The Athena Factor

by W. Michael Gear

  Home had been Saskatchewan. Not Ontario. What was it about Canada that it seemed to be independent worlds separated by an even greater distance than she felt between Regina and LA? It was only after living in the States that she had come to see how fragmented the notion of unity really was in the Canadian psyche. Quebec, Ontario, and the western provinces might have been three different countries, with the maritime provinces as some peripheral satellites orbiting out there in the foggy east somewhere.

  She turned at a slight knock. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and she could see the main room as Lymon entered with a six-pack of what looked like beer hanging from his hand. He was dressed neatly, wearing a blazer and tie, his legs in cotton trousers.

  “I brought something.”

  “Beer?” she asked, squinting at the six-pack.

  “Upper Canada Dark,” he replied. “Something Christal said we had to try based upon an old friend’s recommendation.”

  She gave him a look from under lowered brows. “I’ve got a screen call tomorrow at five a.m. Does that mean anything to you?”

  He glanced around her room, took in the laid-back covers of the bed, smooth and folded as the turndown service had left them. Only a blind idiot could fail to notice that she was still fully dressed as she sat in her chair before the window.

  In an inoffensive tone he said, “Apparently it means more to me than it does to you. If you had been sacked out according to plan, you wouldn’t have heard that faintest of knocks.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She pointed. “The opener is over there, assuming they’re not twist offs.”

  He walked to the counter, pulled out two bottles, and levered the tops off, calling, “Glass?”

  “No.” She frowned as she took the bottle and studied it in the half-light, “You know, most Canadian beer is pretty weak. It’s not like the microbrews you’re used to.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” He lifted the long neck, sipped, and smiled.

  Sheela lifted her bottle and washed some of the effervescent brew over her tongue. “That’s really good.”

  Lymon stood silently, staring out at the dark lake below. “Quite a view.”

  “Your room doesn’t have this?”

  He shrugged. “I get the CN Tower, a glimpse of the white top of the ballpark, and a nice panorama of downtown.” He turned. “How’s the shooting going?”

  “Funny you should ask.” She used a toe to tap the script she’d dropped on the floor by the chair leg. “Without Manny, we’ve actually moved ahead of schedule. You tell me, Lymon, how does a prick like that get to be so important?”

  “Women drool over him.” He chuckled. “Christal said that even she had to do a double take when he walked out at the photo shoot.”

  “She’s a pretty sharp cookie, isn’t she?”

  Lymon nodded. “I wish I could have hired her when I first started in this business.”

  “I haven’t seen her for the last couple of days.”

  “Since we were shooting inside the Royal Ontario Museum security was tighter than on the street. I turned her loose to do her research.”

  “What’s she found?”

  “Why do you think a biotech firm would have a link to your Web site?”

  Sheela closed her eyes as she leaned back in the padded chair and sipped the mellow dark beer. “I have no idea, Lymon. The Web site is Dot’s domain. What did she say?”

  “She said that you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Genesis Athena throws you pennies from heaven. Their check clears each month.”

  “Maybe I’ll ask when I do The Mike Bullard Show tomorrow evening.” She cracked an eye and glanced across at the clock next to her bed. “God, is that the time?”

  “You have to be up in five hours.” Lymon’s voice was soft. “I was afraid that you weren’t sleeping.”

  “Yes, Doctor. I’ll just suck down my suds and collapse.”

  “I worry about you.”

  The way he said it warmed her heart. “I’ll be fine, Lymon.” She paused. “What’s the word on your mysterious Arab?”

  “Thankfully, there is nothing to report.” He frowned. “Here’s a curious twist. The day before we left, Christal’s, uh, I guess you could call him ‘ex,’ showed up.”

  “The one from New York?”

  “Yep. He wanted to see her something fierce. Offered her a job and, get this, even five grand just to meet with him.”

  Sheela opened her eyes and turned her head to stare. Lymon’s craggy features were softly illuminated by the light filtering through the tall window. She could see the firm set of his lips, the way he rocked up on his toes. “That worries you?”

