No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  People leaned and squinted.

  “What am I looking at?” asked Lawrence.

  “The island of Useppa just off the coast of Sanibel,” said Serge. “Used by the CIA to train Cubans for the Bay of Pigs. Guess the agents put out the word that it was a comfy climate.”

  “Excuse me?” said Ted. “We’re in the middle of a problem here.”

  “Sorry,” said Serge. “I just like to bring things back to reality.”

  Ted looked at Lawrence. “We need to get all these people out of here. The car bomb says they’ve already zeroed in on this place.”

  Serge pounded a fist into a palm. “And that’s exactly what we want! They’ll walk right into our trap!”

  “Lawrence,” said Ted, pointing back at Serge. “What exactly were the positives about this guy?”

  “The Impala,” said Serge.

  Ted’s head swung. “What?”

  “The Impala,” he repeated.

  “What Impala?”

  “The one that was following us the other day when we took our Cocoon movie field trip to Saint Petersburg,” said Serge. “Actually, there were three cars that kept switching out, but I like to call the whole phenomenon ‘Impala’ to keep it digestible.”

  “Anything else?” Ted asked impatiently.

  “Lots,” said Serge. “The same Impala is now parked at the end of the street outside the entrance of this trailer park.”

  “It is?” said Lawrence. “Why?”

  “That had me wondering, too,” said Serge. “But I just now put it all together. They’re keeping the park under surveillance. They don’t know whether the Duncans are alive or not.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “I’m guessing the people who ordered that Social Security list from Benmont,” said Serge. “Like Ted just told us, they found the Duncans’ address on it.”

  “But if that’s so,” said Nancy, “what are they waiting for? Why are they just sitting out there? It’s not like they’re afraid of being bold.”

  “The newspapers described the blast and quoted the cops as saying the Duncans were missing,” said Serge. “It could mean they’re really missing, or that the authorities weren’t thorough looking for remains, or that the cops are outright lying as a ruse to lure the culprits back to the scene of the crime. Whatever the case, it gives me a huge advantage!”

  “I’m afraid to ask.” Ted rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Advantage for what?”

  “My big spy plan!” Serge nodded and grinned.

  “Okay, I’ve heard enough,” said Ted. “What we need—”

  “Wait,” interrupted Lawrence. “Can we please just hear him out? I know he sounds unorthodox, but I’ve seen the results.”

  “I’ll defer to your judgment,” said Ted. “But only for the courtesy to listen.”

  “Thanks!” Serge hopped up and clapped his hands. “It’ll be an espionage thriller of epic proportions! Double crosses, shady deals, code signals like bending down to tie my shoes. I’d like to call it The Serge Sanction. Let’s get started!”

  “Uh, where?” asked Ted.

  “First I need to talk to this Benmont you’ve got stashed in your trailer.” Serge began bouncing in place. “If what I think is happening, I’ll need to know every last thing he does and get a look at what’s on his backup data to set my plan in motion. You’ve already painted a vivid picture: They’ve started waxing people—his boss, the attorney—and stolen their hard drives. Plus a couple more bureaucrats in Washington who read the e-mails. The shootouts in Tampa and Treasure Island, the houseguests across the way, the car bomb. It’s getting to be a regular bloodbath. This is going to be so much fun!”

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Ted. “This isn’t close to fun.”

  “It sure feels that way,” said Serge. “Am I missing something?”

  Chapter 34

  The Next Evening

  Cigar smoke and cognac.

  The seaside resort sat on the north end of the island of Sanibel, and loud singing came from the bar. It was somebody’s alma mater, and it was off-key.

  A row of men with arms around each other’s shoulders swayed as they belted out the next verse. Some of their tuxedo shirts had port-wine stains. They couldn’t remember any more lyrics, and the singing sputtered out. So it was back to war stories and glory days: secret societies in college, fraternities where they’d been recruited, then initiation ceremonies involving nudity, alcohol, and being blindfolded before reaching into a toilet to squish a banana.

  It was an inter-agency retreat—CIA, FBI, NSA, and the rest of the alphabet soup. Yale and Princeton had the biggest annual alumni reunions. This was a smaller one from a Pac-10 school on the West Coast.

  Someone crashed into the bar and waved an empty brandy snifter. “Another round on me!”

  The bartender would have rolled his eyes, but the tips were fantastic.

  A stool tipped over with a crash. “From the top!” And the mangled college song began again.

  Mid-verse, someone stopped and pointed at the door. “Check it out!”

  “That’s hilarious!”

  “The perfect end of the evening!”

  The college mascot flapped its wings. “Quack, quack!”

  Fond memories flooded back from the University of Oregon.

  The gang staggered and gathered round the duck. “Quack, quack!”

  One of the alums knocked on the feathered head. “Who’s in there? Is that you, Harold?”

  “Quack, quack!”

  The duck stepped back and began dancing. The hokey pokey, the Harlem shake, the Electric Slide, Gangnam Style. The crowd hooted and hollered and clapped in rhythm.

  The duck got tired and joined them at the bar to a round of appreciative slaps on his back feathers. He stuck a bottled water in his bill.

