Evil Takes a Holiday

Chapter One: A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts

Once upon a time there were two men, living at the same time in the same country. These two men were as different as night and day, and yet they possessed one common thread: the protection of their country against terrorism.

David Meerschaum was a very tall, dark and handsome mild-mannered man, worldly and sophisticated, soft-spoken but firm in his beliefs. Shlomo Palmer was a medium-height blondish, handsome and slightly excitable man, also worldy and sophisticated, but not very soft-spoken. He also had firm beliefs and voiced them often, although always under clever disguises. It was instant friendship from the beginning, each of them recognizing in the other, the commonality between them. They could even read each other's thoughts, and occasionally finish each other's sentences. They decided to team up and develop their own organization, which they called "A.U.N.T." (America Under No Terror). Their arch-enemy, an evil organization called "F.L.U.S.H." (Foreign Liars Under Sleazy Hooligans), was soon on their heels, their one goal: to annihilate A.U.N.T. and all that it stood for.

The first case of Meerschaum and Palmer began in the little known island of Bongo-bongo, somewhere in the South Pacific. Lush vegetation, clear waters and beautiful women all added up to an adventure that both were looking forward to. Unfortunately, agents from F.L.U.S.H. had already ensconced themselves there quite comfortably several months ahead of our two heros, and had bribed the inhabitants with a never-ending supply of the best Kobe beef money could buy. They held the local population at their mercy, and enjoyed the hedonistic life-style so absent in their own countries.

When our two heros arrived, they were greeted by a bevy of beautiful island women, eager to get to know these strangers to their shores. As Meerschaum and Palmer were both in disguise, playing the roles of Hollywood movie agents, throngs of men and women followed them from their launch to their luxury beach cabana, inundating them with questions and generally being a nuisance. Only the mayor knew their true identity. Once safely in the privacy of their home for the next few weeks, they breathed a sigh of relief that the first step was over: fooling the public. With luck, the F.L.U.S.H. agents wouldn't have a clue that these two sleuths were on their tails. Their mission: to flush F.L.U.S.H. down the toilet of evil forever.

After a peaceful night they awakened to the sound of loud drumming just outside their cabana. The custom of this island is to greet the dawn of each new day by making the loudest noise possible, in this case some timpani that were left behind by the New York Philharmonic on their last visit there. Meerschaum pulled his heavy down pillow over his head, groaning, while Palmer shot up like a rocket, suspicious of the cacaphony and what it could mean.

"Hey, Meerschaum!" Palmer barked at him.
"Oh . . . leave me alone, Palmer, I had a bad night, " mumbled Meerschaum from underneath his pillow.
"Bad night, good night, there's something going on out there and we've got to find out what it is." Palmer got out of bed and walked over to the window, pulled up the bamboo blinds and squinted into the bright sunlinght. Immediately he saw the source of the noise, and emitted an expletive.
"Gotta stop that right now! Don't want that happening every morning." Palmer opened the door, and asked the band to stop playing in his most polite manner. The band didn't seem to respond and kept on beating the drums just as loudly as before.
"HEY!!!! I asked you guys to be QUIET!" Yelled Palmer. Suddenly the band stopped, wide-eyed and shocked at the vehemence in Palmer's voice.
"Please, Mr. Palmer, this is a custom of our little island. They don't mean any harm. I am very sorry." explained the hotel owner. Palmer asked him if they could just tone it down in the future, to which the hotel owner promised to comply with Palmer's wishes.

Breakfast passed pleasantly enough, with dark red papaya and strong island-grown coffee. Meerschaum stood up, stretched and announced that he was going inside to catch up on the latest news from his laptop, while Palmer decided to take a walk around the island to listen to the locals gossiping. If they were supposed to be Hollywood agents, they had better look and act the parts, thought Palmer, and suggested to Meerschaum that they both wear sunglasses all the time; besides, it would help keep them incognito. They were attempting to look laid-back, wearing sandals, Bermuda shorts and t-shirts, trying to fit into the local scene of vacationers. It was going to be slowly, slowly, catchy monkey if they wanted to defeat the enemy. Jumping in at the deep end and ruining everything before it began was not on the agenda; all successes were based upon perfect timing and execution. They decided to meet up for lunch at 1:00 sharp at the Gazebo, the outdoor restaurant on the beach.

