Not all tropical islands keep their treasures buried, but for those that do, no map will help. Take, for example, a tiny strip of land off the coast of Florida. It has long been understood by those who care to keep track of such things that this glorified sandbar, this unassuming key, heavily wooded and lacking more than a single decent beach, is actually a lush and luxurious retreat for the members of one of the most notorious secret societies in the world.

Yet Cavador Key is not listed on any map, whether those commissioned by the state, or the penciled sketches of shallows by a dock-bound old salt. The locals won’t speak of it in voices raised above a whisper. No charter company will take you thither, and when emissaries from the island come to the mainland to pick up supplies, they are silent as the grave about their employers and those employers’ mysterious pursuits.

What happens on Cavador Key? Rumors abound, but few have seen the rituals up close. Anyone boating near the island is given stern warnings to stay away, and if unheeded, these warnings turn into threats. Several rooftops peek out from the ground cover, and grainy photos reveal evidence of people scurrying from building to building, wrapped in dark, hooded cloaks in spite of the warm Florida weather. Recently, access to satellite photos revealed still more: a helicopter pad, the remnants of an airstrip, and crisscrossed pathways surrounding a somber, windowless structure. Those who have made it close enough report strange sounds, and stranger lights. Those who have made it closer still are never heard from again.

So next time you’re out on your boat, a little sunstruck and with way too many piña coladas on your tab, don’t make a decision you’ll regret. Cloak-and-dagger government cabals, clandestine midnight rituals, and inexplicable disappearances aren’t on your Spring Break itinerary. You don’t want the kind of trouble an unplanned excursion like this can bring you.

But hey, is there an offshore island paradise that doesn’t hold a secret?

Trust me on this one. Some of us know the truth about Cavador Key. But we’re few in number, and we keep our secrets close, just like we were taught by the Order of Rose & Grave.

Don’t believe me yet? Do you think, perhaps, that I’m just spouting the party line? Or maybe you suspect that even a dedicated Digger like me doesn’t know everything about the organization to which I’ve pledged my all, and even less about the property we call our most sacred retreat.

Interesting theory. Shall we put it to the test?

1) Clarissa Cuthbert: (Angel): Cavador Key

2) Gregory Dorian (Bond): Yaddo Writer’s Conference

3) Odile Dumas (Little Demon): Cavador Key Filming Motion Picture

4) Benjamin Edwards: (Big Demon): Cavador Key

5) Amy Haskel (Bugaboo): Cavador Key

6) Nikolos Dmitri Kandes IV (Graverobber): Beachside Mixologist externship

7) Kevin Lee (Frodo): Cavador Key

8) Omar Mathabane (Kismet): Chairman of the International Prospective Students Week

9) George Harrison Prescott (Puck): Cavador Key

10) Demetria Robinson (Thorndike): Cavador Key

11) Jennifer Santos (Lucky): Cavador Key

12) Harun Sarmast (Tristram Shandy): Cavador Key

13) Joshua Silver (Keyser Soze): Art Tour through Spain with barbarian lover

14) Mara Taserati ( Juno): Research Assistant for Groundbreaking Volume on Domestic Policy tentatively titled Why All Liberals Should Be Set Upon by Wild Dogs

Some people pledge to lose weight for their New Year’s resolution. Others quit smoking, or promise to do their homework before Sunday night, or swear that they’ll never again, no matter how many pomegranate martinis they’ve imbibed, give in to temptation and drunk-dial their ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers, or ex-friends-with-benefits and invite them over for a nightcap.

Instead of resolving any of the above (and that last one sounded pretty good), I promised to commit a felony.

On December 31st, as the clock struck twelve, I held aloft a glass of champagne and solemnly swore that I’d join my secret society brothers in their quest to steal back one of our treasured relics from a rival society. At the time, I thought it would be a relatively straightforward operation. Sneak into the Dragon’s Head headquarters, snatch back the knee-high stone statue of Orpheus, and hightail it back to Rose & Grave’s High Street tomb, booty in tow.

Wrong.

Dragon’s Head had grown suspicious over Winter Break, indulging their more paranoid sides. I knew from intimate association with my fellow knights that no one in our crew could have tipped them off on purpose, but perhaps we weren’t as discreet as we should have been during one of our many reconnaissance missions to their York Street abode. Perhaps they had as many hidden cameras trained on our tomb as we had on theirs. Whatever the cause, intel showed, clear as infrared, the Dragon’s Head members removing the purloined Orpheus statue from their courtyard late the previous night. If they were worthy of their admission to Eli, they would have hidden it out of reach in their house’s safe, a move that would make things tricky—but not impossible—for us thieves.

Wait a second. Reconnaissance? Infrared? Intel? What’s going on here? I was a Literature major, for crying out loud, not a CIA recruit. And yet, in the nine months since I’d been tapped into Rose & Grave, my inner spygirl had gestated and emerged as a black-clad, code-speaking, secret-handshake-knowing, card-carrying acolyte of the New World Order.

Or at least, the wannabe New World Order. Despite all the 007 talk, this mission of ours cut a little closer to fraternity prank than military coup. But whatever the flavor of the operation, the practicalities were the same: I was spending my first night back on campus lying in the slush in an alleyway behind the Dragon’s Head tomb, waiting for orders, while my black ski mask painfully crushed my ponytail holder against my scalp.

However, that wasn’t what was causing my headache.

“I say we go now,” said the society brother lying in the slush to my left.

“Bond directed us to wait for his signal,” said the one on my right.

From the left: “Listen, old-timer, maybe in your day, you sat around waiting for someone to hand you an engraved invitation, but that’s why we’re running the show now. Your ways are out-of-date. Don’t you agree, Bugaboo?”

I shifted in the slush. Time was, I would have made precisely that statement, and had. But last semester I’d been involved in espionage activities with the guy on my right, and he’d proven quite handy in a pinch.

Whereas the guy on my left was mostly all hands and pinches.

“Listen, Junior,” hissed the party on the right from behind his ski mask, “I concur that we don’t see eye-to-eye. About anything. But if you move now, you’re going to throw off the whole group. Wait for the signal.”

The guy on my left rolled his copper-colored eyes and sat up. “I’m no one’s junior,” he threw over his shoulder. “Dad’s middle name isn’t ‘Harrison.’” He sprang into a crouch.