Bamboo Dragon

Bamboo Dragon

By Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir

First edition July 1997

ISBN 0-373-63223-1

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.

BAMBOO DRAGON

Copyright © 1997 by M. C. Murphy.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incident are pure invention.

® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed in U.S.A.

For Eva Kovacs, one of the best.

And, as always, for the Glorious House of Sinanju.

Chapter One

The cursed jungle had invaded Hopper's dreams. It was bad enough that it had made his every waking hour Hell on Earth, but now he could find no respite even in his sleep. His private nightscape stank of rotting vegetation, hummed with biting insects, seethed with wriggling vipers. Always, in the murky background, he could hear the rumbling snarl of larger predators, unseen but waiting for the false step that would make him theirs.

Instead of waking up refreshed each morning, ready for another grueling workday, Hopper found himself exhausted, haggard from the nightmares that pursued him once he crept inside his sleeping bag and pulled the beige mosquito netting down around him like a giant spider web. The past few days, he had forsaken shaving, not because the simple operation sapped his energy, but rather to avoid the face that greeted him each morning in his mirror—gaunt and dark, with sunken, bloodshot eyes and hair like straw that stubbornly defied the comb. His cheeks were hollow, mottled with the pox of insect bites, and Hopper didn't like the blotchy tan that made him look like an escapee from a lab experiment. His gums had started bleeding Tuesday night—or was it Wednesday? Not a lot, but still enough to stain his teeth, and that had been the final straw. He left his mirror for the monkeys when they broke camp in the morning, and he wished them better luck. He wouldn't shave again until he had hot water and a proper bathroom, possibly a barber to perform the ritual, so he wouldn't have to face himself.

A lady barber. She could shave his whole damned body if she wanted to, and scrub him clean until he started feeling human once again.

It was peculiar, this reaction to the jungle and the job that had been paying Hopper's way for close to fifteen years. He didn't like to think it was the work, for that meant starting over, finding something new if he couldn't perform, and that was never easy for a man of his restricted educational achievements.

No, it couldn't be the job. That never changed. He used the same equipment each time out and knew the drill by heart. He could perform the simple operations in his sleep—had done exactly that, the past ten nights or so—and there were only two ways it could go. Success or failure. Either way, he still got paid for making the attempt.

It had to be the jungle, then, and that was strange. In his time, he had been sent to every stinking pest-hole from the Congo to the Amazon. He had communed with pygmies and the wild men of the Mato Grosso, sharing meals that would have gagged a maggot, pumping the locals for information that would help him do his job. He knew about the spiders, snakes and scorpions, and had learned to wear his jockey shorts while bathing, so loathsome parasites and tiny spike-finned fish wouldn't invade his genitals or rectum. On the flip side, he had trekked through deserts where the ground cracked like old leather and the temperature topped 120 in the shade—if you could find the shade at all—and even biting flies had sense enough to hide until the sun went down. At the other extreme, he was no stranger to the Arctic tundra, and had dined on frozen mammoth steaks with blubber on the side and watched his piss freeze in a golden arc before it hit the ground.

But he had always done his job.

So what was different now? What was it that repulsed him so about this place?

He didn't think it was the climate, which reminded him of Indonesia at the height of summer, hot and humid, sapping the vitality of anyone foolish enough to labor in the daylight hours. Still, a man could fortify himself with salt and special beverages, restoring lost electrolytes. He knew the tricks, all right. Indeed, he had invented some of them himself.

The teeming insects? Hopper didn't think so. Granted, the mosquitoes were particularly large and vicious, rivaling the worst that he had seen in Africa, and there were flies that felt like hypodermic needles when they hit you, always from behind. But Hopper had been vaccinated for a whole list of diseases, from malaria to filariasis, and he was armed with bug repellent tailored for the military. As it was, he suffered only twenty-five or thirty painful bites per day, and he could live with that.

What, then?

Eleven weeks of speculation and analysis led Hopper to conclude that it must be the place, some nasty combination of the climate and terrain, plant life and skulking fauna, that conspired to put his nerves on edge. It seemed ridiculous, but there it was. This place was evil, pulsing with malignant undercurrents that invaded blood and muscle tissue, wormed their way inside the human brain.

Or maybe he was simply going mad.

Eleven weeks.

They were supposed to finish off the job in half that time, but someone upstairs had clearly underestimated the jungle, basing their timetable on bland tourist guidebooks and maps that shrank the country down to postcard size, reducing mighty river networks to a web of slender threads, the all-devouring jungle to a green blotch you could cover with your hand. The "planners," as they liked to call themselves back in the States, were absolutely ignorant of what it took to ford a river when the crocodiles were waiting, scale a hundred feet of crumbling shale or wade through miles of reeking swamp with stagnant water up around your chest and leeches squirming underneath your sodden clothes.

All this he had been willing to endure, as on his other expeditions, for the payoff. Half up front, the rest when he was finished, with a handsome bonus if he scored. Around Los Angeles—where he made his home of sorts—and in the industry at large, there was a saying that what Hopper didn't find could not be found. Hyperbole, perhaps, but no one ever lost his shirt by cultivating an impressive reputation.

It could get you killed, though, if you didn't watch your step.

The job had sounded perfect when they laid it out for Hopper at the briefing back in March. Not easy—that would be too much to hope for—but at least it didn't sound impossible.

The planners had a fix on what they wanted him to find, spun off from a potpourri of native legend, secret military documents, some wishful thinking based on satellite photography and laser tracings from the past two shuttle missions. What it added up to was a fortune… maybe. All they needed was a pro to carry out the groundwork under "primitive conditions."

In the field.

He had to smile at that, the way they made it sound as if he were being sent to walk around a meadow, someone's open pasture land. "The field" was in fact something else entirely: jungle, desert, maybe rugged mountains where you knew damned well a mining operation would be difficult, if not impossible, to organize. It wasn't Hopper's job to rain on anyone's parade until he had a look around and scouted out the territory, looking high and low for the elusive pay dirt that would fatten up his bank account along with everybody else's.

That was one good thing about his job: instead of working free-lance, for himself, he went out on retainer for the companies with deep, deep pockets, and they had to pay him, win or lose. It pissed them off whenever Hopper came up empty, but that didn't happen often. By the time a sponsor needed him, the ground had been examined from a distance, probabilities determined by the kind of high-falutin math he never even tried to understand. From that point on, the job came down to Hopper in the field, pursuing fame and fortune on behalf of men who didn't have the skill or courage to go out and grab it for themselves.

And he had done all right… until this time.

He told himself that he was being foolish; there was nothing in the jungle hereabouts that he hadn't previously encountered somewhere. Same snakes, or close enough. Same frigging spiders, ants, flies, gnats, mosquitoes, body lice. Same natives, more or less, with their innate suspicion of outsiders who had screwed them in the past and might again if they let down their guard.

It wasn't anything, in fact, that he could put his finger on. But beneath the sweat, sunburn and jungle rot that came with any mission to the tropics, there was… something else.

A nagging sense of dread.

And he wasn't the only one who felt it, either. Starting with the local tribesmen who had balked at sharing information, much less renting guides out to the expedition, forcing Hopper to pay well beyond the going rate for native help. He didn't mind—it wasn't his cash, after all—but their reluctance, verging on a state of superstitious terror, set the tone for everything that followed.

Eakins, the geologist from Houston, had been first to show the signs among the three of them who counted. You could see him getting edgy, checking out the shadows While they marched and staring past the firelight into darkness when they camped. Before the second week was over, he had started dropping hints and questions, getting curious about the natives, predators, whatever. Still, it was his first time in the heavy bush, and there were bound to be some nerves involved.

The fear crept up on Hopper next, and took him by surprise. So far, he thought that he had done a fair job of concealing it, though the lack of decent sleep was wearing on him in the stretch and threatening to breed mistakes. He wrote it off to age at first—the big four-oh was coming up in August—but there had to be some other reason for the nightmares and the grim, oppressive sense of doom that dogged his waking hours.

Now, unless he was mistaken, even Sparks was feeling it. Sparks was their troubleshooter, muscle with a military background who had drifted into mercenary work and on from there into the nebulous preserve of what they liked to call "executive security." For fifty grand a year, plus traveling expenses, Sparks might be dispatched to twist an arm in Washington, tap phones in Birmingham… or baby-sit an expedition slogging through the shit a thousand miles from anywhere.

Sparks knew his job and calculated the attendant risks before he made a move. When there was danger brewing, he could kick ass with the best of them. There was a hazy but persistent rumor, stateside, that his killings weren't confined to Third World civil wars.

But he was getting nervous now, no doubt about it. You could see it in his eyes, the way he kept his rifle close beside him, with the safety off.

It had to be imagination, Hopper told himself, since nothing much beyond the ordinary had occurred so far. There was continued reticence among the guides and porters, but you got that sometimes, where taboos and superstition were involved. The trek itself, while beating any Hopper could recall for sheer exertion and fatigue, wasn't otherwise especially dangerous. The nearest he had come to outright peril was a close encounter with a cobra on the fourth day out, when he had left the trail to take a bladder break.

Shit happened in the field, but he couldn't escape the nightmares, even so.

They always started out the same way, Hopper tramping through the jungle, lost, with darkness coming on. He knew the camp should be ahead of him, another hundred yards or so, but when he called to Sparks and Eakins, no one answered. Haunting bird calls echoed through the forest, unseen rodents scuttling in the undergrowth, but nothing human seemed to share his space.

Time was elusive in the dreams, but after a while Hopper would gradually come to understand that he was being followed. Something large and hungry stalked the trail behind him, keeping out of sight but coming close enough that he could hear it breathing. Christ, it must be huge, with lungs like bellows. Now and then, when trees got in the way, it snapped them off and sent them crashing to the forest floor. In panic, Hopper would start running aimlessly, with thorny branches slashing at his clothes, his face. The scent of fresh-drawn blood inflamed his nemesis, producing snarls of hunger that reminded him of King Kong on the prowl. At last, he'd glimpse the camp ahead, apparently deserted. Sprinting for the tents and the illusory protection of the fire, he always stumbled at the far edge of the clearing, sprawling on his face. The massive predator behind him, bearing down on top of him, until he smelled the foul rush of its breath. The teeth—

His eyes snapped open, just like always, saving Hopper from the moment when he had to face his terror in the flesh. Between the nightmare and the sleeping bag, his body was awash in sweat. And he was trembling like a little kid.

He sat up on his cot, the metal legs spiked into cans half-filled with water to defeat the creepy-crawlies, swung his legs out of the sleeping bag and glanced around his feet for safety's sake before he put them down.

The dreams were getting worse, goddammit. This time he could feel a tremor in the earth as his pursuer closed the gap between them. Jesus, if he didn't shake these nightmares soon—

A tremor in the earth.

No way, he told himself. No fucking way at all. It had to be a muscle spasm in his legs that made him feel as if a giant was approaching, almost close enough to burst upon the camp, with the vibrations registering through Hopper's naked feet.

The scream brought Hopper vaulting off his cot, snared in the mesh of the mosquito netting till he ripped it down and struggled free. By that time, he could hear the guides and porters shouting gibberish, a startled curse from Sparks.

The echo of his rifle sounded like a thunderclap.

Outside the tent, Hopper stumbled into pandemonium. The natives were evacuating, running every which way, two of them stampeding through the fire and out the other side without a yelp of pain to mark their passing. Fear would do that to you, numb the other senses, a survival mechanism saved for desperate times.

He looked around for Sparks and Eakins, and located the troubleshooter standing near his own tent, dressed in boxer shorts and crew socks, with the rifle at his shoulder, pointing skyward at an angle close to forty-five degrees. Another crack, and Hopper saw the red-orange muzzle flash.

What was he shooting at? And where was Eakins? It had sounded like his scream, if Hopper had to guess, but what—?

He saw it then. The hulking shadow-figure from his nightmare striding forward, beckoned by the firelight, swiveling its head to scan the camp. A rag-doll figure was suspended from its gnashing jaws, blood streaming down across the lips and chin. The flaccid doll wore khaki pants, a matching shirt, all stained with crimson.

Eakins.

Sparks cranked off another shot, to no effect. The walking nightmare turned in his direction, shook its head and spit the bloody rag doll out. Sparks had to jump aside, the body bouncing once before it wound up in a twisted, boneless heap. The troubleshooter was about to fire again, but he never got the chance.

No slouch, this shambling nightmare, when a bit of speed was called for. It appeared to hop, the motion almost birdlike, but its landing caused the ground to tremble under Hopper's feet. Sparks didn't notice, since the monster's bulk came down on top of him and crushed him to the earth, arms splayed, the rifle spinning out of reach. The demon beast ducked low, like a giant chicken pecking corn, and found him with its flashing teeth.

It took a heartbeat for the scream to register, another beat for Hopper to discover it was coming out of him, then he clapped both hands across his mouth.

Too late.

The living nightmare made a wish and ripped Sparks down the midline of his body, spilling him into the dirt. It had a mouthful when it glanced around at Hopper, following the sound of his demented scream.

Oh, Jesus! Run!

He ran.

There was no conscious planning, no time left for that. A part of Hopper's mind knew he was barefoot, fleeing in his underwear, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he stopped to grab his clothes, much less to put them on, he would be caught inside the tent, join Sparks and Eakins as a tasty midnight snack.

The clearing wasn't large. A dozen strides brought Hopper to the tree line, and he kept on going, heedless of the rocks and thorns that gouged his feet, ignoring the potential threat of serpents. He knew well enough the danger waiting for him if he stuck around the camp. All else was secondary, something he could deal with if and when it came along.

The urge to run was instinct, something primal, triggered by adrenaline. His mind was barely functional, still dazed by the transmission from his eyes, part of him hoping this would prove to be a dream within a dream, the latest in his panoply of nightmares.

No such luck.

He stumbled in the darkness, threw both hands out in a desperate bid to catch himself and felt a jagged branch sink deep into his palm. Blood marked the spot as Hopper freed himself, the sharp pain banishing all hope that he was still asleep.

Was he insane? Had fever and fatigue snapped his connection to reality? What if he stood his ground and waited for the monster where he was?

A heavy thrashing in the jungle answered that one for him, kept him moving as the beast pursued him. Could it see him in the darkness? Was it following his scent?

He ran as if his life depended on it, lost, surrendering to panic. Part of Hopper's mind was still coherent, though, and it was telling him that he'd been mistaken in his dreams. The dark, relentless hunter didn't snarl and roar. It hissed. A great steam engine racing after him, immense and indestructible.

He thought about the river, which lay somewhere to the north of camp. If he could only get his bearings, make it that far in the dark—a mile or two at most—he still might have a chance. It worked with bloodhounds in the movies; water threw them off the scent of their intended prey and gave the hapless fugitive a break. If nothing else, the river might be deep enough to slow his adversary down, perhaps dissuade the demon altogether.

His lungs were burning, and a rush of dizziness came close to overwhelming him as he stumbled to a halt. He braced himself against a tree trunk, leaving a bloody palm print as a signature, bent double to reduce the stabbing pain from stitches in his side. His feet were torn and bleeding. Hopper felt as if he were standing on a bed of razor blades.

And silence.

Had he done it? Was he safe? It seemed impossible, but how could anything that large move silently?

He felt the strike, a stirring in the air above his head, before the gaping jaws descended. Hopper squealed and threw himself aside, rolled over twice and vaulted to his feet. It was impossible for him to choose a direction; there was only life and death to think of as he turned and sprinted through the trees.

Behind him, hissing its rage, the predator came on, its nostrils flaring at the scent of blood and warm, wet flesh. It recognized no law but hunger, no imperative except to feed.

The forest swallowed Hopper up alive.

Chapter Two

His name was Remo, and he reckoned it should be a serious felony for any person weighing upward of three hundred pounds to wear the kind of skintight stretch pants that looked painted on, revealing every dimple, lump and divot on their grotesque derrieres.

The two Americans in front of him were prime examples of the problem. Matching rings told Remo they were married, and the way they clutched each other's hands suggested they were either newly weds or else intimidated by the act of wandering around a foreign city on their own. So far, they had confined themselves to window-shopping, browsing at the sidewalk stalls that offered everything from hand-stitched clothing, jade and native handicrafts to cobras stuffed and mounted in the posture of attack.

Between them, Remo guessed they must have weighed at least 650 pounds, most of it lodged below the waist. With matching horn-rimmed glasses, frizzy hair and garish tourist clothes, they looked a bit like cartoon figures, something from "The Far Side," and a number of the street merchants couldn't keep from giggling after they had passed. It would have been bad form to laugh in a potential buyer's face, of course, but after they were gone… well, what was there to lose?

He didn't know their names, but Remo thought of them as Fred and Freda Frump. It was a fluke that he had crossed their path, but Remo's tagging after them wasn't an accident. He was concerned about his cover, shaky as it was, and shied away from prowling through the city on his own. One round-eye in an Asian city was a curiosity, while three or more together made a tour group.

He hadn't spoken to the Frumps and didn't plan to. Remo didn't need a friend to help him see the city; he was merely riding in their slipstream for a while to see if he was being followed and avoid attracting undue notice to himself. The less his hefty escorts knew about his scam, the better it would be for all concerned. Let them draw the attention, while he moved unnoticed in their wake.

Malaysia had become a tourist destination almost by default in recent years. It had a hard time keeping up with Thailand, where the lures ranged from ancient culture—monks in saffron robes, surrounded by impassive gilded Buddhas—to the cutting edge of sex and drugs. Hong Kong and neighboring Macao eclipsed Malaysia when it came to international finance, and Taiwan offered more in terms of cut-rate souvenirs. Exquisite dancers stole the show in Bali, while Brunei hogged much of Southeast Asia's oil and gas. The Philippines and Indonesia offered island living at its best, for those who could afford the going rate.