"Find out anything?" asked Meerschaum, while sipping his Mai Tai.
"Not yet, " replied Palmer, while crunching his coconut-dipped deep fried shrimp. The sun was straight overhead, beating down on the roof of the restaurant, although a cooling sea breeze occasionally wafted towards the two sleuths.
"We've got to mingle with the people more, get to know who's who here, that kind of stuff," remarked Meerschaum. He had his own ideas about how to extract information from the locals and tourists alike, but wasn't about to divulge his plans to Palmer----at least, not yet. Although they were fast friends, there was that tiny amount of professional one-upmanship that sometimes happens when super-sleuths are thrown together on a mission. Palmer had his own ideas, too, but kept them close to his chest for the time being.

"I've been mingling, Meerschaum, but really, these people just don't seem to gossip. I mean, I had three Island Hoppers at the bar, trying to listen in to these two guys wearing suits, but then they noticed me and moved away. Funny, those suits . . . in this climate? " Palmer's voice trailed away into his own private ponderings while Meerschaum looked at him through his drink.
"Did it ever occur to you, Palmer, that these 'guys in suits' could be F.L.U.S.H. agents?" queried Meerschaum.
Palmer spit out a shrimp tail, and it landed on Meerschaum's plate. Meerschaum merely looked down at it and brushed it off.
"Meerschaum! That is the absolute most obvious trick in the book! An evil agent looking like an evil agent? C'mon, you should know better than that. No F.L.U.S.H. agent is going to look like a F.L.U.S.H. agent, are they?" Palmer had that knowing look in his eyes, confident in his assumption about what evil agents really looked like.

"O.K., Palmer, but you know they are very clever. Yes, very clever indeed, and could be using the old dress-like-an-evil-agent disguise to fool us. You know, they are evil agents but think that by dressing like evil agents, no one in their right mind would suspect that they really are evil agents. Get it?" And with that, Meerschaum finished his Mai Tai and started into his hot Singapore noodles.

Palmer hated it when Meerschaum was right, and he very well could be in this instance. Perhaps those two thug-looking men were F.L.U.S.H. agents, just floating around the island. What were they doing here and how long had they been enjoying this tropical paradise and WHERE was their headquarters here? Two great minds think alike and both men quickly rose from their bamboo chairs, signed the tab for lunch, then strode off together. It was about time to get into their roles as Hollywood agents and hold bogus auditions for the next big fake flick, "Pirates of the South Pacific" . It was in this way that they hoped to capture the F.L.U.S.H. agents, but it was going to be a long haul.

Chapter Two: Who Are Those Men in the Foster Grants?

"Could we PLEASE have some order here? I said ORDER!!! One at a time, please!" yelled Palmer as he tried to hold the crowd of Hollywood hopefuls at bay. This was going to be harder than he thought, as Palmer frantically waved to his counterpart in espionage.
"Hey, Meerschaum, I could use a little help here!" he called out in his most Hollywood-agent sounding voice.
"Oh, yeah, right, Palmer. I'll be over in a minute." Meerschaum quickly closed his laptop, which he never left behind. It was his lifeline, his main addiction. Women could be considered his other addiction but when he was on an assignment, it was all business and no pleasure. Which was going to be difficult when surrounded by all these island beauties. . . . He strode over in double-time to where Palmer was attempting to explain what parts were needed for this film.
"We need a lot of extras, you know, people to work on the ships, on the shores, fishermen, etc. Would the women please get into this line, and the men in this? Thank you. " After about an hour into the auditions, small beads of sweat were beginning to appear on Palmer's upper lip, which he quickly wiped off with the back of his wrist. The wind had died down and the sun was scorchingly hot. It was going to be a long day; this play-acting at pretending to be Hollywood agents isn't that easy, thought Palmer to himself, and then he spied something strange going on near the quay.

There were the two men he saw earlier, still in their suits and sunglasses, measuring something next to the beach bar, the Lee Shore. Palmer was determined to get to know these gentlemen a little better, and suggested to Meerschaum that they take a well-deserved break and have a drink at the bar. Meerschaum complied with this plan, as it had been a grueling day and he could just feel that ice-cold Margarita sliding down his parched throat.
As they sipped their drinks, they tried to listen to what the two sunglasses-clad men were saying, but with the sound of the surf and a beach volleyball game going on, it was difficult. One of the men noticed Meerschaum and Palmer, stopped what he was doing and walked over to them.

"Hello, I noticed you watching us. Aren't you the Hollywood agents for that new movie, Pirates of the South Pacific?" the heavier of the mysterious men asked.

"Yeah," answered Palmer, "We're the ones; he's David Meerschaum and I'm Shlomo Palmer. Nice to meet you, Mr. . .?"
"Smith. John Smith, at your service," offered the stranger. "Yeah, yeah, I know, but it's my real name. No one believes it, but it's true. My parents didn't have much imagination . . ." His voice trailed off and he grew bleary-eyed, as if he was remembering something in his past. "Just call me Johnny. That's what my dear mother called me."
"O.K., Johnny," answered both of them in unison. "Join us for a drink?"
"Oh, no, sorry I never drink while working; that's one of my rules. " And before they could ask if he would join them for dinner later, he had turned around and walked back to his colleague, who was still busy measuring something.