  “Seriously, who’s in there? Steve? Mort?”

  “Quack, quack!”

  “This asshole’s going to make us guess.” Laughter.

  “Fair enough. He paid for the costume . . . Victor? Walt? . . .”

  The evening wore on, and the celebrants in turn made repeated, stumbling trips to the kind of high-end men’s room with wooden-slat stall doors and stacks of neatly folded washcloths at the sink instead of a paper towel dispenser.

  More brandy, people slouching lower over the bar. One of the taller alums broke off from the group and stumbled down the marble hall. He entered the men’s room. The duck caught the door before it could close, went inside and locked it.

  The alum unzipped at a urinal, looked over at the noise behind him and chuckled. “I have no idea who you are.”

  “George McCreedy?”

  “Yeah?”

  The duck removed his head.

  Then a much different tone. “Now I really have no idea who you are. When did you go to Oregon?”

  “I didn’t. I’ve come to give you a message.”

  It had just gotten weird in a hurry. A security breach. McCreedy tried to fight off his inebriation. “Are you with an agency?”

  “Carlson was trying to reach you before he got shot.”

  McCreedy strained his memory. Yes, a few missed calls from Carlson while he was in meetings, then the bad news about the agent. “Are you the one who shot him?”

  “No, he was trying to tell you the truth about the list that’s getting people killed. And the mole. Everyone’s got it all wrong about this Benmont fellow.”

  “How could you possibly know about that list?”

  “The only credible answer is: How else would I know the name Carlson? And that you were his instructor at Quantico?”

  McCreedy did the calculus in his head. “Okay, you just bought yourself another five minutes.”

  “You probably saw an e-mail about a theory . . .” Serge walked him through the rest.

  When the story was over, McCreedy whistled. “That is one unbelievable story.”

  “And if it’s true and you don’t act on it,” said Serge, �
�think of the possible damage.”

  Drunken knocking at the door. “What’s taking so long in there? Why is this locked?”

  Serge and McCreedy yelled in unison: “Not now!”

  The pair stopped and stared at each other.

  “All right,” McCreedy finally said. “Bring this Benmont in and you have my word he’ll be safe. I’ll give this whole matter a fair hearing.”

  Serge shook his head. “Benmont stays with me. You straighten things out internally and find the mole.”

  “While you do what?”

  “Deliver the entire secret operation behind all this. Just be ready.”

  McCreedy stared again. “Who are you?”

  Serge spread his wings. “I’m the duck. I’m authorized.”

  “Okay, how will I get in touch with you?” asked McCreedy.

  “You won’t,” said Serge. “Give me your cell phone.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes, but the other has a downside.”

  McCreedy handed it over, and Serge entered the number in his own disposable phone. Then he removed the battery from the agent’s phone—“Sorry, even though you’re pretty hammered, you might be able to call before my getaway.” He handed back the cell.

  “But I can just call from one of my friends’ phones.”

  “That’s why I’m also locking you in one of the stalls.” He held out a metal door wedge. “When it’s time, I’ll phone with the location. I assume you’ll know what to do.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Draw them out into the open like bait. You guys haven’t exactly been tearing up the league.”

  “And I assume you’ll be the bait?”

  “Bait gets eaten,” said Serge. “I’m more like a bug zapper.”

  “Now you’re mixing metaphors.”

  “I’m impressed. Look at the grammar on your ass.” He stuck the disposable phone somewhere inside the feathers. “Just get another battery and keep your cell on. My code name is Serge. It’s also my real name, so it’s easier for me to remember. Your code name will be Mr. Buttons.”

  “What kind of a code name is that?” asked McCreedy. “And why do I even need one if you’ll be calling me and already know who I am?”

  Serge swung feathers in the air. “Do you want to do this professionally or not?”

  Chapter 35

  Boca Shores

  Another typical clandestine meeting in a retirement trailer park involving national security.

  This time the whole gang was there: Ted and Tofer, Benmont and Sonic, the Duncans, and Lawrence and Nancy. Coleman was behind the couch.

  A Ford Falcon pulled up the drive, and Serge came in wearing a duck costume. “Everything went like glass. All your troubles will soon be over.”

  “Where have you been?” asked Benmont.

  “Meeting with McCreedy.”

  “But how?” asked Ted.

  Serge removed the duck head. “I’m authorized.”

  “So McCreedy’s people have picked up everyone who’s a threat to us?” asked Benmont.

  “Not exactly,” said Serge. “I need to put my Master Plan in motion first.” He pulled out some notes from beneath feathers. “Lawrence, you have the most important tasks. First thing tomorrow morning, quietly start evacuating the entire park. Pass the word around on the hush-hush. Say it’s a field trip and order as many shuttle buses as you need. But have them leave at staggered intervals so it looks normal as opposed to a mass exodus.”

  “Why?” asked Lawrence.

  “Because there’s a Russian agent in an Impala watching the park from the end of the street. He’s been out there two days pretending to look at road maps.”

  “What?” He jumped up. “Then why aren’t we calling the police?”

