The Athena Factor

by W. Michael Gear

  “Come on, Sid.” He couldn’t keep the fear out of his voice.

  “Just a second. There’s only one more tumbler.”

  That’s when it fell apart. Three of them, wearing suits and sunglasses, came in through the double doors. Two more rounded the far corner of the B Deck hallway, striding purposefully forward.

  “We’re fucked!” Lymon hissed as Sid straightened, palming his lockpicks.

  The three Arabs stood shoulder to shoulder; each held an HK MP5, the SD model with a built-in sound suppressor, in the ready position. They stopped no more than five feet away, the first—in accented English—ordered, “Put your hands up, please.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Lymon protested. “We’re here with Jennifer Weaver. She’s a client. You guys back off, and we’ll have Neal Gray straighten this out.”

  “Sorry, he’s busy right now,” Hank Abrams said as he strode through the doors behind the three guards.

  Lymon shot a glance over his shoulder to see the two blockers firmly in position, weapons at half-mast. Shit!

  Abrams walked up behind the suited Arabs, saying, “If you would simply walk down the corridor, gentlemen, we won’t have to cause any disturbance. Our other guests are at supper, and it would really piss me off if we upset them.”

  “Hey, Hank, what’s up?” Sid asked.

  “Hello, Sid. I’m afraid you’re up, kind of like a sore thumb.” He gestured. “Let’s move, people. And quietly. If you make a scene, I promise I’ll pay you back for it big time. Be good, guys, and maybe we can come to some sort of peaceful resolution, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Sid turned, hands up, and Lymon followed.

  The blockers had moved up to their suite door; one of them opened it and stepped inside. The other took a half-step back, his weapon at the ready.

  “Nice work. Who trained these guys?” Sid asked.

  “Neal did,” Abrams said from the rear. “He doesn’t like fuckups. Something you might want to seriously contemplate. Step into your room, please, gentlemen, and do it in a way that won’t cause my guy in there to cut you in half with a burst.”

  “Right,” Lymon agreed. He had that cold sweaty feeling of impending disaster. What the hell were they going to do now? He took a moment to study the guards: Each was alert, his thumb resting on the fire selectors. Now wasn’t the time to try anything stupid. Lymon walked to the middle of the room, Sid coming to stand beside him.

  Hank entered last. He gave them a knowing smile and shook his head sadly. “I knew it. The second I recognized you, Sid, I just knew you were going to push it.” He shifted his attention to Lymon. “And you, Mr. God-almighty Bridges—I feel like I owe you one.”

  “How’s that?”

  “For jacking me around in your office that day. You didn’t have to do that, you know. You could have just given me Christal’s address, and maybe we could have avoided a whole pile of shit.”

  Sid interjected sourly, “Yeah, a kidnapping with witnesses just isn’t the same as a good clean snatch, huh? Forget it, Hank. It’s out of control. They got photos of you and Neal that night. Why do you think we’re here?”

  “Maybe you were in the market for a pleasure cruise?” Hank gestured to one of his guards. “Pat them down from top to bottom. Turn their pockets inside out, and take their belts. Now, Sid, Bridges, if you make this difficult we can search you just as easily if you’re unconscious and bleeding from the scalp.”

  “You’ll fuck up the carpet,” Lymon noted as he tapped the thick Persian with his foot.

  “Housecleaning has a big steam cleaner.” Hank nodded to his goons. “Go.”

  “You know how the Bureau hates to have one of its own go bad.” Sid made a tsking sound with his tongue as thorough hands relieved him of the HK Compact and spare magazine. Then his lockpicks, belt, and pockets were “liberated.” Sid continued, “We’re after you, buddy. If we’d known you were aboard, the Coast Guard would be swarming this tub from top to bottom trying to sniff you out.”

  Hank crossed his arms. “So, what are you suggesting? That I just stick my arms out, let you slap the cuffs on, and go willingly?”

  The guards followed suit with Lymon, taking his HK, the flash-bang he’d tucked into an inside pocket, and the portable satellite phone he’d clipped to the back of his belt. Their accumulated possessions were piled onto a towel.

