Warren Murphy: The Color of Fear

Uncle Sam Beasley wore a white uniform with gold trim and shaking gold-braid epaulets that made Marc Moise think of an Italian admiral of the fleet. Clumping along on his silver peg leg, he returned every salute thrown at him by the other regiments whose forage caps were decorated by black felt mouse ears.

It was a ridiculous sight, but it filled Marc Moise with foreboding.

At least, he saw, Uncle Sam wore a white eye-patch over the place where his left eye should be. Marc didn't think he could stare into that strobing steel organ ever again ....

WHEN DGSE DIRECTOR Remy Renard heard the door to the security room open even though he had buzzed no one in, he whirled around anxiously.

The door came bouncing in, its plate-glass window fracturing merrily.

Dominique Parillaud was thrust in along with the captive Beasley operative, Cheatwood.

After them came two of the strangest individuals ever to intrude upon DGSE preserves. One, American and therefore a bit of an oaf, and the other very old and very Oriental.

"He has come for the satellite," Dominique cried.

"Yeah, I've come for the satellite," said the white oaf. "Where is it?"

"You will never wrest it from us," Remy Renard said, placing his body between the interloper and the great vault door.

The white American approached the door, after first picking Remy up by squeezing his elbows to his- hips and setting him off to one side like a coatrack.

Remy swallowed hard to keep down the ugly feeling in his stomach. He had never felt more helpless than at that moment. It was as if he were nothing to this man.

"That vault is eight inches thick," he sputtered. "The combination is known to but two men in this building and it requires two to open it. I am the only one with the combination here."

"It is thick," admitted the oafish American, scrutinizing the door with a perplexed expression.

"Then you realize the futility of even attempting to breach the vault door?"

"Yeah, it's too much for me," he agreed. "Wait here, Little Father." And he exited the room.

Remy Renard strove to relax. If he could just get through the coming moments, all would be well. Reinforcements would soon arrive. And there was no way these men could leave the building. Not unarmed as they so obviously were.

From down the hall came an awful cacophony of sounds. A punch press might have started the racket, but then a jackhammer sound blenders in. Plaster groaned and lath screamed protestations. A metallic lamentation followed-awful, tortured, indescribable.

Then came a rattling series of sounds that, if Remy Renard had not known better, he would have vowed could only have been coming from inside the impregnable vault. But the vault was soundproofed to noise, and the great door, the only way in, was firmly sealed.

When it all ended, the white American appeared in the door, spanking plaster dust off his lean, bare forearms.

When he was done, he opened his right palm for all to see, and the supreme idiot said, "I couldn't find any satellite, but I did find this."

And Remy Renard could not contain his gasp of astonishment.

The American was holding the orb of many potent colors.

"C'est impossible!" Remy gasped.

"C'est la biz, cheri, " the idiot said, grinning.

"We are going now," the ancient Asian told him coldly. "But I leave you with your life and this warning, which may be more valuable than your life."

"What could be more valuable that my life?" Remy blurted.

"The knowledge that the Master of Sinanju works for the Eagle Throne of America and will treat any further aggravation harshly."

Remy Renard was strong of heart and spine. But he felt the blood drain from his sturdy legs and he realized the truth of the old Korean's warning.

For although Remy Renard was prepared to lose his life for France, he wasn't prepared to lose France herself.

And that was the gist of the Master of Sinanju's warning, which hung in the dusty air of the vault room long after the Master of Sinanju and his train had departed.

When he heard no sounds of shooting or commotion, Remy Renard knew it was safe to step out of the stagnant puddle of his own urine.

He immediately got on the telephone to the president of France. This was a far graver matter than defending French culture. National survival was at stake. The minister of culture could be of no value in such a war.

Chapter 29

Outside DGSE HQ, Dominique Parillaud said, "You will never escape France."

"Don't say that," Remo said fervently. "I have to find a father I don't even know."

"I am serious. You will be shot."

"Beats being stuck here," said Remo, looking around for the cab. It was no longer in sight. He turned to Dominique. "Parked around here?"

"I will nevair reveal where."

"Never?"

"Nevair!"

Then a hand Dominique never saw drifted up to tweak one earlobe.

Dominique screamed. She thought she screamed so loudly that half of Paris must have heard her. But when she paused for breath, she realized she was emitting no noise, only pain. And when she realized that, she began nodding frantically, hoping that the unseen power that had inflicted such exquisite agony would release her.

"I think she's changed her mind, Little Father," said Remo to the unseen force.

Then the pain withdrew.

Clapping a hand over her throbbing earlobe, Dominique whirled to confront the force.

She caught a glimpse of the Master of Sinanju's long fingernails as his hands sought the black velvet tunnels of his closing kimono sleeves and understood.

"Now you know how it feels," Rod Cheatwood told her tauntingly.

"I am parked in ze garage," she admitted.

They walked down the street where she was pointing and came to the main garage door. It was closed, but there was a foot-wide space beside the door, completely unguarded and large enough to admit a thin person.

"Wait here," said Remo to Chiun, and guided Dominique into the garage.

Not a minute later the door rolled aside, and they came out in a diamond blue Citroen, stopped, and the car doors opened for the Master of Sinanju and Rod Cheatwood.

"Dominique agreed to drive us to the airport," said Remo.

"I 'ave no choice," Dominique said in a pouting voice.

"We take our agreements any way we can."

"I am confident we will nevair get to ze airport," Dominique said, slipping into traffic. She took her foot off the gas momentarily and touched a floor button that cut in the hidden microphones that would broadcast their conversation back to DGSE HQ. "We will be intercepted."

"We don't intercept easily," Remo said airily.

"I am certain ze airport will be surrounded by tanks and other vehicles. And soldiers."

"Won't be the first time," said Remo, noticing through the window that they were taking down a street sign that said Rue Edgar Allan Poe and replacing it with one which that said, Rue Auseuil.

The wail of French police sirens came all at once. It seemed to be all around them.

"Voila!" Dominique cried triumphantly. "Just as I 'ave told you. It is time you ended zis charade."

Remo took a sudden left up a street that was posted with a short white bar in a red circle.

"You idiot! That sign meant no entry."

"Sue me. I can't read French."

"That was not French. It was a sign. It is iconography."

"Can't read that, either," said Remo, leaning on the rude horn so the oncoming cars knew enough to get out of the way.

They emerged on a busy street and practically into a converging swarm of red-striped white police Renaults whose blue bubble-top lights flashed angrily.

"We're screwed!" Rod Cheatwood moaned.

Remo tapped the brake, sent the wheel turning right, then left, then right again. The car, responding, performed a seemingly impossible maneuver that caused it to spin in place.