The Last Dragon, page 19
King removed the map placard and exposed one showing graphs and cost projections.
“Once that target volume has been achieved, our subject dinosaur will be returned here and phase three will begin.”
He removed the graph placard. The next one showed an Apatosaur, with its body separated into segments, each segment indicating its gross weight.
“After the beast is discreetly but humanely euthanized, the carcass will be rendered and the meat frozen for a one-year period of bereavement. After that, phase four.
“My office will then issue press releases announcing that the meat has been preserved in the interest of science and has been scientifically determined to be edible. Everybody with me so far? Good.”
King shifted to the other easel, removing a blank placard. Under it was a mockup of a billboard showing a man sitting on the fender of a Ferrari, a blonde in a silvery evening dress draped over him. Both were trying to take a bite out of the same hamburger.
“We will market our deluxe Bronto Burger as a special one-time-only offer at five thousand dollars and ninety-nine cents per quarter-pound burger,” King said. “Soft drinks and fries extra.”
The board nodded in unison. King went to the next placard, which showed a family picnic. The adults were wearing Burger Triumph crowns and the children played with plastic dinosaurs. Everyone had a hamburger.
“For the downscale market, Bronto-meat-flavored extract will be laced into our regular monster burgers at ten ninety-nine per unit. We will play up the unique taste, the novelty, and the once-in-a-lifetime offer. Only one burger to a customer. And toys for the kiddies, of course. Our estimated gross is seventy million.”
“Sounds doable so far, King. But how does the Bronto Burger taste?”
“We don’t know. Yet.”
“What if the public won’t go for it?”
“What if it tastes like snake meat?”
King grinned broadly. “Remember our unofficial motto, ‘The public’s curiosity is stronger than its stomach.’ Just in case, a no-refunds policy will be strictly enforced.”
“The animal looks mighty sick. How do you know he’ll survive the tour?”
“I’ve got that covered,” King said, collapsing his pointer. “Unless she’s quit in a huff, Nancy Derringer will keep him healthy if she has to donate her own blood to do it. Best of all, she doesn’t suspect us. In fact, no one will ever suspect us, because of the fake attacks we arranged. After they’re through serving as an honor guard, the Burger Berets will be quietly disbanded. And the so-called African environmentalists will catch all the flak. In short, the operation is foolproof.”
The man with the cigar exhaled a slow, thoughtful cloud of aromatic smoke. “King my boy, proceed with confidence. The board is behind you.”
“You don’t know what that means to me, sir. Ever since kindergarten, I’ve ached for a shot at the big time.”
The board filed out. After the elevator had closed on them, Skip King, beaming like an altar boy at his first communion, turned to the Apatosaur and blew it a kiss.
“See you later, you gorgeous seventy-million-dollar rack of reptile!”
As King walked off, a forlorn harrooo followed him. And the Apatosaur’s head settled to the ground, eyes slowly closing.
Chapter Twenty
Nancy Derringer had called everyone she knew. Her lawyer. Her friends at the International Colloquium of Cryptozoologists. Everyone. Her lawyer had been blunt.
“If I sue Burger Triumph, they’ll have me for lunch. Sorry.”
Her colleagues were more sympathetic.
“We’ll picket.”
“We’ll help you kidnap the dinosaur.”
“We’ll do anything!”
In other words, long on enthusiasm, but short on practicality. That was typical cryptozoologist thinking. Since the Colloquium was not so much an organization as a loose interdisciplinary alliance, there was no muscle behind their expressions of support.
In her furnished apartment provided by Burger Triumph for the duration of her term of service, Nancy fumed and fought back hot tears.
“How could I have been such a fool?” she said bitterly.
A rapping at the door brought her off the sofa.
“Who is it?” she called through the door.
“Remo.”
Nancy threw open the door. And there he was. Lean and casual in a crisp white T-shirt, but somehow as exciting as if he wore Navy dress whites.
