"This is fiendish," King confided in a middle-level clerk.
"Actually, this is how the CIA treats field operatives who screw up," the clerk said cheerfully. "They recall them to Langley and make them roam the halls, trying to look busy."
"You're a lot of help," King snarled, crumpling up his paper cup and throwing into a basket. He stormed over to the elevators. Maybe there would be more information on the next floor. If not, at least he still had his key to the executive washroom. Maybe he would set up an impromptu office there.
The elevator doors slid open and King started in. He noticed the lift was occupied. Then he noticed by whom.
King started to retreat but a hand connected to an extraordinarily thick wrist grabbed his power red tie and used it to yank him back. The doors closed on his yelp of surprise.
"Going up?" Remo asked casually.
"Actually, I was going down," King said glumly.
"Looks like you ride with us. Funny, we were looking for you, too. Let's have a private talk in your office."
"I don't have an office. They gave it to Nancy."
"Okay, let's have a talk in Nancy's office."
"I don't have the key."
"You won't need one."
The elevators settled at the top floor and Skip King stepped off, with Remo and Chiun a pace behind him. He knew better than to run.
At the office door, King said sheepishly, "Here it is."
The little Korean stepped up to the pebbled glass and used one long fingernail to score the glass. The sound hurt King's ears. Remo gave the circle a tap. The glass popped in, and he reached inside to turn the doorknob.
"In you go," said Remo.
King stepped in. "You know I'm not impressed."
"No?"
"Anyone can slip a glass cutter under their fingernail."
"Maybe. But not us. Where's Nancy?" Remo asked, without wasting any more time.
"I don't know. I heard she was riding shotgun when the brontohauler was hit."
"Hit by who?"
"Search me."
"He is lying, Remo," said Chiun in a cold voice. "His sweat reeks of falsehoods."
"That's ridiculous," King snapped.
And suddenly Skip King felt a viselike pressure around his ankles. The rest was a blur of sound and noise and motion-and once the blood rushing to his head cleared his vision, he realized he was being dangled out his former office window by his ankles.
"Let me go!"
"You don't want that. You want to be pulled back in safely. Right?"
"Pull me back in to safety-fast," King screamed, his tie slapping his face.
"First some truth. Who hijacked the hauler?"
"It must have been those Africans."
"Try again. We know the Africans were shooting blanks. So were the Berets. What's the story?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"He is lying, Remo," came the squeaky voice of Chiun. "His voice shrieks his perfidy."
"I don't like being lied to," Remo said, an edge in his voice now.
"I don't blame you!"
"Ever heard of the melon drop?"
"No."
"It's an old Korean custom. Someone lies to you and so you dangle him by both ankles and play melon drop. Guess whose head substitutes for the melon?"
King guessed. "No! Please!"
"Ready for the one, two, three, splat part of the ritual?"
"Okay! Okay! I'll talk."
"You're already talking. Talk truth."
"The board must be behind this! It's gotta be them."
"Why?" Remo asked.
King let the words come out of him in a spray. "This whole Bronto thing is part of a marketing plan. We're putting Old Jack on tour. When it's done, we're going to euthanize him."
Chiun's wrinkled features grew perplexed. "Euthanize?"
"Dino dumping," said Remo grimly.
"The fiends."