Malaysia, in comparison to its successful neighbors, was a relative late bloomer in the rush for tourist dollars, and was better known from dated novels by the likes of Ambler, Black and Maugham than from reality. Of late, though, it had grown into a favored destination for the sort of tourist anxious to relax in an exotic land without the worry of outrageous prices, crowded sight-seeing attractions and daunting language barriers. Whatever might be lacking for the die-hard culture vulture was made up, and then some, by the first-rate service in hotels and some of the most striking beaches in the world. An additional benefit for safety-minded Western tourists was that Malaysia was also rated as the only Southeast Asian country where a round-eyed tourist could feel truly safe while touring in a private rental car.

No wheels for Remo, though, when he set out from his hotel to see the nation's capital. Kuala Lumpur—or "K.L." to its familiars—was a rapidly expanding base of education, politics and industry. The latest guesswork census placed the city's population at one million, but the tourist guidebooks estimated nearly twice as many residents packed into the onetime colonial town that had initially grown around tin mines and kept going from there.

Kuala Lumpur's name translated literally as "muddy river junction," for the nearby merger of the Gombak and Kelang, but there was little to recall those early years in modern-day K.L. The architecture was a blend of early-weird and modern-functional, the arabesque atmosphere of Kuala Lumpur's public buildings—the central railway station, town hall and national mosque—contrasting sharply with the sweeping, functional lines of the newer high-rise school. Both styles collided in the neighborhood of Market Street, along the banks of the Kelang, where the central market drew tourists and locals alike in search of bargains as iron filings are drawn to a magnet.

It was several hours before Remo had to meet the others. Wasted time if he remained at the hotel and tried to guess which way the game would go. He and Master Chiun had a nice room at the Hotel Merlin, on Jalan Sultan Ismail, and he couldn't have dragged Chiun out with a team of horses while the reruns of his beloved soaps were on the tube, much less to mingle with a population that was heavily Chinese in origin.

"At least they are not half-breed Japanese," Chiun had remarked while they were waiting for a taxi at the airport. From his tone, a perfect stranger could have guessed the frail Korean's view of half-breeds generally and the children of Nippon. For Chiun, the Japanese invasion of Korea, back in 1910, had more immediacy than the latest rumbles in Kuwait and Bosnia.

"It is unfortunate," he liked to say, "that they remember nothing of the lesson taught them in Korea."

"Back in 1945, you mean?" asked Remo. "When the U.S. Army and the Russians threw them out?"

"Your textbooks are predictably inaccurate. It was the Master of Sinanju who convinced the foul invaders to depart."

"And how did he accomplish that trick, Little Father?"

"Through a bargain with their emperor," Chiun replied. "The occupation troops withdrew, and Hirohito was permitted to survive."

"What took so long?"

Chiun's expression conveyed disappointment. "You still think like a white man when it comes to time. What is thirty-five or forty years compared to all eternity? The immortal House of Sinanju had more-important tasks than dealing with a few barbarian usurpers of the throne."

"Like earning gold?"

"The second-most-important task of any Master."

"And the first?"

"Pursuit of personal enlightenment," said Chiun, "about Sinanju."

At the moment, Remo would have settled for enlightenment about his current mission, but the final show-and-tell would have to wait a bit, until he met the others at the Shangri-la. Meanwhile, he had some time to kill before that rendezvous, and it would help to put his mind at ease if he could satisfy himself that he hadn't picked up a tail within the past two hours.

The Frumps would help him there, and all they had to do was be themselves.

The contract was a relatively simple one. It called for one dead round-eye, half the payment in advance, the rest when Sing Hop Ma returned with proof of execution.

Easy.

It could even be a pleasure.

He had picked up half a dozen Malay thugs to do the dirty work and make the hit seem like a random street crime. The police were strict about this sort of business, and the locals worked for pocket money—what the Yanks called chicken feed. If they were caught, he trusted them to keep their mouths shut, out of fear and the survival instinct.

Sing Hop Ma had been a red pole—an enforcer—for the local Ben Hoa Tong these past eleven years, since he turned twenty-one. He was a Malay-born Chinese whose father and grandfather served the tong before him, raising Sing to honor the traditions of his clan. The first time he had killed a man, at seventeen, he had been feted by the tong and welcomed to their brotherhood with open arms, a celebration that had nearly made his father weep with pride. Now, as a full-time soldier for the tong, he handled jobs and problems that required a certain killer instinct. Most arose from matters of internal discipline or economic competition, but a few—like this job—were accepted on a contract basis from outside. Another family, or even round-eyes, could procure the services of an assassin if they had sufficient cash in hand.

The target this time was a nondescript American. Six feet, dark hair, brown eyes, no visible tattoos or scars. Sing had a candid photo, taken from a distance at the airport as the target passed through customs, but it told him nothing of the stranger. He looked fit enough, without the bulging muscles that would mark a bodybuilder in the States. Only his wrists looked unusual, huge and sturdy. Perhaps he was a businessman or lawyer, dabbling in some enterprise that earned him lethal enemies.

It made no sense for Sing to speculate. He had no personal investment in the contract, other than the payoff for successful execution. Sing wasn't concerned with what may have provoked the killing, or the impact it would have on foreign shores. His reputation was at stake, dependent on attention to the technical details, but he had supervised this kind of work a hundred times before.

He was sure that nothing could go wrong.

His mark was staying at the Hotel Merlin, one more piece of information from his sponsors to facilitate the work. It had been simple for the Malay thugs to follow him when he went out, along Jalan Ampang, beside the river, walking south until he reached the central marketplace. Most round-eyes hired inexpensive taxis to conserve their energy, but this one liked to walk. He browsed in several shops, paused now and then to speak with sidewalk vendors, but he purchased nothing, even waved off the advances of a stylish prostitute on Market Street.

It would be best to kill him in or near the central market, Sing decided, passing the instruction to his Malay go-between and watching as the man slipped off to find his soldiers in the crowd. The kind of mugging Sing envisioned was uncommon, but it happened. Deaths were rare—the random murder of a round-eyed tourist almost unheard-of—but the only fair alternative would be a manufactured accident, and Sing Hop Ma did not trust his associates to pull it off. That kind of ploy would force him to recruit more soldiers from the tong, and thus reduce his private income from the contract. Better to be happy with the Malays, keep it simple and collect his payoff when the contract was fulfilled.

He could have done the job himself, enjoyed it for the rush of pride he felt whenever he was able to defeat a round-eye, but he didn't care to risk his life and freedom on a mission that had no importance to the family. If this man had done something to invite the wrath of the tong, it would have been a different matter. There would be no need for payment, nothing but a word from his superiors to send him on his way. Sing Ma still executed contracts on his own from time to time, when summoned by the hill chief of his tong, but that was always family business, when the master wished to send his enemies a special message. This was something else, a job for hire, and no sworn member of the tong would soil his hands if it could be avoided. Let the Malay mongrels do it for him, while he split the cash with his superiors.

He was a businessman, no different than a banker or attorney, with the sole exception that his stock-in-trade sometimes included sudden death.

What difference did it make? The men and women he had killed were all deserving of their fate, sworn enemies of Sing Ma's family. They were informers, turncoats, thieves, assassins, spies for the authorities—no good to anyone, themselves included. As for contract killings hired from the outside, he reckoned there must be an urgent motive—fear, perhaps, or hatred, even jealousy—to make a stranger part with so much cash.

Sing Ma was watching when his target fell in step behind the two obese Americans. They weren't friends, from what the tong enforcer could discover, watching from his vantage point across the street. In fact, they didn't speak at all, the two in front ignoring Sing Ma's target absolutely while they bartered with a sidewalk vendor over trinkets.

Three could make the job more difficult than one, if they were fighters, but a passing glance was all it took for Sing Ma to dismiss these bloated round-eyes as potential threats. In this case, he suspected that their presence might prove beneficial. Afterward, when it was done, police would think his hirelings had gone trolling for Americans in general, instead of picking out a special target from the crowd.

Another glance around the marketplace confirmed no uniforms in evidence. Unless the Malays bungled it supremely, they should have no trouble closing in, accosting the Americans, demanding cash and jewelry. There would be a struggle, with the target trying to defend himself, and one or more of the Malays would stab him. Once would be enough, if he was working with a skilled assassin, but Sing Ma had specified no less than half a dozen wounds, to guarantee the job was done. His proof would be the fanfare of publicity attendant on the slaying of a round-eye at the central market.

Perfect.

Sing Hop Ma didn't approach the target personally, hanging back a constant fifty yards to watch from a respectful distance. There was still a possibility, however slight, that something could go wrong. The Malays would be on their own in that event, with nothing but a heartfelt guarantee of slow, protracted death if they betrayed their master. Peasants that they were, they knew the reputation of the Ben Hoa Tong and would do nothing to provoke the massacre of their extended families.

Sing Ma was ready for the trap to close.

Let the festivities begin, Remo thought. He'd felt the executioners before he picked them out by sight; nothing about their superficial looks that would have made them stand out in the crowded marketplace. If pressed for a description of the feeling, Remo might have said they broadcast raw hostility, the same way other human beings radiated fear, anxiety or confidence. It took conditioning and practice to revive the special sense that most men lacked, an edge they had surrendered quite unconsciously along the evolutionary road from "savagery" to "civilization," but the study of Sinanju opened many hidden doors.

Before they came in striking distance, Remo knew that there were six of them, all Malays, traveling in pairs. They weren't total idiots, no shouting back and forth to keep in touch, but once he had them spotted he could read the glance they exchanged while closing for the ambush.

It was fairly well coordinated: two in front of Fred and Freda Frump, two more in back of Remo, with the final pair approaching from his right, across the open marketplace. The hunters broke formation as they closed the gap, forming a semicircle that enclosed the three Americans but allowed other Malays to slip through the cordon when they recognized the danger.

It took another moment for the Frumps to realize their path was blocked, so taken were they with the handmade jewelry offered by an aging sidewalk vendor. Only when the merchant started packing up his wares in haste did either of them realize that something was amiss. They looked around the ring of hostile faces, blanching at the sight of knives and bludgeons, trembling like two effigies constructed out of Jell-O.

"Kasi kita wang segala engkau," one of the assassins ordered. Give us all your money.

So, it was supposed to look like robbery, thought Remo, with the sidewalk merchant serving as a witness for police. No matter that a daylight mugging was among the city's rarest crimes. Assassination would be rarer still, and it required at least a nominal diversion if the killers meant to stay at large.

He tried to picture Fred and Freda as the targets, but dismissed the thought at once. They were innocuous, despite their violation of prevailing fashion codes, and they didn't look prosperous enough to make six hardened thugs risk prison for their pocket change. If anything, bad luck had brought them to their present circumstance.

Which meant the killers had been sent for Remo. That, in turn, suggested strongly that his cover had been blown, but he couldn't address that problem at the moment.

Not until he dealt with more-immediate concerns.

"Kasi kita wang segala engkau," said the leader of the thugs once more. He punctuated the command by jabbing with his wavy-bladed kris in the direction of the Frumps. They squealed in stereo and clutched at one another, sweating through their polyester outfits with the sudden rush of fear.

"Don't move," said Remo, stepping forward to confront the ersatz muggers as he spoke. His next words were addressed to the apparent spokesman for the group. "You're making a mistake."

The blade man stared at Remo, took a moment to absorb the warning and dismissed it like the oaf he was. His forward lunge was telegraphed by twitching muscles in his jaw and the shift of balance to his forward leg before he struck. It was too late to save himself, once he committed to the strike.

One moment, he was thrusting forward, on the verge of burying the kris in Remo's gut; the next, his striking arm was twisted out of shape, the elbow shattered, shoulder dislocated, forming crazy angles, and the blade he meant for Remo slid between his sixth and seventh ribs. The man was dead before he knew it, lurching several steps past Remo, toward the cringing Frumps, before he fell.

The others rushed Remo then, and while his physical reaction was instinctive, nothing but a blur to those who watched dumbfounded from the sidelines, Remo's senses broke the action down and analyzed each movement as a master choreographer reviews a complicated dance routine.

The two goons on his left were close enough to merit an immediate response, one brandishing a dagger, while the other swung a length of chain. He crushed the blade man's larynx with a floating strike that killed him where he stood, continuing a single fluid motion as he spun the standing corpse around and used it as a shield. The oily chain whipped out to wrap itself around the dead man's skull, and Remo met his startled adversary with a snap kick to the face, explosive impact shattering the lower jaw and driving bony needles deep into the soft flesh of his palate.

That left three, and he was ready for them as they tried to mob him, getting in each other's way. He hardly seemed to touch them—Fred and Freda would babble to the police that their attackers almost seemed to turn on one another, it had taken place so quickly—but dramatic roundhouse punches aren't required to kill. A fingertip behind the ear will manage very nicely, or an open palm below the chin, delivered from perhaps a foot away.

The work was done in fifteen seconds, give or take a heartbeat, then Remo stood perfectly composed amid the bodies of his fallen enemies. He faced Fred and Freda, stepping close enough for them to smell his aftershave.

"What did you see?"

Fred blinked at him behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "Hell if I know, mister. It was all so fast."

"So fast," squeaked Freda, echoing her man.

"That's fine."

A dozen witnesses would offer vague descriptions of the round-eyed warrior to police, but none of them could say exactly what he wore or how he vanished from the scene within a few brief seconds of the massacre. It had been self-defense, of course; they all agreed on that score, but investigators were concerned about the presence of a stranger in their city who could wreak such havoc, even if the late recipients of his attention had been gutter trash with records that included sixty-five arrests in thirteen years.

Who could predict what such a man might do?

As for the object of their urgent curiosity, he was intent on getting back to his hotel before he had to meet the others. There was still some time remaining, and he wanted to consult Chiun before the rendezvous.

It was a long shot, granted, but he hoped the two of them could figure out who wanted Remo dead.

Chapter Three

"What do you know about Malaysia?" Dr. Harold Smith had asked him two weeks earlier.

"It's hot there," Remo answered after due consideration. "And it rains a lot."

Smith frowned, his face like an animated lemon. "And to think we marvel at the sorry state of modern education," he remarked.

"It's been a while since I read up on my geography," said Remo.

"Obviously. May I bring you up to date?"

"Please do."

It was Smith's specialty, in fact—not world geography, but bringing Remo up to speed on areas where major problems had arisen, sometimes overnight. In fact, the recognition and solution of those problems was the only reason Dr. Smith and Remo came together. Viewed another way, it was the only reason Remo was alive.

Harold W. Smith was the chief officer and sole surviving staffer of what had to be the smallest and most secretive clandestine-operations unit in the world. Created by a former President of the United States who had the foresight to predict a law-enforcement crisis in America before it came to pass, the unit—known as CURE—had been specifically conceived in an attempt to "save the Constitution by unconstitutional means." Behind the double-talk was a tiny, supersecret strike force, primed to deal with enemies and problems that the law couldn't legitimately touch.

CURE was an assassination squad, and Remo was the assassin.

He worked without a net, no backup teams, support divisions, agents standing by to bail him out if things went wrong. A job like that demanded special skills, a special man, and so it was that CURE had chosen wisely, reaching out for Remo when he least expected it. The group—if such it could be called—had engineered his "death," revived him and presented Remo with an offer he could not refuse: take on the troubles of the world, or die for real, while Dr. Smith went shopping for another paladin.

So Remo took the job, and while he would have liked to say that nothing could surprise him anymore, the world still held its share of mysteries. And some of them were served up to him on a silver platter, courtesy of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

"If you were asked about the state of global exploration in the nineties, Remo, what would you reply?" Smith asked him, rocking backward in his high-backed swivel chair.

"We've pretty well disproved that flat-earth thing, unless you're one of those who think the moon walk was a sci-fi special filmed at the Nevada Test Site."

"You've been watching Oprah."

"Montel Williams," Remo said. "The smaller shows pick up a better class of flake these days."

"And otherwise? In terms of exploration?"

Remo thought about it for a moment. "Looking at your average map," he said at last, "I'd have to say, 'Been there, done that.'"

"Exactly. Looking at a map."

Smith's lips turned upward in a small, uncustomary smile. He held it for perhaps three seconds, but the silence stretched between them for a good half minute, until Remo understood he was expected to respond.

"Okay, I'll bite. What's wrong with maps?" he asked.

"They represent a combination of research and educated guesswork," Dr. Smith replied. "To start with, eighty percent of the planet is covered with water—oceans, seas, lakes, rivers. In many places, the oceans are well over six miles deep, and the average depth is about two miles. Divers rarely venture below fifty fathoms—about three hundred feet—and even then they seldom leave the continental shelf. Who really knows what's happening in the Pacific Ocean, for example? Who can say what's living down there, at the bottom?"

"Jacques Cousteau?"

Smith blinked at Remo and ignored the comment. He was on a roll. "It would appear, despite our glaring ignorance of life beneath the sea, that we've at least explored the land we live on, yes?"

"I'd say."

"Consider this—the greatest waterfall on earth is found in Venezuela, on the Churun River. Angel Falls, 3,212 feet in height. It was unknown until a pilot crashed his plane nearby, in 1937, and discovered it by accident. Thirty years later and not far away, cartographers discovered that a major mountain range, the Cerro Bolivar, had been misplaced by some two hundred miles on every map in print around the world."

"That's sloppy work," said Remo.

"But it's not unusual," Smith told him, warming to his subject. "Why, in northern California alone, we have seventeen thousand square miles that were last surveyed by land in 1859. Today, cartographers rely on aerial reconnaissance—they've even got the shuttle beaming lasers down to chart topography—but none of that says anything about what's going on beneath the forest canopy."

"In California?"

"Anywhere!" Smith answered. "We've got scientists who sit in sterile labs and tell us Bigfoot cannot possibly exist in California, when their last excursion to the area took place before the Civil War. Imagine, Remo!"

"Bigfoot?"

"An example," Dr. Smith replied. "An archetypal mystery of nature."

"Ah."

"Which brings us to Malaysia."

