The Maya 1.39
Previously On The Maya...
Paloma and George Kirkegaard travel in her car talking about different aspects of The Isle Of Use. Paloma has Kirkegaard guess how much money she makes as a waitress before revealing it's $100,000 USD. She also tells him there are no taxes of any kind, nor health insurance. Kirkegaard wonders what happens if people need to go to the doctor. She replies they pay for it out of pocket, but that most people are very healthy. Students graduate from high school when they're 16 prepared to enter the workforce unless they are entering highly trained fields like doctors and engineers. At length, they arrive at their destination, Paloma's home, where she will be cooking them dinner.
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.
"I'm retiring for the night."
Stavros made the announcement as he stood at poolside, watching Amara complete another lap. When she reached the near end, she hopped out of the water and padded over to him.
"It's not even seven yet," she said.
Soaking wet, her hair flattened and plastered to her forehead and to the sides, Amara looked several years younger. She reminded Stavros of the day they first met. She was so young then, but she was certain of what she wanted to do and what she wanted to be. A dangerous combination for a young woman, but now that he thought of it, Amara had done extremely well for herself.
"I need to be at the airport by four am. We're flying up to the latest Sutton steel mill. It's supposed to be state of the art. They want me to see what I'll be paying for." He smiled, but there was little mirth to it. The buoyant mood he was in earlier had evaporated substantially, mainly due to Amara, who spent most of dinner lost in thought. He apologized more than once for suggesting George Kirkegaard was any kind of a spy.
"But you'll be back around noon?" Amara asked. "You said we'd take the boat out, right?"
"Yes, I promise," Stavros said. He bent down and kissed a spot on her temple where there was no hair. He said goodnight and started to turn away.
"I'm sorry if I spoiled your evening," Amara said.
"It's my fault," Stavros said, over his shoulder. "Things will look brighter in the morning." With a wave, he was gone.
Amara watched him go, and then went to dive into the pool again. Instead, she stopped, and after hovering at the edge for awhile, went and reclined on a sun chair. Since Stavros had first mentioned the possibility, Amara had been rewinding her memory, going through her talks with Kirkegaard over and over, looking for some hint that he was more than what he seemed. She could find nothing. And it worried her. Was it coincidence that he had shown up, unannounced, on a trip where she could be at her most vulnerable? Normally, she would travel with an entourage, particularly if it were business or any kind of official appearance. This was vacation. No one in the outside world knew where she was, and no one here cared who she was. It was the perfect opportunity to get away.
But didn't that mean it was the perfect opportunity to be taken advantage of? She didn't have just her business, her designs and her professional reputation to worry about. There were other activities and interests that only a select few knew she was involved with. Even Stavros, someone she considered a confidante, didn't know about them. What if Kirkegaard was here to disrupt those secret ventures?
She came to the conclusion that there was no middle ground. Either he was the best spy the world had ever known, no small feat, or he was what he said he was—a failed weekly newspaper publisher from Oregon. What she couldn't reason out, however, was which was he?
The only way to know was to spy on him. Turn the tables, as it were. She had access to surveillance equipment. It was meant for her other activities, but if Kirkegaard was a spy, the rest of her work could go for naught. It wouldn't matter—everything would unravel.
How was she going to find him? She knew he would be with the waitress, Paloma, from the sandwich shop, but they could literally be anywhere on the island. She'd discreetly asked Annalee what restaurant she recommended for dinner, should she and Stavros choose to eat out a night before they left. Annalee had very politely told her that there were no restaurants open in the evening, except in the hotel zone, to accommodate the visitors there. The natives ate at home.
Would Paloma take Kirkegaard to the hotels to have dinner? Somehow, Amara doubted that. Then, the next logical explanation was, she took him home.
There were a lot of houses on the island. She couldn't possibly search them all, not in one night. Unless there was more going on between them then Kirkegaard let on, Amara wouldn't have any more than three to four hours to locate them, anyway. Kirkegaard would go back to the Laytons.
Amara did know where the Laytons lived. She paid attention to the route the limo driver took to drop off Kirkegaard, noted the address, and she was sure she could get there on her own. What she didn't know was what time Paloma and Kirkegaard were meeting. Most likely, Paloma had already picked him up.