  “Take that up to the security center,” Hank ordered one of the men. “And don’t forget the case on the bed in the back.”

  Lymon watched the towel neatly tied into a bundle before it and his black tactical case vanished through the door.

  “We could work something out.” Sid cocked his head, indicating the gun-toting guards. “You don’t need them. Why don’t we just mosey over to the bar, crack a couple of those fancy bottles, and figure out what it would take to bring this to a satisfactory conclusion?”

  “Why would I do that?” Hank walked a slow circle of the room, glancing at the ornate fixtures with mild interest. “Seems to me I’ve got you. Better, I’ve got every other card in your deck, including Bridges, Marks, and Anaya. I’ve even got an unseen hole card, Sid. I happen to know that nobody back at the barn knows where you are, or better yet, what you’re working on.”

  Sid made a buzzer noise with his tongue, adding, “Wrong! No points for Hank this round. Sean O’Grady at the LAFO knows. It’s all over the country. One lead after another piped from field office to field office.”

  “Nice bluff.” Hank smiled. “We’ve had feelers out. No one’s certain yet that we really kidnapped Christal. They’d just like to talk to us. We’ve been considering damage-control options. What if it turns out that sweet Christal went willingly?”

  “Yeah, right,” Lymon interjected. “You should have seen O’Grady’s face when we told him you’d offered five grand just to see her.”

  “What makes you think she didn’t take it?” Hank’s mocking tone antagonized Lymon’s sense of impotent rage.

  Sid propped his hands on his hips. “I know Chris. Whatever you’ve done with her, she’s not going to play ball.”

  Lymon saw the faintest hesitation in the guy’s eyes. Yeah, he knew that, didn’t he?

  Hank turned, walking to stare out at the ocean through the large windows. “You people being here makes it a little more difficult. That’s all. Not only that, Sid, you’re on your own. Nobody in the Bureau is talking about Sheela Marks as bait—and you know they would. It’s an agency—as hungry for juicy gossip as any other bunch of half-frustrated people.” He laughed. “Hell, Marks’ own business manager doesn’t know what’s coming off, or why!”

  “And that’s another screwup,” Sid continued. “This is Sheela Marks we’re talking about. Not just some grunt off the street. She’s wise to you, and you can bet that people are going to be listening to her when she gets off this floating den of perversion.”

  Hank frowned. “You make a very good point. We’re going to have to give that some thought. If we let you all go, can we count on you to take it to the press? Do that and by the end of the week every person in the civilized world is going to know our name. When the swarms of reporters come clambering aboard, we can demonstrate our gene therapies, our enhancements, and successes in IVF. We couldn’t pay for that kind of publicity.”

  “You’ll be shut down within days. Your vessel confiscated, and each of you slapped with charges like you’ve never even imagined,” Lymon added.

  Hank whirled, a gleam in his eyes. “Oh, really? I don’t think so.”

  “Why’s that?” Sid asked.

  “This is a Yemeni-flagged vessel in international waters. We are operating in compliance with Yemeni law. Yemen, if you’ll recall, is an ally in the war against terrorism. They’re strategically located, providing us with bases of operation into the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the Horn of Africa. Their government hands over suspected Islamic fundamentalists with terrorist ties. With all that at stake, do you really think Washington is going to compromise that relationshi
p over a few strands of celebrity DNA?”

  “You might be surprised,” Sid said dryly.

  “So might you.” Hank cocked his head. “One of the things you’re unaware of is how many Washington bigwigs the Sheik has treated aboard the ZoeGen or at the facility in Yemen. I was actually stunned when I read the list.”

  Lymon had been watching him, reading his body language. Damn it, either the guy was one hell of a poker player, or he really believed he held all the cards. He wasn’t just bullshitting; he was bragging. And that, more than anything else, sent a shiver along Lymon’s spine.

  “Sheela Marks has a pretty loud voice herself,” Lymon said. “And so, too, do Julia Roberts, Mel Gibson, Brad Pitt, and the rest of the people whose DNA you’ve stolen. I think they can make it pretty hot for you.”