"More or less."

"Are you familiar with the Tasek Bera region?"

Remo thought about it for a moment, frowned and shook his head. "I must have missed it."

"You and damned near everybody else," said Dr. Smith. "It's sixty-five miles due east of Kuala Lumpur as the crow flies, but sixty-five miles in the Malaysian jungle feels more like a thousand. Suffice it to say that the region is poorly explored."

"Fair enough."

"The name translates literally as 'Lake Bera,' but it refers to a much larger region, several hundred square miles of the worst swamp and jungle Malaysia can offer. The lake is a centerpiece, surrounded by the kind of wilderness white hunters used to call Green Hell."

"That's white men for you," Remo said.

The doctor's frown was there and gone, a flicker at the corners of his mouth. Smith never knew quite what to make of Remo or the changes that immersion in the secrets of Sinanju wrought between one meeting and the next.

"What do you know about uranium?" Smith asked him, shifting gears.

"Expensive, toxic, not approved for costume jewelry," Remo said. "I couldn't tell you who discovered it."

"Klaproth," said Dr. Smith, "in 1789. He's not our problem at the moment."

"I'm relieved to hear it."

"You are aware, I think, that weapons-grade uranium is not the most abundant element on earth."

"It rings a bell," said Remo.

"Hence the current seller's market in a world where everybody wants the Bomb," Smith said. "If you have access to uranium in quantities, you've got it made."

"Until your stash is confiscated by the government."

"Precisely." Dr. Smith seemed pleased. "Which leaves uranium prospectors in a kind of legal no-man's-land. They have to find the stuff—no easy job, at that—and try to sell it off for what they can before the nearest sovereign moves to seize the property and add it to existing stockpiles."

"We were getting to Malaysia," Remo interjected.

"Quite. About four months ago, a freelance expedition made its way into the Tasek Bera, looking for uranium where no man's gone before, that kind of thing. Officially, they were a group of birders. Phony papers from the Audubon Society, the whole nine yards."

We're coming to the punch line, Remo thought, content to wait and listen while the doctor spelled it out. He would receive his marching orders soon enough.

"The team was out of touch for thirteen weeks," said Dr. Smith. "That's verging on excessive, even for a jungle expedition, but security is paramount in operations of this type. You don't want anybody listening when you report a major find."

"Okay."

"Eight days ago," Smith said, "some natives found a member of the expedition wandering along the Pahang River, ten or fifteen miles above the Tasek Bera. Terrence Hopper was his name, a veteran prospector with several major strikes behind him. Africa, Australia, South America."

"Uranium?" asked Remo.

"Most recently," Smith said, "but Hopper's hunted everything from oil to gold and platinum. Not much on formal schooling, but he had a major reputation in the field."

Past tense. That meant the man was dead, and Remo would not be required to send him on his way.

"What happened?"

"When they found him," Smith elaborated, "he was nude, malnourished and delirious. The fever spiked around 106, I'm told. It's not important. What concerns me—us—is Hopper's story, pieced together by a nursing sister in Bahau before he died."

"You said he was delirious."

"Indeed. That should not be confused with incoherent, though. Our Mr. Hopper, better known to friends and competition as 'the Mole,' had quite a tale to tell."

"I'm listening."

Smith paused a moment for effect. "He said his expedition was annihilated by a monster."

"So we're back to Bigfoot?"

"Worse. A dragon."

"I assume you've got a call in to Saint George."

"It's not a laughing matter, Remo."

"I can see that."

"As it happens, there have been reports of large reptilian creatures from the Tasek Bera spanning close to half a century. I don't suppose you've read Wavell's Lost World of the East."

It was a rhetorical question. Smith knew before he spoke that Remo's reading was confined, by choice, to information necessary for successful execution of his latest mission. That and certain comic strips.

"Why don't you fill me in?" said Remo.

"Back in 1951, Stewart Wavell explored a portion of the Tasek Bera, interviewed the natives, observed the culture. He brought back stories of a massive predator the tribesmen call Nagaq. That's 'giant cobra,' more or less."

"A snake?"

"A reptile," Dr. Smith corrected him. "Descriptions vary, and it's understood that few who see the beast survive."

"Sounds like a fairy tale."

"Except when you evaluate the witnesses. Wavell himself heard eerie snarling sounds and spotted giant tracks."

"Without a camera handy, I presume."

"Malaysian soldiers and policemen have reported sightings," Smith went on, ignoring Remo. "Back in '62, an expedition from the Royal Air Force went looking for the creature."

"Let me guess—they didn't find it."

"Actually, no."

"In which case—"

"The reports continue. Every year or two, some filler item, mostly in the British press."

"I think that's what they call the silly season," Remo said.

"It hardly matters at the moment. Hopper's story—ravings, if you will—have sparked new interest in the Tasek Bera. There's an expedition forming as we speak, with funding from the Museum of Natural History, to check the region out once and for all."

"Sounds like a tax write-off to me."

"In any case, the expedition will be striking off from Kuala Lumpur in fifteen days, bound for the Great Unknown."

"That's fascinating," Remo told him, stifling a yawn.

"I'm glad you think so. You'll be going with them."

"Say again?"

"They need a herpetologist," said Dr. Smith.

"Who doesn't?"

"Dr. Clarence Otto was their first choice. He's a Ph.D. from San Diego State, affiliated with the zoo at Buena Park. If you've read anything significant on reptiles in the past ten years or so, you'll recognize the name."

"Of course," said Remo, smiling through.

"Unfortunately for the expedition, Dr. Otto had an accident last weekend. Hit and run, I understand. The cast comes off around Thanksgiving."

"That's a shame."

"Which means our dragon hunters need a quick replacement."

"And?"

"You're it."

"I don't know how to tell you this," said Remo, "but I'm not exactly Mr. Lizard."

"You have time to study up," Smith said. "I've requisitioned all the standard texts. It shouldn't be too difficult for you to pass."

"Depends on who I'm dealing with," said Remo.

"All right here." Smith nudged a thin vanilla folder toward the center of his desk. "The other members of your team are mostly into fossils, working on the supposition that Nagaq—if it exists—may be some kind of dinosaur. You'll be the only one on hand who works with living animals."

"In theory," Remo said.

"That's ail you need," Smith told him. "Drop a Latin name from time to time. Sound educated."

"Right."

"You have my every confidence."

"Did it occur to you that someone on the team may want a name they recognize?"

"You have a name," Smith told him. "As of now, you're Dr. Renton Ward, from the New Orleans Serpentarium. You've published in the field—one book on New World vipers and a dozen monographs. You'll have a chance to read those, too. No photos with those publications, by the way."

"That's handy. What about the doctor?"

"He'll be taking a vacation in Tahiti, courtesy of CURE. If anybody calls to check on him, you're covered."

"So, you fixed the serpentarium?"

"They needed help with export permits on a couple of endangered specimens from Thailand. Also some assistance with their new construction budget."

"One more question—why?"

"Uranium," said Dr. Smith.

"I'm guessing you watch Abbott and Costello every chance you get."

"Why's that?"

"Third base," said Remo.

Smith considered that from several angles, finally dismissed the riddle as insoluble and let it go. "We think the expedition—or at least some members of it—may be more concerned with tracking down uranium than dinosaurs. If they can pick up Hopper's trail, find out what he was working on, they could be close enough to bring it home."

"What makes them think he had a lead? You said yourself he was delirious."

"With fever, right." Smith stared across the desk at Remo, hesitated once again before he spoke. "I may have failed to mention that his illness was not caused by any virus or bacteria."

"I'm waiting," Remo said.

"According to the autopsy report," Smith told him, "Terrence Hopper died of radiation poisoning." With that final enlightenment, Remo had been released to bone up for his task.

The next two weeks found Remo back in school. He waded through a dozen books on reptiles and amphibians, retained the information more or less verbatim with the tricks of concentration he had learned while studying Sinanju through the years. Before he finished, Remo knew that reptiles and their kin weren't "cold-blooded"; they were poikilothermic, dependent on ambient heat for their own body temperature. He learned the difference between vipers and the older, more primitive Elapidae, with their short fixed fangs and neurotoxic venom. He knew the range and breeding habits of the major species, focusing on Southeast Asia, and could spot the difference between an alligator and a crocodile in seconds flat. If necessary, he could read a turtle's gender from the structure of its carapace and differentiate between the two suborders. A fat encyclopedia of prehistoric animals provided balance, filling in the background of an age when giant reptiles ruled the planet. By the time he polished off his "own" book—Renton Ward's Revised Taxonomy of New World Vipers—Remo felt he knew the subject inside out.

Which helped him not at all with explanations for Chiun.

In fact, the reigning Master of Sinanju seldom asked about the details of a mission, and he never asked about the motivation. For Chiun, it was enough that Dr. Harold Smith—whom he regarded as a powerful, albeit senile and demented emperor—had chosen special targets for elimination. The assassins of Sinanju had been mercenary killers for a thousand years and more. The very motto of Sinanju—Death Feeds Life—spoke volumes from the heart of the assassin's craft.

Still, Chiun was curious about the pile of weighty reading matter that distracted Remo from the proper study of Ung poetry and breathing exercises. Remo caught him paging through a sixty-five-page monograph on Asian tree frogs, noting Chiun's reaction in the almost microscopic elevation of an eyebrow.

"I have to play a new role for my latest mission, Little Father," Remo said.

Chiun responded with an airy wave, dismissing the remark. "Whatever is required," he said. "Emperor Harold Smith knows best." And to himself added, The idiot.

"What can you tell me about dragons?" Remo asked a moment later.

"Dragons?"

"You know, giant lizards breathing fire, that kind of thing."

"Sarcasm is a poor excuse for discourse," said the Master of Sinanju.

Remo rolled his eyes at that one. "You've been known to use your share."

"Nonsense. The Master of Sinanju does not bandy words with fools. I offer wise instruction and correct the faults of those who fail through negligence, stupidity and arrogance. If my instruction shames them, it is only through a private recognition of their own unworthiness."

"About those dragons… "

Chiun considered Remo's question for a time before he spoke. "In ancient days," he said at last, "before the Supreme Being attained his pinnacle of achievement by creating the first Korean, it amused him to place monsters on the earth. Their forms were varied and diverse, but most of them were stupid creatures. It is written that a few possessed low cunning and the sort of greed that plagues most non-Koreans to the present day. They killed for sport, as some men do, and hoarded skulls as if old lizard bones had some intrinsic value. Finally, when the creator tired of watching them, he slaughtered most of those he had created to make way for human beings."

"Slaughtered most?"

"It is my personal opinion—and most probably the truth—that the creator, driven by his need to see perfection in the flesh, neglected to exterminate the monsters thoroughly. A few survived and hid themselves away in caverns underneath the ground. They watched as men began to multiply and reap undreamed-of harvests from the earth. In time, they threatened man, collecting tribute in the form of gold and silver, precious stones and virgins."

"Virgins?"

"Even monsters have to eat," Chiun replied.

"Of course. I wasn't thinking."

"A lamentable consistency," the Master of Sinanju said.

"So, you believe in dragons?" Remo asked.

"Belief implies a matter of opinion," said Chiun. "A wise man is conversant with the facts of life, reserving his belief for matters of the heart."

"Excuse me, Little Father. What I meant to ask—"

"You meant to ask if there are dragons in the earth today," Chiun finished for him. "My experience as Master of Sinanju offers no solution to the question, but there is a story… "

"Yes?"

"Before the days of Tamerlane, when Master Kim embodied the perfection of Sinanju, it is written that a foolish dragon tried to victimize the people of my village. He was old, this scaly worm, and knew the ways of lesser men from feasting on their brains. Of course, he did not know Sinanju, any more than a gorilla in the zoo can speak Korean."

"So, what happened?"

"Master Kim prevailed with only minimal exertion," said Chiun. "Have you not learned that size means nothing in Sinanju?"

"Kim went out and killed the dragon?"

"Master Kim," Chiun corrected him. "If you peruse the early scrolls, you will discover an amusing recipe for lizard stew."

"I'll pass," said Remo.

"Such disdain from one who has been known to gorge himself on charred cow's flesh." Chiun scanned the stack of books in front of him. "Is there no information here on dragons?"

"The authors aren't Korean."

"And still, their scribblings are accepted as the final word? Incredible."

"I'm going on a dragon hunt," said Remo. "I'll be gone awhile."

"It will be difficult to find one in the modern world," said Chiun. "Perhaps impossible."

"It doesn't matter," Remo told him. "Dr. Smith is more concerned with ringers and uranium."

A total lunatic, Chiun thought. Aloud he said, "The emperor is always right."

"I don't suppose you'd want to come along?"

"Will we be stopping at Sinanju?"

"Not this time. I'm sorry, Little Father."

"Is there television?"

"Almost certainly."

Chiun thought about it for another moment, finally nodding. "I shall go. If there are dragons to be slain, the Master of Sinanju should be there."

"My thoughts exactly," Remo said.

"Of course," Chiun replied. "You recognize perfection, even when it stands beyond your grasp."

Chapter Four

It was a mile-long walk from the chaotic central market back to Remo's lodgings at the Hotel Merlin, on Jalan Sultan Ismail. He made the trek on foot, preferring crowds for cover. Also, he wanted to avoid taxis, because he didn't believe in coincidences. And in that case, he could expect other stalkers searching for him on the street. He wasn't followed from the marketplace, but that was little consolation in the present circumstances.

He was blown. Someone had tried to kill him, and even if the effort was clumsy it was proof positive that Remo's cover had been shot to hell. Logic called for him to scrub the mission, which had been compromised, take Chiun and fly back to the States as soon as possible, but Remo knew he couldn't run away.

His pride was part of it, a failing that Chiun and all the wisdom of Sinanju were unable to eradicate. And there was Remo's patriotic fervor, still a mystery to Chiun, who couldn't understand why any man—much less a trained assassin—would be anxious to surrender life for something so abstract as "God and country."

"What is it you love about America?" Chiun had asked his pupil in the early days of their association.

"I believe," Remo answered, "that this country has given so many people so many chances that it deserves to be protected."

"Why?" the Master of Sinanju prodded.

"Because I'm an American."

And that was that. Despite Chiun's admonitions that a man owed nothing to the country that had framed him for a murder he didn't commit, then staged his execution, drafting him into the service of a cause he didn't choose or fully understand, Remo wouldn't be shaken from the basic tenets of his faith in the United States.

America was threatened by the proliferation of nuclear arms in unreliable hands. If there was weapons-grade uranium available in the Malaysian jungle, it behooved America's defenders to ensure that none of it wound up in Baghdad, in Tehran, Beirut or any of a hundred other places where an A-bomb could ignite the fuse of global holocaust.

The job came down to Remo by coincidence, or maybe it was Fate. In either case, he viewed the execution of that duty as a privilege.

Chiun was watching television in their suite when Remo got there, seated on the floor, a perfect lotus, while he indulged his blossoming fascination for "Love's Secret Flame." This afternoon, it seemed that Whitney Calendar must finally decide between her husband, the philandering Arturo, and the handsome lawyer, Stetson Keating, who admired her none too subtly from a distance.

"How's it going with the Calendars?"

"Arturo is an idiot, enslaved by alcohol," said Chiun, "but he has possibilities. This Keating is not good for Whitney."

"Never trust a lawyer."

"You state the obvious."

Remo sat down on the nearest bed and waited for the next commercial break. "Somebody tried to kill me in the marketplace," he said when Chiun was momentarily distracted from the tube.

"A foolish bandit?" Chiun inquired.

"It was supposed to look that way," said Remo, "but they were assassins."

"Common thugs," Chiun replied. "If they had truly earned the designation of assassin, they would not be dead."

"How do you know I killed them?"

"You are not entirely foolish. Also, you are still alive. How many were there?"

"Six."

The Master's smile was tinged with pride, but he recovered in the twinkling of an eye. "So, they were clumsy thugs."

"I'd like to know who sent them," Remo said. "Right now, I'm flying blind."

"Trust no one," Chiun advised him, "and you won't be taken by surprise."

The douche commercial faded and resolved itself into a close-up of a frowning Whitney Calendar. The camera panned across to find Arturo staring at her, sipping from a whiskey glass.

"The curse of self-indulgence," said Chiun.

"I'm going now," Remo announced. "Time to meet the others."

If Chiun heard Remo speak, he gave no sign. His sparkling eyes were focused on the television set once more, his every sense apparently in tune with the fictitious trials and tribulations of the Calendars, McGreevys, Potters and their ilk.

Chiun's devotion to the soap opera had never ceased to baffle Remo, taken in conjunction with that fine disdain the Master of Sinanju demonstrated for most other things American. If he had not been so familiar with Chiun, the old man's crystal clarity of thought, he might have misjudged Chiun's preoccupation with the soaps as a precursor of senility. Instead, he took it simply as another part of what made Chiun the rare, complex, sometimes infuriating person that he was.

The door closed softly, locking automatically as Remo left the suite. Behind him, seated on the floor, the Master of Sinanju turned away from Whitney Calendar and faced the door.

"Trust no one," he said softly, in Korean. "And take care, my son."

The Shangri-la Hotel was situated some four hundred yards beyond the Merlin and southward, where Jalan P. Ramlee crossed Man Sultan Ismail. It ranked among Kuala Lumpur's newest, most luxurious hotels, with several restaurants and more than seven hundred rooms.

It seemed to Remo that he wasn't followed on the walk between hotels, but then again, there was no point in tailing him if he was blown. His enemy—or enemies—would simply have to wait for Remo to present himself, an insect blundering into the spiderweb.

Except that he was not an ordinary insect, this one. He could sting, as they had learned with the attempt on Remo in the marketplace.

The message had been waiting for him when he checked in at the Hotel Merlin. Dr. Safford Stockwell, Ph.D., requested the pleasure of Dr. Ward's company at 5:00 p.m., to introduce the other members of the expedition and discuss last-minute strategy before departure, first thing in the morning. Remo hadn't bothered to return the call, preferring to remain aloof for now, but he wasn't about to miss the first glimpse of his fellow jungle travelers in the flesh.

