“If McGuffin won’t help, you’ve got nothing.”

“He might be a bit recalcitrant at present, but he’ll come across. We’ve got as long as we want with him, after all. No one’s going to miss a dead man.”

“I want to see the Quangle-Wangle.”

“No one sees the boss.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s been dead for over twelve years. He had odd ideas about his will—something about dismantling the company and giving the proceeds to Foss, his cat. We thought it better for all concerned—especially us—if we just placed the Quangle-Wangle into a sort of legal suspended animation and took over the running ourselves.”

Jack said nothing. It was time to start putting his plan into action. Then he remembered: He didn’t have one.

“I must say,” continued Bisky-Batt, “when Danvers asked you to come over here, we really didn’t think you’d come. It shows either a considerable misunderstanding of the whole situation or a sort of boundless optimism that, while mildly endearing, will be your undoing. There are journalists and cucumberistas lying dead who knew considerably less than you. The finer points of this little adventure will die with you.”

“I’ve told other people about it.”

“Let me guess,” said Bisky-Batt. “Bartholomew and that jumped-up teddy bear Craps. They won’t live to see a debrief. Believe me, Danvers is staggeringly loyal to Demetrios, and if he tells her it is in the national interest, she’ll do anything he asks. Your Sergeant Mary will enjoy a similar fate, only more imaginative—two accidents here at SommeWorld in less than a week should spell the end of the theme park, and about time. A bigger waste of money I have yet to see. And even if there were still people who might have a vague idea of what’s going on, will anyone believe them when they claim that it’s possible to extract sunbeams from cucumbers? No. And there is no concrete connection between anyone at QuangTech and this whole shady business—aside from you.”

“We know all about the Gingerbreadman.”

Bisky-Batt paused and stared at him. “You might think you do.”

“No,” said Jack, “we really do.”

He pulled out of his pocket the photomicrographs Parks had given him. The scanning electron microscope had revealed to the world that which is too small to be seen with the naked eye: Nestled around a tiny speck of ginger less than the width of a human hair was a serial number.

“This is from the Gingerbreadman’s thumb, Bisky-Batt. I’m no genius, but I’m willing to bet that the suffix ‘QTBioWD’ on this serial number stands for QuangTech BioWeapons Division—and I think most other people will, too.”

Bisky-Batt leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. Jack noticed for the first time that his shirt was damp with nervous sweat. Despite the outward calm and geniality, the VP was running scared.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Not many. Just those with an Internet connection.”

“Unwise, Jack, unwise. You would have been better keeping this to yourself. Disposing of you is beginning to look less like a chore and more like a pleasure.”

“Disposing of me won’t alter the fact that you were the VP when the Gingerbreadman was engineered. You knew what he was, and you did nothing. One hundred and twelve deaths, Horace—and you could have stopped them all. Now: Where’s Demetrios?”

“He’s behind you.”

Jack smiled and wagged a finger at Bisky-Batt. “Oh no. I don’t fall for the old ‘he’s behind you’ routine.”

“That’s a shame, because he really is behind you.”

Jack froze and then turned slowly around. Standing at the door was a bear barely three feet high. He was nattily dressed in a sharp suit and had his fur brushed impeccably in a central part that continued along the bridge of his nose. Over one eye was an eye patch, on his cheek was an ugly scar—and in his hand was a revolver.

“I have every reason to hate you a good deal,” he said in a faintly silly high-pitched voice, “but in many ways I hold you in great esteem. Still, I suppose none of that really matters anymore.”

“They know the truth about the Gingerbreadman,” said Bisky-Batt with a tremor in his voice. “We’re finished.”

“No,” said Demetrios, “we’re not finished… you are.”

There was a sharp crack and a dull orange flash. Bisky-Batt gave a look of utter confusion and shock, then keeled forward and hit the desk before slumping to the floor.

“Well, now,” said the Small Olympian Bear, lowering his smoking gun. “With an outlay of less than a pound, I have just doubled my net worth. Now, that was an investment worth making!”

Jack, who had been waiting for his chance, flew at Demetrios. He was dead if he didn’t do anything—he was probably dead if he did. But since the latter of the two options was the only one that afforded even the slightest possibility of success, he took it. His fist almost connected, too. But as he lunged forward, a brown arm shot out from the doorway behind Demetrios and grabbed Jack by the throat. He stopped in midair with a choke, was twisted sideways and pulled backward into a painful half nelson. He could feel the sinews in his shoulder stretch. He yelled in pain but was held fast. The heavy aroma of ginger pervaded the room and made him cough.

“Hello, Jack,” said the Gingerbreadman with a friendly smile.

“Surprised?”

“Nothing surprises me,” grunted Jack. “It’s an NCD thing.”

“You were smart to put his thumb under the microscope, Jack,” said Demetrios as he moved closer. “No one else would have thought of it. And you’re right that he’s one of ours. Mr. G is the prototype of Project Ginja Assassin, a bioculinary weapons technology that despite early promise remained—alas!—on the drawing board. Can you imagine a legion of gingerbreadmen, all impervious to pity, guilt or scruples, as the advance guard of an army on the move? Frontline bakeries would have been able to churn him out by the thousand, then set him against the enemy with a hardwired knowledge of every method of death imaginable. He is agile, adaptable, tireless and highly motivated—the perfect Ginja—and he can never be caught.”

“You’re wrong. I caught him. Twenty years ago.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” said the Gingerbreadman with a smile, “but I allowed myself to be captured. Where would be the best place to lie low and await reactivation? On the run—or in a nuthouse? And when once again I need to rest between engagements, I’ll just allow myself to be recaptured. But shh. Don’t tell anyone—it’s our secret!”

“Isn’t he just the cutest thing ever?” murmured Demetrios in admiration. “I brought him out of retirement as a bit of misdirection when Goldilocks’s ‘silencing’ didn’t go according to plan. Who would want to look for a missing journalist when there’s a psychopath on the loose?”

“I would.”

Demetrios’s face fell, and he stuck his snout close to Jack’s. His breath smelled terrible, and his teeth were in a bad state.

“Yes, I should have known better. If those dratted bears hadn’t come back from their walk in the forest early, they would never even have seen Goldilocks, and all this would have been a lot easier.”

“And Ursula?”

“Ah, yes,” he said with a smile, “dear Ursula. Best porridge chef there was. As for her and me, what’s the point of being the supreme dominant male bear if you can’t abuse it a bit? Ed was going to blow the whistle on me, and Ursula… well, she might have blabbed, so I had to order her death, too. But none of that matters now.”

“What about me?” asked Jack.

“You? No one ever found out what became of you. That should sell at least twenty more copies of Conspiracy Theorist, wouldn’t you say?”

Jack stared at him vacantly. There didn’t seem a lot to add. He couldn’t budge an inch in the iron grip of the Gingerbreadman, who he could feel breathing hot, sugary ginger breath down his neck.