  “He was with Sheik Abdulla in New York. Then he shows up trying to get a line on Christal. Why don’t I like that scenario?”

  “You think he’d try to use Christal to get to me?”

  “Maybe. Not that it would do him much good. If he thinks that she’d tumble into his arms and help him do evil, he’s a sadly mistaken young boy.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “He came to the office looking for her.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Attractive, sharp, self-possessed, but not one hundred percent on his game. He tried to follow me to Christal’s. Did a shabby job of it. Not what Christal’s description would have led me to believe about his talents.” He paused. “Curious, don’t you think? First Christal goes into protection, and then he does? Is that just coincidence?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “What else does an ex-FBI agent do? Private investigation? Police work? There aren’t that many allied fields, are there?”

  “No. I suppose not. I’m just concerned, is all. It’s a pattern I can’t explain. If I can’t explain it, it makes me nervous. The more nervous I get, the more I want to explain things.”

  She placed the beer to one side and stood, walking on bare feet to stand behind him. Wrapping her arms around him, she placed her cheek on his shoulder. “It will be all right, Lymon. You will keep me safe. You always have.”

  “Ah, yes,” he chided bitterly, “just like in that hallway in New York, and then, of course, there’s my triumph in the ladies’ room at the Beverly Wilshire.”

  “I wasn’t hurt, was I?” she asked.

  “You could have been.”

  She said nothing, tightening her hold, feeling the hard muscle lining his ribs and belly. For a long time, she stood like that, allowing his warmth to seep into her cool body.

  Finally, she took a deep breath, let him go, and said, “I can sleep now, Lymon. Thank you.”

  He turned, brushed his lips across her hair, and walked silently to the door, where he let himself out into the main room.

  The place was called Rotterdam, a microbrewery several blocks north of the Toronto Bluejays’ ballpark. It didn’t look like much from the outside; just a sign, the walls made of rough-sided ruddy brick. Inside, it was raucous, popular, and filled with the young and vigorous. Through gaps in the back wall Christal could see shiny stainless steel vats where various kinds of beer and ale were brewed. The white wood walls had been scarred by years of occupancy. Posters hung here and there on the walls, and a series of large blackboard menus listed various brews and foods, all chalked in with different-colored block letters.

  A hockey game ensorcelled a clutch of husky young men at the far end of the main room. They wore numbered jerseys and were accompanied by two rather nubile young women wearing cutoff shorts and stretch shirts a size too small for the breasts they’d stuffed into them.

  The wreckage of a fish-and-chips dinner basket was pushed off to Christal’s left, and a half-full glass of the establishment’s famed stout sat to her right. The bar napkin before her was stuck to the table, but still served to fulfill its God-given purpose as a notepad.

  On the napkin top, she had printed GENESIS ATHENA. Then she had defined the terms. Genesis: to produce, to give birth to, to create. Athena: ancient Greek goddess of knowledge, first
in war, symbol of the city of Athens, goddess of wisdom and knowledge, born fully formed from the forehead of Zeus.

  She considered the relationship of the two words together. Athena, sprung full-blown from the forehead of Zeus; how had she been born?

  “Use a fire ax?” she muttered, thinking about extracting Athena from Zeus’ forehead bone. Did that mean heads had anything to do with the assaults? Mel Gibson’s razor scuzz came from the head. But that flew in the face of Sheela’s tampon and urine. Nor did it fit the harpoon shot at Brad Pitt’s butt.

  “A sample?” she asked under her breath. At that moment the room exploded with cries as someone scored a goal on the hockey game playing at the other end of the room.

  What was it that Lymon had said about Hollywood celebrities? That they paid for their success with pieces of themselves? Pieces, like had been taken from Manny de Clerk’s penis? She frowned, thinking of witches, and the desires that led them to possess.

  Lymon’s words returned to haunt her: “Under all the flashbulbs, fancy dresses, and long shiny cars, the world is feeding off of her blood and sucking at her soul.”