Especially now that one of them had tried to have him killed.

The expedition's leader occupied suite 413. There was enough time left for Remo to bypass the elevator, taking to the stairs. As he ascended, Remo summed up what he knew of Safford Stockwell from the information passed along by CURE.

An eminent paleontologist with numerous publications and several major fossil discoveries to his credit, Dr. Stockwell was a Harvard graduate who did his alma mater proud. Of late, his specialty was Asian dinosaurs, which made him perfect for the Tasek Bera expedition. On the downside, he was fifty-eight years old and had confined himself to teaching, with sporadic forays into print, the past six years. Depending on his physical condition, Stockwell might become a burden once they left paved roads and riverboats behind. He didn't figure as a killer, but it was impossible to say with any certainty before they met in person. Age and dwindling economic prospects could be ample motivators for a change of character in later life, especially if the rumors about Stockwell's private life were accurate.

The rumbles out of Washington, where Stockwell taught at Georgetown and donated time at the Smithsonian, suggested ah affair—some said a soon-to-be-announced engagement—featuring the veteran dinosaur hunter and his protégée, one Audrey Moreland. Blond and beaming in the snapshots Remo had examined, Moreland was a paleobotanist out of UCLA, some twenty-five years Stockwell's junior. They had formed a bond of sorts soon after her arrival on the teaching staff at Georgetown, and it had been only natural for Stockwell to select her as his number two when he was tapped to head up the Malaysian team.

As for the rumored romance, Remo didn't know or care if the reports were accurate. On balance, he imagined it would make things simpler all around if Dr. Moreland was in love with Stockwell. That way, she would be less likely to go into business for herself and start prospecting for uranium—or hiring killers on the side.

The fourth floor might have been deserted, judging from the traffic in the hallway. Remo closed the stairwell access door behind him, checked the numbers visible from where he stood and set off to his right, in search of 413. He knew that he was truly in the Orient, when large hotels ignored the superstitious Western terror of "unlucky" numbers.

"White men," Remo muttered, constantly amused—or angered—by the eccentricities of his own race. But oddly, he was less amused when Chiun made his biting observation.

He stopped at 413 and hesitated for a moment, listening, his head turned slightly to one side and tilted toward the door. Other people would have heard a murmur of voices and the occasional word, but Remo's senses were heightened through Sinanju training, and the conversation came through, distinct and clear. Four people talking: two of them American, one British, by the sound, and one that could have been a native. Asian, anyway. One of the two Yanks was a woman, with a sultry voice that still possessed a cutting edge.

"What do we really know about this Dr. Renton Ward?" she asked the others. "I mean, we've never even seen him."

"Equal footing, there," her fellow countryman replied. "He hasn't seen us, either."

"You know what I mean," the woman answered, sounding peevish.

"We were fortunate that anyone could make the trip on such short notice," said the older man who must be Safford Stockwell. "Anyway, I've read his book and several of his monographs. He knows his subject."

"Even so—"

The subject of their conversation rapped three times against the door, imagining how easy it would be to put his hand and arm completely through the flimsy wooden panel. That would give them something to discuss around the campfire, but Remo wasn't prepared to discard his cover yet, despite the fact that it was evidently blown. They had a jungle trek ahead of them, and he would have to stay in character as long as possible.

The door was opened by a walking slab of muscle dressed in khaki. Jungle Jim on steroids, with the sickly sweet aroma of a full-time carnivore exuding from his sunbaked skin. The man was six foot five or six, with sandy hair combed straight back from a face that looked like sculpted leather. He was looking down his nose at Remo, literally, with a pair of cold gray eyes. That nose had taken brutal punishment at one time, and an impressive scar ran from the left eyebrow to the jaw hinge, just below his ear.

"And you are?"

Here's the Brit, thought Remo as he answered, "Renton Ward."

An older man stepped forward, easing past the hulk and offering his hand. The grip was firm enough, but there was no real strength behind it.

"Dr. Ward, come in, please. We were just discussing you."

"That explains it, then," said Remo.

"Sorry?"

"Why my ears were burning."

"Ah." Confusion flickered for an instant in the aging academic's eyes before he shook it off and introduced himself. "I'm Dr. Stockwell. Safford Stockwell."

Fearless leader, Remo thought, as if I couldn't guess. The man was fifty-eight, according to his file, but could have passed for ten years older at a glance. White hair, receding in a George Bush pattern, and a face that seemed to droop, with wattles showing underneath his chin. Whatever muscle tone and color Stockwell had acquired from years of fieldwork, chasing dinosaur remains, had long since vanished under the fluorescent classroom lights. He might be stronger than he looked, of course, but Remo guessed that he would burn out early on the trail, become a major burden if their group encountered any major obstacles requiring physical exertion.

"My assistant, Dr. Moreland."

Stockwell made the introduction with a flourish, not quite showing off his prize, but close enough.

And what a prize she was. A honey blonde, blue eyes that gave her angel face a hint of something more sophisticated, verging on exotic. World-class breasts, unfettered beneath a Thai silk blouse. Legs better suited to the runway at a fashion show than any jungle game trail.

"Call me Audrey, please."

"My pleasure. Renton Ward."

Her mentor stepped between them, steering Remo toward the hulk who manned the door. "Pike Chalmers," Stockwell said. "Our designated troubleshooter, if you will."

Some kind of military background there, thought Remo. Maybe service as a mercenary, once he pulled the pin. Pike Chalmers had the look of someone who enjoyed the act of killing for its own sake, as a form of sport.

The hand he offered Remo could have doubled for a catcher's mitt. His grip would be a calculated crusher, showing off, and Remo braced himself, prepared for anything.

"So, you're the reptile man," said Chalmers, tightening his grip.

"That's right."

The trick was not resistance or brute force, but a strategic application of sufficient pressure to the carpal nerves and tendons. Remo felt the big man's knuckles crunch together like ball bearings, but restrained himself from breaking any bones. The big man grimaced and retrieved his hand, concealing it behind his back as he began to flex the fingers, testing them for damage.

"And, of course, our escort from the Ministry of the Interior," said Stockwell, guiding Remo toward a slim Malaysian in his thirties. "Second Deputy Sibu Bintulu Sandakan."

The small man bowed ever so slightly from the waist in lieu of shaking hands. Ordinarily Remo followed more-casual American manners, but some past drilling by Chiun prompted him to follow suit. So he took care to show the proper courtesy, his bow a bit more solemn and pronounced, accentuated by averting his gaze. The second deputy of who-knows-what seemed pleased.

"I hope you will accept the greetings and best wishes of my government," said Sibu Sandakan. "It is my privilege to accompany such fine, distinguished guests on their excursion to the bush."

"The privilege is ours," said Remo, wrapping up the niceties.

He glanced around the room at each face in turn, alert for any sign that one or more of them were disappointed or surprised to find him still alive. Pike Chalmers, glaring back at Remo like a wounded bear, would require watching, but there was nothing in his manner to suggest that he had hired the gang of thugs to waylay Remo in the marketplace. If anything, he seemed more like the sort of man who would enjoy attending to the dirty work himself. As for the others, Sandakan and Stockwell seemed innocuous enough, while Audrey Moreland favored Remo with a smile that stopped just short of flirting.

So much for deduction.

Simple logic told him that some person in the room—and possibly some two- or three-way combination—had conspired to rub him out before the expedition left K.L. Whoever was responsible was more adept at covering than Remo had expected. There would be no giveaway disclosures, nothing to betray the ringer here and now, before they hit the grueling jungle trail.

But Dr. Smith's suspicions were confirmed, at least, if nothing else. There obviously was a ringer on the team, or more than one, who meant to safeguard what was perceived as a potential fortune by eliminating any wild cards from the deck.

How had the ringer penetrated Remo's cover? Was the bungled hit a simple effort to ensure that no untested strangers joined the team? Were all of them involved, including the unfortunately sidelined Dr. Otto?

"Shall we get to business, then?" asked Stockwell, bringing Remo's thoughts back to the here and now.

"Suits me."

Five chairs had been positioned to surround a glass-topped coffee table, where a two-by-three-foot topographic map lay open, anchored on the left and right by ashtrays. Remo took a seat with Audrey Moreland on his right, Pike Chalmers facing him across the table. Dr. Stockwell took a folding pointer from his pocket, snapped it open and craned forward in his chair to start the briefing.

"We are here," he said, the pointer tapping a spot on the map that was named for Kuala Lumpur. "And our final destination… is… here."

The pointer slid a foot or so to Stockwell's left and settled on a patch of blue that had to be a lake, its several fingers splayed as if to mimic the impression of a malformed hand.

"The Tasek Bera," Stockwell said, his voice pitched low to emphasize the drama. "It's 64.7 miles due east, in Pahang Province. It appears to be an easy trip on paper."

"Easy, nothing," Chalmers said. "That jungle's broken more good men than I can name."

"As I was saying—" Stockwell caught himself just short of glaring at the hulk "—it seems an easy trip on paper, but we have our work cut out for us. We'll have to make the trip in stages, starting with a flight tomorrow morning, up to Temerloh. From there, we take a riverboat due south, another forty miles, to Dampar. That will be our jumping-off point, as it were. No airstrip at Dampar, you see."

"No bloody road worth mentioning," Chalmers added.

Dr. Stockwell cleared his throat before continuing. "We'll meet our guide in Dampar. Deputy Sandakan has taken care of the arrangements there."

"Indeed," the little Malay said to no one in particular. "We have engaged one of the best guides in the province for your expedition."

"From the time we leave Dampar," Stockwell went on, "it should take perhaps three days to reach the Tasek Bera proper. We will travel by canoe as far as possible, but I'm afraid there'll be some hiking at the end."

"A bloody lot of hiking," Chalmers said, still glaring hard at Remo.

"I'll keep up the best I can," offered Remo, smiling at the hulk.

"You haven't spent much time in Asia, have you?" Audrey Moreland touched his forearm lightly as she spoke, then casually withdrew her hand.

"Not much," said Remo, sticking to the script.

"I've read your work on New World vipers," Stockwell said. "It was a fascinating piece of research."

"This will be a change from South America," said Remo, putting on a small, self-deprecating smile.

"No end of bloody snakes, though, if that's what you care for," Chalmers said.

"Some of them must be dangerous," said Audrey, sounding more like a B-movie damsel in distress than a professor on the verge of making history.

"There is some risk, of course," said Remo. "Kraits and cobras are the greatest hazard where we're going, though I doubt we'll be fortunate enough to glimpse a king cobra."

"Lord, I hope not." Audrey shuddered at the very notion, her round breasts wobbling slightly underneath the clinging fabric of her blouse.

"Most of the Malaysian vipers, by contrast, tend to be smaller and less aggressive. The genus Trimeresurus is widely represented, with both terrestrial and arboreal species, but they seldom trouble man unless directly threatened."

"What about the big ones?" This time, Audrey let her fingers come to rest on Remo's knee.

"Reticulated pythons are the ones to watch," he told her, turning up the wattage on his smile. "Officially, the record is just over thirty-two feet."

"They must be dangerous, as well," said Audrey.

"Not unless you go out of your way to tackle one," he answered. "Of course, there is one documented case in which a fourteen-year-old Malay boy was eaten by a seventeen-foot python. As it happens, that's the only case on record of a human being swallowed whole."

"Can you imagine?" Audrey shivered. "Being eaten up alive."

"I wouldn't worry," Remo said. "You're much more likely to be eaten by mosquitoes."

"Or the bloody crocs," said Chalmers, scowling as he lit up an unfiltered cigarette.

"We can't rule out a few stray crocodiles, of course," acknowledged Remo, "but the fact is, none are native to the area we'll be exploring."

"Is that right?" The big ex-soldier's tone was challenging.

"Afraid so, Mr. Chambers."

"Chalmers."

"Sorry, my mistake." He turned back toward Audrey, all smiles. "Crocodylus siamensis is the most common species in Southeast Asia, but its normal range cuts off about two hundred miles due north of here. Now, Crocodylus porosus is larger, a certified man-eater, but its typical habitat runs toward coastal waters—hence the popular nickname of 'saltwater crocodile.' It's possible that one might swim upstream along the Rompin, here—" he pointed to the map, his elbow nudging Audrey's thigh in the process "—but it's not too likely."

"Well, it's good to have an expert on the team," sneered Chalmers.

"We can all learn something, I imagine," Remo told him.

"If we're lucky," Stockwell interjected, "we'll have bigger specimens to deal with than a crocodile, in any case."

"Now, Safford…" Audrey's tone was almost chiding.

"Yes, I know," said Stockwell. "Mustn't get my hopes up. Even so, you won't mind if I keep my fingers crossed."

"You think it's really possible," Sibu Sandakan spoke up, "to find a prehistoric creature in the Tasek Bera?"

"Prehistoric specimens are not uncommon, if truth be told," said Stockwell. "Why, the lowly cockroach is a prime example, and the crocodiles described by Dr. Ward have survived, more or less unchanged, from Protosuchus in the late Triassic period, more than two hundred million years ago."

"Incredible!" The little Malay's eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm. "There is hope, then."

"For a startling find?" The expedition's leader glanced at Audrey Moreland, smiled, restraining his enthusiasm with an effort. "I believe that in a region like the Tasek Bera, anything is possible."

"We must be dazzling Dr. Ward," said Audrey.

"I can use a little dazzling from time to time," Remo replied.

"You've brought the necessary gear, I trust?" asked Dr. Stockwell.

"Hiking clothes, insect repellent, all that sort of thing," said Remo. "Back at my hotel, that is. I'll need a chance to pack."

"We all have work to do in that regard," said Stockwell. "I propose that we adjourn and meet again for breakfast, in the restaurant downstairs. Is 6:00 a.m. too early?"

"Not for me," said Remo, while the others shook their heads in unison.

"Till six o'clock, then."

Stockwell rose, a gesture of dismissal from the dean, and Remo made his way in the direction of the exit. He was only halfway there when Audrey Moreland overtook him and stopped him with a warm hand on his arm.

"I'm glad you've joined our little party, Dr. Ward."

"Please, call me Renton."

"Very well. I'm glad you're coming with us, Renton."

"So am I."

"I'll see you in the morning?"

"Bright and early," Remo said.

Her smile spoke volumes on the benefits of adolescent orthodontia.

"I'll be looking forward to it, Renton."

Remo rode the elevator down to give himself a change of pace, still wondering which one of them had tried to kill him in the marketplace and when the next attempt would come.

Chapter Five

"What did you think of him?"

"Of whom?" asked Audrey Moreland.

Safford Stockwell smiled indulgently. "Our Dr. Ward. He caught your fancy, didn't he?"

"Oh, Safford, don't be silly. Just professional interest."

They were still in Stockwell's suite—alone at last, but Stockwell didn't feel relaxed somehow. A part of that was natural anticipation and anxiety, he realized. They were embarking, almost at the crack of dawn, on what would either be the crowning highlight or the most embarrassing fiasco of his long career.

But there was something else on Stockwell's mind besides the hunt. A twinge of something the professor was reluctant to identify.

"It's not a problem if you like him, Audrey," Stockwell said.

"I've barely met the man, for heaven's sake." There was a hint of irritation in her tone now, recognizable at once to anyone who knew her moods.

"I'm simply saying—"

"What? What are you saying, Safford?"

And the question stopped him cold.

It was an article of faith at Georgetown, where they taught and frequently took meals together, that there must be something "going on" between himself and Audrey Moreland. Stockwell didn't circulate the rumors, but he didn't bust his hump to contradict them, either. If the rest of Georgetown's staff—composed primarily of men and women Stockwell's age or older—chose to think that he had won the heart of Audrey Moreland, who was he to run around the campus bursting their balloons?

In truth, he had been startled when the first such rumor came to his attention, overheard in passing. Surprise had quickly given way to irritation, but before he got around to setting anybody straight, Professor Stockwell—then a sprightly lad of fifty-six—had felt a new emotion horning in.

He had been flattered.

It was something at his age for men who knew him well—several of them younger men, at that—to think he had the looks, charm and stamina to woo and hold a thirty-something female with traffic stopping looks and a vivacious personality. The ego strokes were even more rewarding when he learned that many women staffers also took the story at face value.

They believed in him somehow.

He had been driven to a confrontation with his bathroom mirror, normally a prospect he avoided like the plague. The past few years, his mirror had become the enemy, a living Picture of Dorian Gray that emphasized the ravages of time up close and personal. The spreading rumors of his prowess as a Casanova forced him to look deeper, though, to see what others saw.

In fact, he never found it, but it didn't matter in the end. The lovely, ego-stroking rumors kept on circulating, pumping up his self-esteem, and while he never made a move on Audrey Moreland—pride was one thing, but courage another—Stockwell had begun to think of them as… well, a couple. There was nothing to it, and he took himself to task on more than one occasion, but it felt good just pretending and it did no harm.

Except when he felt pangs of jealousy.

That was the height of foolishness, he realized, and Stockwell had the common sense to keep those feelings secret, hidden from the world at large.

Until tonight.

"I'm sorry, Audrey." It wasn't an answer to her question, but he had no answer that would get him off the hook. "I didn't mean to come off sounding like your father."

"I'm a big girl, Safford." Telling him the obvious, as if he hadn't noticed, each and every day since they were introduced. "And I can take care of myself."

"Of course."

"It's sweet of you to worry, but I didn't fly halfway around the world to fall in love."

"That wasn't what I meant," he said, casting about to try to salvage something from the conversation. "I was curious to find out what you thought of Dr. Ward as an addition to our little family."

"Some family," she answered, and surprised him with her tone. "At least he's not like Chalmers. God, that man disgusts me with his swaggering and all that talk about the animals he's killed for fun."

