The Athena Factor

  The Sheik stared thoughtfully at her. “Your lives, Ms. Marks. The chance for you to go on and make movies. Even for Mr. Bridges to continue to work in your employ. You might actually have the opportunity to enjoy this relationship you have just begun. I hear it’s been platonic until now.”

  How could he know that? She stiffened, a flicker of anger glowing against the cold fear inside her. “My personal life is none of your business.”

  His fingers rolled her empty coffee cup back and forth on its saucer. “Your actions directly affect the value of your genotype. For instance, if you take up prostitution on Santa Monica Boulevard, you will destroy the market for your embryos.”

  “Then maybe you had just better let us go while I can still maintain my value.”

  The smile died on his lips. “That is indeed one option. But, by doing so, I must have assurances that you and your people would not dedicate yourselves to impeding Genesis Athena. Can you promise that? Hmm?”

  He read her defiant expression and laughed. “Ah, yes, that’s what I thought. So, you see, when it comes to perceived value, other strategies might prove to be more effective. Perhaps if your bodies were found in a small rental yacht adrift off the Florida Keys? Shall we say, asphyxiated by an unfortunate leak from the exhaust system?”

  Sheela searched his hard black eyes. He meant it! She hurried to say, “No more movies, that way. No future for your investment.”

  “That is correct; we would just have to make do with the Sheela Marks legend, and hope, as with Marilyn Monroe, that a death cult of fascination developed.” He gave a faint shrug. “Genesis Athena’s marketing abilities are substantial, and in many ways, virtually untapped. Handled correctly, given just the right spin in the media, you might just be worth a great deal more to us dead than alive.”

  Sheela felt a cold rush travel down her spine. “You’d never get away with it.”

  “No?” He chuckled softly as he worked the levers on his coffee machine and filled yet another of the cups. “I suppose I wouldn’t have much chance of obtaining Sandra Bullock’s DNA from her bedside either. And I’d never manage something as impossible as obtaining your menstrual tissue from the ladies’ room at a crowded Hollywood gala.”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?” Lymon was pressing the blood-soaked washcloth to his temple, keeping pressure on the wound. “Let’s look at this as a business proposition, okay? Killing us involves a lot of risk and expense. Any way you cut it, it’s complicated. Kill us now, and you have to move the bodies to the scene. If you decide to kill us there, you’ve got to transport us alive, and hope nothing goes wrong. As the complexity rises, so does the probability for a fuckup. Stupid small things can go wrong. Stuff you can’t plan for. Some pump jockey might recognize one of your people when he’s fueling the yacht, or you might have a flat tire at an inopportune time while transporting the bodies. Maybe the Coast Guard picks that moment to do a safety inspection. In the real world, shit happens. Why take the chance?”

  “Yes, and?”

  “You want our silence and cooperation,” Lymon said with a slight shrug. Water from the washrag was mixing with his blood, sending pink ribbons down his neck. “We want to go back and take up our lives where we left off.”

  “How do I know you will do that?”

  Lymon’s smile was bitter. “Because you’ve won. We all know that.”

  “Lymon!” Sheela cried. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He said in an offhanded manner, “Sheela, what’s the point? The Sheik’s outfit is big, well funded, and superbly organized. You can’t stop it, so you might as well make the best of it. Trust me on this.”

  Confused, she tried to understand. Was this really her Lymon? Or had that blow to the head taken something out of him? Rattled his brain? Perhaps given him a concussion or something?

  “What do you have in mind?” Neal Gray asked.

  Lymon broke eye contact with Sheela, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Say you ship Sheela, Sid, and Anaya back to the mainland, and keep me for insurance. In the meantime, I’ll get on the phone to Rex Gerber, Sheela’s business agent, and tell him we’re buying into Genesis Athena. Say he sends you a check for maybe … two million? We put that in an escrow account under both of our names.”

  Sheela stared, openmouthed, then cried, “What the hell are you doing, Lymon?”

  “It’s business,” he told her bluntly, then directed his remarks to Gray. “Sheela and the rest go back to living their lives. Sid writes up a negative 302—that’s the FBI’s brand of favorite paperwork—and everything’s back to normal.”