"That was the oddest exchange I have ever encountered," said Palmer. "Did you hear his weird accent? Sort of cross between Russian and Chinese. And he doesn't look like a John Smith either. 'it's my real name' what a load of bull . . . . ." but Meerschaum hadn't heard a thing Palmer said because just at that moment, the most beautiful woman appeared from behind the bar and stood in front of Meerschaum.

"Hi, David, it's been a long time . . ." Meerschaum couldn't move from his bar stool, so stunned he was at this vision of lovliness, this strawberry blond from another time in his life.

"Serena . . ." Meerschaum announced her name as if she were a ghost. . . in a way, she was an apparition.
"So, you do remember me after all these years?" asked the lovely Serena. "I heard you were coming here, but darling, Hollywood agents? Now what are you up to?"

"SH-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" hushed Meerschaum in his loudest stage whisper. "How did you know we were coming here? And aren't you still working for the government?"
"No, darling, I quit that business a long time ago. Got so tired of all the murders, suicides, etc. so decided to cut out and come here. I live here now, it's wonderful to be so cut off from all that nasty stuff that I used to love." At this, she moved closer to Meerschaum and ran her finger down his cheek. This had the desired effect and Meerschuam blushed profusely.
"Ha ha ha ha, I can still do it to you, David!" laughed the evil Serena. "Now, tell me who is your handsome friend?"

"Oh, no, you aren't getting your claws into Palmer! He's too nice for you to ruin." At that retort, Meerschaum stood up and blocked Serena's view of Palmer, who had been totally absorbed in watching the two men, still measuring.
"Out of my way, you party pooper!" Serena pushed past him and made a direct beeline for Palmer.
"Hello, l'll introduce myself since your friend is so rude. I'm Serena Samson, formerly of the F.B.I."
"I'm Shlomo Palmer. Hollywood agent," stumbled Palmer.
"Oh, cut it out, Mr. Palmer. I know you work for A.U.N.T. I know everything about that organization, except that I don't know you yet," purred Serena, while stroking Palmer's cheek. It had the same effect on Palmer that it had on Meerschaum, the rising redness on his cheek was proof of this.
Meerschaum looked upon this little scene with a mixture of envy and fear; envy because he had once loved Serena, and fear, because he knew that she could destroy Palmer and all their plans with one wicked word from her beautiful lips. Something had to be done, and done quickly, to quell this evil vixen.

Chapter 3: You Dirty Rat

"Where's my red tie?" demanded Palmer, as he scoured the wardrobe for his beloved silk cravat.
"I can't believe that you are actually going out with her!" quipped Meerschaum, annoyed and even a little jealous of his friend. "You know she is up to no good, so why are you putting yourself through this torture?"
"Because" answered Palmer, as he created a beautiful knot in his tie, "I plan to bribe Little Bo-Peep with lots of pretty baubles if she tells me how we can get to the F.L.U.S.H. agents before they get to us." His dinner jacket the finishing touch to his evening clothes, Palmer grabbed his key and swept out of their cabana into the balmy night, whistling a merry tune, while Meerschaum scowled and although he knew he couldn't stop his friend, was certain that something bad was going to happen. Palmer was a big boy, he could take care of himself, but that woman was Pure Poison and sure to get into his system. Once that happened, he was hooked and the mission may as well be chucked altogether. One bright hope, however, was that Palmer would come to his senses before it was too late.

Serena and Palmer walked along the shore in the twilight, on their way to the hotel's best restaurant, the Kontiki Room. Ceiling fans, white wicker chairs and impeccable service made the evening fly by. Palmer was the perfect host, plying his lady with more wine, more foie gras, more Cointreau, until he was sure she was pliable enough to talk. What he didn't know was that Serena had slipped a sleeping tablet into Palmer's wine and it was starting to take effect.
"I don't know what's wrong with me, I feel like I need to sleep," yawned Palmer as he signed the tab, and they left the restaurant. He knew he hadn’t had that much to drink, he'd made sure that Serena had more wine than he did, so why did he feel like so drowsy?
"Listen, Serena, I have to go back to my cabana, something's wrong with me . . . I don't feel very well---"

Suddenly Palmer collapsed and Serena took out her tiny penlight and flashed a signal to her cohorts, the men in suits. They appeared from under the pier, dragged Palmer onto a makeshift wagon, and pulled him out of sight. That accomplished, they paid Serena her usual charge, $1,000 cash on the spot. She greedily stuffed it down her dress and made her way surreptitiously back to her own cabana. There she put the money into her safe, where there was a lot more of the dirty green stuff. She smiled the smile of the Cheshire cat, another day's work done. Stripping off her dress, she flung back the cool white sheets and flopped into bed, satiated and exhausted from too much wine. Tomorrow she would have to face Meerschaum, but she would invent something plausible that she hoped he would believe. After all, he was going to be her next victim. With Meerschaum and Palmer out of the picture, F.L.U.S.H. would once more flourish and the world of terror would reign supreme.