“You don’t know what it means for me to see a friendly face right now,” she said with relief. “Come in, please.”
“Nice place,” Remo said, looking around.
“It’s bought and paid for–just like me,” Nancy said ruefully. She shut the door and clapped her hands once softly. “So–what brings you back into my life so soon?”
“I hear the Bronto was attacked after we left you.”
“How did you know that? As far as I know, the company was able to keep a tight lid on it.”
“Let’s just say that somebody told somebody who told me.”
“Have it your way. It was the Congress for a Green Africa again. The Berets beat them back. Old Jack must be the luckiest reptile on earth. He came out without a scratch.” Nancy folded her arms and dropped onto the sofa, her face clouding over. “I wish I could say the same.” Her voice was a hair from cracking.
Remo’s face grew concerned. “You okay?”
“I wasn’t fired, but let’s say I’ve been put in ice. Now I’m trying to figure out how to worm my way back into the board’s good graces before Old Jack goes the way of his ancestors. He needs hour-by-hour monitoring, and there’s no one on staff who’s qualified.”
“Why do I smell gunpowder?” Remo said suddenly.
Nancy looked up. “Do you?”
“Definitely. Burned gunpowder.”
Nancy sniffed, frowning. “I don’t smell anything.”
Remo followed his nose around the room until he came to a small purse lying on a chair cushion. He picked it up.
“Be my guest,” Nancy said tartly. “I enjoy having my personal belongings rummaged through by men I dimly know.”
Her mouth parted in surprise when Remo’s hand came up holding a spent rifle shell.
“What are you doing with this?” Remo asked.
“I forgot all about that,” said Nancy, coming out of her chair to join him. “I picked it up during the attack on the hauler. It struck me as strange, but I wasn’t sure why.”
“It’s a blank.”
“How can you tell?”
“I used to fire blanks for practice when I was a Marine,” Remo explained. “They pour the powder into the cartridge and crimp the open end shut. When the bullet is fired, the crimping is blown open just like this.”
“My God! That explains why no one was hurt during all that shooting. They were firing blanks!”
“Who were?”
Nancy stopped, blinking like a moth fluttering at a lightbulb. “Well, take your pick. Either the Congress for a Green Africa or the Burger Berets. What on earth is going on?”
“Let’s check out the place where you were attacked.”
Less than a hour later, Remo pulled a rented car over to the side of a piney wooded road south of Dover. They got out.
“I’m sure this is the spot,” Nancy was saying. “It was dark, but I recognize that big boulder over there. Yes, here’s where the hauler went off the road. See the tire gouges?”
“Look for spent shells,” Remo said.
Nancy paced, her eyes on the ground. “I don’t see any now, but the ground was littered with them before.”
“They must have sent back a cleanup team.”
“Who did?”
Remo bent and lifted a dirty brass shell casing from the furrows of tire tracks.
“Bingo!”
Nancy peered at it closely. “It looks just like the other one, except for the color. What does that prove?”
“The Berets were armed with American assault rifles, right?”
“True.”
“Remember what the other guys had for weapons?”
“The same vicious little machine pistols they had in Africa.”
“Yeah. Firing short rounds. Nine millimeter. Like this one. Let’s see your shell.”
They compared shells. Nancy’s was distinctly longer and made of steel, not brass. But it had the same burned, ragged end as the other.
“That’s a .223 cartridge you got there,” Remo pointed out. “That means both sides were firing blanks. Might explain why no one got hurt in Africa, too.”
“Oh, that can’t be!”
“Why not?”
“It just can’t.” Nancy’s frowning face fell into slack lines. “One moment. There was something off about one of last night’s terrorists.”
“Never met a terrorist who was on,” Remo said dryly.
“No, this one spoke black English. American style. I had the feeling he wasn’t part of the African unit that hijacked the train.”
“A terrorist is a terrorist–unless they’re shooting blanks.”
“What is going on here?” Nancy breathed in an incredulous voice.
