “Sure,” she said warily, wishing her heart wasn’t hammering against her ribs. “What’s the matter? You missed my company?”

  “A bit of a problem, actually,” he answered. “Your people are causing a measure of distress.” He glanced at her, his flat black eyes unforgiving as stone. “It will be good for us in the long run, I think. Security has become a little lax over the last couple of years. Isolation creates the illusion of invulnerability. Your arrival, auspicious as it is, is indicative that those days are now passed. Where you now intrude, so too will a curious media, authors, private investigators, and a host of others, not to mention several of our business rivals anxious to scoop one of our patents.”

  “I’m thrilled to be of service.”

  The coffee machine hissed as he filled a cup, placed it on a delicate saucer. Hank carried it across the thick carpet to her. The Sheik gave her the same smile the fat woman gave the turkey on the day before Thanksgiving. “Please, enjoy. You may not have much time.”

  Hank Abrams had stepped over by the door where Achmed stood at his post. Abrams had a radio to the side of his head, an intent expression on his face as he listened, and then talked. He turned. “We’ve got Bridges, sir. Where would you like him?”

  Sheela’s heart leaped. It took all of her concentration to keep her expression under control. Lymon’s wry smile and sparkling eyes teased from her memory. She was going to hate to hear his muttered, “I told you so”s.

  The Sheik narrowed an eye, glanced at her, and then said, “Bring him here. I want them all together in one place. I take it there has been no progress at the SC?”

  Abrams might have been a battlefield lieutenant given his rod-stiff posture. “No, sir. Ms. Hayes is working on it. Apparently Anaya has the hatch secured some way.” Sheela straightened. Christal! So, she’d been here all along! The SC? What could that be? Sheela took a deep breath, pursing her lips as she took inventory of the ornate room. There had to be something here that she could use when the time came.

  “The SC was designed to be secure against unauthorized entry,” the Sheik said in a voice all the more ominous for its curious gentility. “How did she get past the hatch? Where did the error occur?”

  “I don’t know, sir. When this situation is under control, we’ll make a very detailed analysis: how it developed—and how to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

  The Sheik’s smile carried a predatory confidence. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Abrams. You seem quite adept at solving past problems.”

  Abrams’ expression turned grim. “Yes, sir.” He turned away, the radio to his ear. “Agent Hayes is currently bargaining with Anaya, sir. Do you have any specific instructions for her?”

  The Sheik stepped over to stare down into Sheela’s face. Marshaling all of her will, she lifted her eyebrow into an inquisitive arch.

  “It’s a fascinating strategic and tactical problem,” Abdulla told her. “Your Ms. Anaya has some of my people, and I have some of hers. Don’t you wish this was one of your movies? We would know how it ended, hmm?”

  The door opened—breaking the war of wills—and blond-haired Neal led the party as Lymon was marched into the room. The grim expression on his face was one she’d never seen before: stressed, and clearly worried. Another of the security men, a flat-faced guy with a thick black beard, held an HK machine gun tight against Lymon’s back. Sheela stood, her cup of coffee in hand. Thank God he looked all right. When their eyes met, she couldn’t help drawing a breath. A glittering desperation lay behind his eyes.

  It was unlike him. What did he know that she didn’t?

  With a stiff hand Neal shoved Lymon backward into one of the overstuffed chairs that lined the paneled wall. “If he so much as gets out of that chair, Aziz, you shoot him, understand?”

  Aziz jerked a quick nod and grinned as he hovered over Lymon’s left shoulder, the HK’s suppressor inches from Lymon’s head.

  Sheela knew that weapon, had handled it on the set of Moon of Falling Leaves several years before. Not exactly a box office flop, but not one of her stellar roles either, the picture had been about a housewife accidentally caught up in the drug trade. Yes, she knew the MP5. While prepping for the role, the weapons expert had given her a rundown on why it was the world’s most successful submachine gun.

  “Lymon?” she asked in a carefully modulated voice. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, Ms. Weaver.”

  “Cut the crap, asshole!” Neal Gray told him. “We know who she is, who you are, and who Sid Harness is, too.”

  “How about the White Rabbit?” Lymon asked. “You got him pegged, too?”

  At a gesture from Neal, the guard pulled the heavy automatic weapon back and drove it hard, muzzle first, into the side of Lymon’s head. Sheela heard the impact, saw Lymon’s head snap sideways, and started forward.

  “Stop that! Right now!” she commanded, her finger stabbing out like a knife.

  The guard pulled the gun back, turning it so its black muzzle pointed at her. She felt her belly go hollow and crawly as the gaping bore centered on it.

  “Enough!” the Sheik ordered as
both Abrams and Gray stepped between Sheela and Lymon. Behind them she could see Lymon making a face, one eye squinting under the pain as his torn temple darkened with blood.

  “You asshole!” She glared across Abrams’ shoulder at Aziz, who stared emotionlessly in return.

  Before anyone could react, Sheela lifted her little cup of coffee and dashed it over Gray’s shoulder so that the hot liquid spattered on the guard’s face.

  Gray and Abrams rushed her, bearing her back to the fainting couch. After they’d flung her into the cushions, she got a glimpse of Lymon halfway to his feet, frozen as the gun-wielding Aziz glared at him over the sights. She could read rage in the Arab’s bulging jaw as hot coffee dripped down his face and into his beard.

  “I said, enough!” the Sheik barked. In a milder voice, he said, “You do like to take chances, Ms. Marks.”

  “You and your people,” she told him as she gathered herself into a sitting posture, “are just digging yourselves in deeper.”

  The Sheik glanced at Lymon and snapped his fingers. “Attend to him. I don’t want him bleeding all over the furniture.”

  Sheela could see the first stream of red leaking down from Lymon’s temple and along the line of his jaw. He gave her the faintest shake of the head, as if warning her against any further foolishness.

  She ground her teeth and turned her attention to the Sheik. “What do you want from me?”

  He took the empty cup and saucer from her hands and walked back to the big table in the middle of the room. “For the moment, I would like you to coax Ms. Anaya out of my security center.” He shot her a long, evaluative look. “Would you do that?”

  She stood again and crossed her arms defiantly. “Why the hell should I?”

  “Let us say that by doing so, you will be fostering trust, yes?” He cocked his head, a spider’s smile on his lips. “And, you must admit that just as I and my people are, as you say, ‘digging ourselves in deeper,’ so are you and yours.”

  “What’s the trade?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as Abrams stepped out of the bathroom with a damp washcloth in his hand and started dabbing at Lymon’s head.