The Death’s Head Conspiracy

Twenty-Four

Two days later I was stretched out between the satiny sheets of a bed as big as a regulation size tennis court in the most expensive and luxurious suite of the Royal Curasao Hotel on Pescadera Bay. In one hand was an iced glass of the dry orange liqueur that takes its name from the island, in the other was a baby-blue telephone. In my ear was the voice of David Hawk, who was Just then giving me an unusually cheerful sign off from his throne in Washington, D.C.

“And don’t forget to send the money!” I told him.

“Sunny?” he shouted. “Well, its not sunny here. Been raining all day!” Then he softly chuckled.

“Send the money by wire!” I shouted back at him. “I am a man of infinite patience. Therefore, anytime in the next hour will do nicely. And if it is indeed raining there, be sure to wear your rubbers!”

I put down the phone.

I rolled over and winked at Rona Volstedt who lay next to me, propped by pillows and drinking a glass of the same native concoction.

“Hawk wanted to know if we’d like a bonus vacation on the government,” I told her. “He suggested a leisurely Caribbean cruise.”

Rona made a sour-lemon face. Then she chuckled. “I didn’t know the old guy had a sense of humor.”

“He keeps it well hidden,” I answered. “And only drags it out when there’s some special occasion worthy of a little smile. Like when the entire nation has been saved from city-by-city atomic devastation.”

Rona sipped her drink. “And what else did he say?”

“Only that, following my directions, his boys located all the suitcase bombs. He’s informed the Russian government that the death’s-head conspiracy has been smashed; the file is closed.”

“My God,” she groaned. “And that’s all there is to the whole caper? A little cruise, some shots fired, a dip in the ocean, a torture chamber, more shots, and a piddling explosion?”

She grinned. “So what’ll we do for excitement?”

I didn’t say a word.

But just the same, I spent the next two weeks answering that question.