“Simple. It’s some kind of publicity stunt.”
“Staged for whose benefit? There was no press.”
“Search me. But we gotta get you back in the saddle.”
“How?”
Remo made an unhappy face. “I hate to do this.”
“Do what?”
“But I don’t think there’s any other way.”
“I hope this isn’t what I think it is,” Nancy said, her tone matching Remo’s.
Remo nodded grimly. “I gotta call Chiun back into this.”
“Wonderful. But what good will he be?”
“Chiun just happens to be a close personal friend of Cheeta Ching.”
“The TV anchor?”
“I’ll bet a Brontosaur to an Apatosaur she jumps on your story like a Tyrannosaur on a Dimetrodon. Literally.”
Nancy smiled grimly. “I’ll take that action.”
· · ·
It turned out to be easier than Remo had thought. Back at Nancy’s apartment, he picked up the telephone to call the Master of Sinanju. Then his face went slack.
“What is it?” Nancy gasped.
“I just remembered. We don’t have a phone.”
“Oh, no.”
“Maybe the guy who put me on to this can help.”
“And who might that be?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I won’t,” Nancy said, lifting an arch eyebrow.
As Nancy watched, Remo blocked the phone with his body and touched a key. She didn’t see which. But he held it down without dialing further.
A moment later, he was speaking in low tones. Nancy caught only cryptic snatches of the conversation.
“Think you can help?” Remo finished. He listened a few minutes and said, “Great.”
He hung up grinning. “The new phone is supposed to be installed today. He’s going to put an expedite on it. Could be hooked up within the hour.”
“Whoever he is, he must have a lot of clout if he’s plugged into Burger Triumph’s grapevine and AT&T both.”
Remo’s grin turned tentative. “So, what do you want to do to kill time?”
“Care to hear some dinosaur stories?”
“Is there a second option?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Remo’s face fell. He dropped into a chair and folded his arms defensively. “Okay, but be gentle. I don’t want all my illusions shattered.”
· · ·
The phone rang as Remo was trying to grapple with the concept of dinosaurs being neither warm-blooded nor cold-blooded, but capable of shunting between metabolic options.
“I liked the dinosaurs we had when I was a kid better than these new ones,” Remo muttered unhappily. “You knew where you stood with them.”
Laughing, Nancy put the receiver to her ear and said, “Hello?” then jerked the earpiece away as if it was hot.
“Chiun, right?” said Remo.
“He seems more than a little upset.”
Remo accepted the handset and said, “What’s up, Little Father?”
Out of the receiver came a horrendous squeak.
“Remo, Remo, a calamity has happened!”
“I know, but with your help, I think we can get Nancy reinstated.”
Chiun’s voice grew annoyed. “What are you babbling about?”
“Nancy got the old heave-ho. What are you talking about?”
“I am speaking of my terrible encounter while exploring the streets near my castle.”
“Mugger?”
“Worse,” Chiun spat. “I encountered a Vietnamese.”
“Uh-oh.”
“The neighborhood is rife with Vietnamese. I also saw a woman I took to be Chinese. Or possibly a Filipina.”
“But no Japanese, right?”
“I am afraid to find out. Oh, Remo this is impossible. I cannot dwell among lowly Vietnamese. What would my ancestors say?”
“Lock the castle door every night?”
Chiun grew so angry he hissed.
“Okay, okay, you’re pissed. Smith got you again. Why don’t you take it up with him? He gave you this number, right?”
“I was so beside myself. I did not know what to say. I have accepted his castle and signed his contract. I am bound by these things, Remo.”
“So we move. I can live with that. But skip it for now. Listen, Nancy needs your help.”
Chiun’s voice grew cool. “The woman knows my price.”
“Forget dinosaur toes for a minute. We’re on Smith’s clock now. No perks.”
“Pah! I am too distraught to think properly.”
“We need to ring Cheeta Ching in on this,” Remo said.
