Authors: W. Michael Gear
The Athena Factor (12 page)
Salim smiled. “I have no scheme, Mr. Abrams. I come to offer you a job.” He touched the tips of his fingers together. “My sources tell me that you had Gonzales, but for an unfortunate circumstance. We were impressed by that.”
Hank tightened his fingers around his glass. “You want to know something? Your loudmouthed friend in the Bureau is going to get his balls chopped off one of these days.”
Salim shrugged. “Where are they going to transfer you to?”
“Why should I talk to you?” Even through the slight buzz, his cop's instincts were vibrating. “In fact, why shouldn't I just pick up the phone and call a couple of friends of mine? Here you are, whack, right out of the blue, knowing all about
me, and no doubt about to pitch something that's too good to be true. Why do I smell shit?”
me, and no doubt about to pitch something that's too good to be true. Why do I smell shit?”
Salim smiled thinly. “This isn't a movie, Special Agent Abrams. I do not represent a drug cartel or money laundering ring looking to exploit a down-on-his-luck agent. Here's my card.” He flipped out a business card. “Take some time. Do some researchâthrough the Bureau, if you'd like.”
Hank narrowed his eyes, feeling the tingle around his senses. Wishing now that the guy had shown up two drinks ago before the bourbon had slipped its muzzy fingers through his brain.
The card proclaimed VERELE SECURITY. It gave a New York City address and phone with an e-mail address.
“Security, huh?”
“We're licensed and registered. We specialize in executive protection.” Salim gave him a faint smile. “We work for the good guys, too.”
“So, why come to me?”
“Let me return to my question: Where are they transferring you to?”
“El Paso. You ever been to El Paso?”
Salim shook his head.
“Me neither. But, shit, I guess I'm going.” He glanced up. “You know where I live?”
“I have your address. When I called there, Mrs. Abrams said she didn't know where you were, or care, for that matter.”
“Right.”
“Your personal relations do not concern me. I've been sent to see if you'd be interested in executive security. Finding people is never hard. Local police will generally work for us when they're off-duty. But finding
good
people is always a challenge. Depending on your capabilities, the wages can be quite good. And, well, how do I say this, the environment will be a great deal more salubrious than in El Paso.”
good
people is always a challenge. Depending on your capabilities, the wages can be quite good. And, well, how do I say this, the environment will be a great deal more salubrious than in El Paso.”
Suspicion bubbled up in his blood. First the photos were taped to his door for Marsha to find. Now this guy shows up? It tasted like an ambush to him, but who was the leak in the Bureau?
“Before I go any further, I need to know who sent you to me.”
Salim studied him for a moment with sharp brown eyes. “Fair enough. The assistant director. For reasons that I would hope you could understand, we would appreciate your discretion in this matter. Please don't charge into his office tomorrow morning demanding at the top of your lungs to know if he referred you to us.”
Hank frowned. “The AD? The guy who just canned my ass?”
Salim sat back and removed his hat. “Agent Abrams, you have been around long enough to know that good people are often caught in situations that spiral out of control. The Gonzales case is one of those. As to how that camera got placed in the van, who knows? Gonzales didn't get to where he is by being an idiot. He knew you were closing in, and he fought back.” He lifted a thoughtful eyebrow. “It's only a guess, Mr. Abrams, but I'd say that all things in perspective, professionally destroying you and Agent Anaya was his only way out. He wanted you beaten and broken ⦠with your personal and professional lives destroyed.”
Had Gonzales sent the photos to Marsha just like he'd sent them to Peter Wirthing? They'd been in a plain manila envelope, labeled in black ink. Both times. “I'll get the son of a bitch in the end.”
Salim waited in respectful silence, then said, “Not from El Paso, you won't. And not through the Bureau. He's wise to you.”
“Is that why you hunted me down? Because of Gonzales?”
“No. I'm here because you are a highly trained agent with skills that my company could use. As far as Mr. Gonzales is concerned, he's beaten you. You and he were playing a very high-stakes game. A smart man understands that. That he managed to exploit such a minor weakness is an example of not only his skill, but yours. You can let what happened crawl around under your skin until you end up broken, bitter, and ruined; or you can accept that at this time and place, Mr. Gonzales squeaked out the narrowest of victories. Your
choice is to drown in self-pity or go on to bigger and better things.”
choice is to drown in self-pity or go on to bigger and better things.”
“Which you are here to provide.”
“Maybe. I haven't made up my mind yet. And the final decision will rest with my boss in New York. You're half drunk, surly, and depressed.”
“What do you pay?”
