Warren Murphy - The Color of Fear

"Wait a minute. Back up. What coming unpleasantness?"

"Why, the Siege of Petersburg National Battlefield, of course."

"Who's laying siege to this patch of grass?"

"Why, the dreaded Sam Beasley Company, of course. Don't you read the newspapers?"

"Bingo," said Remo.

"The carpetbaggers subverted our state government, extracted millions of taxpayer dollars for road and highway improvements and had the unmitigated gall to think they could erect a so-called Civil War theme park on Virginia soil, despoiling land that has only recently shrugged off the terrible wounds of the late unpleasantness."

"What late unpleasantness?" asked Remo.

"The War between the States, naturally."

"I wouldn't exactly call the Civil War late," Remo said dryly.

"You are obviously no Virginian, suh. These wounds lie deep, and the scars still fester."

Remo looked around. "I can see that."

"They will never build on this hallowed ground. They failed at the Third Manassas, and they will surely fail here."

"Third Manassas?"

"They desired to build in the vicinity of Manassas National Battlefield Park, but the good people of Manassas chased them away. Their alternative site is just a stone's throw from here. But before God Almighty, we wall run them off also or ourselves lie buried in the Crater."

"Third Manassas wasn't a battle, but a public-relations victory, is that it?"

"It is a victory nonetheless." Page thumped his chest once. "Ah only wish Ah had participated personally instead of succumbing to inglorious defeat at your wicked Yankee hands."

"Forget it. We have a beef with Uncle Sam Beasley, too."

"If only he had lived," Page said, wet-eyed. "The kindly old gentleman would never have allowed this vile travesty to be carried out in his name."

"And Colonel Sanders was a friend to chickens," said Remo.

"Suh?"

"Never mind. I want to talk to someone who was at the first ambush."

"My pleasure." Page called over to the men in gray drinking bitter chicory coffee with even more-bitter expressions. "Fetch Mr. Huckabee over here."

"Huckabee has been confined to quarters for dropping character by virtue of being out of period," a sergeant hollered back.

"What was the nature of his offense?"

"Zippoing his coffee, the lazy shirk."

"These men take their soldierly duties quite serious," Captain Page confided to Remo. Remo rolled his eyes.

"Sergeant, you survived the dastardly attack on your fine regiment. This man would appreciate an opportunity to treat with you."

"He won't hurt me, will he?"

"What kind of soldier talk is that?" Captain Page said angrily.

"I'm recreational, sir."

"I only hurt people who keep me waiting," Remo said loudly.

The sergeant cleared thirty yards of clipped grass in jig time.

"Sergeant Dinwiddie reporting as threatened," he said, saluting Remo smartly.

"Here now, you don't salute a civilian," Captain Page said.

"Beggin' your pardon, Captain, but I have been witness to this individual's manhandling skills, and have no wish to enjoy his wrath."

Captain Page rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "Carry on, then."

Remo addressed the sergeant. "You get a clear look at the unit that attacked you last night?"

"Before God, I did."

"They wore Union blue?"

"They did."

"What color piping?"

"It was light blue."

"Not artillery red?"

"No."

"Not cavalry yellow?"

"Light blue, as I have said."

Remo turned to Captain Page.

"Light blue piping is infantry, right?"

"It is indeed," Captain Page said slowly. "Ah declare, Ah was unaware of a Union infantry reenactment regiment on maneuvers in these parts."

Sergeant Dinwiddie spoke up. "There was none, Cap'n. Just the Forty-fourth Rhode Island Weekend Artillery and the First Mass. Interpretive."

"Great," growled Remo. "You were set up and you fell for it."

"It was dark, sir," the sergeant said apologetically. "And we lost our beloved Colonel Hazard in the first engagement. He would have set us straight had he lived. I am plumb sure of it."

Remo said to Captain Page, "I asked for a phone a while back. You have one?"

"No, suh. Ah ordered the field phones destroyed."

"Why?"

"So headquarters would not recall us before the press conference. Or worse yet, federalize us under the command of Washington and set us against our fellow Virginians." Captain Page visibly shuddered at the thought.

"The Beasley people are coming here?"

"At high noon." Captain Page sank to one knee. "Suh, Ah beg of you. Let me and mah brave boys stand against the Yank devils."

"Only if you behave yourselves. No shooting. No taking prisoners. And if your unit commander orders you to pull out, you'll obey orders."

"Who are you to talk of duty?"

"I was a Marine. I learned to obey my commander."

"We had a senatorial candidate in these parts who was a Marine and did not let orders stand in his way."

"He win or lose?"

"Lost."

"That should tell you something," said Remo, walking away.

The Master of Sinanju followed him, sere of face, his hands tucked into his kimono sleeves. He looked like an angry monk. "Uncle Sam has shown his steely hand at last, Remo."

"Looks that way to me."

"We will have to deal with him, for it is Smith's highest instructions to vanquish the fiend once and for all."

Remo frowned. "It's not going to be easy."

"It was your task to find him."

"Look," Remo said angrily, "I ran my tail off. Sam Beasley World. Beasleyland. Euro Beasley. Beasleyland Tokyo." He held two fingers so they nearly touched. "I was this close to nailing him in Florida, but he flew the coop in a helicopter."

Chiun's frown deepened, making his wrinkles gullies. "It was a helicopter that dropped that bomb," he said, stroking his wispy beard thoughtfully.

"That helicopter was black. The one I chased down in Florida was red and green."

"Are you still on strike?"

"Not where Beasley is concerned. He got us embroiled in a war that first time when he invaded Cuba and tried to turn it into a theme park."

"That was when you should have dispatched him."

"Not me. I grew up watching his cartoons. The best place for him was in a Folcroft rubber room."

"Until he escaped."

"Not our fault," said Remo.

They reached the entrance to the park. The road was filled with white news trucks sporting microwave dishes. The trucks were being held at bay by newly arrived Confederate troops with muskets leveled. The Zouaves were nowhere to be seen.

"Let's take the low road," suggested Remo.

Moving low to the ground, they slipped around the Confederate lines and across the highway, which they crossed unseen, finally coming to an outlying news van that was parked a discreet distance from the rest. Like the others, it was white. The blue letters on the side said Europe 1. The o in Europe was either a plum or a blue apple.

"Behold, Remo-proof of French intrigue."

The Master of Sinanju was pointing to a blond woman in a fashionable blue slip dress who wore a black beret.

"She's wearing a beret. Big deal. Anybody can wear a beret. That doesn't make her French."

"She smells French."

"How do French women smell?" said Remo.

"Like cheese."

Remo sniffed the air. "I smell wine."

"Some French women smell like cheese and wine," Chiun admitted.

"Nice try, but this is a Sam Beasley operation all the way. The French have nothing to do with it."

"Let us prove it to your satisfaction by asking the sinister Frenchwoman for the use of her telephone."

"Fair enough," said Remo, changing direction.

The woman in the beret failed to notice Remo's approach, but so would a tiger, a hawk or any other wild creature possessing preternatural senses.