Previously On The Maya...
On their tour of the Museum of Island History, George Kirkegaard and Paloma see live versions of all the flora and fauna currently inhabiting the area. They are led by their guide to a place where an old single engine plane sits, overlooking in representation the spot where Tuscon Sutton II landed. After that, they are left to watch a documentary narrated by Sutton showing early film of the work that went on to make the island hospitable for man, yet conforming to the island's beauty and environment. Kirkegaard marvels most at Sutton, who appears to be no more than in his 60s when he should be well over 100 years old.
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.
He was late.
There was no true deadline, other than the one in his head, but Mr. Tic hurried along, briefcase in hand, counting out the seconds and minutes he had been away.
It was not helpful that he relied on public transportation or his own two feet. The dance studio was far enough from either his or Mr. Snake's homes that it was impractical to walk to either of them first, retrieve a vehicle, run whatever the errands were, then drive back and walk again. They had chosen the dance studio in part, due to location. In case they needed to go out and get something, like food, they were within a flew blocks of a grocery store.
Their location, however, put them a fair distance away from their capital offices, too, which in theory, was fine, since they were trying to avoid any contact with co-workers or superiors. They were supposed to be on vacation, after all. But Mr. Tic's predicament, another source of creeping dread, required some human help, and while he wished it were otherwise, the only people Mr. Tic knew who could help, were people from his own office.
Unwittingly, of course. He had no desire to implicate anyone in any of this. Not in the operation they were running with The Maya on the Isle of Use, or in this new operation to protect himself. Why it was even necessary he should need to insulate against his partner, a man with whom he had a common cause, was a source of no small irritation, but that was, as they said, the reality on the ground.
Now, to set this all up and keep it going was taking more time than Mr. Tic truly had. Fortunately, he was able to take care of part of it during the night shift, but after meeting his contact around midnight, he knew he wouldn't be able to pull it off again. The woman, a person he trusted implicitly, was a civil servant, a desk jockey, and the least prone to cloak and dagger as you could get. There was no sense of thrill in clandestine night meetings for her, only hours of lost sleep she would not be able to make up. Fortunately, it had been easy enough to convince Mr. Snake to take the night shift.
So, now, instead of under the cover of darkness, Mr. Tic was scurrying down the street in broad day light, hoping that none of the pedestrians he met, or the drivers among the light traffic on the street, would give the mousey balding male they saw huffing past a second thought.
Mr. Tic was out of the dance studio now for twenty-two minutes. He was nearing the block where the building stood, and he forced himself to gradually slow his gait, because timing would be important. He needed to get through the fencing and the locks well before anyone could approach, and he needed to do it while no cars were waiting at the stoplight.
For the moment, at least, his luck held. This particular area of the city was more rundown than others, and many people avoided the section, even if it might take them a few blocks out of their way. So, as he neared the studio, there was no one on the sidewalk. That just left the half dozen cars moving in either direction.
Mr. Tic reached the corner and began walking down the street which ran parallel to the old dilapidated brownstone. There were tall, drooping willows that he could disappear behind while he waited for the right time to undo locks. When it came, he quickly and quietly inserted the proper keys, removed the chains, opened the gate, reinserted the locks and headed up the steps of the side door. One more key and he was in, pausing at the threshold, listening for any sound of movement. Hearing nothing, he secured the door and moved forward down the hallway into the gloom.
Mr. Tic set his briefcase down on the floor just inside the main room. It bumped a second briefcase he was forced to leave as a decoy. This second one he removed and hid behind an opening in the stairs he'd located quite by accident on the first day of their arrival. Why he had not told Mr. Snake about it, he still didn't know, but now, he was glad he hadn't.
Everything appeared to be as it should. Mr. Snake was only three hours into his seven hours of sleep, so Mr. Tic had plenty of time to settle in, which included getting his heart rate back down, and make it appear as if he had never left. In the event Mr. Snake had awakened while he was gone, Mr. Tic had an excuse. He got panic attacks from time to time, something Mr. Tic was well aware of, and so Mr. Tic would just get out of the 'nest' for a few minutes at a time, to get a breath of fresh air. If he didn't have to, though, Mr. Tic would rather not talk his way out of a prickly situation.
About ten minutes went by. Mr. Tic had gravitated to a stack of videocassettes and was trying to convince himself he wanted to watch one. None of the movies appealed to him. He was working down the stack again when he thought he heard a noise, like a ringing or buzzing. After a few moments, he heard it again, and went searching for the source. It seemed to be coming from a corner of the couch, and as he went to it, and dug under some magazines, he found it: Mr. Snake's cell phone.
His immediate thought was to leave it. Whoever the caller was, he could certainly wait. Mr. Tic knew Mr. Snake was in communication with someone. For all he truly knew, he might be speaking with all kinds of people, including his girlfriend and mother. That wasn't the arrangement, however. They were supposed to be in communication blackout.
It was that last thought which pushed Mr. Tic over the edge. He reached down, gripped the cell phone and accepted the call.
"Go," Mr. Tic said, doing his best Mr. Snake imitation.
"Chanel secure, linking director," a voice replied. It was female, professional and precise. There was silence for several moments, and then Mr. Tic heard another voice, this one a male, authoritarian.
"Update."
Mr. Tic froze. He was immediately in over his head. Whoever this man was, a director of some kind, most likely of the agency Mr. Snake worked for, was demanding information. Furthermore, it was over a secured channel, which meant, it was being used for official purposes. Which meant...
Mr Tic's eyes widened, but he realized time was passing and he needed to give an answer, and a good one, or he might bring the entire operation down on top of him. After another moment passed, he cleared his throat. "The accident goes down tonight. Site chosen. Evidence linking target will be acquired at dinner." Mr. Tic paused, closing his eyes, hoping that was enough.
"Proceed as planned," the other voice said. There was a click, and the the cell phone disconnected.
Quickly, Mr. Tic looked around for something to wipe his fingerprints off of the phone, then remembered the cloth he used for his glasses. Satisfied the cell phone was clean, he put it back under the magazines, and returned to the videocassettes.
His mind and heart were both racing. This was bigger than he thought. Mr. Snake had never mentioned this would be an officially sanctioned ops. He thought the two had devised it on their own, without any approval whatsoever. He had acted on that basis, appropriating funds from his department's accounts on his own, without going through the normal funding procedures. Now, it appeared, he'd been duped by Mr. Snake again.
Which meant his protection was even more crucial. Not only was Mr. Tic being played, he was being set up to take the fall, by none other than a sister agency. The fear he was feeling mount within started to morph. Just what kind of a crooked deal was Mr. Snake pulling? Bring in The Maya, go after Sutton, derail the island's economy—all of it had come from Mr. Snake. In fact, Mr. Tic had voiced his distaste for the mission every step of the way.
Just what else was Mr. Snake not telling him, and just how far up did knowledge of this operation go? Mr. Tic decided that one way or another, he would need to find out. And somehow stay alive and play dumb, all at the same time.
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.