“If you can convince us that you are worth it, we would start your salary at sixty thousand a year. Please remember the
if
in that sentence. You must prove your worth to us. If you've got chops, it would rise. Security supervisors in my company make between one hundred and one-fifty a year.” He smiled. “That, of course, does not include any gratuities that our clients might feel obligated to bestow upon you for services rendered. Our clients include some of the richest men in the world. To some of them, a twenty-thousand-dollar tip is but a pittance.”
if
in that sentence. You must prove your worth to us. If you've got chops, it would rise. Security supervisors in my company make between one hundred and one-fifty a year.” He smiled. “That, of course, does not include any gratuities that our clients might feel obligated to bestow upon you for services rendered. Our clients include some of the richest men in the world. To some of them, a twenty-thousand-dollar tip is but a pittance.”
“And all I have to do is sign on the bottom line?”
“It would depend on if you could satisfy my employer and me. Tell me, Agent Abrams, are you really any good, or are you a fuckup? Answer that question honestly. If you're the first, come look us up. If you're the latter, go to El Paso, bury yourself, and don't waste either our time or your superiors'.” He stood, slipping his hat onto his head. “Good evening.”
Hank Abrams watched him walk away, stunned and, truth be told, curious.
S
o, here I am, watchdog instead of wolf
. The notion rolled around in Christal's head. Sid had been right. There was life after falling on the sword. If she'd gone to war with the Bureau, she'd have been up to her neck in lawyers, facing public instead of just professional humiliation, and making nowhere near three hundred dollars a day to stand around a
plush ballroom at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel trying to place names to faces she'd seen at the Cineplex down from her Virginia apartment.
o, here I am, watchdog instead of wolf
. The notion rolled around in Christal's head. Sid had been right. There was life after falling on the sword. If she'd gone to war with the Bureau, she'd have been up to her neck in lawyers, facing public instead of just professional humiliation, and making nowhere near three hundred dollars a day to stand around a
plush ballroom at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel trying to place names to faces she'd seen at the Cineplex down from her Virginia apartment.
“It's simple,” Lymon had explained to her. “All you have to do is keep an eye on Sheela. Nothing intrusive, just be close. Guests will be screened at the door, of course, and the hotel has its house security on alert. We're just backup. Howard and Jack worked a complete advance last night. You'll be there with me, Salavatore, and Wu.”
Salvatore fit the bill for the old adage of tall, dark, and handsome; he had a strong jaw and fierce brown eyes. She figured him for his midthirties, really fit, with a bodybuilder's physique. If he hadn't been a football jock in college, she couldn't guess them. He worked part-time for LBA. His day job, if you could call it that, was security for a software company in Venice where he worked four ten-hour shifts a week.
Wu was short for Yan Zan Wu, a barrel-chested Chinese guy, late twenties, with a round and appropriately inscrutable face. He made her think of Odd Job in the Goldfinger movie until she discovered he worked part-time for LBA, too, while he finished his Ph.D. in physics at UCLA.
As she tagged along in Sheela's wake, she tried not to look conspicuous and shot lethal glances in Lymon's direction. He was orbiting off Sheela's left, never more than five quick paces away. She figured she could kill him later. Lymon hadn't thought to send her back upstairs for makeup that afternoon. She'd donned her best dress, true, but now she felt like a dolt being the only woman in the room except for a bald female rock star, whose name she'd missed, without at least the benefit of blush.
In contrast, Sheela looked ravishing in a white Narciso Rodriguez dress that complemented her red-blond hair. Her face had been made up with Paula Dorf powder, iridescent eyeliner, and apricot lip gloss.
“So, you're the fed?” A blond man interrupted her pique as he stepped up to her side.
“Excuse me?” She took his measure: Blond, athletic, and tanned, he looked really good. She liked the sparkle in his
blue eyes and the nonaggressive smile. Damn! The guy had enough gold hung around his neck to lure Coronado back from the grave.
blue eyes and the nonaggressive smile. Damn! The guy had enough gold hung around his neck to lure Coronado back from the grave.
“You don't look like a federal agent,” he added, the smile displaying nice teeth.
“Do I know you?”
“Not yet. I'm Tony Zell.” He offered his hand, adding, “Sheela's agent.”
“Christal Anaya. Lymon Bridges Associates.” She took a step to close the distance to Sheela. “I'm the FNG.”
“FNG?” He looked confused.
“Fresh new girl,” she punned, watching to see if he got it. He didn't, and she was unsure what to make of that.
“You're supposed to find out what happened to Sheela in New York.”
