Athena's Secrets

by Donna Del Oro

  There was no question of whether she minded or not, this was a British Embassy security chief asking for her help again. The PM’s visit had been postponed three months but now was rescheduled for the following week, as the security detail continued to investigate who had hired Tony and the Serbians. They appeared a little closer to answering that question, according to her father, but they couldn’t keep postponing the visit. The American president had a schedule to keep, also. So, what could she say? Sorry, I have a date with a fellow painter. I can’t help you prevent the attack on the PM’s life and countless others, including my own father!

  She frowned and got into the back seat, the passenger seat in front already occupied by Max’s teammate, whose alias was “John.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  The prime minister’s visit in one week had set everyone on edge, especially her father. She and her mother had learned from her father one evening after their return from California, that Max had translated the Arabic message left in Winston Blake’s gym locker that day: “We gave you what you demanded. Now it’s your turn.” Of course, they couldn’t discount completely that Winston had gotten involved in a shady private matter, but if so, the message implied he was a blackmailer of sorts.

  Or worse, he was a traitor. The content of that secret message implicated her father’s own secretary in a plot to kill the PM and others. It implied that Winston Blake was paid for supplying inside information about the PM’s whereabouts and secret plans during his visit to the U.S. If the attack was imminent, then at what point during the visit was this attack meant to take place? Where, when, how—those were the big questions.

  And when they’d returned from Alex’s funeral, her father had made it very clear that he was angry at Athena for getting involved in the whole business and upset with her mother for encouraging their daughter to use her clairvoyance in these matters. And furious with himself for not protecting them from the cruel world! To which, she and her mother said nothing but just hugged him for his lovely and manly sentiments.

  That was her father, the perennial boy scout and English gentleman.

  When Athena asked why Winston Blake hadn’t already been interrogated, her father had explained. The ambassador himself had decided against interrogating their prime suspect and inside man. Instead, the security team administered polygraphs to the entire Embassy staff, not wishing to reveal their trump card, but Winston’s and a few others’ results were inconclusive. Sir Peter Willcott was morally opposed to torture of any kind and felt that, inevitably, good intelligence would save the day.

  Well, good luck with that, Athena thought.

  “To Old Town Alexandria,” supplied John. “To meet your father and mother…and the ambassador.”

  Her pulse skipped. She wasn’t dressed for a meeting with Sir Peter, or anyone else important! She was in her usual sloppy jeans, tunic and sneakers. Her startled gaze met Max’s in the rearview mirror.

  “We want your sense of a few things, that’s all.” He tried to reassure her. “Nothing to stress over.”

  She harrumphed. “Easy for you to say. What if I get it wrong? What if I can’t see anything? What if I draw a blank?”

  “Well, luv, you haven’t so far. But if you do, your mother will help fill the void. Remember, Athena, you were the one who had that vision of Blake’s gym locker, the secret message. You led us to him, and you were spot on. Sir Peter doesn’t know what to think about you, your…talent, shall we say. We’ve convinced him that what you see is good intel. That’s what we need at this point.”

  She nodded, her mind jumping to her date with Dan, whom she’d just stood up.

  “Shit!” She reached for her cell phone and sent Dan a text, apologizing profusely for the change in plans at the last minute. Waited for a reply, cringing meanwhile. There goes another one. First, Tony, then Martin, and now Dan. Kas—well, we won’t go there. Too fucking painful…

  I hate you. I hate you.

  “You’re sounding more American these days,” commented Max, his wry sense of humor reminding her of more important things than dashed love affairs.

  “You should hear the way I think,” she retorted. Her cell phone buzzed. Dan texted back: “I’m sorry. Here I am, sitting at Luigi’s, having a glass of chianti. I know you’re involved with the British Embassy—good for you! There are other things in life besides painting. How’s the Manet going? I’d like to see it.”

  I’ll be working on it tomorrow, 8AM. Fifth floor painting studio. Come and see it. It’s maybe one-third done.

  Okay. What’s your coffee drink?

