Previously On The Maya...
After the police, fire and rescue appear, the concerned citizens stopping at the scene of the wrecked drone vehicle tell the officer in charge their observations. After they leave, the officer sends his men back to the station and waves off the medical help, leaving a tow truck driver to clean up.
First, however, the officer takes a look inside. He sees the vehicle has been following energy signatures, but is unsure why the drone would be following them. Nor does he know who it's been pursuing. After he gets out, Amara Barclay, who has been standing around listening in the whole time gets in and retrieves the monitor and transceiver so it can't be used, and to perhaps find a way to counteract any further surveillance. It's at least 20 miles back to the house rental, so she takes off running.
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.
Kirkegaard was pacing back and forth in the entryway of Paloma's house when the doorbell rang.
"Finally," he muttered, and he opened the door. Agent Smith of the IPB, along with two female technicians, waited outside.
"May we come in?" Smith asked, when Kirkegaard made no move to step aside.
"It's not my house," he said.
"Of course," Paloma said, waving them in.
"On the phone you said you were out in the back for most of the evening," Smith said as he cleared the threshold. He was directing the question to Kirkegaard, but he didn't answer.
"Yes, that is correct," Paloma said for him.
"Is it all right if my techs have a look then?"
"Please do."
Smith gave the two women a nod, and then turned back to Kirkegaard. "I'm going to need you to be more cooperative," he said, flatly.
"I answered all your questions already," Kirkegaard said, with equal irritation. "You didn't need to come here for that."
"I apologize for ruining your evening," Smith said, taking a step back, "but it's not my fault you have Miss Barclay stalking you."
"I told you, I never saw anyone."
"No, but you know someone was here. You heard them leaving." Smith paused, then he added. "You also know we've been following her. We tracked her here."
"How long was she here?" Paloma asked. If she was disturbed by Amara's dinner crashing, or by Smith's presence, she did not show it. She was composed, contrasting greatly her earlier emotional display.
"About seventeen minutes," Smith said. "You said you were reminiscing, and comparing a dream."
Kirkegaard did not acknowledge the question. Paloma glanced at him, then back to Smith. "That is correct."
"Do you mind if we all sit down?" Smith asked. When Paloma indicated she was fine with it, Smith strode over to the couch. Paloma took the recliner next to him, and Kirkegaard leaned up against the far wall, preferring to stand.
"This was no coincidence," Smith said, "You must know that. She deliberately came and found you. I don't know why, but she obviously came prepared for surveillance, and did so, right under your noses."
"She probably figured out you've been busting my hump ever since I got here, and wanted to know why," Kirkegaard said. "She's probably figured out it's because of her. She might even think you've got me spying on her."
Smith analyzed Kirkegaard's accusations with cold detachment. "You're probably right, about that last part," he said. "There was no way for her to know I'd talked with you about her. Whatever caused her to move tonight, did you give her any indication, any indication at all, that you had any interest in her, of any kind?"
Kirkegaard threw up his hands in disgust. "That's not open ended."
"I was not referring to any kind of attraction you may or may not have toward Miss Barclay," Smith said.
"The answer is no," Paloma said, before Kirkegaard could.
"Thank you, Miss Reyes," Smith said, dipping his head.
"Sir," called one of the techs. She stood in the opening of the patio door.
"Find something?"
"She was definitely here," the tech said. "She leaned up against the wall of the house for most of her stay, so the electromagnetic signature is very strong. It's a definite match."
"So, she's invisible." Kirkegaard sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Look, Kirkegaard," Smith said, leaning forward, "I've been trying to save you some grief. Instead of you taking my advice, you've taken it upon yourself to get more acquainted with Miss Barclay. You can stonewall all you want, lie all you want, but that doesn't change the facts. She was here, she heard your conversation, and then she fled. I want to know why."
Kirkegaard stared at the agent with obvious hostility. For the few moments of silence which ensued, he looked like he might launch himself at Smith. Instead, he shrugged. "The truth is, I don't know. Maybe she didn't like what she saw and heard."
"Which is?"
"George and I discovered we're in love with each other," Paloma said. Her placid expression turned into a radiant smile. "Kissing, embracing, crying, that sort of thing."