  Christal reached into her purse and pulled out the Genesis Athena flier that the kid had handed her at the benefit:

  GENESIS ATHENA MAKES DREAMS COME TRUE. YOU CAN BRING HER INTO YOUR LIFE.

  Below was the image of Sheela Marks smiling out at the world.

  “All right, I’ll bite.” Christal reached into her bag for her cell phone and dialed the 1-800 number on the flyer. She pressed send and waited through three rings before an automated voice said, “Greetings! Welcome to Genesis Athena, the home of the stars! Please use the touch-tone pad on your telephone to enter the first name and then push the pound sign before entering the last name of the celebrity or star that you admire the most.”

  Christal turned the phone so she could punch 7-4-3-3-5-2-#-6-2-7-5-7.

  The automated voice said, “According to your selection, you have chosen …” Another voice supplied, “Sheela Marks.”

  Christal smiled. Then the first voice resumed, “If this is correct, please press 1.”

  Christal pushed the 1 on her keypad and heard the tone.

  “For our free celebrity bio, press 1 now.”

  Christal repeated the operation.

  “If you consider yourself to be Sheela’s greatest fan, press 1 now.”

  Christal did.

  “Sheela Marks has something special. When she smiles, the world is illuminated in light. If you dream of her night and day, press 1.”

  Christal made a face as she complied.

  “We think you might have what it takes to join Sheela Marks’ most exclusive circle of admirers. If you agree, press 1 now.”

  Christal pressed.

  “Please enter your name and address starting with street, box, city, state, postal code, or zip now. Speak slowly and clearly for our voice recognition software.”

  Christal, caught off balance, sputtered, “Uh, I’m Lisa Bridges, 12256 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite Two, West Hollywood, California, 91210.” She had only a moment to wonder if giving the LBA office address had been the right snap decision.

  “Lisa Bridges, 12256 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite Two, West Hollywood, California, 91210.” The voice repeated it perfectly. “If this is correct, press 1 now.”

  Christal punched the button.

  “Enter your phone number now and press pound.”

  Christal entered her phone.

  “Thank you for calling Genesis Athena and sharing your love of Sheela Marks. We will be mailing our Sheela Marks packet to you today. Please look for it in your box. If you do not receive it within the next week, please call this number again.” A pause. “We’ll be sharing your dreams of Sheela.” Then a click indicated the end of the conversation.

  The group at the far end whooped again as two hockey players slammed headlong into each other and tumbled onto the ice.

  24

  Sid Harness glanced at his watch. Twenty-eight minutes after noon. He still had two minutes before Lymon was supposed to call. Sid used the time to peel back the paper that wrapped his turkey-and-provolone sandwich. He was sitting at a white vinyl-clad table in a Subway off Thomas Circle. Looking out the window, he could just see the statue of the corroded general sitting on his dark bronze horse. Traffic wheeled around below the general’s feet. He was scowling out, theoretically with the same grim determination that had held the line at Chickamauga, Franklin, and Nashville.

  The lunch crowd clogged the small restaurant, and behind the glass counter, two dark-skinned people, perhaps Pakistani or Iranian, hustled back and forth, slapping meat, lettuce, peppers, cheeses, and tomatoes onto buns.

  It was a good place. Loud, crowded, and hectic. If anyone overheard, they’d only get bits and pieces. Sid had wedged himself into a small corner table, his back to the room. He sipped at the Coke he’d bought and could barely hear the Commerce Department secretaries bitching about their boss at the crowded table behind him. The good-looking blonde kept banging his chair back with hers.

  Sid’s phone rang a half second after he’d taken his first bite. Swallowing, he washed it down with the Coke and opened his cell. “Harness.”

  “Sid? Lymon.”

  “I was just sitting here, thinking I ought to be billing you by the hour.”

  “Okay.” Lymon paused. “Is that legal?”

  “Hell no! But then, neither is what I’m doing for you. You’d think I was was working for LBA instead of you-know-who.” He glanced around uneasily, satisfied that people were more interested in slamming lunch and getting back to the grind than eavesdropping on wayward FBI agents.

