"Pink is exceedingly good."
And they both found themselves smiling at the thought of the color pink.
As they walked along, a sour smell assailed their sensitive nostrils. They followed it.
"Fresh," said Remo.
It was, they discovered when they entered a control room marked in French, Defense D'Entrer.
It was the master control room. There was no mistaking that. There were grids of video monitors showing every approach and attraction in the park. Control consoles literally ringed the room.
And on the main console was a still-dribbling splash of fresh vomit.
"Someone did not take their poison," said Chiun, looking about the empty room.
"No, but someone took him."
"I detect the faint perfume of the French woman."
"Yeah. Great. Now we're the only ones here with the entire French army laying siege outside. Time to call Smitty."
Remo picked up a satellite telephone and tried to dial Harold Smith in America. The trouble was Remo didn't know the country code for U S.A. And when he finally got an operator speaking French, she hung up on him the minute he spoke two words, one of them "please."
Sighing, Remo tossed the handset to the Master of Sinanju. "Just get me past the language barrier."
When Harold Smith came on the line, Chiun tossed the handset back to Remo.
"Smitty. We're not doing well here."
"One moment, Remo," said Smith absently. "This is very strange."
"What is?"
"I have unusual activity on Beasley company credit cards."
"Well, I can guarantee you the big spenders aren't over here in Euro Beasley."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because Chiun and I just penetrated their lower regions, and they're all dead."
"Dead. How dead? I mean, how long dead?"
"A day or two. They took poison."
"Cyanide," hissed Chiun.
"Chiun says cyanide. Looks like Jonestown, except with lollipops."
"Remo, this is very suggestive. Obviously Euro Beasley is not what it seems. It is much more than a theme park."
"So far, every Beasley theme park has been more than a theme park. But we missed one guy."
"You have a prisoner?"
"No, French Intelligence does. For all our troubles, we got yellowed."
"Remo, I think you are breaking up. Did you say yellow?"
"Yeah. The yellow light got us. I'll never look at a canary the same way again. Chiun and I took off for the hills when it hit."
"It is a wise rabbit which knows when to employ the ancient and honorable strategy of retreat," Chiun called out.
"By the time we got back," Remo continued, "that French agent had taken off with the one survivor. Whatever he knows, the French will have it by tomorrow is my guess."
Smith was silent a moment. "This is twice you have encountered mysterious colored lights."
"No," said Remo, "this is twice Chiun and I have been run over by these colored lights. I thought green was bad, but it was over quick. I never want to be yellowed again."
"Yet you enjoyed the pink light."
"Oh, yeah, that," said Remo, breaking into a pleasant smile at the memory. "I'd gladly walk through a football field lit by greens and yellows if there's some pink on the other side."
"Remo, listen carefully. These lights must represent some new technology the Beasley people have discovered. Look around for some sign of controls."
"Controls?"
"Yes, someone had to be controlling the yellow light."
"Hey, Chiun, check around the room. Smitty wants-"
"I have found many buttons with the names of strange colors on them," Chiun announced.
"Smitty, we found it."
"I have found it," Chiun said loudly.
"Remo, I am unable to locate any Beasley corporate officers. That means that man is our only lead. I want you to find him and extract from him what he knows. Only by determining the reason the French have seen fit to quarantine Euro Beasley can we get to the root of this conflict."
"Gotcha. How're things on the home front?"
"The Senate is debating a resolution outlawing the teaching of French in our major universities."
"That has my vote."
"The Modern Language Association has issued a strong statement condemning the French ministry of culture."
"You want my opinion, the only culture the French have belongs in a petri dish."
"They are calling for the expunging of all borrowed French words from American dictionaries. And the Academie Frangais has retaliated by demanding their French words back. They are also renaming Parisian streets named after Americans."
"How many of those can there be?"
"There are the Avenue du General Eisenhower, Avenue du Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Rue Lincoln, to name just three. Or were," Smith added.
"This is ridiculous," said Remo.
"This is a cultural war. But it threatens to escalate into the real thing. Remo, find that Beasley employee and get him out of French hands at all costs. No doubt he knows the secret behind this colored-light technology. I have a problem to solve."
"What problem?"
"Why the Beasley Corporation is sending scores of its employees to London."
"Good luck," said Remo, hanging up.
He turned just in time to see the Master of Sinanju bring a tiny ivory fist into contact with one of the control panels.
It shattered. Buttons flew upward to ricochet off the ceiling, and the smell of burning insulation curled up in smoky tentacles.
"What now?" asked Remo.
And when Chiun pointed to a now-broken bank of shielded buttons marked with names like Supergreen and Hotpink, Remo said, "Good job."
Chapter 25
When he woke up, Rod Cheatwood knew he was in deep trouble.
The last thing he remembered was the green light coming back at his console video screen. It was Supergreen. No one had ever tried to project hypercolor by video. Technically it should not have worked. But it did. Rod had upchucked and blacked out. Splat.
When he woke up, he was on a hard bunk in a windowless concrete cell. The walls were nice, though. Teal. Very chic. Worrisomely chic, inasmuch as Rod had no idea where he was or who had him. But he did have his suspicions.
Rod glanced around the cell. There was a stainless-steel toilet, washbowl and a third plumbing fixture he realized with a sickening sensation was a bidet.
"I am definitely in deep," he muttered.
When they came for him, they wore black balaclavas pulled over their heads with only their eyes and mouths showing. They conducted him to a featureless room and sat him down on a hard wooden stool.
Something that looked like a dessert cart was wheeled up, but when he looked into the tray, Rod saw implements that made his empty stomach quail.
"You don't have to torture me," he said weakly.
"Parlez-vous francais?"
Rod had picked up a little French during his stay, but only enough to get by. This was no time to stumble over shades of meaning. "No, I speak only English."
The eyes behind the balaclavas winced. They began whispering among themselves. Rod caught the gist of it. They were asking how they could be expected to interrogate an American who did not speak French if they faced a six-month jail sentence for speaking American. No one wanted to go to jail for six months. Not even in the service of his beloved country.
After conferring by telephone, the interrogators obtained some kind of a special dispensation from the ministry of culture and they brought out the crude electronic device resembling a toy railroad transformer with two wires and steely alligator clips at each end.
Rod instantly crossed his legs, thinking, They're out to fry my balls.
"I'll tell you anything you want!" he bleated.
"Tell us who is behind this outrage against our country."
"Sam Beasley."
"He is dead."
"I mean the Sam Beasley Corporation."