"We need a man like Chalmers, Audrey. Just in case, you understand?"

"He's still a bully, Safford. And I hate the way he looks at me, like he was ordering a piece of meat."

"Has he done anything?"

The question slipped through Stockwell's teeth before he had a chance to catch it. What did he propose to do if Chalmers had made some improper overtures to Audrey? Challenge him to fight? The very notion was ridiculous.

"Not yet," she said, and let him off the hook. "I just don't like him. I don't trust him."

"He comes highly recommended, Audrey."

"By the old-boy network, I've no doubt. They stick together, just like any other clique."

"What is it that you think he's up to?" Stockwell asked her.

"How should I know? If we find this creature—if there is a creature to be found—what would prevent his killing it on sight to make another trophy?"

Stockwell longed to assume the role of noble hero, but knew how it would sound. Pathetic boasting. "We will, Audrey. All of us. Remember Sandakan. He represents the state. Our Mr. Chalmers may be callous, but I don't believe he's up to challenging the whole Malaysian government, do you?"

"This animal we're looking for would be worth millions, Safford, money in the bank. Of course… "

She didn't have to finish the remark. He recognized her skepticism and tried to mirror it, in fact, to keep himself from looking like a fool. A search for living dinosaurs was probably quixotic, possibly insane, but he had still leaped at the chance to head the expedition. Whether it was simple boredom with his teaching post and part-time work at the Smithsonian, or longing for a greater glory that would soon be hopelessly beyond his reach, Professor Stockwell had signed on despite the giggle factor, offering his solid reputation as a sacrifice. If they returned to Georgetown empty-handed… well, his job would still be waiting for him, thanks to tenure, and in the meantime there was no need to think about the personal humiliation he would have to face. A couple of the wags on campus were already calling him Professor Challenger, and they would have a roaring field day if he failed.

"I'm confident that the authorities can deal with any problems of that nature," he told Audrey. "All we have to do is find the creature, yes?"

"You're right, of course," she said. "But I don't have to like him."

"No, my dear, you certainly do not." Emboldened by the moment, Stockwell took a shot. "How would you like a glass of wine?"

"I'd better not," she told him, softening rejection with a smile. "We've got an early start tomorrow, and I still have things to do."

"I understand." Too well, he understood. "I'll see you in the morning, then. Sleep well."

"You, too."

She left him, headed back to her adjoining room, and Stockwell double-locked the door behind her. You could never be too careful.

"Do you believe their story?"

Sibu Sandakan faced his superior across a massive teakwood desk, his bearing ramrod straight. He had to stop and think about the question, even now, though it had been a frequent topic of discussion at the office for the past few weeks.

"I think their leader is sincere," he said at last.

"I'm not sure even he believes, but there is hope. He yearns for immortality."

"And what about the others?" asked Germuk Sayur, first deputy to Jantan Separuh, the minister of the interior.

"The Englishman loves money. He will go wherever he is paid to go. As for the new American, I think his curiosity is piqued, but he is skeptical."

He offered no opinion on the woman, nor was it requested. Sibu Sandakan and his immediate superior were of a single mind where females were concerned. This blond American might be a full professor back in Washington, but it was still impossible for them to take her seriously as a guiding force behind the expedition. Women followed men. So it had always been; so it would always be.

"And you, Sibu? What do you think about their chances?"

"Of returning with a dinosaur?" He frowned, considering the problem, desperate not to come off sounding like a superstitious peasant. "You have heard the Tasek Bera stories, sir. You know of the reports from our own soldiers and police."

"Indeed. I'm asking what you think."

"I don't believe in fairy stories," Sibu Sandakan replied, "but who can say about such things?"

"The minister has some concern about this dead man, Hopper."

"Oh?"

"He was prospecting for uranium, as you're aware. You also know the circumstances of his death."

"Yes, sir."

"There is suspicion at the ministry," Germuk Sayur continued. "Some believe this party may be more concerned with mining than with monsters."

"Customs has examined their equipment, I assume."

"Within their limits, Sibu. It would not require much effort to conceal a simple Geiger counter—or to purchase one from sources in the country, if it came to that."

"There are no mining experts in the party," Sandakan reminded his superior.

"None that we know of."

"Sir?"

"Who knows if anyone is what he claims to be these days? A passport can be forged, biographies concocted out of nothing. The Americans are skilled at fabrication."

"You believe their government may be involved?" The very notion boggled Sibu's mind.

"I am suggesting only possibilities," Germuk Sayur replied. "But then again, why not?"

"They would be risking much embarrassment."

"With much to gain, Sibu. A fortune for the taking."

"Surely we would not permit them to invade our sovereignty?"

"Americans are devious," the deputy reminded him. "They have been known to bribe officials, threaten economic sanctions when their will is thwarted, even sponsor revolutions to unseat a government if all else fails."

"I will be vigilant," said Sibu Sandakan.

"Is vigilance enough, I wonder?"

"Sir?"

"We must be ready to respond at the first sign of treachery, Sibu. You understand?"

He nodded, more from force of habit than real understanding. Sibu Sandakan was troubled by the turn this little chat had taken. He was no spy, much less a soldier or policeman. Nothing in his background had prepared him for the kind of cloak-and-dagger games Germuk Sayur was evidently planning.

"You will carry this." The deputy retrieved a plastic box, no larger than a cigarette pack, from an inside pocket of his coat and slid it toward Sibu across the desk. "It is a radio transmitter, specially designed for an emergency. You cannot send a message in the normal sense, by speaking into it, nor is it able to receive. Simplicity dictates a single button that, when pressed, transmits a nonstop signal for the next eight hours, on a special frequency. From noon tomorrow, until you return, the ministry will have an armed security detachment standing by with helicopters, waiting for your signal."

Sibu Sandakan was even more uneasy now. "What sort of an emergency?" he asked.

"You'll be the judge of that, Sibu. If the Americans should find uranium instead of dinosaurs, for instance, they will need immediate protection."

House arrest would be more like it, Sandakan imagined. Someone in the capital could always sort the matter out with an apology, by which time the uranium would be secure in native hands. That much was only fair, but he resented being drafted into work for which he wasn't trained or temperamentally inclined. Still, he couldn't refuse an order from the ministry.

The plastic box felt almost weightless in his hand. He stroked his thumb across the button, trying to imagine the reaction that a pound or two of pressure would evoke.

"You will, of course, be circumspect about its use." It was an order, plain and simple.

"Yes, sir. Certainly." Another thought was nagging at him now. "What if… ?"

"Go on, Sibu."

"What if the expedition is successful, sir?"

"What if they find a prehistoric animal, you mean?"

"Yes, sir."

Germuk Sayur could only smile. "In that case, they will also need protection, Sibu, will they not?"

"The Englishman—"

"Must pose no threat to an endangered species. Not when its survival could prove beneficial to the state."

"I'm not sure—"

"Think of it, Sibu. The tourist trade we could attract. You've seen Jurassic Park?"

"No, sir."

"I recommend it highly. If museums can turn a profit from display of dusty bones, think what a modern and well-managed game preserve could do with living animals."

It was beyond imagination, and Sibu let it go.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"You're clear on your instructions, then? A signal in the case of an emergency, but no hysterics. If the party finds uranium or giant lizards, you must let us know immediately. Otherwise… "

"I understand."

"In that case, you should get some rest. You have a great adventure waiting for you in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

As he closed the office door behind him, pocketing the little radio transmitter, Sibu Sandakan was wishing he could pass the whole assignment off to someone else. A city boy at heart, he had no wish to camp out in the jungle, sleep beneath mosquito nets and watch each step he took for fear of deadly snakes. The rest of it—the dinosaurs, uranium and geopolitics—was all too much to cope with. He would simply have to watch and wait, be ready with the panic button at the first sight of a monster or duplicity from the Americans, whichever surfaced first.

With any luck at all, he told himself, the whole excursion would turn out to be a waste of time. He could endure the laughter of his friends around the office for a week or two, until they found some new amusement for themselves.

But the alternative was frightening.

Sibu Bintulu Sandakan was worried that he might turn out to be one more endangered species in the trackless jungle, and a flying squad of soldiers would be precious little good to him if they arrived too late.

Pike Chalmers lit his last unfiltered cigarette and crumpled up the empty pack, discarding it with no attempt to find a litter can. The Malays lived like rodents in his estimation, crowded cheek by jowl, the best of them perhaps two generations from the bush. Surrendering the colony had been one of Her Majesty's mistakes—like India, Jamaica, Kenya and the rest—but it was no good crying over spilled milk now. That train had left the station, thank you very much, and it was never coming back.

Pike Chalmers missed the glory days of empire, even though the bulk of it had been before his time. He had been eight years old the year his father died, a victim of the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya. There were lean times after that, in Manchester, despite a soldier's pension for the widow and her son. It had been only natural for Chalmers to enlist when he was seventeen, but there were no great wars remaining to be fought. Three tours in Northern Ireland were enough, and he had briefly gone the mercenary route in Africa, before discovering that he could make more money killing helpless animals than stalking men with guns who might shoot back. Safari guides were always in demand, and when the namby-pamby "greens" began to flex their legislative, muscles, curbing the majority of classic hunts, the flabby tourists with their cameras still required a man of courage and experience to take them out and bring them safely back again.

But it was killing Chalmers loved. You could forget about the "metaphysics of the hunt," conserving nature with a harvest of the weak, all that manure sportsmen ladled on their game to make it more politically correct. Back in the old days, you went out to shoot a rhino or a tiger for the fun of it, a stylish trophy all the validation any man required. White hunters were admired for their abundant courage, knowledge of the wilderness, the number of their kills.

It was a new world now, and Chalmers didn't like it much. Besides the hunting question, strident activists had poked their noses into everything from sex to smoking. A majority of Yanks had voted for a President who dodged the draft and promised higher taxes to protect them from themselves in any given situation, while at home the royals had fallen into scandal and disgrace.

Pike Chalmers often thought that he was born too late, a man whose time had come and gone before he made his way onto the stage. It would have pleased him to reverse the flow of time, skip thirty-five or forty years back into history and take his rightful place among the men who built an empire girdling the globe.

But why stop there?

If he could work a miracle, why not go back a century, get in at the beginning of the action, killing Zulus, Boers, Afghans. It had been open season in those days. Britannia ruled the waves, and it was easier to pack the white man's burden in a simple hearse than listen to the wogs and kaffirs whine about their "rights."

Of course, there were no time machines, no miracles, but men of daring still got lucky now and then, despite the odds against them. Chalmers reckoned he was overdue for some good luck, the way things had been going in his life of late, and if a handful of his colleagues thought that he was balmy, signing on to join a dinosaur hunt, he knew that most of their remarks sprang out of envy. They were jealous bastards, seeing Chalmers land an easy job of work while they were left out in the cold.

And what if it paid off?

Suppose there was a bloody dinosaur waiting for them out there in the bush. Pike Chalmers couldn't keep from smiling as he thought about the possibilities. He could retire on profits from the book and movie rights, pick up a ghost to hammer out the manuscript for pocket change and relocate to Ireland, where the writers lived tax free. Do all the talk shows like a bloody rock-and-roll star. He could well afford to let the Yank professors write their textbooks filled with charts and diagrams, all kinds of Latin jawbreakers that only another scientist would ever read. The real loot came from exploitation in the media.

Pike Chalmers thought he might be forced to hire an agent if the money started pouring in too fast for him to handle. Life was hard, but he would do his best to cope.

And if he felt like keeping all the glory for himself, then he could see his way to being the expedition's sole survivor. There were a hundred easy ways to die in the Malaysian jungle, even when you didn't have a handy dinosaur around to gobble the remains. This lot were amateurs, babes in the woods. He could dispose of them as if they were nothing, never even break a sweat. Without the profs around, there would be no one to dispute Pike's version of events, whatever that turned out to be. Something heroic, certainly, to keep himself at center stage.

He had begun to shop around for leading men to play his part in the inevitable movie when he caught himself. It was a grave mistake to count your eggs before they hatched, especially if they were dinosaur eggs. Pike Chalmers was no scholar, but he knew the odds were stacked against survival of a species thought to be extinct for umpteen billion years. Simple deductive thinking said the trip would be another paying job and nothing more.

Or maybe not.

They didn't have to find a bloody dinosaur for Chalmers to get something extra from the trip. That Audrey Moreland was a tasty dish, and no mistake. Oh, she was giving him the brush right now, the way her kind so often did, but that was in a posh hotel, when she could call downstairs for room service to fetch her up a glass of bubbly any time she chose.

It was a different story in the jungle, when you said goodbye to feather beds, dry clothes and decent food. The only running water in the Tasek Bera would be rain and jungle streams; her next-door neighbors would be snakes and scorpions and hungry tigers.

Not to mention Chalmers, most dangerous of all.

Before their little trek was finished, Audrey Moreland would acquire a new appreciation of his talents, not just on the trail, but in the sleeping bag, as well. She might protest at first, but who was there to take her part against a real man when the chips were down?

That brought his thoughts back to the new bloke, Dr. Renton Ward. A strange duck, that one. Didn't look like he could tear a piece of paper if he used both hands, but he had turned Pike's crushing grip around, and no mistake. The knuckles of his right hand still felt sore, as if he'd punched a concrete wall. Some kind of trick, no doubt, but Chalmers would be ready for him next time. Keep an eye on that one all the way, damned right, and fix a nasty accident first chance he got.

Pike Chalmers thought of Audrey flirting with the little bastard when she'd only just been introduced a moment earlier. There was no accounting for taste, of course, but she would find her choices strictly limited in two or three days' time. The old fart she was traveling with would never cut the mustard, and their native chaperon… well, he was just another bloody wog.

It was an article of faith with Chalmers that all women wanted sex from men who showed them who was boss. Some needed more persuasion, but he never missed… except, of course, with lesbians. And he had shown a few of those what they were missing, too.

A real man had the right—make that the duty—to extend himself where women were concerned, and Chalmers was a man who always tried to do his duty.

Yes, indeed, there would be some surprises waiting for his snooty clients on the trail. And it would be a pleasure watching as they tried to cope.

Pike Chalmers found that he could hardly wait. In fact, why should he wait?

The night was young, and he was feeling lucky.

First, a stop to buy more cigarettes, then he would take a chance and roll the bloody dice.

Chapter Six

"None of your fellow travelers were startled to behold you in the flesh?" asked Chiun.

"I couldn't tell. It didn't seem that way."

The Master of Sinanju made a clucking noise. "White men neglect the art of observation," he suggested.

"I observed them well enough," said Remo. "Maybe one of them was covering."

"Then you did not observe," Chiun informed him. "There are always signals to betray a liar. Deviations in the normal pattern of respiration. Beads of perspiration at the hairline. Possibly a twitching of the eyebrows."

"Nothing," Remo answered, having checked for all the normal signs. "I got the bad eye from their pet gorilla, but he doesn't strike me as a mastermind."

"Did you reveal yourself to him?" asked Chiun.

"Not really."

"So you did."

"A little squeeze when we shook hands is all, to put him in his place."

"Put him on notice, you should say. He is a white man?"

"British, right."

"You may be fortunate in that case. White men, in their ignorance, are blinded by the perfect glory of Sinanju. He will probably suspect that you pump iron and do aerobics with the round-eyed girls on television."

Remo finished packing, double-checked the bathroom and the closet for forgotten items, finally zipped his duffel bag. "You know," he said, "it's always possible that I was burned by someone else, outside the team."

Chiun's shrug was lost inside the folds of his kimono. "Anything is possible," he said. "An ape may learn to sing someday. But is it logical?"

"You're right."

"Of course."

It made no sense, when Remo thought about it, for an outside force to want him dead. He was unknown outside of CURE, and his appointed cover was innocuous in the extreme. How many people outside academia had ever heard of Dr. Renton Ward, and how many of those would try to kill him in Malaysia of all places? Even if the herpetologist was eyebrow deep in debt to the most vicious of New Orleans loan sharks, they would deal with him at home, where they controlled the playing field. And CURE would certainly have run a background check on Dr. Ward before they cut a deal to borrow his identity.

No matter how he tried to skull it out, he kept returning to square one. The hit team in the central marketplace had been assigned to deal with Remo—or with "Renton Ward"—because someone was anxious to prevent his linking up with Dr. Stockwell's expedition. Motive was an unknown quantity, beyond deduction from the evidence in hand.

What evidence? he asked himself. The thugs who tried to kill him were beyond confessing now. The only way for them to finger their employer would be through an Ouija board. That left four individuals Who might have motives for disposing of the new man on the team, with better than a dozen combinations possible if two or more of them were in cahoots. And so far, Remo didn't have a shred of proof connecting any one of them with the attempted hit.

He gave up trying to divine why someone he had never met before should want him dead. The possibilities seemed endless, anything from academic jealousy to common greed. CURE'S background check had ruled out prior connection between Renton Ward and other members of the expedition. If there was an ancient grudge involved, one glimpse of Remo's face would be enough to tell the other party that they had a ringer on the team.

Which brought him back to wondering how anyone, much less a desk-bound academic, could have blown his cover off this early in the game.

"Where are you going?" asked Chiun.

And Remo had to smile at that. He had been standing by his bed, immobile, staring at his duffel bag, but Chiun could tell that he was on the verge of going out. The old Korean never failed to keep him on his toes.

"I thought I'd take a walk," said Remo.

"White man's logic," said the Master of Sinanju. "When confronted with a long trek through the jungle, you prepare by walking aimlessly around a city."

"It's a form of relaxation. As you know, I don't need lots of sleep."

"You need more training," said Chiun. "A student who has barely scratched the surface of Sinanju should devote his every waking hour to the work."

"First thing, when I get back from dinosaur hunting."

"I accede to this because Emperor Harold Smith demands it," said Chiun, "but you are not prepared."

"It's too bad you can't join us," Remo said.

"This frail old specter, tramping through the jungle like a savage?" Chiun was visibly appalled by the idea.