  Skinny hazelnut macchiato. Thanks.

  See you then.

  Athena smiled, her chest feeling lighter than it had in days. She sighed.

  Life goes on.

  ****

  Wharfside was the kind of restaurant that was an Old Town Alexandria destination, wood-paneled and glowing with old style, featuring brass ships’ lamps and the best seafood in town. The loyal clientele included the Who’s-Who of Washington politics, often crowding the red-leather stools at the long bar and the banquettes along the walls. There were private dining rooms for lunch and dinner meetings. She followed Max, John bringing up the rear, into one of these dining rooms.

  The British ambassador, Sir Peter Willcott, was already seated next to her father and mother, the three of them nursing cocktails. Her mother was sipping a favorite of hers, a vodka martini—Athena could tell by the shape of the glass—her father swirling a Scotch whisky, no doubt. Two other men, whom Athena didn’t know, who looked vaguely familiar, sat at the other side of the ambassador. She approached shyly, intimidated by the company present at such a meeting. John had joined the other two guards standing by the dining room’s threshold, big, bulky hunks in oversized suit jackets. Armed and exuding no-nonsense attitudes, their vigilant eyes roamed the area constantly.

  Max introduced her and she smiled shyly, wondering if she should curtsey. No, ninny, just nod your head. Sir Peter wasn’t a royal, or even born into the aristocracy. He was a self-made man, a Cambridge man from a middle-class family, just like her father. Her mother reached over and took her hand. The telepathic message: Sir Peter doesn’t know about me. Let’s keep it that way, for your father’s sake. Athena didn’t know what that was about—other than her father’s fear and concern over what people in the Foreign Office would think. It was necessary that the Embassy Security team knew about her mother’s mental powers but Max and the others had been sworn to secrecy. Athena nodded slightly.

  To cover the moment, her mother said, “’Thena, there’s no need to be nervous. Sir Peter called this meeting, in part to thank you for your role in that ambush.”

  Athena looked at the ambassador, noted that he was pointedly acknowledging her left arm, now free of a cast. When everyone was seated and all eight of them had drinks, including Athena’s diet soda, Sir Peter began the meeting.

  “I’ve called you all here to this unofficial meeting off the Embassy grounds for two reasons—actually, three reasons. The first, to recognize Athena Butler’s courage in volunteering to be the bait in Max’s successful operation in December.” He paused while the others applauded appreciatively for Athena. Her face warmed at the unexpected accolades.

  Sir Peter went on, “We all sincerely hope your arm has suffered no long-term effects, and we’ve been told that you’re mending nicely. Secondly, in an effort to keep our latest findings as secret as possible, I have limited the number of people who are now privy to the security team’s ongoing investigation of Mr. Blake. We all agree that further investigation is warranted, and due process must go forth. However, in light of the prime minister’s visit next week, we must add haste to our investigation of a possible insider’s leak and betrayal. With that in mind, given the somewhat dodgy implications of Mr. Blake’s inconclusive polygraph, and with the security team’s recommendation, I would like to try something unorthodox with our young friend, Athena Butler.”

  With
the exception of her parents, Sir Peter, Max and his two security men, the two Foreign Ministry officials looked somewhat perplexed. Max meant to reassure her by patting her arm and grinning at her in encouragement. Instead, she read his thoughts: God, if this doesn’t work, I’m royally fucked. Her eyes widened at his worry. Max was putting his career on the line, that’s how desperate they were to uncover Blake’s plot and expose his accomplices. Evidently, the FBI’s interrogation of the Serbians had led nowhere. The men were in prison awaiting trial and deportation.

  That meant the pressure was all on her to use her clairvoyance and get correct results! Her mother stared at her and silently cheered her on. Athena understood why her mother refused to help in this case. If Athena was wrong or couldn’t see anything of value, Trevor Butler wouldn’t be blamed. But a wife who represented her husband—well, that was a different story!

  Sir Peter now indicated that his cultural attaché should take over. Athena’s father opened a manila folder and took out a stack of papers held together with a metal clip.

