The Fourth Bear

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 co

“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.

“Justice will prevail, Demetrios.”

Mr. Demetrios chuckled and shook his head sadly. "‘Justice will prevail.’ Where do you policemen get your clichés? I am the director-general of the country’s national security service. ‘Justice’ is a purely relative term in the boardroom where I work. Bisky-Batt will take the rap for the Ginja, and you’ll take the rap for Bisky-Batt. Without you around I have complete deniability—and I have the Alpha-Pickle and McGuffin. As soon as the dust has settled, QuangTech will begin experiments in thermocuclear power. I may use it for domestic energy purposes or as a weapons system. I haven’t yet decided. Maybe both. The sunbeams locked inside cucumbers will lead Britain’s economy into the third mille

“The technology belongs to all mankind,” replied Jack, wincing in pain from the Gingerbreadman’s overzealous grip, “not to QuangTech and certainly not to—ah!—you.”

“Do you know,” said Mr. Demetrios slowly, “that’s exactly what Goldilocks and McGuffin said. Personally, I don’t see it that way. But don’t worry, I’ll use the cash to help bears. Or at least one bear in particular—me. The rest can go screw themselves.”

“Can I kill him now?” asked the Gingerbreadman, who was getting bored and fast becoming a cookie of action rather than words.

“Why not?” replied the small bear.

“Do you think he’ll merely let you go?” said Jack to the Gingerbreadman, hoping to drive a wedge between them. “You’ll be disposed of just like all the others.”

“A Ginja fears nothing except the failure to do his duty,” said the assassin simply. “Demetrios is my master; I do his bidding. All other factors are secondary.”

“Didn’t I tell you he was the best thing ever?” repeated Demetrios. “He’s the cub I never had.”

He clapped his paws together.

“Well, that’s us done here, Spratt. I’ve got some unfinished business with a colleague of yours. Without anyone left in the NCD to explain the complexities of this case firsthand, I rather think my future is assured—wouldn’t you agree?”

“You won’t get away with this.”

“There you go with your clichés again. And you’re wrong—I rather think I just have.” Demetrios looked at his watch and patted the Gingerbreadman on the arm. “I’m off now, my faithful Ginja. Make sure no one discovers so much as an atom of his body. Are you going to kill him now or are you going to play with him for a while?”

The Gingerbreadman raised an eyebrow and looked at Jack thoughtfully. “Since he has survived an unprecedented three encounters with me,” began the assassin thoughtfully, “I should like to test him ‘to destruction’ so to speak.”

“Of course,” replied the small bear gleefully. “And to make the fiction complete, be sure he leaves some prints on this, would you?”

He handed his revolver to the the Gingerbreadman and, without another word, departed.

Jack’s thoughts turned to escape, but on reflection things didn’t look terrific. The facility was locked down tight, and even if he did get away, he wasn’t sure where he could go with a killer on the loose who could run four times faster than he and was eight times as strong. It was a bit like being handcuffed to a hungry and demented rottweiler, smeared with a steak and then locked in a wardrobe.

The Gingerbreadman released Jack, who took a welcome step back, rubbing his arm. The Ginja smiled again and showed Jack the place where his thumb had been.

“This was the closest I’ve ever been to death, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I felt so liberated. As if I had finally met my match. You and the delightful Sergeant Mary were a formidable team.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

The smile dropped from the Gingerbreadman’s licorice lips. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Jack. You and I are going to play a little game. Ever seen a cat playing with a mouse?”

“Ye-e-es.”

“Ever wanted to know what the mouse felt like?”

“No, never—not at all. Not once. Nope.”

“Too bad. Here’s what we’ll do: To tip my inevitable triumph a few millimeters into your favor we’ll do this as gentlemen. Back to back, ten paces, turn and fire. Any questions?”

“Yes,” replied Jack. “Are you a cake or a cookie?”

The Gingerbreadman glared at him. “Don’t make this any worse for yourself, Spratt. Insult me again and I’ll ensure that the agony of your demise is stretched out so long that you will beg me for death.”

He smiled a disquieting smile, the edges of his licorice mouth almost reaching his large glacé cherry eyes.

“Right, here we go, then,” he said cheerfully, handing over Demetrios’s revolver. Jack’s prints were now on the weapon that had killed Bisky-Batt, but armed was better than not armed—he hoped.

“Five shots left. Make them count.” He drew his sawed-off shotgun at the same time and flicked off the safety. “And since you’ve been such a tremendous sport over the past few days, I’m willing to give you the first shot. Am I not the most magnanimous of murderers?”

“To a fault.”

“There’s that sarcasm again! Jack, you disappoint me sometimes. We’ll do this out in the corridor where there’s more room. You stand there. Ready?”

Jack nodded, and they stood back to back. Jack thought of turning and plugging him there and then, but he had seen the speed at which the Ginja assassin could move.

“Eight paces, then,” said the Gingerbreadman, enjoying himself tremendously.

“You said ten earlier.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s not be small about it. Ten it is.”

They both started to walk, the Gingerbreadman glancing over his shoulder now and again to make sure Jack was playing by the rules. Jack was walking back toward the stairs and the rest of the visitors’ center. He looked at the revolver. He’d used one only three times before; he didn’t like them, and NCD work generally called for brains, not firepower. He reached his tenth pace, stopped and turned. The Gingerbreadman’s paces were longer than his and he was a lot farther down the corridor than Jack had thought, while Jack was only about two strides from the top of the stairs. He had pla

“Your go, then, Jack!” called out the Gingerbreadman cheerfully. “Take careful aim, now.”

Jack lifted the gun, aimed and fired. The shot struck the Gingerbreadman in the area of where his heart might have been if he’d had one, but to no effect—the slug went straight through and embedded itself into a doorframe at the other end of the corridor with a resounding thunk.