"You wouldn't pass inspection anyway. No Ph.D."

"True wisdom does not come from scrambling the letters of the alphabet behind your name," said Chiun.

"You got that right," said Remo.

"Was there any doubt?"

"HI be home soon."

"Home is Sinanju. This is but a place to sleep and hang your clothes."

"Don't watch the tube too late. You need your beauty sleep."

"More slander. The Korean countenance, illuminated by Sinanju, is perfection multiplied."

Chiun would always have the last word, even if he had to whisper in Korean. Remo let it go and closed the door behind him. Never mind the dead bolt. Any hotel burglar who might try to loot this room was in for a surprise.

He took the stairs, ten flights, and practiced running down the banisters for exercise. It would have helped to take his shoes off, but he managed nicely just the same. A pause before he went out through the lobby, checking out his pulse and respiration. Normal on both counts, despite the moderate exertion.

Kuala Lumpur waited for him, light and darkness intermingled with the smells of frangipani, curry and satay, the many Chinese-food stalls, here and there a hint of backed-up sewage. Remo drifted toward the smaller side streets, watching out behind him without seeming to. If he was being followed, the pursuers were too skillful for his senses to detect them. That was always possible, of course, and yet…

Within a quarter-hour, Remo satisfied himself that no one had been waiting for him outside the hotel. He had some freedom now, and it would give him time to think. Chiun was right about his need for exercise and practice, though. While he was thinking, he would also walk.

He turned toward Market Street, three-quarters of a mile away, and melded with the darkness like a shadow.

Audrey Moreland had no special destination when she left the Shangri-la Hotel. Her things were packed, and she didn't feel sleepy. Quite the opposite, in fact. She knew that it would be a waste of time to simply lie in bed, count sheep or some such nonsense, and she didn't feel like using chemicals to take the edge off her excitement.

Eight more hours till they all convened for breakfast, and the trip would start within an hour to ninety minutes after that. She thought about the jungle and its secrets, waiting for her just beyond the glare of city lights that made the stars invisible, and wished that she was out there now, this minute, getting started on the quest.

Calm down, she thought, it's coming. If you get yourself worked up, you'll never get to sleep.

Which brought her back to thoughts of Dr. Renton Ward.

He was a handsome man, not gorgeous in the standard movie-star tradition, but she wouldn't kick him out of bed. There was a certain air about him that she didn't often sense in fellow scientists—a hidden sensuality, she thought, that would require some digging on her part to realize its full potential. There was confidence, as well, beyond the sort that basked in the reflected glow of monographs and textbooks published. Renton Ward was not so much a man of science, she decided, as he was a man.

She thought of poor old Safford then, and had to smile. She was aware of the pathetic rumors circulating back at Georgetown, hinting at some great affair between herself and Dr. Stockwell. She encouraged the absurd belief as best she could, for reasons of her own. It kept the other campus Romeos at bay, for one thing, and it also seemed to satisfy her self-styled mentor, the illusion of a love affair relieving him from any need to stumble through the motions on his own.

Tonight, ironically, had been the first time Stockwell showed her any warning signs of jealousy. Perhaps their change of scene, to the exotic East, had goaded him to speak. In any case, she knew the situation would bear watching. There was no point leading Safford on, provoking some misguided confrontation he was sure to lose.

Try as she might to focus on the object of her visit to Malaysia, Audrey's thoughts strayed back to Renton Ward. Pike Chalmers didn't like him—that was obvious—but Chalmers had a major ego problem. God's gift to women, and a one-man mutual admiration society to boot. It made her skin crawl when he stared at her, undressed her with a gaze that felt like clammy hands on her flesh. She knew exactly what he wanted, from the moment they were introduced. He'd need to be watched on the trail, where true to type he might revert to original primitive man, though she wasn't certain those progenitors deserved such a comparison. The crunch would come if Chalmers tried to act on his desires, take what he fancied and to hell with her consent.

The nightclub looked like any other tourist trap in Southeast Asia, geckos clinging to the wall around a garish neon sign, but Audrey didn't mind. It was a change from the hotel and a diversion from the omnipresent native vendors with their handicrafts, who made the city seem like one huge marketplace.

Inside the smoky, strobe-lit club, a cut-rate stereo was throbbing with the tones of Barry Manilow, advising anyone who cared that he had written songs to make the whole world sing. A smiling hostess looked around for Audrey's escort, finally grasped that she was on her own, and led her to a table near the bar.

"You are American?" the hostess asked.

"That's right. Is there a problem?"

Smiling at the very thought. "Tudak sisah," she said. "No problem."

Coming back with Audrey's rum and Coke, the hostess also brought a tiny U.S. flag, its toothpick staff embedded in a piece of cork, and placed it on the table, near the scented candle that was Audrey's only source of light besides the flashing strobes.

Of course, thought Audrey with a smile. The flag would label her a tourist so that no man in the club mistook her for a prostitute on call. In some parts of the world, the little banner would have been a magnet for hostility, perhaps inviting physical attack, but there was said to be no great dislike for Yankees in Malaysia. If all went well, she could enjoy a drink or three in peace, unwind a bit and then walk back to the hotel in time to catch some sleep before her scheduled wake-up call at half-past four.

"We're both alone, I take it."

She recognized the voice with a sinking feeling before she saw Pike Chalmers, looming like a grizzly bear beside her table. What rotten luck for her to pick the very bar where he was killing time.

Or was it simply luck? Could he have followed her from the hotel?

"What a surprise," she said, no indication in her tone that she was thrilled by the coincidence.

"Mind if I join you, then?"

"The truth is—"

"Marvelous." He pulled the second chair out, carried it around the table to her left and settled in beside her. "There we are, all nice and cozy, then."

"I can't stay long," she said.

"No problem." Chalmers flagged the waitress as she passed and ordered a double whiskey, neat. "I couldn't sleep myself," he said. "Too much excitement, what?"

"I wouldn't think there's much about a trip like this you haven't seen before."

"You never know," said Chalmers, staring at her breasts. She felt the nipples pucker with embarrassment and knew that he was bound to misinterpret the reaction. If only she had worn a jacket, or at least a bra!

"I understand you have experience in the Malaysian jungle."

"Love, I've got experience around the world. You name it—Africa, the Amazon, New Guinea, India. One jungle's fairly like another when you're on the ground. New predators to watch out for, o' course, but that's my specialty."

"So I was told."

"One of my specialties, at least."

The wink made Audrey want to scream. This man was one great chauvinist cliche personified, an oinker in the first degree. She felt a sudden need to take him down a peg or two.

"I've never understood the thrill attached to killing helpless animals," she said, still smiling as an angry flush suffused his features.

"Helpless? Love, there's nothing helpless in the bush, except a man with no experience. The bloody ants and flies can kill you, never mind the tuskers, cats and buffalo. You ought to see the souvenirs I carry on my hide sometime," he told her with a yellow smile. "You might stop sympathizing with the beasts and have a bit of care for me."

"But surely, when you make a special trip to kill them with your traps and guns, whatever they do to you is self-defense."

The hunter's smile turned brittle. "Self-defense, you say? It may seem different to you on the trail, when you've got hungry jackals or a tiger sniffing at your tent flaps. You'll be bloody glad to have a man beside you then."

"Let's hope it never comes to that," she said. "If you'll excuse me—"

Audrey rose to leave, her drink untouched, but Chalmers gulped his whiskey down and bolted to his feet.

"The streets aren't safe this time of night," he told her, peering down the V-neck of her blouse. "I'll walk you home, love. Tuck you in all safe and sound."

"If you insist," she said.

"I do, indeed."

The club on Market Street held no attraction for Remo, with its smoky atmosphere and reek of alcohol. He would have passed it by without a second thought, except that Audrey Moreland chose that very moment to emerge, with canned music trailing after her and Pike Chalmers almost treading on her heels.

They made an awkward couple, standing on the sidewalk for a moment as if neither one of them could find the proper words to end a dismal date. A second glance at Chalmers, though, and Remo knew he wasn't anxious for the night to end. As for the look on Audrey's face, it could be anything from boredom to an alcoholic daze. He didn't know her well enough to judge, beyond a vague impression that she seemed unhappy in the big man's company.

So much for aimless rambling.

Remo faded back into the shadows of a nearby alley, wailed while the mismatched couple shared a few more words, then turned back in the general direction of the Shangri-la. He gave them half a block, then fell in step behind them, pleased that he could follow someone for a change, instead of watching out to see if he was being tailed.

They covered half a dozen blocks before Pike Chalmers made his move. The street was narrower than most, lights few and far between. From twenty yards behind, Remo saw Chalmers drape his arm across the woman's shoulders, Audrey flinching from his touch as if the arm had been electrified.

"Now, love, don't be that way."

Without the background noise of Market Street, the big man's words were clearly audible.

"Don't touch me!" Audrey took a quick step backward, wobbling on her heels.

"You don't mean that," said Chalmers. "Not deep down."

"I mean exactly that, you oaf!"

"Oaf, is it? Rhymes with loaf.' I've got a loaf just right to fit your oven, dearie, or I'm very much mistaken."

Remo moved up on silent feet with the speed of wind and was immediately behind them when he spoke.

"It's a small world, after all."

Pike Chalmers swung around to face him, squinting in the dark, then sneering as he recognized the face. "Too bloody small," he said. "You'll shove off if you know what's good for you."

"Is there a problem here?"

"No problem, Doctor."

"Yes!" As Audrey spoke, she moved to stand at Remo's side, warm fingers resting lightly on his biceps. "Would you walk me back to the hotel?"

"No problem," Remo said.

"You sure of that?" asked Chalmers. "I believe you'll find there is a problem when you start to meddle in another man's affairs."

"You're drunk, friend. Maybe you should hit the sheets so you don't miss the flight tomorrow, eh?"

"I'll hit your bloody sheets, you little faggot!"

Chalmers put his weight behind the swing, but it was nothing special. Remo pulled his punch to keep the hulk alive, but it was still enough to drop him in his tracks, out cold before he hit the pavement.

Audrey gaped at Chalmers, laid out in the street. "My God," she said, "what happened?"

"I suppose he slipped and hit his head," Remo answered. "We could try and carry him to the hotel."

"Forget about it. He can sleep it off right here, for all I care."

"Well, if you're sure—"

"I'm sure. If someone rips his wallet off, it serves him right."

She looped her arm through Remo's, and they put the fallen hulk behind them, crossing over to Jalan Pudu and starting on the loop back to the Shangri-la.

"I'm glad you came along back there," she said. "It could have gotten ugly."

"You should be more careful choosing dates," said Remo.

"Bite your tongue! I wouldn't date that caveman on a bet. He saw me in the club and… oh, well, never mind. I wanted Safford—Dr. Stockwell—to get rid of him, but he's supposed to be the best at what he does."

"Which is?"

"Shoot animals," she said with thinly veiled contempt. "The great white hunter, don't you know?"

"I didn't understand this was a hunting expedition," Remo said.

"You're right, of course. It isn't. But we had to make some kind of gesture toward security and all that sort of thing. There was insurance to consider, and the truth is, I don't want to find a lion in my tent if I can help it."

"Lions live in Africa," said Remo.

"Anyway, I'm told the hired gun stays… unless he's cracked his skull and can't go on tomorrow. God, you don't suppose we'll have to push the trip back and look for a replacement?"

"I suspect he'll be all right," said Remo, "but I wouldn't want the headache he'll find waiting for him in the morning."

"Serves him right," said Audrey, "but enough about that creep. I understand you're from New Orleans."

"Not originally." Remo tapped into the file CURE had compiled on Renton Ward. "I've worked there for the past eight years, but I'm from Kansas, if you trace it back."

"What got you hooked on snakes?" she asked.

He smiled. "What got you hooked on plants that died a hundred million years ago?"

"Touché." She thought about it for a moment, then went on. "I guess it crept up on my blind side, Renton. I was into botany and horticulture as a freshman out in California, when I took a course on prehistoric life. It was supposed to fill a blank spot in my schedule, no big challenge, but it got me thinking. How can a species dominate the earth for several billion years, and then just fade away? I mean, if we can solve that riddle, there's a chance we still might save ourselves, you know?"

"Are we in danger of extinction?"

"Every day," she told him earnestly. "We've got pollution—air, sea and land—overpopulation and a lot of shaky fingers on the trigger that could blow us all away. So what if Russia fell apart? It's not like one regime was causing all the problems in the world. Hey, what's the joke?"

She caught him smiling, seemed about to take offense.

Remo moved to head her anger off. "No joke," he said. "It's just that you sound more like someone who should be out leading demonstrations than collecting fossils."

"I do both," said Audrey, "when I have the time. And what about yourself?"

"I mostly hang around the serpentarium and milk my snakes," said Remo.

Audrey giggled like a schoolgirl. "When you say it that way, it sounds positively lecherous."

"It gets to be a handful," he allowed.

"I can imagine. What's your favorite?"

"Snake? That has to be the king. Twelve feet of solid muscle. One dose of his venom is enough to kill a hundred men. We have a mated pair back in New Orleans."

"And you handle them?"

"I milk each of them once a month."

"You must be very brave."

"It keeps me on my toes," he said. "The other snakes are dangerous, of course—the rattlers, coral snakes, moccasins, the bushmaster—but if you mess up with the king, you're history."

"You must have magic hands."

"It's in the wrist," he said.

"You'll have to show me sometime. How you do it."

"Have you got a snake?"

"We'll improvise."

"That could be challenging," he said.

"You must keep busy in New Orleans," Audrey said. "I've read about the women there, in the French Quarter."

"Well—"

"Come on, now, Renton. Please don't tell me you're a monk."

"I don't have much free time," he said by way of explanation.

"It's a good thing that we got you, then, before you waste away. All work, no play, et cetera."

"I understood this was a working expedition, Dr.—"

"Audrey, please."

"All right."

"It is, of course, but there's no law that says we can't enjoy ourselves along the way, now, is there?"

Remo thought about it. "Not that I'm aware of."

"There you go."

They were a block south of the Shangri-la and gaining fast. When Audrey saw the progress they had made, she dropped her grip on Remo's arm and took his hand.

"You know," she said, "you saved my life tonight."

"I doubt that very much."

"My honor, then. The proverbial fate worse than death."

"Something tells me you make out all right on your own," Remo said.

"Oh, I do. But it's more fun with two."

"So I'm told."

"You deserve a reward from the damsel in distress."

"I'll have to take a rain check, Audrey. Gear to pack, that kind of thing."

"A rain check, eh?"

"If that's permissible."

"You do know where we're going, don't you?"

"Well—"

"Rain forest all the way," she told him, rising on her toes to kiss him lightly on the corner of his mouth. "You get some sleep, now. Save your strength."

"I'll see you in the morning."

"And don't forget to pack your rubbers," Audrey told him. "It gets wet here in the bush."

"I'll bet it does," said Remo, and he started back toward his hotel.

Chapter Seven

"The woman has desire for you?" asked Chiun.

"It looks that way to me," said Remo.

Chiun reached out and thumped him on the forehead with a bony index finger. "Think with this head, always," he demanded. "Sex is a temptation to be overcome, an instrument to be employed for higher purposes. It is the nature of the female to deceive."

"I hear you, Little Father."

"Yes, but do you listen?"

"Well, my ears are ringing at the moment."

"Always joking, like a monkey in the zoo."

"I have to go," said Remo, glancing at his watch. "It wouldn't do for me to miss the kickoff."

Chiun was seated in his customary place before the television, even though the set was not turned on. "If you can manage to retrieve a dragon's tooth," he said, "by all means bring it back with you. They make strong medicine and fortify virility."

"What difference does it make?" asked Remo.

"We're supposed to overcome temptation and employ our instruments for higher purposes."

"Nobody likes a smart wasoo."

"You'll have to tell me what that means someday."

"When you are old enough to understand."

"I'm going now," said Remo.

"Watch the big man," Chiun suggested as the door swung shut behind him. "It was negligent of you to let him live."

You may be right, thought Remo as he waited for the elevator, passing up the stairs this morning on a whim. But killing Chalmers on the street, in front of Audrey Moreland, would have caused innumerable problems off the top, including a police investigation and delay of their departure for the Tasek Bera. As it was, the hulking Brit had either learned a lesson or he hadn't. Either way, his clumsy fighting style would pose no major challenge.

Just remember not to let him get behind you with a gun.

Okay.

He taxied over to the Shangri-la and checked his gear in with the concierge. The others had assembled by the time he followed cooking smells into the restaurant. A Chinese waiter led him to the table, where an empty chair stood next to Audrey Moreland. At the far end of the table, Chalmers wore a wide strip of adhesive tape across his nose and glared with blackened eyes.

"Somebody had a restless night," said Remo. As he spoke, a warm hand came to rest upon his thigh and squeezed.

"I'm fit enough," said Chalmers.

"Shall we order?" Dr. Stockwell asked.

The menu advertised Traditional American Cuisine, which meant the eggs were runny and the bacon limp, with pancakes that resembled overweight tortillas. Remo settled for a rubber omelet and a side of rice, the latter more or less impossible to ruin, short of setting it on fire. The breakfast conversation centered on their travel plans, with Dr. Stockwell carrying the ball.

"We have an hour till we catch the flight to Temerloh," he said, negotiating soggy bacon as he spoke. "I hope you're all prepared."

A general murmur of assent appeared to satisfy, and Stockwell took the time to butter up a slice of whole-wheat toast before he spoke again.

"We should be in Dampar by four or five o'clock,, from what I understand. Too late to meet our guide, in any case. Please don't expect accommodations on a par with these," he told them, waving vaguely with his knife and fork, "but it will be our last night with a roof above our heads until the job is done."

"And how long do you estimate the trip should take?" asked Remo.

"Why, that's difficult to answer, Dr. Ward. It may depend on the cooperation of our quarry."

