Warren Murphy: The Color of Fear

And the Master of Sinanju snared the wrist of the French woman agent and pulled her along.

"Hurry!"

"Are you mad? Zere is no escape."

And from above came a mushy poom of a sound that brought a squeal of fear from Dominique Parillaud's throat.

It was followed by a great fluttering as if a thousand origami wings had taken flight.

Chapter 31

Remo moved down the corridor blind, but every other sense operating at peak efficiency.

A figure popped out of the third door on the right, paused and ran deeper into Utilicanard. The door hissed shut.

A muffled voce said, "You'll never catch me." It sounded like Uncle Sam's voice.

Remo Williams heard the beating heart and laboring lungs and started after it.

But when Remo got to the door, he suddenly swerved and, holding the flat of his palm before him like a ram, broke it down.

The door screeched coming out of its grooves, and Remo was in.

There were two heartbeats, one fast and normal, the other unhurried, metronomic-the animatronic heart of Uncle Sam Beasley.

"Nice try," said Remo, facing the unnatural sound. "But no sale."

"I'm unarmed. I surrender peacefully," said Uncle Sam.

"It's not going to be that way."

"You're an American agent, right?"

"Right."

"So I'm surrendering to you. You have to take me alive."

"Who says?"

"It's the way the game is played. Don't kid me."

"Not my game," said Remo.

"What game is that?"

"Counterassassin."

"Counterassassin? What's a goddamn counterassassin doing on my trail?"

"For special cases, we drop the prefix," said Remo.

Uncle Sam switched to a wheedling, ingratiating voice. "You wouldn't kill your old Uncle Sam? First time we crossed paths, you were going to. But you couldn't, could you?"

"You should have stayed in that padded cell," Remo said, adjusting to each shift of his opponent's body so he blocked the door.

"You couldn't do it because you remember those long-ago Sunday nights squatting before the old TV in your pj's, watching my TV show. Watching me."

"Stuff it. You aren't that Uncle Sam anymore. He died when you should have."

"You're pretty brave behind that mask. There's no hypercolor laser units here. Let's see if you can look me in the eye before you do it."

"Sorry. No time."

"Coward."

"Don't call me that."

"Uncle Sam is calling you a coward. Are you a man or a little mousie?"

Remo hesitated. "I don't have time for games."

"I'm not afraid to look into your eyes. Why are you afraid to look into mine? Only have the one, you know."

"No sale," said Remo, stepping up in the welcome darkness to do the job he had to do.

A whirring warned of the steel hydraulic fist coming up, seeking Remo's mask, but it was too slow by weeks.

Zeroing in on the regular pumping of the animatronic heart, Remo drove the hard heel of his fist toward the sound.

Uncle Sam tried to block the blow. Remo felt the initial pressure wave. But Uncle Sam might as well have been trying to block a steam shovel with a plastic drinking straw.

"Punk! I raised you! I raised you better than your own parents. And you know it. You can't kill me! You wouldn't dare."

"Shut up! You don't know anything about my parents."

"I know they mistreated you. Admit it. They tanned your helpless butt and left you to cry your little eyes out. And when you thought no one loved you, I was there. Me and Mongo and Dingbat. And if we'd asked you to shoot your folks back then, you'd have done it. Because we molded your mind, just as we molded the little minds of every American generation since the Depression. You think you can kill me? Don't make me laugh. We're family."

In the darkness of his mind, Remo was silent for half a minute. Then in a low, barely contained voice, he said, "Thanks. You just made it easy for me."

Remo's palm drove out, smacking Uncle Sam once over the mechanical heart, and it gulped twice. And with a gurgle it ceased all function.

Uncle Sam shuddered on his feet, a long hiss coming out of his slack mouth. He fell back, struck the console and slid to the floor.

He was still breathing, but with a dead heart that was just a matter of time.

Blindly, Remo turned to the other individual in the room. "Who're you?"

"Laser technician. I'm just here to do my job."

"Your job," Remo told him, "is over."

The flutter of skirts up the corridor brought Remo to the door.

"Chiun! I'm in here."

"Remo, Remo, look! Read this."

"Is it safe to take my mask off?"

"Oui," said Dominique Parillaud.

"No," said Chiun.

"Well, which is it?"

"Look, look!"

Remo lifted the lead shield. Chiun thrust a white sheet of paper into his hand. Remo took it, glanced at the side with writing, frowned and turned it around. No matter how he turned it, he couldn't read it.

"French?"

"Oui. It is a warning from ze army air force. Zey say if all American nationals do not surrender within two hours, zis park will be-how you say? -frappe. "

"Frappe? You mean frapped?"

"Non, I mean, oh what is ze word for what you barbarians did to Hiroshima?"

"Nuked?"

"Oui. "

"The French are willing to nuke Euro Beasley?"

"Zey are very angry over zis transgression. Besides, it is ours to bomb or not bomb as we see fit."

"We'd better check in," Remo told Chiun. "Come on."

They reentered the control room. Remo went to the satellite telephone and punched in the country code for the U.S.A. and then Smith's contact number.

"Smitty, we just did Beasley."

"You just did the fiend Beasley," said Chiun, hovering curiously over the slumped form of Uncle Sam Beasley, who stared ceilingward with his good eye and gurgled like a clogged sink drain. His chest rose and fell more and more slowly with each breath.

"And the French have just leafleted the park. They've given us two hours to surrender or they nuke it."

"Nuke?"

"Nuke."

"You say Beasley is dead?"

"Well, he's still breathing, but his heart is dead and his brain is sure to follow."

"Have you accounted for the Beasley operatives?"

"Not all of them."

"Remo, it would be best if there were no survivors to tell any tales."

"Hope that doesn't include Chiun and me."

"You have less than two hours to take care of business and evacuate the park."

"Gotcha. We're in motion."

Hanging up, Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju, who still regarded Uncle Sam Beasley curiously.

"He is not yet dead," said Chiun.

"He's got a mechanical heart. He's not going to die like an ordinary guy. Besides, I figure by stopping his heart, I'm not really killing him. I just broke a machine part. If that kills him, fine. He should have packed a spare."

"He looks so pitiful," Dominique said. "An old man."

"Don't let that fool you," warned Remo. "Now, let's get to work."

Remo started to turn away, his eyes clinging to the seamed features of Uncle Sam Beasley, once a hero of young America and now a broken travesty of himself.

"Finish me...." Beasley croaked.

"Finish yourself," said Remo. His eyes were fixed on the one gray orb that was rolling up into the heavy lid, when from behind the white Mongo Mouse eye patch came a tiny click.

The warning was enough. Shutting his eyes, Remo started backing away, certain that Chiun would follow suit. Too late.

From behind the patch came a burst of Supergreen.

THE MASTER of SINANJU heard the click, and while his pupil moved backward to protect himself from the unknown danger, he moved forward to meet it head on.

The seated figure was slumped against the console.

The Master of Sinanju, his right hand forming the sharp point of a spear, moved in for the kill ....

WHEN HE AWOKE, Remo first checked his internal clock. Over one hundred minutes had passed. Then he sat up and looked around.