I squeezed out a dollop of coconut-scented tanning oil into one hand and rubbed it into Fi’s back while still perusing the BlackBerry with my free hand. It’s not the kind of multitasking they teach at spy school, but I was able to make do.
“Here’s something interesting,” I said. “Last night, Junior received an e-mail from someone with an Honrado Incorporated e-mail address.”
“Aren’t all of the people working there ex- or current criminals?” She reached around to the small of her back. “Did you get this spot, Michael? I don’t want an uneven tan.”
“You’re all covered.” I opened up the e-mail. It was blank but contained an attachment, which I opened. It was the visitor sign-in sheet that Sam and I had signed as Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. “This isn’t good,” I said, and handed the BlackBerry to Fiona. “It’s the daily sign-in of people coming to see Father Eduardo.”
“It seems that the Man from U.N.C.L. E has been compromised,” she said.
“And the mayor,” I said.
“The problem with employing criminals,” Fiona said, handing the BlackBerry back to me, “is that they tend not to be very trustworthy.”
The e-mail was from the blanket info@honradoinc. com, which was probably accessed by several people, but it was unlikely that more than one person had immediate access to the sign-in sheet. The receptionist was the only one. I’d have to check with Eduardo on that, but even the process of snooping for that info might tip off the wrong people. Better to take care of that on the down-low.
I scrolled through the rest of the e-mails, but they went back only two days and didn’t provide much in the way of apparent action items. But if you really want to know about a person, read his nonpersonal e-mails, like the e-mails from Amazon. com noting the upcoming delivery of items, which, in Junior’s case, provided even more insight than I could have imagined.
“Would you like to guess what books Junior has headed his way?” I asked.
“I’d like to think he’s got some of those Chicken Soup books. Did they make a Chicken Soup for the Violent Criminal’s Soul yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But he does have The Art of War and The Revolutionary’s Cookbook on a three-day delivery.”
“What is it with men and The Art of War?”
“Have you ever read it?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t need to. Do you want to know what the art of war is, Michael? Kill the other person. It’s really very simple. No reading or extra training required.”
It wasn’t really The Art of War that concerned me. The Revolutionary’s Cookbook wasn’t dangerous as a book, but it was a favorite of garage-based terrorists for years. Most of them didn’t know what to do with it, really, but someone like Junior, who was brighter than I’d given him credit for, just may. At the very least, he had the muscle and the means to acquire the goods required for large-scale explosions that didn’t require weapons-grade explosives. Worse, though, was that if he didn’t know precisely what he was doing, there was a good chance he’d blow up his own neighborhood by accident.
“How did you learn to blow things up, Fi?”
Fi started to turn over-well, she actually gave a half turn, to the delight of the tourists, which I suspect was her plan all along-and then remembered her undone top, which she retied before sitting up so she could see me. “I love it when you ask me personal questions,” she said. “I think my brother taught me. Or maybe some kids down the way, but probably my brother. It was so much fun growing up back then. You could play outside all day and no one complained if you accidentally incinerated an empty shack or three.”
“What did you use?”
“Whatever we could find. Bleach seemed to work well when mixed with other things. Pools of hairspray proved quite flammable, too.”
“What could you have done with a book like The Revolutionary’s Cookbook?”
Fiona thought for a moment. “Personally? I think I could have brought England to its knees, but then I was always a very active child.”
Anyone with an Internet connection can figure out how to build an atomic bomb, or at least procure the steps needed to put it all together, but not everybody has access to enriched plutonium. And anyone with an Internet connection can order The Revolutionary’s Cookbook, but that doesn’t make him capable of actually creating a device that can do anything more than maim himself, but the mere idea that Junior was pondering this was cause for some concern, particularly since he was apparently receiving the list of visitors Father Eduardo was seeing each day.
I couldn’t imagine a reason why he’d want those names unless he planned to shake them down, send them materials related to his blackmail scheme or to stick a pipe bomb in their mailboxes. None of the options were particularly appealing.
“You know what I wonder?” I said. “Just how much Junior really wants to run through Honrado, and how much he might just want to be respected like Father Eduardo. If he really wanted to bring him down, why not just kill him already? There must be easier businesses to run his money through.”
“You said he hasn’t read The Art of War yet,” Fiona said.
She had a point, but it still didn’t quite make sense to me. But, then, revenge isn’t always about the quick fix. Sometimes it’s about torture. Junior had spent twenty-five years in prison. That’s a long time to spend pondering someone else’s suffering.
And if anyone knew about suffering, it was Sam… or at least that’s what his general countenance suggested when he walked up to where we were sitting, tore off his shirt and essentially beached himself facedown on the chaise longue we’d held for him. He had a manila envelope stuffed into his back pocket, which made him look like a delivery man who’d been murdered.
“Always so graceful,” Fiona said.
“Sweetheart,” Sam said, not bothering to turn over, “I’m doing battle with some demons today. Unless you have a pocket exorcism kit with you, I’d appreciate a bit more tenderness from you.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Fiona said.
Sam lifted his head and turned it to face Fiona. “Now, that’s my girl,” he said. “How about a Jim Jones?”
Fiona slapped Sam’s flank. It sounded wet. “You’re fine,” she said.
“I could do without the kidney slaps,” he said.
“This is a great hotel,” I said.
“Isn’t it?” Sam said.
“There a reason we’re here?”
“Blue skies and pretty girls aren’t enough for you, Mikey?”
“No,” I said, though it wasn’t a bad place to scroll through someone else’s BlackBerry. I told Sam what we’d learned.
“You think Junior is working with THRUSH on this to finally get Solo and Kuryakin in their crosshairs?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“You think it was the girl with the handsome scar who sent in the list?”
“It could be anyone,” I said, because the truth was that I didn’t want it to be her. “Can you turn over? I feel weird speaking to the hair on your back.”
“Your true colors always shine through, Mikey,” Sam said. “Here’s what I learned while you two were out here enjoying the free vitamin D from the sun, the reason for which shall be made clear as soon as I can move my torso.” He rolled himself-which took some effort-until he was mostly flat on his back, and then pulled the envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to me.
“Are you having some kind of problem?” Fiona asked.
“I think I injured myself last night,” Sam said.
I opened up the envelope and pulled out several pages of telephone records. “Quick turnaround,” I said.
“Have I ever mentioned my friend Yvonne before?”
“Last night, actually,” I said. “And in more detail than I was comfortable with.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
Sam shook his head like he was trying to dislodge his brain from a fork. “Well, anyway, she works for the phone company. She’s a good source in times of trouble, and a good friend in times when you just want to be alone,