  “These are copies of the PM’s schedule for the seven days he will be on the East Coast. The security team has already seen the daily and hourly schedule, as has everyone else here with the exception of my wife, Anna, and my daughter, Athena. With his approval, Sir Peter would like Athena to handle these papers and look over the details of each day’s schedule. She has already, in everyone’s view, proven her loyalty to Queen and country, and therefore we trust she will keep confidential whatever she sees. All of us present here tonight agree that whatever happens at this meeting must never be spoken about. Tonight never happened.”

  “Agreed,” chorused the group.

  “Jolly good. Well then, Athena, take these papers and let us know what you think. Take your time.”

  At first, she didn’t understand. Then it dawned on her. Of course, Winston Blake had overseen the copies made on the office copier, had handled the papers himself, and had probably passed on the information to whoever was planning the attack. Maybe Blake had even recommended the date, time, and venue for the attack. He would know the number of security officers assigned for each event, for that was detailed on the printout as well.

  Athena took the slim stack of papers and placed it on the table in front of her. Closing her eyes, she smoothed her right hand over the top sheet before touching the clip and rifling through the other sheets. When nothing came through, save a sense of Blake’s quickened pulse and queasiness in his stomach, she began to turn each page and run her hand down from top to bottom. Nothing more transmitted, except Blake’s increasing anxiety. His heart was pounding by now, hammering hard in his chest as he studied each block of days in the PM visit’s schedule. She sensed him looking hard at the motorcade’s route to the Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum before moving on to the next page.

  He had discounted the PM’s White House Dinner, too many uncertain variables and too many unknown security details. On and on, page by page, she ran her hand over the sheet, occasionally pausing on a page when she felt Blake’s anxiety heighten.

  Finally, she reached a page and felt a sudden spike in Blake’s mind and pulse rate, followed by an abrupt release of anxiety. He’d found the most likely event that heralded success. Yes, this is perfect! Maximum security for the guests. The wireless perimeter alarm system on the Embassy grounds would go off for intruders only, giving everyone a sense of false security. There would be more than perfunctory checks on the catering staff and the musicians already booked for the occasion. They would be thoroughly vetted, of course, but there may be a crack in the armor there.

  Centerpiece deliveries. A lot of controlled chaos. Strangers milling around, entering and exiting in all directions. Trucks allowed in with only superficial inspections. No more than a crew of six would be needed, with automatic assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades. Incendiary and concussion bombs. Maximum damage and fatalities. Two hundred of the Washington elite plus the greatest prizes of all, the PM and the American president.

  Athena heard him snicker, heard his evil thoughts. What’s not to love? And if those buggers are killed, so what? They don’t expect to escape. More martyrs for jihad. Who cares? I’ve got ten million in the Caymans. I’ll claim PTSD, like my ol’ pa, quit the Foreign Service, and disappear. Live like a bloody king for the rest of my life.

  Athena opened her eyes and looked down at the page. The event was an Embassy hosted formal dinner-dance in the mansion’s ballroom. Sunday, April tenth, seven to twelve pm. The one that her entire family had been invited to. Sir Peter and his wife, Max and his security team, everyone at the table would be present. But what kind of attack? Bombs, grenades, machine guns? Blake had considered several possibilities, but didn’t commit. No other details came across. She closed her eyes and let her hand linger a minute or two longer on that page.

  Nothing more.

  She shut it down and looked up, blinking her eyes as her mind made the transition from Blake’s mind in the past to her reality in the present. Slowly, she turned to Max beside her and tapped her forefinger on the page that described the event’s details.

  “This is the target event.” Morosely, she shook her head. “Mr. Blake doesn’t care about anyone. He truly doesn’t care. He was paid ten million pounds to betray his country.” Then she looked at her parents. Tears sprang to her eyes immediately. “The dinner-dance on the tenth of April.”