Smith's eyes narrowed. He looked from Paloma, to Kirkegaard, then back at Paloma. "I see," he said.
"What?" Kirkegaard demanded. "Do you honestly think she's jealous?"
"No," Smith said. "but for whatever reasons, she left in a hurry."
"This is ridiculous." Kirkegaard muttered.
Smith was about to say something when his cell phone rang. He excused himself, got up, and walked to the entryway. Paloma gave Kirkegaard a sympathetic look, then pointed to him. She followed that up by pulling her touching thumb and forefinger across her lips.
Gladly, he mouthed.
"Just got a call that the drone car we had following Miss Barclay was disabled. The tracking device was removed, with three highway patrolmen and a tow truck driver on scene."
"So, you go back to where she's staying and you put on another tail," Kirkegaard said, unable to control himself. He saw Paloma throw him a stern look.
"We will probably do that," Smith said, thoughtfully. After a pause, he added, "We need to up the ante."
"That a cowboy poker term?"
Smith ignored the dig. "There's a dinner tomorrow night. We know Miss Barclay and Mr. Stavros have already been invited to it. I'll arrange an invitation for the two of you."
"To do what? Spy? Officially?"
"Do what you do best," Smith said, "Get close to her. Engage her in conversation. Keep her busy."
"I thought you wanted me to cut down on the accidental encounters."
"Yes, but this won't be accidental, will it?"
"If there's anyway I will be putting Paloma in danger, I..."
"We'll do it," Paloma said, cutting Kirkegaard off.
"Now, you're speaking for me?"
"Don't you want to meet Tuscon Sutton II?" Paloma bounced her eyebrows.
Kirkegaard looked over at Smith. "Sutton?"
Smith nodded.
"It's the annual dinner he hosts," Paloma said, "Black tie, invitation only."
"I don't have anything to wear," Kirkegaard said.
"Neither do I, but I know where to look."
"Can you get off work tomorrow in time to go shopping and get ready?"
"I already asked for the day off," she said, smiling.
"You did?"
"Sounds like we're a go, then," Smith said. He tipped his hat to Paloma, "Ma'am." He put the hat back on and signaled to the two techs hovering in the patio doorway that they were leaving.
"We're going to need more instructions than that," Kirkegaard said.
"Make up your mind. Do you want me to leave or not?"
"Now, you're just messing with me," Kirkegaard said.
"Goodnight," Smith said, a half smile curling his lips.
"Are you sure about this," Kirkegaard asked when they were alone.
"It'll be fun," Paloma said. "I haven't met Mr. Sutton yet, myself. I saw him once, at the sandwich shop."
"He mingles with the riffraff?" Kirkegaard looked honestly surprised.
Paloma laughed. "I'm not riffraff," she said, folding her arms, "but yes, he does come down from the mountain quite a bit. He has a genuine like and interest in people."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Oh, it was springtime, so three or so months ago."
"Then, he might not be dead," Kirkegaard said, under his breath.
"Of course he isn't," Paloma said. "How else could he host the dinner tomorrow night?"
# # #
Her client would not be happy.
Things had not gone as planned for The Maya. After getting an early jump on the mapping, the rest of the night had been a waste of time. The oil refineries were a definite no-go, and she'd managed to give the other two fertilizer plants a close look after checking out the newest steel production facility. All were either too far away, too much work to be efficient, too small for the desired effect, or all three. That left the fertilizer plant The Maya explored the night before.
Unfortunately, The Maya had ran out of time for another trial run.
There was still tomorrow night's dinner, however, and based on what she knew about the reception line and where she would be seated, it was the best opportunity to collect various samples from Sutton. The Maya knew her client was hoping for something sooner as opposed to later, but she also knew they wanted spectacular results. The Maya had located the best place to stage an accident. She had the way to retrieve incriminating evidence. All that was required was a little more patience.
In The Maya's report back to the client she stated as much: second mapping survey sent/no accident staged/will attempt after sutton dinner/close fp is the target/you might hear it and feel it/will confirm
Having sent the message, The Maya slipped into the shadows of the building where she was staying, caught the moon, large and full over head, and sighed. Some day, she thought, there will be time for play.
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.