Chapter 4: Pandora's Box

Meerschaum slept poorly, and sometime in the early hours of the morning, woke up to look at his travel clock. It read 4:17; he looked over at Palmer's bed but there was no Palmer in it. Strange, he thought, Palmer usually isn't a party animal. . . a sick feeling swept over him and he realized that something nasty had happened to him. He quickly pulled on his trousers, picked up his cell phone, the room key, put on his sandals, and stealthily left the cabana to search for his friend. He was certain that he was in deep trouble but had no idea what kind. At first he only thought that Palmer had had a great time with Serena and decided to stay at her place, but then remembered exactly what kind of woman she was. No man ever had a great time with her; she had a great time with them and afterwards, tossed them away like so much refuse. No, Palmer was in danger, he was certain of that, and it was time to find him.

"WAKE UP, SERENA! C'MON, I KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE!" Meerschaum yelled into Serena's bedroom window. Serena lazily lifted the bamboo blind, looked out to see a very angry Meerschaum glaring straight into her golden eyes.
"Dah-ling, what is it? What's wrong?" she asked in between yawns.
"You know what's wrong. Where's Palmer?" Meerschaum demanded.
"How should I know? He left from here hours ago. He had too much to drink, poor thing." There wasn't a sincere word in that entire statement and Meerschaum knew it.
"I know you know where he is. Now TELL ME!" Meerschaum's voice sounded ominous and for the first time, Serena was actually afraid.
"I swear to you, darling. I haven't the slightest idea where he is! "That was the truth; she had no idea where the two men had dragged Palmer.
"But you know something happened to him, I know you do. So you'd better tell Daddy everything, dah-ling, if you value your life." For only the second time in his life, Meerschaum pulled out a handgun, complete with a silencer. He knew how to use it but hesitated this time, because he really loved women and found it very difficult to even contemplate shooting one, even one as evil as Serena. When Serena realized that Meerschaum was serious, she became agitated and pale.
"O.K! O.K! I will tell you what happened! BUT PLEASE, DON'T SHOOT ME!" Serena pleaded. So she told him about the two F.L.U.S.H. agents, her drugging of Palmer, and the dragging away of him.
"But I really don't know where they took him! Please, David, you MUST believe me, I only did it for the money! There is nothing to do here, and I need to eat, after all." Serena had put on the little-girl-lost look, but it wasn't lost on Meerschaum. He knew that he couldn't trust her as much as he couldn't trust a king cobra.
"So, the F.L.U.S.H. agents have been here for six months? And you are working for them now? Serena, I thought you had better taste than that," Meerschaum remarked, but still holding the gun on her. His slightly sardonic smile enervated her, and she dropped to her little bedroom chair, shaking. When she did this, she was in full view of Meerschaum.
"Hadn't you better put something on and help me look for Palmer?" Meerschaum averted his eyes from the lovely scene before him, and Serena suddenly remembered that she never slept in nightgowns, and grabbed the top sheet from the bed, wrapping it around her.
"Of course, Mr. Meerschaum, all things must be done with propriety, mustn't they?" The sneer in her voice was obvious but Meerschaum ignored it, telling Serena to hurry to get dressed.