Immediately, the Master of Sinanju’s voice grew softer.
“Cheeta. Smith wishes me to contact beauteous Cheeta?”
“Right away. Here’s what you tell her...”
· · ·
The first thing Cheeta Ching wanted to know when she heard the familiar voice of the Master of Sinanju was, “Is Ringo with you, Grandfather?”
“Ringo?”
“That hunk with the wrists.”
“No,” Chiun said shortly.
“Oh. Next time you bump into him, could you tell him for me Cheeta has been thinking of him?”
“Perhaps. But I am calling for another reason. It is about a woman whose plight you should know...”
· · ·
Skip King was in an upscale singles bar in Dover, trying to hit on two blondes at once when a familiar voice came from the big-screen TV.
“You say you were let go by a vice president of Burger Triumph, who was sexually harassing you?”
King grunted. “Hasn’t she dropped that kid yet?”
Then to his horror, the crisp voice of Nancy Derringer answered Cheeta Ching’s pointed question.
“I wasn’t let go. I was shunted aside by a glory-seeking Neanderthal named Skip King. I brought the dinosaur project to him and the minute he got the animal to this country, he pushed me out the door.”
“This is about power, isn’t it?” Cheeta asked.
“Isn’t it always?” Nancy said.
“Dinosaurs and sexual repression,’’ Cheeta said in a shrill voice. “Is modern man less evolved than modern woman? For a different perspective, here is science correspondent Frank Feldmeyer.”
“Oh God.” King said, gaping at the screen. “I’m toast.”
· · ·
“They’re waiting for you,” the head of security told Skip King when he burst breathless and panting into the lobby of the company headquarters.
“Are they mad?”
“You know the board. It’s hard to say.”
“Did–did they say anything about me? Anything bad?”
“Not to me. But they’re in the boardroom and they’ve been there a solid hour.”
Sweating, Skip King took the elevator to the top floor. “An hour. I’ve cost the board of directors an hour, and it’s after business hours. An hour times six. Oh God! I’m costing the board six hours of their personal time. I’m burnt toast.”
· · ·
The board of directors looked up in unison when Skip King pushed open the glass doors. The CEO was seated at the far end, in a leather chair that had a tall, throne-like back. His cigar smoked in his fattish fist.
Along the sides, the others sat in similar oversized chairs.
“I came as soon as I heard,” King croaked, reaching for the chair at his end of the long conference table.
The CEO gestured with his cigar.
“Don’t bother. You won’t be staying.”
King gulped. “You–you’re not–firing–me?”
“We think you should take some reflection time, King. Let things sort themselves out.”
“But I can’t. I’m ramrodding the Bronto project.”
“We have that covered.”
“Covered? What are you going to do when the press starts pounding on the doors for interviews? That Derringer dame just told Cheeta Ching we’ve got a full-grown Brontosaurus Rex in our basement. And I’m the guy who captured it. The media will be howling for my story.”
“Right now,” came a cool voice from the highbacked seat directly in front of him, “the media is howling for your head.”
Eyes wide, Skip King peered over the chair. Looking back at him were Nancy Derringer’s upside down blue eyes. They were not friendly.
“Dr. Derringer has agreed to come back on board during the transition,” explained the CEO.
“I thought it was the least I could do,” said Nancy dryly.
“Look, I won’t stand for this. I won’t be cheated of my moment of glory.”
“Skip,” a senior VP said. “You wouldn’t buck the board, now would you?”
“I–I might. Anything is possible when the corporate ladder breaks under your feet. I might even write a tell-all book. You never know with a corporate comer spurned.”
The board regarded him with unblinking, unreadable eyes.
The CEO gestured to the door with his cigar. “Give us a moment, would you King? We need to confer.”
King paced the rug outside the boardroom for twenty minutes. His jacket grew heavy with perspiration.
“This isn’t happening,” he muttered. “This isn’t happening. I’m Skip King. I’m headed for the top.”
