That was not true of the other Beasley officials, however.
Smith had to find them. He began calling up the airline passenger-reservations networks, beginning with Apollo. Punching in the names of Robert Beasley and Mickey Weisinger, he drew a blank at Continental Airlines.
Switching to Paz, Smith input both names. If they were moving by air, their names would pop up, and Harold Smith would find them.
The trouble was, their names were not popping up. And the airlines reservation system was overloaded with French nationals fleeing the United States and US. citizens evacuating an increasingly hostile France.
Determined to locate them, Harold Smith switched to the credit-card data banks. Beasley executives all had use of company credit cards. If they rented cars, purchased gasoline, ate in roadside restaurants and made any other purchases along their route, their names would surface and their courses could be plotted simply by electronically connecting the dots.
All Harold Smith had to do was locate enough dots.
Chapter 24
Remo Williams caught up to the Master of Sinanju, who was tearing through the plasticky stink of Parc Mesozoique. Side by side they zipped through ferns that flew apart at a touch of their scissorslike fingers.
"You scared?" Remo asked Chiun.
"A Master of Sinanju does not acknowledge fear."
"If he did, would you be as scared as I am right now?"
"You are a Master of Sinanju. You are not afraid, either."
"Then why are we running like two scared rabbits?"
"Do not underestimate the rabbit. In my village it is considered wise beyond all other creatures."
"If you're a rabbit, how come you look like a scared little rabbit, not a wise rabbit?"
"A wise rabbit knows when to embrace fear," Chiun snapped.
Remo started to look over his shoulder, then remembered how spine-chilling yellow the brontosaurus's eyes had been.
"How come we're scared of that yellow light here, and we weren't back at the Crater?"
"At the Crater we did not look directly into the awful eyes of the gray dragon."
"Good point, we only saw the back-glow, which wasn't so bad."
"This is no back glow now," said Chiun.
"You want to stop and take a chance?"
"No."
"One of us should."
"I am not afraid, so you should."
"If you aren't afraid and I don't mind admitting that I am, why don't you stop?"
"Because I have conquered my fear, and you have yet to conquer yours. Therefore, you need to test your mettle against your fears."
"Nice try, Little Father. But no sale."
Eventually they ran out of park. The other side of the high bamboo stockade fence came rushing up.
"You stopping?" asked Remo.
"No."
"Then I'm not stopping, either."
They hit the wall in unison. Bamboo splinters flew in jagged chunks as they blew through the stockade.
They came to a halt only when they reached a lagoon that bore a sign saying Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers De Jules Verne, which Remo figured translated as Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, but only because he recognized the submarine from the movie.
At the quietly lapping edge of the lagoon, they stopped and drank in the tranquil color of the water.
"Boy," said Remo, "that water is sure blue."
"Exceedingly blue," Chiun agreed.
"I love blue. Always have."
"It is a good color, perhaps not as good as gold, but good."
"I can never look at gold with the same eyes again. Too yellow for my tastes."
"Yellow is not gold, nor gold yellow."
"Gold is still too yellow for me. But man, I just love looking at this blue."
And as they stared deep into the placid, soul-calming blue waters, the deep blue turned indigo.
"Oh, shit."
"What is it, Remo?"
"Remember that soldier in the Crater? The one who saw a blue color when everyone else saw yellow?"
"Yes."
"I think that blue is catching up to me."
"I see it, too. It is like a burning in my eyes, except it burns deep blue and not a correct burning color."