They walked out into the early morning, with only a few hours left until the glorious sunrise that only the South Pacific can produce. Meerschaum had a grip on Serena's arm and was roughly pulling her over the cool sand, when she stumbled on a rock and winced. Meerschaum stopped for a moment, told her he was sorry, and she tried one of her smiles on him, but he wouldn't be fooled ever again by that smile. Once burnt, twice shy, as the saying goes. So on they trod until they came to the quayside.
"This is where I saw the men drag him and then I went home. I swear to you I don't know where they took him!" Serena repeated her plea of innocence, while Meerschaum gazed intently onto the pier.
"Wasn't there a small yacht tied here yesterday?" Meerschaum asked.
"Yes, there was, it belongs to one of the big real estate companies here on the island,"answered Serena. "The name of it is the Island Princess," she offered.
"The Island Pincess. Hm-m-m-m- . . ."Meerschuam was contemplating this when suddenly heard a loud sound coming from underneath a small fishing boat.
"Help! Help! Somebody, help me! "Meerschaum instantly recognized the voice of Palmer.
"Here, Palmer, it's Meerschaum! We'll get you out!" Serena and Meerschaum heaved the boat off of Palmer, who had been tied up at the ankles and wrists with marine rope. In his attempt to loosen it, he had only caused chafed skin, which was not a pretty sight. Meerschaum quickly intied the knots, but Palmer still couldn't move.
"What took you so long?" asked an anxious Palmer. "I’ve been here all night!! "
"Well, Goody Two-Shoes here double-crossed us," explained Meerschaum. "It seems she now works for F.L.U.S.H. and was only trying to make a little money." Serena dutifully blushed at this, but she was able to turn on emotions like a faucet. This time neither men were fooled. Palmer slowly stood up, stretched his aching muscles, and then noticed a briefcase that had been next to him underneath the boat.
''Say, look at this, Meerschaum! Hey, there could be loads of dirty money in here. What do you think----" But Palmer was cut off, while Meerschaum grabbed him and Serena, ran as far away as possible and then the explosion came: there had been a bomb in the briefcase, one of the tactics frequently used by F.L.U.S.H. to destroy its enemies. All three fell to the ground, but thankfully were unhurt, except for some damaged egos.
"How did you know, Meerschaum?" Palmer asked incredulously.
"Elementary, my dear Palmer. You: A.U.N.T. Them: F.LU.S.H. Briefcase on the beach? Bomb!" Meerschaum brushed the sand from his trouser leg, all the time looking at Serena, and still using his gun for threat purposes.
"Oh, David, you don't think that I had anything to do with this? I told you, I just got paid for getting Palmer for them, not putting this bomb here! I am telling you the truth!!!"" Serena nearly screamed this, and the two men put their hands on her mouth to quiet her shrill voice.
"Get your dirty hands off my mouth!" She yelled at them, trying to bite their hands.
"O.K. sweetheart, but you are coming with us. You are going to tell us where Mr. John Smith and his buddy are." With one man on each side of her, painfully grasping her arms, she had no choice but to take them where they wanted to go, but in all the commotion, they hadn't realized just how loud the bomb was, and soon the entire island was awake and running toward the beach.

"Mister! Mister! What happened? We heard something like a bomb! What happened?" asked the hotel owner. Meerschaum made up a story about the bomb being part of the movie, and was extremely sorry to have awakened and frightened everyone.
"So sorry, everyone, we didn't mean to disturb the peace. Everything's all right now, so you can go back to whatever you were doing. Sorry . . ." With that, the three players walked away, to enjoy a much-deserved breakfast, while the island's tourist population gazed in amazement at how realistic Hollywood movies were these days. . . .

Chapter 5: Just The Facts, Ma'am
During breakfast, Palmer briefed Meerschaum on what he overheard while the two F.L.U.S.H. agents were tying him up.
"They definitely have a grip on this island. Everything's imported here, you know, food, clothes, etc. There are no industries here, no natural resources except for the usual island fare, coconuts, their by-products, bamboo, that sort of thing. The people here love Kobi beef and would do anything to get it, so when F.L.U.S.H. got wind of the numbers of really wealthy retirees living here, they thought up the Kobe Beef for Money scheme. They go to Japan several times a year, buy up a huge stock of Kobe beef, send it frozen to Bongo-bongo, a voila! Instant success. Dirty green stuff for them, Kobe beef for the islanders."
"O.K., Palmer, but that doesn't sound much like terrorism to me," argued Meerschaum, digging into his quail egg omelet.
"No, Meerschaum, you don't get it. The terrorism isn't the Kobe beef, it's the dirty green stuff that F.L.U.S.H. sends to the terrorist organizations. They make a small profit by holding back some 20% of the earnings, the rest goes to the real terrorists. In other words, the F.L.U.S.H. agents are just flunkies."
Meerschaum absorbed this interesting bit of information while masticating his chicken by-product. He then took a long swig of the excellent freshly-ground very very strong island-grown coffee.
"So, what we are supposed to do is to stop F.L.U.S.H.'s very lucrative little business between Japan and Bongo-bongo, thereby depleting the enemies of necessary funds for their evil empires, and thereby depleting this lovely tropical island of its main source of income: the rich retirees. How does that sound, Palmer?" Meerschaum gingerly finished his breakfast and pushed the plate away, raised one eyebrow and gave Palmer one of his famous "Got any solutions?" looks.
"Look here, Meerschaum. These guys are criminals. That means that the rich retirees are doing business with criminals. Yeah, I know they don't know it, but they are going to have to know it, and soon." Palmer wasn't about to let Meerschaum's sentimentality about beautiful tropical islands get in the way of justice. He was right, of course, the big Kobe beef game had to stop, but was there a legal alternative to this addiction? While he sipped his morning espresso, he contemplated what other source of income these good people could employ in order for their livelihoods to survive. They would have to be told about the Kobe beef problem, and an alternative solution would have to present itself to him a.s.a.p.
Meerschaum cleared his throat and looked over at Serena, who had been handcuffed to the table. She hadn't really been listening at all to this conversation, but instead was staring out at the sea, calm at this time of the morning before the first tide came in. She hadn't touched her breakfast and seemed depressed.
"As far as the problem of Kobe beef being substituted for another imported product, that is easily solved by asking the people what else they would like that isn't available here. But the real problem is exterminating F.L.U.S.H. before they exterminate us. We have slightly got away from our mission here, which is to destroy our enemy." Meerschaum's sensible words activated Palmer's quick brain cells, and he realized that their time was running out. Money was still going to the terrorists on a daily basis from this island paradise and it had to stop. John Smith and his colleague were still on the run (perhaps they had already left on that yacht?), so their mission wasn't over with yet. Serena had proved that she couldn't be trusted. Too many problems followed the agonizing night Palmer spent under that boat.