"If the bloody thing exists," Pike Chalmers groused.

"We mustn't dwell on negativity," said Stockwell. "While a possibility remains, we shall pursue it in the spirit of a scientific inquiry."

"Of course," said Remo, turning toward the Malay deputy. "And what is the official posture on collecting dinosaurs these days?"

The little man put on a smile. "My government is very much concerned with preservation of endangered species," he replied.

"As are we all," said Dr. Stockwell. "I assure you, Mr. Deputy."

"There is, of course, no legislation on the subject of surviving species from a prehistoric age, but our prime minister and Sultan Azlan Shah agree that any living dinosaurs should logically be covered by the statutes dealing with antiquities."

"We have to find the bloody thing before you brand it," Chalmers said.

"I must remind you, Mr. Chalmers, that Malaysian wildlife is protected both by federal statute and conventions ratified by the United Nations, under Rule—"

"We really should be going," Stockwell interrupted, heading off the argument. "If everyone is finished? Shall we?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were packed into a Dodge Ram Wagon with their field gear, rolling toward the airport, fifteen miles outside the city. Remo wound up seated next to Sibu Sandakan, with Audrey and their leader in the front, Pike Chalmers just behind him. He could feel the hunter staring at him, cold eyes drilling holes in Remo's skull, but Chalmers kept his mouth shut, made no hostile moves.

He'll save it for the trail, thought Remo, when he figures no one's looking. Maybe try to stage an accident if he can pull it off.

Okay.

If one round didn't drive the message home, he would forget to pull his punch next time.

Their pilot was a slender Aussie with a long face and a patch of unkempt hair, his plane an old de Havilland Twin Otter with some rugged miles behind it. Even so, the aircraft had been fairly well maintained, and with its seating for eighteen, the passengers had ample room to stretch their legs. A pair of Malays dressed in denim jumpsuits stowed the gear before they went on board, and Audrey Moreland took the time to have a word with Remo while they stood around on deck.

"I have to be with Safford now," she said. "You understand?"

"Sure thing." His tone was perfectly disinterested, and something flickered in her eyes before she turned away. Annoyance or excitement, Remo couldn't tell with any certainty.

He watched the loading process from a distance, saw a heavy-duty Koplin Gun Boot go aboard with P.C. painted on the jet black polyethylene. A smaller, padlocked metal case was large enough to hold a pistol and a decent quantity of ammunition. Remo didn't know what Chalmers had in mind just yet or whom he might be working for behind the scenes, but he was dressed to kill.

When they were all aboard and buckled in, the Aussie pilot gunned his engines, aimed the old air taxi down the runway set aside for private charter flights and left the ground behind. They circled once around the airport, leveled out and locked on to a northeast heading bound for Temerloh, some fifty miles away.

It was a relatively short hop, twenty minutes at the Otter's standard cruising speed, but rugged mountains cloaked in steaming jungle lay below them by the time they found their course. The landscape was a stark reminder of the sharp dividing line between the city and the bush in Southeast Asia, treating Remo to a host of memories that took him back to active duty as a young Marine, when he had served his country in a war most modern college students viewed as ancient history.

The jungle had been deadly then, and it was deadly now—but he had changed. There was no trigger-happy leatherneck, still wet behind the ears and spoiling for a fight, a chance to prove himself. Those days were far behind him now.

The young Marine was gone—and well, there was no comparison, Remo thought, with the new dimension he moved in now, thanks to the Sinanju training. There were also scarier aspects, when Chiun claimed to see him become the avatar of Shiva the Destroyer, but Remo wanted to forget that.

Temerloh was to K.L. what Victorville is to Los Angeles… without the desert. The humidity was waiting for them when they stepped down from the plane, the jungle pressing close enough to let them know who was in charge. A matching pair of Nissan Pathfinders was waiting for them on the tarmac, one for passengers, the other for their gear. Chalmers made a point of breaking off to ride with the equipment as they drove directly to the river docks.

Their boat was something else.

"How quaint," said Audrey, staring at it from the safety of the dock while Malay crewmen took their gear aboard. "It looks like something from that movie—what's the name of it? Where they go up that river in the jungle?"

"Creature from the Black Lagoon?" suggested Remo.

"No, the other one. With Bogart and Bacall."

"Bogart and Hepburn," Dr. Stockwell said, correcting her. "The African Queen."

"Of course, that's it."

"Could be the same," said Remo, edging close to Audrey as he spoke. "As I recall, they sank it in the final reel."

"It's not that bad."

"It's floating, anyway. How long until we reach Dampar?"

"A little over forty miles downstream," said Stockwell, joining them. "I understand we have to make some stops along the way."

And so they did. Their boat, the Babi Kali, was apparently on tap for everything from mail delivery to grocery drops, with better than a dozen ports of call along the route from Temerloh to Dampar, to the south. Some of the cargo squawked and cackled, trailing feathers on the deck, but most of it was bagged or crated, everything from fruit and vegetables to canned goods, medicine and a replacement motor for an ailing generator.

There were tiny sleeping cabins down below, next to the head, with bunks stacked one atop the other like a parody of summer camp, but Remo chose a spot on deck, along the starboard rail, from which to watch the jungle pass. It brought back memories, of course, but there were also things that he had never noticed in his other life, when he was focused on a kill-or-be-killed game to the exclusion of all else. A flock of brightly colored birds exploding from the treetops like a sentient rainbow. Fish that broke the surface, leaping up to snag a flying insect from the air. Small groups of natives peering from the reeds along the riverbank, believing they were perfectly concealed.

Sinanju went beyond the normal scope of martial arts, beyond the kind of David Carradine philosophy you got from watching whites portraying Asian mystics on TV. It was a way of life that harmonized the human form with Nature, giving up resistance and accepting what could be when body, heart and mind were one. It was not a religion, in the sense that any holy man or book dictated moral dos and don'ts to sheeplike followers, with promises of pain or pleasure based upon their willingness to grovel in the dirt. Instead, the Master of Sinanju taught his chosen students how to maximize potential, with a vengeance. Sloth, negligence, bad diet could hold them back, and proper breathing was the portal that opened up that other realm.

"It takes my breath away," said Audrey Moreland, stepping up to join Remo at the railing.

Remo glanced around. "Where's Dr. Stockwell?"

"Down below." She flashed a rueful smile. "He gets a trifle seasick, I'm afraid."

"We're on a river."

"All the same."

"And Chalmers?"

"Playing with his guns, I should imagine. Would you like me to go find him?"

"Not on my account."

She faced back toward the jungle, moved a half step closer, leaning on the rail beside him, with her shoulder touching his. "My fieldwork in the past has all been digs in the United States," she told him, lowering her voice to something like a confidential tone. "I can't believe I'm really here. It's like… "

"A fantasy?"

"Exactly."

"I could pinch you if you like."

"Why, Dr. Ward, is that a proposition?"

"Well… "

"You know, I really think I owe you something. For last night."

"Last night?"

"With Chalmers."

"That was nothing," Remo told her.

"Oh, I understand he slipped and hit his head. A funny thing about his nose, though, don't you think? I could have sworn he'd fallen on his back."

"It was dark," he said. "I didn't pay that much attention."

"Anyway, the point is you were willing to defend me, standing up to someone twice your size. If you hadn't come along… I mean, I'm sure he meant to… well, you know."

"It's done."

"I wish he wasn't coming with us, Renton. Anything can happen in a place like this," she said. "It would mean so much to me if I had someone to depend on."

Audrey turned toward Remo as she spoke, and edged a little closer so that one firm breast was pressed against his arm. She wore a bra today, but there was no ignoring the insistent pressure of her nipple, even masked by several layers of fabric.

"You've got Dr. Stockwell," Remo said.

Her laughter startled him—spontaneous, explosive. There was nothing shy or juvenile about it.

"Safford? Please!" Her nipple prodded Remo's arm for emphasis. "If we run into a Tyrannosaurus rex, he'll quote you all the vital stats before the damned thing swallows him alive. When it comes down to people in the real world, though, away from academia… well, let's just say he's no Clint Eastwood."

"Even in defense of someone special?"

Audrey blinked at Remo, with a hint of color rising in her cheeks, then laughed again. "My God," she said, "don't tell me that nonsense has traveled all the way from Georgetown to New Orleans."

"What nonsense is that?"

"About my 'hot affair' with Safford. Christ, I'd like to get my hands on the pathetic creep who started that one circulating."

"So you're not… involved?"

She struck a pose, with one hand on her hip, the other on the rail. "Do I look like a fossil, Renton?"

"Hardly."

"There you go. We work together, and we're friends. The past three years, we've gone to dinner maybe half a dozen times. He's nice, you understand? And safe."

"But you get tired of nice and safe."

"Who doesn't?" Audrey moved in again, her body heat washing over Remo.

"Well, there's always Chalmers."

"I refuse to mate outside my species, thank you very much." She hesitated, staring into Remo's eyes. "Oh, hey… you're not… I mean… "

"Not what?"

She raised a hand, limp-wristed. "You know."

His turn to laugh. "Not lately."

"No, I didn't think so." Audrey's hip was rubbing his now, just in case the rigid nipple didn't make her point. "A woman knows."

"The intuition thing," he said.

"That, too."

"Does Dr. Stockwell know you're just good friends?"

"He should. I mean, we haven't done it, anything like that."

"Sometimes a man sees what he wants to see."

"I don't know what he's seeing, Renton, but I haven't shown him anything. I'm not responsible for anyone's imagination."

"So you're up for grabs, then."

"I've been known to do some grabbing of my own."

"Empirical research?"

"The finest kind."

"I hate to change the subject—"

"Don't."

"A brief detour."

Audrey almost pouted. "If you must."

"About this dinosaur… "

"Oh, Renton. This is where you ask me whether I believe we'll find a world that time forgot?" She smiled and shook her head. "The truth is, I don't' have a clue."

"But here you are."

"Damned right. When was the last time you were in a classroom, Renton?"

"Oh, it's been a while."

"I teach four days a week," she said. "That doesn't sound like much, I know. The pay's all right—it's not some godforsaken high school where the students carry guns. I'm not complaining, really… well, I am, but it's a small complaint, okay? It's boring, Renton. Every twelve to eighteen months, I write another monograph on ancient spoors, whatever, and I play the game with office politics. But this… I mean, we're having an adventure, right? And if we do find something, think of it!"

"Like prospecting," he offered, dangling the bait.

"I never thought of it that way," said Audrey, "but I guess that's right. You go out looking, maybe strike it rich, or maybe come back empty-handed. But at least you did something."

"You're awfully young to be stuck in a rut," he said.

"I'm not that young, but thanks for noticing."

"I couldn't miss."

"It's hard to understand, I guess, unless you've been there, from a woman's point of view. I mean, if you want some excitement, all you have to do is milk your cobra."

Remo smiled at that. "You need a hobby," he suggested.

"Oh, I have one," Audrey told him, "but it needs discretion. Fraternizing with the students is a no-no, and I wouldn't touch most of my colleagues with a ten-inch pole, assuming I could find one."

"That's a problem, if you set your sights too high."

"I'm flexible," she said. "You'd be surprised."

"I might, at that."

A splash drew their attention to the riverbank, where a long reptilian tail was vanishing from sight.

"No crocodiles?"

"That's one thing, when you deal with living species," Remo said. "They don't play by the rules."

"Makes life more interesting," said Audrey. "What are your rules, Renton?"

"Live and let live," Remo said. "What goes around—"

"Is there a Mrs. Dr. Ward?" she interrupted him.

"Well, there's a candidate of sorts… "

"Sounds to me as if you still have… options."

"Those we have… until we die."

"I'm surprised."

"How so?"

"You seem the type a woman who would want to tie down for good."

"Most, or many women would. It's a certain instinct with them."

"I'm not most women," Audrey said.

"I'm picking up on that."

"I like perceptive men. They know what makes a woman tick."

"Is that so difficult?"

"You'd be surprised. I've had my share of 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am.'"

"Disgraceful."

"Which is not to say I'm out of touch with urgency."

"It never crossed my mind," said Remo.

"I mean, quickies have their place," she said. "In public, for example."

Remo smiled and shook his head. "I really couldn't say."

"You've missed a lot," said Audrey. "What you need is an accomplished tutor."

"I get wrapped up in my work," he said.

"You know the rule—all work… "

"You've got a point."

Her left hand dropped below the rail and out of sight, warm fingers lightly grazing Remo's fly.

"You, too."

A whistle sounded, and the Babi Kali swung toward shore. A sagging wooden dock thrust outward from the bank. On shore, a white nun in her fifties waited, flanked by half a dozen Malays.

"I should go and check on Safford," Audrey remarked.

"Sounds like a plan."

"I'll see you later, to continue our discussion."

"Looking forward to it," Remo said.

Dampar made Temerloh look like Times Square on New Year's Eve. The swaybacked pier groaned underfoot, as if it might collapse at any moment. There were about a dozen buildings visible, with jungle pressing close around them. The humidity had nourished jungle rot on anything that wasn't cleaned or painted frequently. The local "inn" consisted of eight cabins drawn up in a line to face the river, fifty yards back from the shore. The furnishings included steel-frame cots and camp chairs, folding tables, propane lamps and plenty of mosquito netting. The electric generator ran on diesel fuel and conked out periodically, without apparent reason. In addition to the cabins, there was a ramshackle trading post, a small infirmary, a one-room school and a communal dining hall.

Their host was a short, chunky Malay in his forties, squeezed into a well-worn polyester suit. His oily smile reminded Remo of a used-car salesman, but it turned out that he owned Dampar lock, stock and pesthole. He was generous with compliments when they arrived, and favored Audrey with a leer that would have had a hooker quoting prices. While a team of natives set about unloading their equipment from the Babi Kali, he conveyed them to their cabins.

One apiece, no roommates.

They were more or less on time, as punctuality is judged in Southeast Asia, and it was indeed too late for them to think of moving on. Night falls with startling swiftness in the jungle, great trees blotting out the better part of sunlight so that dusk is virtually nonexistent; dark and daylight are separated by a razor's edge.

Their evening meal was stew of some kind, served in plastic bowls, with home-baked bread and lukewarm coffee. Remo made the best of it, resisting a temptation to inquire about the meat. He would have gone for rice and vegetables instead, but there was no room service in Dampar, no special orders from the chef.

His fellow expedition members kept the conversation going for an hour after supper. Stockwell brought out his map and supplemented it with hand-drawn sketches, while Chalmers put in his two cents where he could. The Brit had obviously never hunted in the Tasek Bera, and he spoke in generalities, relating stories of ferocious tigers, quagmires baited with the rarest orchids and assorted other jungle horrors. Remo kept his mouth shut, met the big man's gaze when it was unavoidable and smiled at Audrey when her foot snaked out to toy with his beneath the table.

They broke up a little after 9:00 p.m., presumably to sleep, but Remo walked down to the dock. The Babi Kali had continued southward, toward Bahau and Segamat. Their expedition would be long gone by the time the old rust bucket turned around and started north again, the day after tomorrow.

Audrey found him by the water. Remo smelled her coming, bug repellent standing in for her traditional perfume. Instead of speaking first, though, he allowed her to "surprise" him.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said.

"You wouldn't get your money's worth."

"It can't be that bad. Here we are, one step away from the adventure of a lifetime. Man and woman in the wilderness."

"It's not exactly Eden where we're going," Remo told her.

"No. I'm glad we've got a man along who knows his serpents."

"Rule of thumb," he told her. "If it moves and breathes out here, don't touch it."

"That's no fun."

"Survival calls for self-control."

"Too bad. I had myself all primed for handling a big one."

"Be careful what you wish for," Remo said.

"I always am."

"You've heard the story of the turtle and the scorpion?" he asked.

"It doesn't ring a bell," she said.

"A turtle was about to cross the river, when he met a scorpion who asked him for a ride. 'I can't take you across,' the turtle said. 'You'll sting me, and I'll die.'"

"Smart turtle," Audrey said.

"The scorpion was thinking, though. He said, 'I will not sting you, Mr. Turtle, for I cannot swim, and I would surely drown.'"

"Makes sense."

"The turtle thought so, too. He let the scorpion get on his back and paddled out into the water. Halfway to the other side, he felt a sudden, burning pain, then numbness spreading through his limbs. 'Why did you sting me, Mr. Scorpion?' he cried. 'Now both of us will surely die.' The scorpion just shrugged and said, 'I couldn't help myself. It's in my nature.'"

"That's a lovely bedtime story. What's the moral?"

"I just tell the stories," Remo said, "I don't evaluate."

"Am I supposed to be the turtle?" Audrey asked. "That isn't very flattering."

"I could have said a swan. It all comes out the same."

"Are you the scorpion?"

"Could be."

"I don't think so."

"You haven't seen my stinger," Remo said.

"I'm looking forward to it, though. In fact, why don't we slip back to my cabin and—?"

"I wouldn't want to keep the neighbors up," said Remo.

"Never fear. I'm not a screamer."

"Maybe I am."

"Naughty boy." She hesitated, looking deeper into Remo's eyes. "Are you rejecting me?"

"Not even close," he said. "I'll have to take a rain check, though."

"Anticipation doesn't hurt unless you drag it out to long," she told him, turning back in the direction of the cabins. "This is a rain forest, you know."

"I'm counting on it," Remo said.

"In that case, pleasant dreams."

He stood beside the river for another twenty minutes, humming softly, keeping the mosquitoes at a distance, while he thought about the days ahead. One at a time, he told himself, and watch your back. Pike Chalmers would not be his only hazard on the trail, nor was he necessarily the worst.

There were at least a thousand ways to die out here, and none of them especially pleasant. Remo's presence in the jungle merely added one more to the list.