It could still work, she thought. If their trail weren't more than an hour or so old, she could follow it. She had the equipment to do it.
She also had transportation. Aside from the water toys down at the dock, there was a sports car, a Hummer-like SUV, and two motorcycles, reminiscent of the Bimota YB6 EXUP. Only, she was told they were faster, with top speeds of two-hundred-twenty miles per hour, and better handling.
She lost nothing by trying. If she found him and he was just what he said he was, then no harm, no foul. If he was a spy, then she needed to know, and deal with him. It was worse to underestimate Kirkegaard than it was to make him into something he wasn't.
If she was going to do anything tonight, she would have to hurry. She couldn't just go—she risked being identified if she didn't prepare properly. That meant readying herself and the motorcycle. Getting caught was not an option. It would be just as bad as anything else Kirkegaard could do to expose her. Fully convicted, Amara got up from her chair and followed the hedge line around to the dock. The equipment she would need was inside the motorboat she used last night.
It wasn't long—though it felt like forever—before Amara was on the main highway heading south. Their rental home was about eleven miles to the southwest corner of the island, where the road curved ninety degrees to head east. She could have chose to go by city street—no doubt a more exciting option with more twists and turns—but she was fighting a battle against time. She needed speed, and the freeway delivered it. Traffic was light and fairly dispersed, thanks to the proximity sensors in the vehicles.
To get around undetected, Amara needed to modify the motorcycle. That meant removing the bike's own proximity detection system so she did not alert any other vehicle electronically. She also had to silence the whine of the engine and reduce the road noise the tires made. Finally, she sprayed the bike in acrylic, to make it highly reflective, something she also did to herself. Wearing a similarly modified helmet, both motorcycle and rider were impossible to see.
She topped out at one hundred and eighty miles an hour before reaching her exit. A few turns later, she was idling in front of the Layton's home. There was no one about, and the Layton family were not visible through any of the partially curtained windows. Reaching down into a bag, Amara pulled out a flat electronic device as large as her hand, which she then clipped to a spot just below the speedometer. A button push turned a screen on, where fuzzy images of the street, curb, and surrounding homes appeared. After some calibration, a thin but bright blue line appeared. It represented the last heat signature to be near the home, after canceling out the one belonging to her motorcycle. There was a chance she might be following the wrong trail, but the only two vehicles she was aware of that might have lingered for any length of time in front of the Layton's home was the limo she brought Kirkegaard home in, and what would be Paloma's car.
Based on the coloring of the heat signature, it was between thirty minutes and an hour old, which matched what Amara knew of Paloma and Kirkegaard's probable departure time. Now, came the harder part—following it, amid other heat signatures. She would have to isolate it as she got back onto a main road.
It took some doing, turning dials in between watching where she was going, but Amara was fairly certain she was on the right trail. The blue line actually doubled back the way Amara had come in, and entered the freeway heading west. A mile or so before reaching a downtown exit, the trail took another, depositing Amara in the middle of another neighborhood. The houses and lots were smaller, but just as nicely kept as the properties in the Layton's neighborhood.
It made sense. Amara didn't know how much a waitress made on the island, but if Paloma could afford a home, it would be among these, the smallest Amara had seen yet. It was also possible she was renting. The blue trail took her down and around a few streets, then it went into the driveway of a one story brick home and abruptly disappeared at the garage door.
Amara rode the bike into the driveway and then leaned it up against the fence. Since it was virtually invisible, she wanted it out of the way where no one would accidentally walk into it. She then went to the front window. It was hard to see through the filmy curtains, but she couldn't see anyone. A quick check of her heat monitor confirmed that there were two people sitting down on the other side of the home, in what appeared to be a dining area. Amara jogged to a side gate, and finding it unlocked, she pushed through without a sound, secured the gate, and went around to the covered patio. Instead of being inside the house, Amara discovered as she came around the corner, Paloma and Kirkegaard were sitting outside at a small round steel table, about to enjoy a seafood dinner in the breeze of the early evening.
Amara felt a little disappointed that she wouldn't be using a listening device she'd brought with her. Instead, she took several steps toward the couple and leaned up against the wall.
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.