  “Did you get what I need?”

  “If I got your message correctly, you wanted to know where the toll-free number you gave me was physically located. Your tax dollars have allowed me to ascertain that that phone number is answered at 98376 Virginia Avenue in Broomfield, Colorado.”

  “Colorado?”

  “That’s what the divine oracle that lives inside the computer said. If you need to know more, you’re going to have to cast tea leaves, or do a little old-fashioned detective-type footwork.”

  “Right. Thanks Sid. What about the Sheik?”

  “He’s a curious guy. Hails from warm, sunny, sandy Qatar. That’s a small country about midway down the east side of the Persian Gulf.”

  “I know where Qatar is. We spent a weekend floating out in the harbor there, remember? R and R compliments of the good old USN.”

  “Yeah, I do seem to recall that, but then I have the keen brain of a highly trained federal agent. You’re just a marshmallow celebrity guard guy these days.”

  “Do you want to get to the point?”

  “The Sheik’s rich—owns a fleet of tankers and freighters that handle about ten percent of the shipping going in and out of the Persian Gulf. He also has major investments in real estate around the world. You might be interested to know that he’s big in your business.”

  “Yeah, pictures, I know.”

  “He likes being seen with pretty women, especially movie stars and high-profile models. He likes to squire them around the world in his private 757.” He lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, I heard that he does sensitive things for both the Bureau and the Company down at the big L.”

  The big L was Sid’s personal slang for the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley.

  “I see. Anything that you can tell me that might relate to my client?”

  “No. He seems to be a legit Arab businessman who has decided that the future lies with the West rather than the dogmatic rag-heads who want to go back to the Middle Ages. No conspicuous ties to terrorism, Al Qaeda, bad guys in Iran, or anything that would blacklist him.”

  “How about biotech? Is he invested in that?”

  “Odd that you should mention it. Yeah. He owns several companies that are into genetic engineering. They’re agricultural. You know, drought-resistant corn and tomatoes, that sort of thing.” Sid paus
ed, wondering why it hadn’t registered when he skimmed the memo he’d requested on Sheik Amud Abdulla. Genetics?

  “Sid? Christal is here. She wants to know if you got any answer from the guys at Quantico about the questionnaire.”

  “Put her on.”

  He waited and heard Christal’s voice. “Hey, Sid. What’s happening?”

  “My cold turkey sandwich is sitting undigested in front of me. It’s a hot day in DC. My investigation is spinning its wheels in loose sand. I think Peter is going to make me shelve my kidnapped scientists if I don’t have anything by the end of the week.”

  “Kidnapping cases don’t suit you. What did the shrinks say?”

  Sid pulled out his notepad and a pen. “Where can I fax the report to you?” She gave him a phone number, and he added, “You’ll have to read the fine print, but head shrink Russ Tanner thought it was a test. You know, the sort psychologists give people to profile their personalities. He said that the changing questions were routine. If you answer something that gets a hit, the program changes to ask you more specific questions. Uh, say you’ve got a neurosis about being compulsively neat. It tailors itself to determine just how fucked up you really are.”

  “All this is in the report?”

  “Yeah, I’ll fax it to you as soon as I get back to the office. Do me a favor, huh? Deep-six the paperwork when you get it. I don’t want anything coming back to haunt my sleep.”

  “For you, Sid, anything. Lymon and I will burn it in the trash can after we read it. Then we’ll flush the ashes down the john.”

  He grinned as he took a bite of his sandwich. Through a mouthful he said, “You know, Chris, spy work really suits you.”

  The greenroom for The Mike Bullard Show at the studio in downtown Toronto was well stocked. Christal glanced past Lymon as Rob Sawyer, a Canadian science fiction author, opened the refrigerator and removed a can of pop. Sawyer was up next, having just won a Canadian literary award.

  She reclined on a gray fabric-upholstered couch and glanced up at the television monitor as a round of applause broke out for Sheela. The television in the corner of the small room showed Sheela as she walked out on stage clad in a pastel blue Ungaro wraparound.