"I say we take a small break. I need a shower, change of clothes, connecting to headquarters. See you in an hour, Meerschaum." Palmer strode off toward their cabana, purpose in his stride and in his heart.
"Ditto," replied Meerschaum, and, leaving Serena chained to the table, instructed the maitre'd not to let her out of his sight. It was time for him to connect to his laptop and see what was going on in the rest of the world.

Serena Samson was conveniently placed in protective custody by the Bongo-bongo Police Department. Her little cell had all the amenities that a woman of her caliber required: a private toilet, a little sink, a comfortable camp cot, even a little window for her to look out into the world. Unfortunately she wasn't very happy about this arrangement and protested loudly to the prison guards.

"I said let me out of here! I'm an American citizen! You can't do this to me! I want a lawyer!" All for naught; the guards simply ignored her until her screaming and yelling started to really get on their nerves.
"Look, Ms. Samson, you had better stop this nonsense or else you will have to be gagged," one of the guards said.
"You wouldn't dare touch me," sneered Serena. "I have diplomatic immunity."
"Oh, yeah? Since when does a common criminal get diplomatic immunity?" The familiar voice of Palmer startled Serena into silence, but only for a moment.
"Shlomo, oh Shlomo, why did you do this to me? If you let me out, I will help you find the F.L.U.S.H. agents. I know where they went." Serena decided to change her tune, realizing that cooperating with them would mean gaining her freedom and then she would escape on the next oceanliner that came along.
"Sorry, little one, but this is the safest place for you. After what you did to me last night, do you really think that we trust you anymore?" Palmer unwrapped a Tootsie Roll and popped it into his mouth, and, turning away from the cell, walked out into the warmth of the afternoon. Meerschaum soon met up with him, and they decided they needed an emergency meeting.
"Look, Palmer. This mission isn't going very smoothly. We are supposed to be squashing F.L.U.S.H. and then getting out of here, and all we've accomplished is you getting Micky Finned by that nasty bit of work named Serena, and two of our arch enemies escaping on the yacht. We've got to make more progress today, so I bought this stuff to help us." Meerschaum pointed to a big bag of snorkeling equipment. "We're going out there in about an hour. There's a diving boat that will take us out to a reef, where we can snorkel; there's a small island with some caves that we need to explore. Ever done spelunking?"
"No, not really into that kind of sport," Palmer answered slowly," and I'm not sure where we're going with this. Did you get a tip?"
"Naturally. I don't usually choose to enter unknown caves in the South Pacific. It's a known fact that F.L.U.S.H. has an outpost in one of these islands, and according to my sources, it's that island over there."
Meerschaum pointed to a distant mountainous little island, which resembled the Rock of Gibraltar. "If my sources are correct, and I have every reason to believe that they are, then our agents will be there. I've already got help coming from Fiji and Tonga, so we'll have cover if needed." Meerschaum downed the last of his iced tea and beckoned for the waiter. "I'll have another ice tea; Palmer, what about you? Need another iced chai?" Palmer declined a second drink. If they were going snorkeling and then spelunking, any extra liquids in his system would create a negative balance.