  “Lymon, I won’t have anything to do with this!” Sheela told him sharply.

  “Sure you will,” he answered, as if willing her to obey, “because I’ll stay here. If you guys break your agreement, the Sheik can do whatever he wants to with me, and can withdraw the two million to boot.”

  “No!” Sheela brazenly walked over to look down at him. She ignored the guard’s angry stare. Beads of coffee still gleamed in the guy’s beard. “I see what you’re doing. No, Lymon. You’re not buying my life with yours. We’ll do this together, whatever it is.”

  “Touching,” Hank Abrams said, his radio still to his ear. “But it appears that our people have cornered Sid Harness. He was in one of the crèches. They’re bringing him up now.”

  Sheela could see Lymon’s expression tightening.

  “Ah,” the Sheik said amiably, “it appears that the only problem remaining is Anaya. Let’s solve that, shall we?”

  “How, sir?” Gray asked. “She’s barricaded in.”

  “It seems that we have all of her people. Perhaps it is time to use them.”

  “Mfffutt!” Vince called.

  Christal rolled her chair back, turning to see him as he struggled against the tape. No way he was getting free. She shifted in her chair and returned her attention to the wall of monitors. In the big central screen, April waited calmly in the hallway, her radio to her ear. The four goons were standing around and giving the world brooding looks that promised violence and mayhem. It had been long and fretful minutes since she’d seen Sid Harness bundled into the Sheik’s quarters.

  Vince made a muffled sound again. Since nothing was happening outside, Christal stepped over, bent down, and ripped the tape from his mouth. He screamed at the mustache hairs that went with it.

  “You got a problem?” she asked.

  “God, that hurt!”

  “Besides that?”

  “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

  “Right.” She slapped the tape back across his mouth. “Go ahead. I won’t watch.”

  Before returning to her seat, she checked Gregor’s tape and made sure he wasn’t working anything loose. He stared up at her with pleading eyes.

  “You okay?”

  “Mffft!” The tape worked under his nose.

  “You know, you and Vince have the same accent.”

  She slipped into her chair just as Lymon’s face formed on one of the monitors. “Christal? You there?” His voice came over the speaker as he spoke into one of the radios.

  “Here, boss. What’s the situation?”

  “We’re putting the final touches on a deal.”

  “Let me guess. The Sheik and all his companions in sin deliver themselves to us in cuffs with signed confessions, right?”

  “This isn’t the time for your questionable humor.” Lymon’s eyes narrowed. “I want you to get ready to leave the security center. You will proceed under guard to one of the hatches, where you and Sid and Sheela will be taken by boat back to the mainland. After that, you will take a charter flight back to LA.”

  “And what happens to you?”

  “I’m staying here for the time being.”

  “Hostage, eh?”

  “Volunteer,” he corrected.

  She glanced up at the clock. “Sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”

  “It’s an order, Christal.”

  “Yes, sir. But, as of this mome
nt, consider me to be fired. Or I resign. Whatever.”

  “Christal, I’m dead serious. I want you out of that control room.”

  She stared at his face, reading his desperation. The hair on one side of his head was mussed and damp. The flesh looked swollen, and if she wasn’t mistaken, weren’t those bloodstains on his collar?

  She keyed the mike. “Lymon, you’re speaking under duress. Since I’m no longer in your employ, I’ve got to make my own calls. I think you understand the stakes here.”

  “Christal, you’ve got to trust me. It’s over. We’ve all come to an agreement. Everyone’s happy with it, so I want you to leave the control center now.” A pause. “Christal? Christal? Can you hear me?”

  Hank Abrams stepped into view, moving Lymon to one side and taking the radio. “Hey, Christal, what’s happening?”

  She keyed the mike. “Not a hell of a lot—which is how I like it. I was just sitting here watching Copperhead on one of the monitors. She and her goons are looking a little upset. You might want to come up and offer some comfort and consolation.”

  His eyebrows twitched in the familiar way they always did when she annoyed him. “The time for banter is up. You know, we could get nasty about this, but Christal, you don’t want to pay the price if we do.”