  Max and his team had one week to prevent a catastrophe.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Eight o’clock sharp the following morning, Athena climbed the Art Institute’s steps, remembering that Dan Grantham had said he’d meet her. Sure enough, there he was, sitting on one ledge, two cups of designer coffee in his hands. He grinned widely when he saw her. The last time she’d seen him was during his single visit to her hospital room almost three months ago. He’d brought her flowers, and she’d apologized profusely for what happened. His friendliness to her had earned him a frightful experience with bullets flying about and men with guns shouting in their faces. He’d said it was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years, so no problem. She’d had to smile.

  “Hi, Dan. I didn’t know if you’d come.” She’d reached his level on the steps and stopped beside him while he stood up. He was at least six-foot-two, nice and tall. He fit right into her weakness, tall men with great smiles and lots of hair. Dan’s was dark blond, thick and straight, cut just the right length, a little on the long side. He looked like an artist in his black turtleneck and jeans under a long, wintry wool coat of gray and black herringbone tweed—but not a starving artist. He seemed the perfect blend of artist and businessman. It was time to get to know him better.

  Upstairs in the large, open studio, flanked by tall windows and lots of light exposure on this cold but sunny day, she pulled her canvas out of her locker slot and set it up on a nearby easel. Two other students had acknowledged her and Dan’s arrival with nods but then had refocused on their own work, and they were out of earshot. It was probably best not to let others know she was painting pastiches. Even though Professor White was doing it, the other staff members might not approve. In any event, she’d committed herself to trying it.

  Carefully, she removed the cover cloth and stood back with Dan. For a few minutes, he studied the work-in-progress with a thoughtful gaze, comparing it to the large colored print that she’d clipped on a side easel. He drank the rest of his coffee all the while. Finally, he began to point at various places on the canvas.

  “Okay, I think I know what’s needed. Your thalo blue is too vivid here, needs to be toned down, maybe with pale gray or federal blue. Her face needs to be brought up, highlighted with a lighter tone of flesh beige, maybe a tinge of mauve around her neck. One cheek is very florid, so pick that up, too. The white diagonal slashes on the mirror need to be toned down but not by much. Maybe a few more small, flat patches of color in that corner over there. The brush strokes appear accurate. You know, the French Impressionists used fairl
y aggressive strokes that stood out. The conservative art critics of that day considered them a sign of poor technique. The painters knew what they were doing, and you certainly do, too. Overall, Athena, it’s a wonderful copy. A good work-in-progress. What you’ve done so far is very, very good.” He looked at her fully, then. “I’m damned impressed.”

  For reasons she didn’t understand, his frank appraisal and praise made her tear up. The welling of emotion spilled over, and the tears rolled down her face. She tried to cover her emotions by turning aside and sipping her coffee. Dan saw through the cover but misunderstood.

  “I’m sorry, I was just nitpicking. Don’t be upset.” He looked crestfallen.

  Athena smiled and wiped away her tears. “I’m not—it’s nothing. I’m happy you think it’s good. Do you think Martin and his partner will accept this?”

  He gave a mild snort. “Finish it. Do those touches. Leave it alone for a few days, then go back to it. When do you think it’ll be finished?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been so busy with other things.”

  The Embassy dinner-dance was Sunday. She was attending the affair but not in the usual role, as part of her father’s table. However, she wasn’t about to tell Dan about it. He’d think she was a lunatic. Or a danger-seeking, adrenaline junkie, which was probably even worse in his book.

  “I’ll be out of town on a flying junket for a few weeks.” He smiled. “Can I see you when I get back?”

  “Yes, I’d like that. Let me buy you dinner as a thank-you for advising me. And to help make up for—”

  “The gunfight at the OK Corral?” He chuckled and placed his hand on her right shoulder. “Sounds good to me. If you’re buying, how about Ming’s in Georgetown?” His teasing tone provoked a return smile. She liked the feel of his hand on her shoulder. They continued to stare into each other’s eyes. “How’s your arm?”

  “Almost back to normal.” She didn’t tell him that her gifted mother was advancing the healing with her own brand of—what her biology major friends called—electro-magnetic energy infusions but which her mother called “spiritual vibrations.”