  Serge shook his head. “And pick him up for what? Being lost and looking for directions? Plus I need him there for my plan to work . . . So, Lawrence, I’m counting on you. Every last person has to be out of the park or they will be in grave danger. Coleman, too. Can you handle that?”

  “Sure, but where do we go?”

  “Anywhere,” said Serge. “Check into a hotel on Lido Beach if you want. It’s very relaxing this time of year.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Right here,” said Serge. “That road past Earl’s guard booth is the only entrance or exit to this place. I’ll draw our adversaries inside, and then it’s just a matter of me keeping them occupied until the good men and women of the FBI swoop in to save the day. I’ve got them on standby. Easy-peasy.”

  Everyone glanced at each other.

  “Trust me,” said Serge. “What can go wrong?”

  The Next Afternoon

  Senior citizens whispered among themselves as they boarded a series of shuttles lined up behind the clubhouse.

  The first bus pulled out on schedule. It passed unnoticed by an Impala parked on the shoulder of the road before heading into town. A half hour later, the next bus left, then the next.

  Serge returned from where he’d just hidden the Ford Falcon in the back of the park. He stood beside the guard booth and waved as the final bus departed shortly before sunset. “Earl, it’s time for you to go, too.”

  “But I was going to stay here with you and fight them off, shoulder to shoulder.”

  Serge shook his head. “Who knows if my plan will work? I can’t have you on my conscience.”

  “But you told everyone it was foolproof . . .”

  “That’s what they needed to hear.” Serge gave Earl a hug. “Please, for me.”

  Earl locked up the booth, got in his car and followed the last shuttle into the city.

  The sun went down, and the fountain in the lake turned off. The park was quieter than it had ever been. And darker. Not a single light on in any of the trailers. Serge walked out to the entrance and the masonry wall with the park’s name spelled out in granite. There was something rolled up under his arm. He unfurled a hand-painted banner and hung it over the sign. Then he went back inside and waited . . .

  An hour later, Serge left the Shepards’ mobile home on foot and walked out of the park.

  Now it was just bullfrogs and crickets.

  Stars twinkled and palm fronds rustled.

  Eventually a pair of Impala headlights quietly swung around the corner at the entrance, and the vehicle drove into the park. It passed the lake and pulled up the driveway to a trailer.

  Serge walked around to the back of the Ford and popped the trunk. He aimed a gun down at the driver of the Impala, who shielded his face. “Don’t shoot me.”

  “Then don’t pull any shit. You’re still of use.” Serge motioned with the pistol. “Get out! . . . Now turn around and lean forward with your hands behind your back.”

  Serge handcuffed him and led the bewildered captive into the trailer.

  “Have a seat. The couch will do.” He shoved the man down. “Don’t take it so hard. Even the best training couldn’t have prepared you, because who would ever expect a duck to be armed?”

  The hostage glanced around the trailer for clues but only saw knickknacks.

  Serge kept the gun aimed as he pulled out his cell phone. “I want you to call your friends.”

  “What friends?”

  Serge delivered a frightful pistol-whipping until blood spattered the cushions.

  “As you can tell, there’s not going to be any clever preliminary chitchat like in the movies.” The pistol butt caught the man in the Adam’s apple. “Give me the number.”

  The captured spy caught his breath and spit out the digits.

  Serge punched them into the phone. “It’s ringing.” He put it to the man’s head.

  Watery eyes looked up at Serge. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell them there’s someone here who wants to talk to them.”

  “Hello?”

  “Boris? It’s Alexi . . .”

  “You know you’re never supposed to call this line unless it’s an emergency.
And you’re not even calling from a secure phone.”

  “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  Serge pulled the phone back to his own ear. “Boris, my man! We need to have a sit-down.”

  “Who is this?”

  “I work freelance. They know me as Serge the Duck. Not as threatening as Carlos the Jackal, but I’m building a rep. Listen, there’s been a series of misunderstandings that I’m sure we can clear up with an intimate conversation.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The list of defectors and double agents, all the murders across the state, except you missed the Duncans. Twice. Plus the data analyst who came up with the theory and has the only remaining original set of your files that can expose your network’s operation. Minor stuff like that. What do you say?”

  “Uh, sure we can meet. Absolutely. We’ve got this house—”

  “Oh yeah, right, I don’t think so,” said Serge. “I know you still don’t trust me, so I need to take precautions. Sorry, spy rules. There’s a gas station nearby. When you get there, give me a call, and I’ll give you directions the rest of the way. Got a pen? . . .”

  The person on the other end of line finished jotting down the address. “Seriously, I’ve never heard of the Duck. Who are you really with? The Americans? Israelis? Arabs?”

  “You can absolutely take this to the bank,” said Serge. “I follow nobody.”

  Click.

  Meanwhile . . .

  The new mall was winding down for the evening. Customers walked back to their cars carrying large shopping bags with logos for name-brand bullshit.

  At the empty end of the parking lot sat a row of jazzed-up street racers with raised hoods. Young people drank beer, admiring custom-built engines and shock absorbers.