“You don't sound enthusiastic about that.”
He shrugged, waving at someone who called “Hiya Tony.” “I don't know. I'm in the minority. It was probably just a fan getting his kicks. Bragging rights, you know.”
“He hasn't been bragging yet,” she said, walking slowly as Sheela moved. How did the woman do it? Sheela's smile never wavered, she seemed to know everyone, and a genuine excitement sparkled in her blue eyes. Every movement was poised, graceful, and sinuous.
“What? So, you've been to every bar in New York?”
She arched an eyebrow. “What makes you think New York?”
“Well, that's where it happened.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe? That's where Sheela got mugged, right?”
She shrugged. “Sheela's not the only celeb involved here.”
He glanced around, adding, “Uh, it's not my place to judge, but what are you doing here?”
“Working,” she added pleasantly as she led him another step, keeping her distance from Sheela's knot of people. “Lymon wants me to familiarize myself with this aspect of the business.”
“You don't look anything like what a female FBI agent
should look like.” He snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, extending one in her direction.
should look like.” He snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, extending one in her direction.
“Sorry, I'm on duty. Apparently you didn't see
Miss Congeniality
or you'd know FBI agents can come in all sizes and shapes.”
Miss Congeniality
or you'd know FBI agents can come in all sizes and shapes.”
He laughed at that, still offering the champagne flute. “Here, at least hold it. You'll make me feel better.”
She took it, looking past him, trying to concentrate on the people hovering around Sheela.
After sipping his drink, he asked, “Why do I get the feeling that you're only half here?”
“Because I'm on the job, Mr. Zell. Having you here, acting like we're having a discussion, removes attention from me. Therefore you're welcome to walk with me, assuming you don't get tired of talking to a wallflower.”
“So, are you, like, always on the job?”
“They're paying me too much to waste precious time on myself.”
“Hey, you've got to eat and sleep sometimes.”
“Mr. Bridges doesn't seem to think so. He has developed this early habit of calling me at odd hours.”
He seemed to digest that for a moment. “You ever think of films? Acting, I mean. You might try a screen test sometime.”
That broke her concentration, and she stared flatly at him. “What? Are you kidding?”
He gave her an offhanded shrug. “I'm an agent. I'm always looking for new people. It's what I do. It wouldn't hurt to try. Talent comes from strange places. You're a beautiful woman ⦠.” He made a face, as if searching for the right word. “Moxie. That's it. You've got moxie ⦠a certain chutzpah that gives you presence.”
She grinned crookedly before returning her attention to Sheela. “Are you hitting on me, Mr. Zell?”
“No.” He backtracked too fast, adding to her amusement. “I'm serious about the screen test.”
The auburn-haired woman caught Christal's attention. She couldn't have said whyâjust a quality in the woman's eyes, the way she moved. Call it predatory. Christal estimated her at five-foot-seven, tanned, with a classic Nordic
face and burnished hair that streaked into sun-bleached yellow highlights. She wore a copper-colored form-fitting pantsuit that emphasized her muscular body. Skin-tight gloves covered her hands, and she held a flat purse the size of a hardback novel. More to the point, her serious gray eyes had fixed on Sheela with a feline intensity.
face and burnished hair that streaked into sun-bleached yellow highlights. She wore a copper-colored form-fitting pantsuit that emphasized her muscular body. Skin-tight gloves covered her hands, and she held a flat purse the size of a hardback novel. More to the point, her serious gray eyes had fixed on Sheela with a feline intensity.
“Excuse me, Mr. Zell.” She handed him back the untouched champagne.
He turned, following her gaze, and took a moment to study the woman. “Quite a number.” He paused, and she could feel his gaze when it returned to her. “What is it about her that makes you nervous?”
“Just a hunch.”
Christal stepped around a knot of tuxedo-dressed men and smiled when one asked, “Hey, Tony! Who's this?”
“Business associate,” he answered smoothly. “I'll introduce you later.”
The copper-headed woman had moved, calmly dismissing a young man who tried to talk to her. Bingo. She wasn't just socializing.
At that moment Sheela said something to the people surrounding her, gave them a gracious smile, and stepped away from her party. She clutched her handbag, walking purposely toward the women's restroom. Salvatore had picked her up, shadowing her right flank.
To Christal's surprise, Copperheadâas she'd tagged the womanâseemed to anticipate it and stepped into the ladies' room door a good ten seconds ahead of Sheela.
“Mr. Zell, it's been nice chatting with you.”
