"Who is Eider Drake?" Smith asked.
"Try punching him up on your computer," Remo suggested.
Smith obliged.
"Remo, the only Eider Drake I have is CEO of the Sam Beasley Corporation." And as it sunk in, Harold Smith's bleary eyes went wide.
"Remo! I promised Beasley World to Master Chiun!"
"No sweat, Smitty," Remo said cheerfully. "We've taken possession."
Smith's lemony mouth compressed into a bloodless pucker. His gray eyes took on an aghast look.
"Remo," he said tightly. "What about the mission?"
"Hey," Remo said. "After all the work we've done, don't we deserve a trip to Beasley World?"
"That is not funny!" Smith flared.
"Neither is what I'm about to tell you. Hold on to your truss, Smitty. It's been a long night."
"Proceed," Smith said, thin-upped.
"We didn't kill Ultima Hora. Zorilla did. He musta got the word from his superior."
"Understood."
"We followed him. He led us to an underground military-style complex that seems to be headquarters of the whole operation."
Smith let out a pent-up breath. "Good," he said.
"Maybe. Maybe not. The underground complex is directly under Beasley World."
"Impossible."
"We fought our way out and ended on Pleasant Street, U.S.A. Then the mice and ducks tried to waste us."
"Come again?"
"The place was booby-trapped. Every freaking ride. And every swinging tail had a gun. And you have a lot of explaining to do to Chiun."
"Never mind that," Smith snapped testily. "What about Zorilla?"
"We found him dead. Might be suicide. Might not. But Drake definitely took his own life. He left a taped confession, and a new reason why Mongo Mouse chewing gum is bad for you."
"Remo, you are talking nonsense."
"Both Zorilla and Drake ate a stick and it killed them," Remo explained.
Harold Smith paused to digest the storm of information swirling through his confused brain.
"Remo, are you certain of your facts?" Smith asked, more calmly than he felt. "Certain that the Beasley people are behind this?"
"Remember the one thread that ran through this? Uncle Sam?"
"Yes?"
"Think about it." And Remo began humming the annoying tune still in his brain.
"Uncle Sam Beasley!" Smith exploded. "My God!"
"Drake left a taped confession. I'll Fedex it. But we still have the problem of the military complex under the park. Someone has to fumigate it. Chiun says he wants the vermin out by sundown. And he's not happy about the state of the park. A lot of it got trashed in the fighting."
Smith's voice became urgent. "Remo, hold the tape up to the phone and play it back, please."
"Okay. Here it comes."
Harold Smith pressed the receiver tight to his ear. He listened. And as he listened, his eyes grew wide enough that they threatened to drop out of their sockets.
The sound stopped abruptly. Remo's voice came back on the line.
"Crazy, huh?"
"That was Drake's voice," Smith said, tight-voiced. "It's incredible. But I have to accept it." Smith cleared his voice. "Remo, do not lose that tape. It's the proof we've needed to take before the U.N. Security Council."
A dull boom came across the miles of wire. Smith heard a faint jangle of glass.
"What was that?" he demanded.
"Dunno. Let me check."
Remo's voice came back on a moment later. "Hey! Future Realm just blew up! It's on fire!"
"My park!" Smith could hear Chiun wail in the background.
"Relax. You were going to tear it down anyway, right?" Remo reminded.
"But it is burning!" Chiun cried.
Remo's voice came back on. "Smitty, I think someone's hit the destruct button. What do we do?"
Another boom came. This time louder. The crash of glass was a short symphony, ending in a tinkling timpany.
"Remo! Take the tape and get out of there as fast as you can! Report from a secure location."
"Gotcha," said Remo. "We'll-"