  “Why’s that?” She glanced up at the clock.

  “Because it’s real hard to live out the rest of your life remembering the look on Mr. Bridges’ face when I put a bullet in his brain. That’s going to weigh on you, Christal. It’s going to fill your nightmares until the day you finally die.” He smiled into the camera. “Take a moment. Think about how it will be. For the rest of your life you’ll see it as I raise a gun to his head. That interminable instant will pass, and—bang! You’ll replay that in your dreams, in all your waking moments. It will be your own private hell, Christal.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Hank.”

  “You sure you want to play the hard-on when people’s lives are at stake?”

  She nodded, then glanced up at the clock. Something was wrong. It should have happened by now.

  “Christal? You just going to let him die?”

  She caught the faint whiff of something sweetly metallic and clamped a hand to her nose. Turning, she could see Vince’s head lolled to the side, his eyes half-closed, chest rising and falling.

  She leaped from the chair, lungs starting to burn, and found the open locker. Bending, she pulled out one of the gas masks, fumbled at the straps, and found the filter cartridges in separate containers in a box. Her heart was pounding, lungs sucking at the base of her throat as she ripped one of the cardboard boxes open and unscrewed the filter canister.

  She got the round canister inserted, its neoprene seal tight, and screwed the canister closed.

  God, help me! She fought the urge to take a deep breath, to expel the sour air in her lungs as she fumbled the thing over her head and tried to adjust the straps.

  In desperation, she clasped the mask to her head and gasped, stumbling to her chair and flopping down. The mask had a rubbery smell. She blinked her eyes and tried to determine if her senses were impaired.

  Yes, sleepy—she could feel it—and stood, walking slowly to and fro, slapping her arms to her sides, willing herself to stay alert.

  In the monitors, Hank was talking, his expression filled with that earnestness she’d once associated with optimism. She shook her head, feeling the tendrils of lethargy at the edge of her mind.

  Picking up the mike, she said, “Can you hear me?”

  “Sure, Christal. You’re muffled but audible,” Hank replied. “Now, did I make my point?”

  “Sorry, Hank.” She smiled wryly behind the mask. “I was a little busy.” She could see April and her goons stepping back as a small acetylene welder was rolled into position by the door. “Hank? You’d better tell your sweetie, Copperhead, that I’ll shoot Vince the second they put that torch against the hinges.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hank’s face had turned serious again.

  “I’m talking about shooting one of my hostages. You torch my door, I’ll shoot Vince. You shoot Lymon, I’ll shoot McEwan. Qué lástima.”

  He seemed to be thinking; then, with a smile, he lifted the radio. “You and I just got crossways, Christal. It doesn’t have to stay that way, you know. We used to be friends. I genuinely liked you. What’s changed?”

  “Remember when they sacrificed my ass over the Gonzales case? Did I hear you say a word in that hearing? Huh? Anything to indicate that you were just as culpable as I was?”

  “Yeah, I know.” He glanced up, concentrating on the monitor. “It was Marsha.”

  “Give me a break! You weren’t a human being because of Marsha?” She could feel her thoughts starting to clear. Maybe she hadn’t gotten nearly the dose that had laid Vince and Gregor out on the floor.

  “Neal made some phone calls. Did you know that Marsha’s firm represented several of Gonzales’ accounts?”

  She stopped short, frowning behind the mask. “No. I didn’t. Why didn’t you? She was your wife.”

  “She never told me her business.”

  “So how’d she get the camera into the van?”

  “Turns out she dropped by just before we went on shift. Said she was looking for me. Tom Paris let her in. When she left, she said not to say anything, that she’d be back later and wanted to surprise me. My guess is that Tom didn’t think anything about it. Then, when the shit started to come down, he kept his mouth shut. Or she found a way to help him keep his mouth shut.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Yeah.” She could hear the question in his voice. “Good old Marsha. Fucked us all. You, me, even the Bureau. Hey, you know, when this is all over, we could go pay her a visit, just you and me.” A pause. “You ever think of that?”

  “Your playmate, April, might disapprove.” Christal looked at the monitor where the hall gang—as she’d come to call them—waited with their cutting torch.