“Hey”âhe gestured with the untouched champagneâ“I don't want to be a nuisance, but maybe dinner sometime? Nothing serious, just a chanceâ”
“Sure.”
Salvatore had posted himself at one side to wait. He seemed completely at ease.
“Hole in your security, Lymon,” she muttered as she skipped quickly to catch the door as it swung shut behind Sheela. Bright lights, mirrors, and red velvet-covered benches furnished the powder room. The three women who
sat there seemed oblivious, patting and painting, applying lipstick amidst the usual facial gyrations as they gazed into the mirrors.
sat there seemed oblivious, patting and painting, applying lipstick amidst the usual facial gyrations as they gazed into the mirrors.
Copperhead was nowhere in sight. Sheela walked through the archway that separated the powder room from the toilets. Christal was two seconds behind her. Passing into the toilets, she found her quarry.
To her surprise, a short line waited: two women, Copperhead, then Sheela, and finally her. Bending at the waist, Christal assured herself that feet filled every stall.
“God,” the first woman in line muttered. “This is taking forever.”
“Nice reception, don't you think?” Copperhead turned to Sheela.
“Yes, it is.”
“Sheela Marks, right?”
“Right. And you are?”
“Cindy Denton. I work with MCA, rights department.” She hesitated. “I liked
Blood Rage.
Saw it last week.”
Blood Rage.
Saw it last week.”
Copperhead was giving Christal a thorough scrutiny. Christal didn't make eye contact, but fumbled with her purse for a distraction.
“Thanks, it was a fun film to make.”
“Congratulations on the Oscar.”
The toilet flushed, and a harried woman stepped out, pulling her skirt straight as she headed for the sinks.
“I wasn't expecting it,” Sheela answered. “You always hope, but when it came, I just couldn't even think straight.”
One by one, the line moved up. Copperhead stepped into the stall. Sheela glanced at Christal just as the woman in the adjoining stall flushed and stepped out. She was a mousy thing. Thin, dark-haired; the glance she gave Sheela was curious, evaluative.
Christal watched Sheela step in and close the door. She could hear fabric slough, a purse snapping, urine, then a flush. Another flush. Then another.
Finally, Sheela stepped out, pulled her dress straight, and shrugged as she walked past. Christal glanced into the stall. A tampon floated in reddened urine.
Copperhead stepped out unexpectedly, saying, “Excuse me. Please use that one.” She pointed at the stall she'd just vacated as she pushed into Sheela's and flipped the door closed.
Christal stopped short.
What the hell?
What the hell?
Sheela was at one of the sinks, bent to wash her hands as she checked herself in the mirror. The sounds from the stall made no sense whatsoever: the lid clunking as it was lifted ⦠Then what? Christal couldn't place the noise as she pushed on the locked door. Was that plastic crackling and dripping water?
Moment's later, Copperhead opened the door, surprised when she found Christal still standing there. Their eyes locked, and Christal started forward, saying, “One moment, please.”
Copperhead crouched, lowering her shoulder. She caught Christal off guard, driving her body back, off balance. Christal clawed for balance as Copperhead slammed her into the wall, then followed up with a hard blow to the solar plexus. Then another. And another.
Christal windmilled against the tiles as she tried to catch her balance. Her body jerked against the blows. She was gasping for breath, and then Copperhead was off, leaving at a run.
“Stop her!” Christal croaked, coughing as she pushed herself upright. Her guts were on fire. A glance showed her that the toilet bowl was white, the water clear.
Sheela and the other women had turned around to stare in disbelief as Copperhead ran past. The purse in the woman's hand was larger, and gripped as if it contained diamonds rather than a used tampon and urine.
Christal coughed again. Her lungs burned as she drew a breath and stumbled toward the door. She straight-armed a surprised woman who stepped into her way, pounded past the alarmed gazes of the women in the powder room, and smashed the door open. Salvatore was walking toward her, concern on his face.
“The woman!” Christal croaked, still out of breath. Then she saw her, that streaked-auburn head making straight through the crowd for the fire exit. “Stop her!”
Salavatore lifted his arm and spoke into the mike, a frown on his face. Christal forced herself forward, weaving through the surprised crowd. Across the packed room a fire door swung open. An alarm blared flatly.
Christal could hear Salvatore's feet thudding behind her as she dodged, weaved, and shoved people out of her way. The fire door clicked closed just as she bowled past the last of the gawking spectators and hammered her body against the crash bar. She might have hit a wall. Even the impact of Salvatore's thick body didn't budge it. For a long moment they hung there, thrusting, both of them, while the alarm blared its obnoxious wail.
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