  Hank shrugged. “The average American thinks they’re spoiled, rich, shallow, and for the most part, as moral as dock rats. You ever read the bios? Who’s going to garner more sympathy? Ben Affleck, or a twelve-year-old little girl whose life Genesis Athena just saved through one of our miracle therapies?”

  “The key is still Christal,” Sid said doggedly. “That’s kidnapping, and we’ll get you for that.”

  Hank chuckled. “What makes you so sure about Christal? How do you know we haven’t made her an offer she can’t refuse? If we could pay five grand just to talk to her, what would we be willing to offer in return for her cooperation?” He stepped close, looking into Sid’s eyes. “And we don’t need Christal, Sid. What about you? For a million in cold hard cash, would you be willing to sign a statement that Christal told you she was here of her own free will?”

  “Fuck you.” Sid crossed his arms.

  “Please, old friend, hands where we can see them. That’s it.” Hank leaned close. “Two million?”

  Sid hesitated, the first uncertainty reflected in his expression. “You’re shitting!”

  “First thing every morning after a spicy meal,” Hank replied. “But I’m not kidding about our ability to reward the people who work for us. Only one thing, Sid—you’re going to have to prove you’re worth it.”

  The door opened, and an attractive woman stuck her head in. She looked Lymon and Sid over with curious gray eyes, her long red hair falling around her shoulders. “Hank? We’re set The passengers are all in the dining room. The hallway is cleared.”

  “Thanks April.” Hank gestured at Lymon and Sid. “All right, you two, while you think over our offer, let’s go.”

  “Where?” Sid asked, propping his feet as if to root himself in the rich carpet.

  “Someplace safe,” Hank answered. “Where you won’t be upsetting our other passengers.”

  The Arab guards lifted their heavy black weapons. Lymon had seen that look before; it didn’t bode well for him. Reluctantly, he waved Sid forward and started for the door.

  51

  Visions spun and rolled behind Sheela’s eyes. Her dreams seemed chaotic—pastiches of scenes acted, roles played, and people she’d known. She saw her father’s face, smiling, worried … dead. Rex, beaming as he took her hand for the first time and said, “Sheela Marks, I think I can be of great service to you.” Bernard, arms waving as he cried, “My God! That’s masterful! Cut! Cut!” The weight of the Oscar—so cold and heavy in her hand—as thunderous ovation rolled up from the Kodak Theatre floor.

  It all gave way to an image of Lymon: tall, muscular, his craggy face lit by a smile. He was reaching for her, his hand outstretched as he straddled his silver BMW. All she needed was to take his hand, step up on the passenger peg, and he’d wheel her away to forever: just the two of them and the magical motorcycle that sped her toward Nirvana.

  Awareness came from her physical body. Her attempt to swallow ended in disaster. Her tongue caught on the back of her mouth, almost choking her. She started, coughed, and blinked her dry eyes open.

  The light was bleary, white, and streaked. She tried to swallow again and failed.

  “Easy,” a gentle female voice told her. “Let me help you.”

  A hand slipped behind her head, easing her forward. “Here’s water. Just take a sip.”

  Sheela felt a glass touch her lips, and cool liquid washed around her tongue. When she swallowed, the water rolled through her chest and stomach like a wave.

  Blinking again, the room slowly came into focus. And what a room! Marble columns, gold filigree in polished dark wood, thick Persian carpets, and what looked like a diamond-encrusted chandelier overhead. She lay on a velvet-upholstered chaise longue, the woodwork polished and engraved. Bright white light came from large windows behind her.

  She tried to place the white-clad nurse. “You are … ?” her voice cracked.

  “Asza. You’re aboard the ZoeGen, Ms. Marks.”

  Sheela groaned as she forced herself to sit up, arms bracing her on the cushions. She was half reclined on a couch of some sort. “Why am I here?”

  A sibilant voice came from behind her left shoulder. “Because you paid us to impregnate you with a Sheela Marks embryo.”

  The nurse stepped back and Sheela turned, seeing a dark and handsome man in an expensive silk suit. He had neatly combed black hair that gleamed in the chandelier’s light while half silhouetted by sunlight shining through the windows. He looked Arab from his complexion, with a fine-boned face, intelligent eyes, and a smile that flashed perfect white teeth. A golden espresso machine sat atop an intricately carved wooden stand.