  Christal watched as April lifted her radio and said, “It’s not working, Hank. It’s been more than enough time. That change in her voice, it wasn’t the gas.”

  “Bingo! Five points to Copperhead.” Christal glanced up at the clock, shaking her head. What the hell had gone wrong? “Whatever kind of shit you’re pumping in here, you’d better hope it doesn’t kill Gregor and Vince. I didn’t put a mask on either of them.”

  She could see the irritation in Hank’s eyes. “Then I guess we’re back to shooting Lymon; and after that, Sid’s next.”

  “You’re not thinking, Hank. You shoot Lymon, I shoot Vince. You shoot Sid, I shoot Gregor. Then what? You going to shoot Sheela? Are you sure you want to run the stakes up that high?”

  He stepped back, dragging Lymon into the picture. He lifted a stainless HK 40 that she recognized as Lymon’s and placed it against Bridges’ temple. His thumb flicked the control lever to the fire position. “What’s it going to be, Christal?”

  She pressed the key on the mike, saying, “Go fuck yourself, Hank.” Then she closed her eyes, a miserable sense of failure and premonition crashing down on her soul. It was past time. They’d failed. The witches were going to win.

  55

  Sheela stared in disbelief as Hank Abrams raised his gun to Lymon’s battered head. Hank’s expression was pinched, hollow-eyed, as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was about to do.

  Achmed held the camera as if it were a grail, his hands cupped about it to make sure it took in the whole image. He’d laid his MP5 on the table, ready to reach.

  “It will be a shame to ruin that piece of carpet,” the Sheik said from the side. “And please, back him up against the wall. That caliber bullet will probably blow the back of his skull out, and it will be easier to clean up if the wall stops most of it.”

  “No!” Sheela cried, starting forward. Aziz cut her off, his eyes promising something nasty. She could see blisters on his face where the coffee had scalded.

  “For God’s sake!??
? Sid said where they’d placed him in the corner. “Let me talk to Christal! I can reason with her.”

  Lymon suddenly smiled as he stared into the camera and shouted, “Go for it, Christal! God bless you!”

  “Inshallah!” the Sheik muttered. “Just shoot him! We’ll clean up later.”

  Sheela bent down and sank her teeth into the hand that clasped her shoulder. As the guard howled and flung her aside, she barely noticed Neal Gray, a look of amazement on his face as he stared out through one of the large windows.

  “What the hell?” Gray said, taking another step toward the glass.

  Sheela scuttled back and fell, hearing Aziz roar as he grabbed for her.

  “Kill him!” The Sheik took another step toward Hank Abrams and raised his fist. “Do it! Or do I have to do it for you?”

  From the floor, Sheela reached out, crying, “No! Lymon! No!”

  Sweat had started to bead on Abrams’ face, and he slowly shook his head. His hand wavered, and he lowered the pistol. “No,” he said. “Not me.”

  Sheik Abdulla uttered some terrible curse in Arabic and wrenched the pistol out of Hank’s hand before thrusting him backward, out of the way.

  He turned to the camera, eyes fierce and hot. “You will get out of my control room, you bitch!” He jammed the pistol against Lymon’s swollen head.

  “I’ll do anything!” Sheela shouted, leaping to her feet. “Whatever it takes to—”

  “Fuck!” Gray shouted. “I don’t fucking believe this!”

  In the brief instant before the room lurched sideways, Sheela would have sworn she heard a crumpling sound, felt a shiver. A low rumble could be heard. Then, as if scattered by the fist of God, people were reeling, things were falling, and shouts broke out.

  Amidst the clatter and crash of falling dishes, crystal, and breaking glass, Sheela scrambled for balance. Loud snaps, like breaking wood, split the air. The great table slid, folding up thick Persian carpet like crinoline. Huge and heavy, it came within inches of crushing her against the trembling wall. She would remember the crazy sight of Achmed hitting the wall headfirst to slump in the wreckage. The Sheik and Lymon staggered, slammed into the wood-paneled wall, and the pistol blasted thunder into the rumbling chaos.