Chapter 6: A Brilliant Deduction

It took just over an hour to reach Tipi. The reef there was beautifully clear and crisp. The shallow water provided a great opportunity for snorkeling and most of the passengers rolled out of the diving boat, to view the sea life. Although neither Palmer nor Meerschaum were very experienced snorkelers or divers, they had some cursory training by Navy Seals just in case of an event such as this. Since they were still in their role of Hollywood agents, they had to maintain that aura of exclusivity that surrounds such people, and had only the best equipment and the finest wet suits available.
Meerschaum waved for Palmer to follow him around the west side of the island, to gain entrance into the grotto. Both men were strong swimmers, and were soon upon the entrance of the cave.
"O.K., Palmer. This is it. Get your magnum ready, we may need it." Meerschaum checked his weapon and proceeded into the cave. It seemed that someone had been there before them, as a chewing gum wrapper floated past them. Palmer grabbed the little piece of paper and looked at the name: Big Bubble, a well-known American brand. But that didn't tell him much; this kind of stuff was available all over the world, and didn't necessarily mean that the gum was being chewed by an American. He decided to keep it anyway as evidence.
The two men hoisted themselves up onto some rocks and rested for a few minutes. It was ominously quiet, the only sound the dripping of water from a small hole in the wall of the cave. The echo it produced made it sound louder than it really was, and Meerschaum was trying to listen intently to any other sound inside the cave, but all was quiet. He put his finger to his lips to signal to Palmer not to make a sound, as they stealthily walked further into the cave, their weapons ready for action.
Suddenly Palmer stopped in his tracks and crouched down, Meerschaum doing the same. He had heard the distinct voice of John Smith, as clear as a bell, coming from somewhere inside the cave. There was someone else with him, probably the other F.L.U.S.H. agent.
"This is it, Meerschaum. This is where we shine. I hear the copters overhead, so let's go in slowly and wait for our reinforcements before we open fire. Could be nasty." And with that, the two sleuths inched their way further into the cave. But what they saw through a small crack shocked them to paralysis: Standing only about ten feet from them was the largest counterfeiting operation they had ever seen. Not only was F.L.U.S.H. sending dirty money to terrorists, they were sending funny dirty money, printing it in this unbelievably idyllic place. It seemed a sin, a real sin, to ruin the lovliness of this natural beauty, with the workings of evil, Meerschaum thought. Now they would have to change their strategy, and change it quickly. Reinforcements were on their way, but would they arrive in time?

Chapter 7: In the Eye of the Storm

"Good afternoon, Mr. Meerschaum and Mr. Palmer, Hollywood agents----or is that A.U.N.T. agents?" The very distinctive voice of John Smith shattered the silence of the cave. Meerschaum and Palmer turned around quickly to notice Mr. Smith, and his colleague, who's name they still didn't know. Frozen with terror, neither sleuth said a word as the two antagonistas closed in on them, both carrying Kalishnakov's. "Gentlemen, drop your weapons! You are up against greater power." Our two heros had no choice but to do as they were bid, the guns clanging to the ground, echoing throughout the cave. The hitherto unnamed Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith's colleague, slithered over to snatch the weapons, keeping his gun aimed on Meerschaum and Palmer.
"Isn't it just too bad that you found out where we've been hiding?" Mr. Smith said as he stood there, glaring at the two captives, a twinkle in his beady eyes. "I can't decide if you are more valuable to us dead or alive. If we kill you, we will not find out any more secrets about your organization, but if we allow you to live, you will be our prisoners and there's always the possibility that you will escape and ruin our little business here," went on Smith, sweeping his hands over the counterfeit works.
""Keep talking, Smith, and by the time you're finished with your little soliloquy our reinforcements will be on top of you; maybe you'll be atomized right in front of our eyes." Palmer felt the disadvantage of their positions but wasn't about to let their enemies know this.
Trying desperately to think of their next move, the one that would save their lives, Meerschaum and Palmer heard the sound of helicopters overhead. The two thugs heard them too, and in their panic, lost concentration for a moment. In that second, the two A.U.N.T. agents, who were still in their wet suits, dropped into the nearby water. Smith and Jones opened up fire on them but it was too late, our two sleuths had escaped out into the sea, and waved down the helicopters. Their help had arrived in the eleventh hour; a ladder fell down from the copter and the two men climbed up to safety. They explained the situation to the two agents who rescued them and they flew to the other side of the island.
Smith and Jones were now trapped inside the cave and the only way to escape was their little yacht, but that was taking a huge chance. They ran through to the other side of the cave and heard a huge explosion. Their yacht had just been decimated and now they were truly trapped. Thinking to destroy their own counterfeiting machines, they laid dynamite at strategic points and were about to ignite it when a team of twelve divers, more A.U.N.T. agents, surrounded them. Now they knew it was over.