  He spoke softly, barely audible over the hiss of the machine. “Imagine our surprise when we discovered that Jennifer Weaver’s and Sheela Marks’ DNA matched exactly. Only one of O. J. Simpson’s jurors would have believed that we were dealing with two different people. Fortunately, we discovered the situation before serious consequences could occur. So, no harm has been done.”

  Sheela reached up, rubbing her face. Her skin had the feel of dry latex.

  He stepped forward, reaching out a hand. “I am Sheik Amud Abdulla, founder and president of Genesis Athena. Welcome aboard the ZoeGen, Ms. Marks. If I had known you were coming, I would have made a special effort to have greeted you as you came aboard. I have admired your work for years.”

  “Thank you.” It was coming back, now. The ZoeGen … Genesis Athena … a party of people bearing Christal away in the dead of night. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I am building this century’s quintessential service and health industry. Science has always laid the foundations for every great empire. You need only think of Alexander’s iron swords, or Roman architecture and engineering, the English colonial factory system, or the modern American military industrial complex. Personally, I would have preferred to develop the space industry. It would have been a much more natural extrapolation from my family’s expertise in shipping across oceans to the transportation of goods across the solar system. Marshaling the capital, however, was not only prohibitive, but others are so far ahead of us.”

  “Let me get this straight, you steal DNA because you can’t go to space?”

  “Each is part of mankind’s future,” the Sheik told her amiably as he worked the levers on the coffee machine and steam hissed. “Our world is becoming increasingly competitive. In the past humans have focused on making ever more intricate, improved, and sophisticated tools. I offer the next step: that of producing ever better humans to use them.”

  “And for that you needed my DNA?”

  “To be sure, Ms. Marks. You are a most beautiful and intelligent woman. The same traits which make you so attractive, add value to your DNA.” As the machine sputtered he raised a slim index finger to his chin, as though in deep thought. “What is celebrity?”

  “It’s a pain in the ass.”

  He might not have heard her snide remark. “It is envy; and what people envy, they wish to emulate. Through you, they live vicariously, be it by means of your screen presence, or—with the help of Genesis Athena—your very genes.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “I make no judgments. I simply
provide a product in return for a fee. Our latest survey indicates that three percent of the American people will pay to have a baby based on their favorite celebrity’s DNA. Three percent ! And that is without advertising, without incentives of any sort. Most, alas, are from lower-income, lower-educational demographics, but taken in total they represent a substantial market. And that is just America. China, India, Indonesia, and Thailand, where cloning isn’t viewed with as much suspicion, are worth billions more to us in the long run”

  “Then why start with Americans?”

  “In the modern world, Ms. Marks, marketing is everything, as you and your publicist well know.”

  “And the Web site? The questionnaire?”

  “It allows us to rank-order potential clients. We can immediately discard the frivolous and closed-minded while concentrating on persons with both the predisposition and ability to afford our services.”

  “The way you talk of cloning it’s another form of slavery.”

  He paced to one of the windows and stared out. “We are helping people to have children … nothing more, nothing less. The only difference between natural reproduction and our IVF service is the genotype of the child. It is still a life, Ms. Marks. As prized—or despised—by its parents as any other.”

  “That’s the entire point!”

  He turned, silhouetted by the glow. “Is there a difference between a life based on your DNA versus a child conceived of any other two people’s? Six billion human beings exist on this planet; until recently, each of them was created by the chance mixture of parental DNA. You were created that way. Are you going to try and tell me that DNA that was good enough for you isn’t good enough for someone else?”

  “It’s my DNA!”

  “You had no part in its design, composition, or character. You received it from your biological parents, who in return, received theirs from their parents, and so on. If DNA is anyone’s, it is God’s.”

  “I don’t see it the way you do.”

  “Ah, you would have me believe that your soul acted to choose your DNA? Perhaps pointed in the darkness of your mother’s womb, saying, ‘There! I want that sperm, and only that sperm, with those discrete genes to fertilize this egg, and this egg alone!’”