Previously On The Maya...
Amara Barclay and Eugenio Stavros lounge on a rented boat a few miles out from shore. They don't really talk much, enjoying the warm sun, the cool breeze, and the lulling ocean. After a while, Stavros gets restless just lying there and decides to take the boat on a tour around the island, calling it "house shopping." Amara doubts they would let him buy anything because he's not a citizen of the Isle of Use. They go around one way until they run out of beach front property, then they come all the way around to the other side until they get to what looks like a large public beach.
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.
Beyond that, was the hotel zone. There were only a couple on the west side, then they wrapped around along the north and continued east for over a mile. Immediately after that were industrial ports, where the beach was replaced by long piers. What looked like oil refineries to Stravros lined the shore after the ports, and then walls of rock, similar to the south side of the island, took over.
Stavros came away quite impressed. Between what he saw on his last trip, continued into this one with the steel operation, plus the downtown shopping district, the home they stayed in and the entire coastline and its industry, commerciality and luxury, it was impossible not to come away with a sense of purpose turned prosperity. There was order, and yet, there was room to breathe. Stavros found himself reflecting on his earlier comments about home shopping. If there were ever a place he would trade the Stavros empire and his beloved Greece for, the Isle of Use was the place.
The sun was well into its downward arc when Stavros brought the boat back to the yacht. On this second passing, they were only two hundred yards out, where the large letters on the back of the ship were still legible: The Eastern Star.
Amara, who was finally forced to abandon her sunning, stood next to him as their boat bobbed like a cork beside the giant ship. A cruise liner would have made the yacht look small, but short of that, The Eastern Star dominated the harbor.
"It's magnificent," Amara said. The yacht was not out and about on Amara's first sweep around the island's end, and so the awe she vocalized and felt was genuine. She had seen her fair share of super yachts—stayed on them—but The Eastern Star eclipsed them all. Opulent, yet understated, if such a thing were possible. "I wonder what it looks like on the inside."
"You get to find out," Stavros said, tearing his eyes away long enough to see Amara's reaction. "Unless I am mistaken, that's where we're having dinner tonight." He looked down at his watch. "In just under an hour."
"You!" Amara slapped his arm. "I wondered why you insisted we bring our clothes on board."
Stavros pretended to fend her off, laughing. "I wasn't sure, but figured it must be out here somewhere. This way, we can just get back on our boat, if I can find a space to moor."
"You better hurry, then," Amara said. There was all kind of activity now, on and around The Eastern Star, as well as on the marina in either direction. "I need to get ready."
# # #
The last place Secret Service Agent Lance Simmons expected to be that evening was on the upper deck of The Eastern Star overlooking an outdoor ballroom. Wearing a tailored tuxedo, no less, with a tropical drink in one hand, and a beautiful twenty-something woman hanging off his other arm. He attended his share of gala events, but always on duty, as part of the security force protecting the President of the United States.
But this was vacation, and Simmons was at this dinner as a special guest of the President of the Isle of Use, Theron Talford. The woman was Talford's youngest daughter, Haley, who was already used to attending State events with men she did not know and most likely would never see again. Because of what her father did, she did not have a steady boyfriend as such, but that was likely to change soon as Talford's six-year term was nearly up. She was quiet, cordial, asking the occasional question about security, and otherwise performing the duties expected of a president's daughter.
Simmons, out of habit, had them climb to the highest point where he could watch the guests wander in. There was a reception line, with the hosts of the dinner, Tucson Sutton II and his wife Lilith at the end, greeting the arrivals. Simmons had already passed through the gauntlet, having the opportunity to shake hands with every member of the line, which turned out to be the children and the grandchildren over twenty-one of Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, along with their spouses. That added up to sixty-four, counting the Suttons, their seven sons and three daughters, all their spouses, and twenty-one grandchildren, with their husbands and wives.
The line started out with the youngest first, so it was like going back in time as one progressed along. Except, the changes in age from generation to generation were far from pronounced. Simmons played a mental guessing game as to which were grandchildren and who were children and he found he'd already gone through all the daughters to the younger sons before he realized he was running out of people. The spouses were just as well-preserved, so it was not a Sutton trait only.
Still, the highlight had been coming face-to-face with Sutton himself. A firm grip, piercing blue eyes, a thick flowing snowy mane, and angular features, power seemed to surge through and around Sutton. For an instant, a thought crossed Simmon's mind that Sutton could take him in a fight. It was an odd thought to have, but Simmons did not flinch when the older man's eyes met his.
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.