"Don't bother to blow it up or swallow that cyanide pill. We want you guys alive. Drop your weapons."
The two criminals dutifully did as commanded. Four agents whipped handcuffs on them and they were shoved into a small boat.

Meerschaum and Palmer had been dropped down again onto the island to find out who their captors really were.
"I would like to introduce you to Alexei Stronakov and Boris Ching, two of the most wanted terror-supporting slimes in the world." The spokesman for the arriving agents beamed as he announced this amazing bit of information.
"Russians. That figures," said Palmer, as he spit in the water, making a little wave. Meerschaum looked just as repulsed as Palmer, and just stared at the two men who nearly took their lives. He was exhausted and just wanted to go home. All the exhilaration had gone out of this mission and he felt flat and depressed. He was thinking of Serena, still back at Bongo-bongo, still in prison, still the same wicked woman she always was. A familiar voice shook him out of his reverie.
"Hey, Meerschaum, are you still with us?" Palmer put his hand on Meerschaum's shoulder. His buddy just nodded his head, too tired to speak.
The counterfeiting operation was exposed, the criminals justly arrested, and Meerschaum and Palmer boarded another dive boat back for Bongo-bongo. It was early evening by the time they arrived and most of the island was still in the enchanting time of siesta. They made their way back to their cabana and sat for a few minutes, absorbing the day's exciting action. Meerschaum suggested that Palmer shower first, that he had something to do. He opened his laptop, unlocked it and read his emails. He immediately saw one from an old girlfriend from university days, and wondered how she got his email? Was it a trick? He had learned in this business to be suspicious first, trusting last. He read through the message and couldn't see anything more in it except a friendly "hello, how are you?" type of message, so decided to reply. The Serena days were over; Palmer could have her, if he wanted her. It was time for him to move on to better things.

Chapter 8: All in a Day's Work

The next morning broke sunny and promising. Meershaum and Palmer were having breakfast in the seaside restaurant, the Mermaid, when Serena walked up to their table.
"May I join you gentlemen?" She asked in that unnerving way.
"Of course, please sit down." Both men stood up, and pulled a chair out for the siren. She sat demurely, fluffing her beautiful hair and straightening her skirt. "Could I please have an orange juice?" she asked the waiter.
"Orange juice? Since when do you drink orange juice? What happened to your usual breakfast cognac?" Meerschaum asked.
"I've reformed, David. It was that prison time that did it. I realized that my life was such a mess, and I just want to go straight." As she said this, she took a small book from her handbag, entitled: 'You Can Do It'.
Meerschaum stared at her. Could this be the end of a beautiful foeship? Is this for real?
"Look, Serena, if you think you can pull the wool over our eyes, you are sorely mistaken." Meerschaum continued eating his papaya, avoiding Serena's gaze.
"It's true, David. I really have changed. Palmer and I are going to get married."
Meerschaum choked on his fruit. "MARRIED? YOU? PALMER? I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!"
"Hold on, buddy, " Palmer said, laughing. "You don't want her anymore, and we discovered we have a lot in common. We really get a long great, don't we sweetheart?" Palmer gave Serena a little kiss and she blushed.
Meerschaum could hardly believe this mushy stuff going on in front of his eyes. "You mean to tell me that even after she tried to sell you to F.L.U.S.H. you two are a team?" Palmer merely nodded, too absorbed in his new love. "Well, I suppose I should say congratulations. I think I'll leave you two alone while I go pack." Meerschaum left the couple and walked back to their cabana. His mind was spinning at this shocking piece of news. Had Palmer lost his mind? Oh well, never underestimate the power of women.

As the two men and Serena were about to board their launch to take them to the arriving oceanliner, the King of the Sea, the mayor of Bongo-bongo ran up to them.
"Please, Mr. Meerschaum, Mr. Palmer. I just want to thank you for ending this reign of terror by F.L.U.S.H. When we found out what these supposed traders were up to, we were very very shocked. Thank you for "flushing" them out. Ha-ha-ha!!! And thank you for our new trade---coffee. Now we can market our own product and sell it all over the world. No more Kobe beef for us! It's coffee forever! Starbuck's, move over, Bongo-bongo coffee shops will be even bigger than you!" With that last triumphant blast, the mayor strutted away towards the hotel for a celebration drink of his brew.

On the plane back to the States, Palmer and Serena were fast in conversation, while Meerschaum was thinking about all that transpired. Another mission accomplished, but that feeling of elation would soon wear off, as it always did. He looked over at Palmer and his new love, with a little envy, but he had his own new life to start. He opened his emails again and re-read the one from his former girlfriend. A slow smile grew on his face, as he remembered her lovely blond hair, those freckles, hazel eyes . . . yes, he was looking forward to going home.

Fin