Previously On The Maya..
Amara Barclay and Eugenio Stavros talk on their way back to the estate they're renting. Stavros tells her that while the steel contract isn't done yet, he's been assured the increase will be fair. He's in decidedly better spirits than he was the night before. Partly because of the contract negotiations, but also due to the fact that he and Amara have been invited to a special dinner with none other than Tuscon Sutton II.
After Amara says she'll have to buy something formal (she has no such attire with her), Stavros wonders what she did while she was in town. She explains she couldn't find anything she liked, and that she only spent the morning shopping. The rest she spent at lunch and then near the lake with George Kirkegaard.
Stavros shows little emotion at that revelation, other than he wonders at Kirkegaard's intentions. Amara plays it off, saying she was the stalker, if anyone was. Stavros tells her his only concern is she is a wealthy, beautiful woman and that she should be careful. In spite of her normal self-confidence, Amara is troubled when they finally reach the estate.
The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.
George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.
Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.
Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
United States Secret Service agent Lance Simmons disembarked from the robotic private jet late in the afternoon. Dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses he did not look like a businessman, but the security officer he was. His gait was measured, but deliberate, as he made his way down the stairs to the tarmac. He was by himself, did not carry a briefcase or standard piece of luggage, but he did have a small travel pack slung over his shoulder. Seeing that one of the cars parked outside was for him, he made his way over to the driver waiting patiently outside.
"Welcome, Agent Simmons, to the Isle of Use. My name is Barrett. I've been assigned to be your driver for the duration of your trip."
"I was told I would be meeting someone here at the airport," Simmons said, as the driver took his pack.
"Apparently, there's been a change in plans." Barrett took the pack and put it in the trunk, then opened a rear door for Simmons to get inside. "I'm afraid I don't know why."
Simmons waited until Barrett was in front. "Can you tell me where we're going?"
"The offices of the President of the Isle of Use," Barrett said.
Simmons found that odd. The man he had spoken with over the phone, an Agent Landers Smith of the Island Protection Bureau, had made it clear they would conduct an interview in a secure room inside the airport. The IPB had information they thought Simmons would be interested in, since it had to do with twenty or so minutes that were unaccounted for from the Kiev incident earlier in the month. Simmons was still on leave, and was supposed to be somewhere, convalescing. He knew his superiors would frown upon this trip, and for that reason he was set to refuse, but then Smith had said something which turned him around.
"If it were me," Smith had said, after Simmons had said he would have to think about the invitation, "those missing minutes would be gnawing at me."
The drive to the President's offices was short. Traffic was relatively light between the airport and the downtown district where the offices were located. The building was bright and clean, but nondescript. There were no seals or other symbols designating it as belonging to a President. Instead, it blended in nicely with the other office buildings around it.
The driver pulled them into a lot which wound them to the other side of the building. There, another man in a gray suit waited for them. The driver let Simmons out, and then hung back as the new man introduced himself.
"I'm Rori Burke, Secretary of Security," he said, holding out his hand. Simmons took it and they shook. "You'll be meeting with President Talford in a few minutes. First, I need to brief you on what Agent Smith spoke with you about."
Simmons gave Barrett a quick glance. "I'll keep an eye on your gear until your through," the driver said. Simmons nodded, and followed Burke inside.
"I apologize for the change in plans," Burke said, as they passed an entry way and a reception area. He flashed a name badge with photo ID over a scanner which beeped, and unlocked a side door. As he ushered Simmons in, he added, "Agent Smith does have other matters in the field to attend to, and I thought I could just as easily inform you as he."
They walked down a corridor, passing a large room that could have been for making presentations, as well as other smaller offices. Finally, they reached one with Burke's name and title printed on the frosted glass. After a thumbprint and retinal scan, the door buzzed, parted an inch and Burke pushed through .
"Please hold any calls," Burke said to the secretary waiting at a desk just inside. "We shouldn't be more than half an hour." The woman nodded and went back to her work.
Burke led Simmons passed the desk and into an interoffice. After closing the door and offering Simmons a seat in a leather bound chair, Burke took up a chair alongside of him, instead of rounding the desk.
"There's no need for formalities," he explained. "This isn't an official exchange of information between international security agencies. Of course, what you do with it is entirely up to you. It's much more personal than that. We thought you might like to know what happened during those twenty-odd minutes you can't remember."
Simmons exhaled. "That is what I'm here for," he said.
"Then, let's get started."
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.