Chapter Eight

Remo literally woke up with the chickens. Someone had imported ten or fifteen brood hens, plus a scrawny rooster, and their racket in the yard outside his cabin roused him from bed near dawn. He didn't exercise, per se, but there was a routine he practiced every morning, briefly, to maintain his edge. More breathing than established calisthenics, with a bare hint of't'ai chi—which, as Chiun would never tire of pointing out, had stolen all its secrets from Sinanju.

Dressed and ready for another day of travel, Remo was outside by six o'clock, when daylight brought the forest back to life. Not that the nights were quiet, he reflected. There were predators abroad, and eerie cries that would ensure a sleepless night for novices, but now the day shift was arriving, and the darker shadows would be tucked away until the sun went down again.

Though Remo was the first one up, from all appearances, Pike Chalmers ran second by a good ten minutes. He had changed his bandage overnight, stark white against the deep-tanned leather of his face. The blotchy bruising underneath his eyes had started changing color, fading from deep purple into mauve, which would in turn become unsightly green and yellow in another day or two.

The hunter kept his distance, glared at Remo for a while, then turned his back and sauntered off in the direction of the dining hall. Aromas led the way, and in another fifteen minutes, all five members of the expedition were together, seated at a common table while the Malay waiters served fried eggs, fried fish and fried plantains. Whatever else these jungle dwellers dreaded, they were clearly not afraid of saturated fats.

"Is all this fried in lard?" asked Audrey, sounding horrified. "I mean, it can't be, can it?"

Remo frowned. "I didn't notice any Crisco on the dock when they were landing the supplies."

"Terrific. I'll be breaking out like I was back in junior high school."

"Please remember where we are," said Dr. Stockwell, gently chiding her. "These people do the best with what they have."

"Of course. I'm sorry, Safford."

"No apology required, my dear."

"I didn't see the bloody guide about," Pike Chalmers said, as if he would have known the man on sight.

"I'm certain he will be here," Sibu Sandakan informed the group at large, his fleeting glance at Chalmers sharply critical.

Whatever talents he possessed in terms of woodcraft and the massacre of animals, the hulking Brit had obviously never gone to charm school. Only Dr. Stockwell seemed oblivious to his abrasive personality, a fact that Remo credited to Stockwell's single-minded focus on the object of their hunt.

"How long is it before we reach the Tasek Bera proper?" Audrey asked.

"Two days should see us there with any luck," said Stockwell in reply.

"That's if we don't run into trouble with the bloody natives," Chalmers said.

The Malay deputy pinned Chalmers with a glare. "I can assure you, there is no hostility between my people and your party," he declared.

"Your people live back in the city," Chalmers answered, fairly sneering. "I was thinking of the damned bush monkeys waiting for us up ahead."

"I find your attitude insulting, sir!"

"Is that a fact? Well, I—"

"Please, gentlemen!" The flush of agitated color in his cheeks made Dr. Stockwell look more lifelike than he had since Remo met him. "We are all together in this project, I believe. Discord can only damage us and jeopardize our efforts."

Chalmers scowled at Stockwell for a moment, then he dropped his napkin on the table and retreated, muttering an oath that sounded very much like "Bloody wogs."

"I must apologize for Chalmers, Mr. Sandakan. Whatever problems he may have, I can assure you that his outlook is not representative of ours." As Stockwell spoke, he waved a hand around the table, indicating Remo and the woman at his side.

"Perhaps you should have chosen someone else," suggested Sibu Sandakan.

"Now, there's a thought," said Audrey.

"We were short of time, you understand, and he came highly recommended. By your government, in fact," said Stockwell, speaking now in a defensive tone. "Replacing him at this late date is tantamount to canceling the expedition."

"Even so…" The Malay deputy was clearly not convinced.

"I promise you that he will cause no difficulty in the bush. You have my word," said Stockwell.

Sandakan was frowning thoughtfully. "In that case, Doctor, if you take responsibility for Mr. Chalmers and his actions… "

Uh-oh. Remo saw the trap but could do nothing to prevent their leader's walking into it with both eyes open.

"Certainly," said Stockwell. "Done. Let's try to make the best of it."

"Indeed." The Malay's tone lacked all conviction, but he let the matter drop.

Their guide was waiting when they left the dining hall. He was a young man, in his early thirties, with a shock of coal black hair that hung to shoulder length and seldom met a comb. The left side of his face was deeply scarred, with four long furrows running from his cheekbone to below the jawline. When he smiled, the scarred half of his face appeared to crinkle, folding in upon itself, reminding Remo of a crumpled photograph.

Their host came out and introduced the stranger as Kuching Kangar, one of the region's premier guides and trackers. "No one find the tigers like Kuching," he said, and pointed to the young man's face. "One time, I think he get too close."

"That's bloody reassuring," Chalmers muttered, talking to himself.

"We take canoe first part of journey," said their guide. "Walk later if you truly wish to find Nagaq."

"Indeed we do," said Dr. Stockwell, smiling big enough for all of them.

"Bring many guns to kill Nagaq?" the guide inquired.

"I've got the hardware covered," Chalmers said. "A Weatherby .460 Magnum ought to do the trick."

"We haven't come to kill Nagaq," said Dr. Stockwell, speaking more to Chalmers than to the Malay guide. "We're hoping to observe and study it, perhaps obtain some photographs."

Kuching Kangar seemed suddenly confused. "Not shoot?"

"With cameras only," Stockwell said to an approving nod from Sibu Sandakan. "We're truly not a hunting party."

"Tell Nagaq," the young man said with an indifferent shrug. "He not like visitors so much."

They spent the next half hour storing packs and other gear in two canoes, tied up against the sagging wooden dock. Pike Chalmers came back from his cabin with a heavy rifle slung across his shoulder, shiny cartridges the size of human fingers slotted into bandoliers that crossed his chest. The bandit look was complemented by a pistol belt with a revolver on his right hip and a long knife on the left. His hat took Remo back to childhood Tarzan movies, with its wide brim folded Aussie style on one side and sporting a band of leopard skin.

They split up into two groups of three for the canoes. Kuching Kangar was up front, with Dr. Stockwell and their Malay chaperon behind him, while Remo joined Audrey and their troubleshooter in the second boat. He took the rear seat, leaving Chalmers to the bow, with Audrey in between them.

"We need muscle on that oar in back," said Chalmers, with a trademark sneer.

"I pull my weight," said Remo, "or have you forgotten?"

Chalmers scowled. "I'm not forgetting anything, old son."

"That's good to know."

The first half mile was easy, running downstream with the current, but it would have been too simple for their destination to be situated on the main course of the river. Thirty minutes out of Dampar, Remo saw the lead canoe veer left, or eastward, as Kuching Kangar proceeded up a winding tributary where the trees closed overhead and nearly blotted out the sun.

Their course was hard against the current now, but Remo had no difficulty with the wooden paddle, stroking first to one side, then the other, driving the canoe along. In front of him, Pike Chalmers had begun to sweat before they put the main stream out of sight, dark blotches spreading on his khaki shirt. He didn't glance around at Remo, but the woman did, her smile flirtatious in the artificial dusk.

Too many complications, Remo thought, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The best and only course would be for him to watch his back around the clock, while keeping both eyes open for a sign that any member of the party was more interested in traces of uranium than dino spoor.

And what if all of them turned out to be exactly what they seemed? How should he handle it if the excursion proved to be a total waste of time?

It's not my problem, Remo told himself. Selection of his missions fell to Dr. Smith, and there was no way he could second-guess the head of CURE. If Smith was wrong this time, and Stockwell's expedition was revealed as nothing but a prehistoric wild-goose chase, so be it. Remo would have done his job, and he wouldn't complain about the fact that no one had to die. Consider it a paid vacation, then, with Audrey Moreland as a sweet fringe benefit.

But not just yet.

It was more difficult to prove a negative, sometimes, than to detect an enemy. Until he knew for sure that Dr. Smith was off the beam, he would proceed on the assumption that at least one member of the party—maybe more—had treachery in mind.

And he would deal with any enemies as they revealed themselves.

The Stockwell expedition had been gone for ninety minutes when a chartered speedboat nosed in to the sagging Dampar dock. Its solitary passenger was short, frail in appearance, dressed in black from head to foot. The color of his garment was a small surprise, as were the style and choice of fabric. No one in Dampar had previously seen a silk kimono, and it further startled them to note the stranger's footwear: modest sandals, woven out of reeds, when most who passed that way wore heavy hiking boots.

But if the new arrival's garb was startling, it became as nothing when the Dampar residents beheld his age. The man was old—some later said that ancient would have been a better term—with long wisps of white hair that fell around his ears, and almost none at all on top. He also wore a wispy mustache, which was less surprising on an obviously Asian face. The locals would debate his nationality for days to come. Had the old man been Japanese? Chinese? Vietnamese?

None guessed Korean, proving they were less observant than they thought.

The wizened stranger had no luggage with him, but he wore a simple drawstring pouch around his waist. At that, he seemed to want for nothing but a decent meal. So slender was he that the women of Dampar took bets on whether he would fly away or simply topple over in a breeze.

It was a good thing for the locals that they had experience with strangers and were wise enough to keep their comments to themselves. A foolish bully might have tried to have some fun and entertain his friends at the old man's expense. Ill-mannered children might have laughed at him or even pelted him with stones. The fact that Dampar and its people still survive today is evidence enough that none of these unfortunate events took place.

The old man didn't introduce himself by name when he sat down to haggle with the landlord of Dampar. Nor did he state his business, and the headman of the river village didn't ask, since it would only be inviting trouble later on if anything went wrong.

The stranger had a look about him that discouraged questions. Rather, it seemed prudent to discuss his needs in simple terms, agree on price and send him on his way.

The old man needed a canoe, some rice—and that was all. He had no use for maps or guides, required no hiking clothes or other jungle gear. He made it clear that while he hoped to bring the boat back, it might not be possible to do so. Therefore, he would purchase a canoe instead of renting one. The headman named his price, then reconsidered when he glimpsed the stranger's frown. It was a small thing, one canoe. His sons could make a hundred in the time that it would take his bones to mend.

His second offer was acceptable. The old man nodded, smiling, and produced three coins of varied sizes from his pouch. The coins were like none other in the headman's limited experience, each bearing profiles of a different man he didn't recognize, but they were plainly solid gold. He tested them discreetly, with his teeth, then shook the stranger's hand to seal their bargain.

Afterward, in a reflective moment, he would rub his fingers and remark upon the curiosity of how a frail old man retained such power in his grip.

The stranger waited briefly while a pair of teenage boys was sent to fetch his boat and paddle, plus the gunny sack of rice. He watched the two boys laboring beneath the weight of the canoe, and took it from them, holding it above his head without apparent effort as he walked down to the riverbank. The old man had an audience by that time, but the people of Dampar knew how to hold their tongues. Instead of pestering him with questions or remarks that might have caused offense, they stood and watched in silence, saw him paddle out into the middle of the stream and vanish to the south.

It had been, everyone agreed, one of the strangest days they could remember in Dampar. First came the round-eyes and their Malay chaperon, bound for the Tasek Bera, where they meant to stalk Nagaq. Now they were followed by an ancient little man who should have been at home in Tokyo or somewhere, rather than exploring the Malaysian jungle in his silk kimono, totally unarmed. At that, some said the old man seemed to have a better chance of coming out alive than the Americans, with all their fine equipment.

The old man, at least, wouldn't go looking for a monster who ate men alive and used their bones to pick its teeth.

It was approaching 1:00 p.m. before Kuching Kangar beached his canoe and signaled for the second boat to follow his example. When the two canoes were high and dry, they shouldered packs and Remo volunteered to carry some of Dr. Stockwell's video equipment. It wouldn't add much to Remo's burden, and he would have a chance to check the gear, find out if there was anything resembling a Geiger counter in the pack.

"The main stream turning south from here," Kuching Kangar explained. "We going east more, to the Tasek Bera. That way."

He was pointing as he spoke, into a wall of trees that seemed to offer little hope of passage. At a closer look, though, Remo saw a narrow trail of sorts, no doubt worn down by animals who chose the path of least resistance when they came down to the river for a drink. If it was anything like Vietnam, he realized, the jungle would be crosshatched with a thousand secret trails, some of them leading nowhere, long abandoned by those early men who'd blazed them, others bustling with life around the clock.

A well-used trail meant predators and prey, the food chain in its basic, elemental form. From this point on, they would be forced to watch for everything from snakes to prowling tigers, careful not to wind up on the menu of some forest hunter who had never learned the fear of man.

Pike Chalmers had the rifle off his shoulder now, and while he didn't work the bolt, he could as easily have taken care of that before he left his cabin. Put a live round in the chamber, leave the weapon's safety off and you were primed for anything—an accident included, if it came to that. How easy it would be for him to stumble, yank the trigger as he fell… and who could blame him if the bullet wound up taking Remo's head off?

"After you," said Chalmers, smiling as they fell into a rough formation.

"I'll be fine," said Remo. "They could use the big artillery up front, in case we meet an elephant or something."

"Yes, please, come with me," the guide instructed Chalmers, waiting while the hulk moved up to take his place in line. With Dr. Stockwell in third place and Sibu Sandakan behind him, that left Audrey fifth, with Remo bringing up the rear.

So far so good, he thought. As last in line, he had a chance to watch them all, react to any challenge from the head of the procession as might be appropriate. And while the others had no way of knowing it, his placement at the rear provided more protection, from that quarter, than the big guns did up front—unless, of course, they wound up being ambushed by a dinosaur.

Get real.

For Remo's money, they were just as likely to encounter Elvis, or do lunch with Sasquatch on a UFO from Graceland. It didn't surprise him in the least that ivory-tower scientists would grab themselves a free vacation in the Far East, chasing pipe dreams, but it would amaze him if their quest bore fruit.

But then again, thought Remo, he'd been amazed before.

He had to give the storytellers credit, anyway. If they were going to select a spot on earth where almost anything seemed possible, the dark heart of peninsular Malaysia was a perfect choice. He didn't need a lecture from the head of CURE to realize that few white men had passed this way before, and none of them had lingered long enough to leave their mark behind. As for the natives—if there was a local tribe—they would be well content to hide themselves from prying Western eyes and go about their business as they had for generations, prowling thunder lizards notwithstanding. Given any kind of choice, the natives would feel kindlier to jungle creatures—even monstrous ones—than to a group of white men dropping in with guns and cameras to disrupt the scheme of things.

He wondered idly what Chiun would have to say about their quest, beyond his yen for magic dragon's teeth. Would it amuse him, or would he be irritated by the scientific arrogance of men and women pledged to strip the globe of every secret it possessed?

Even as the speculative thoughts ran through his mind, his body remained focused on the impressions conveyed by this hotbed of life around them. For they were not alone. His ears picked up the sounds of rodents scurrying in the underbrush, while birds and monkeys flitted in the branches overhead. He glimpsed a snake, just gliding out of sight as Audrey passed, but couldn't make a firm ID from what he saw.

And there was something else.

It was a feeling more than anything Remo could put his finger on. No scent or sound to back it up as yet, but something told him they were being followed. From a distance, cautiously, with skill and cunning. Whether the pursuer was a man or animal, he couldn't say.

Snap out of it, he thought. You're dreaming.

Except he knew he wasn't.

Pursuit of the discipline imparted by Chiun had entailed the opening of senses most men never realized that they possessed. It took some practice, granted, but the trick, once understood, was no more difficult than listening to spoken words or opening your eyes to see.

And they were being followed, definitely.

He could feel it in his gut.

But Remo kept the knowledge to himself. First off, he could not prove his feeling to the others, short of putting on a full-scale demonstration of Sinanju, backtracking to find whoever—or whatever—was pursuing them, and he didn't intend to tip his hand that way. Not yet. Without the proof, though, they would simply think he was a nervous Nellie, suffering from jitters in a strange environment. And while his ego could withstand the knocks, there was another, more compelling motive for withholding what he knew.

If Dr. Smith was right about the ringer on their team, it was entirely possible the guilty party would have outside help available, on call for assistance with chores like digging, transportation or disposal of unwanted witnesses. How many helpers? Remo couldn't even start to guess. It could be two or twenty, even more if some official agency was chipping in to help find the uranium.

He didn't fear the numbers, but uncertainty displeased him. Chiun had always made a point of stressing that a skilled assassin takes pains to identify his enemies and deal with them by any means available to minimize the risks and stress of life. A head of state would only be removed if proper payment was received, but troops or terrorists pursuing the assassin were fair game at any time.

Chill out.

It would have been a simple thing for Remo to fall back, leave the party for a while and backtrack, find out who or what was hanging on their trail, but Audrey might glance back and miss him, raise a hue and cry that would result in inconvenient questions, at the very least. For now, Remo decided, it would be enough for him to know that they were being followed, and stay alert in case the tracker moved up into striking range. If that happened, he would have to act, if only to defend himself.

Meanwhile, his first job was observing Dr. Stockwell and the others, trying to decide which one—if any of them—was most likely to be harboring a secret, personal agenda. Chalmers almost seemed too obvious a choice, the way he put his feelings on display, but even that could be a sly diversion.

Dr. Stockwell was the classic scientist, a one-trick pony dedicated to his chosen field… or was he? Had the tedium of teaching gotten on his nerves? Did the potential profits from uranium make Stockwell's Georgetown salary resemble an insulting pittance?

What of Audrey Moreland, then? Her academic face concealed a sly, seductive personality that some of her acquaintances, at least, would never see. Was there another face behind those two, with greedy eyes fixed on a payday that would leave her set for life?

And there was always Sibu Sandakan, official watchdog for the Malay government. It would be simple for the deputy or his superiors to summon troops and track the expedition, just in case they stumbled over something—dinosaurs, uranium, whatever—that the government might later wish to seize and milk for badly needed revenue. Suppose their chaperon got greedy, went in business for himself on the black market. What would stop a troop of soldiers from obeying him if they believed his orders issued from the top?

Too many suspects, Remo told himself. If nothing else, at least the thought of two or three collaborating on some kind of shady deal appeared remote. More reason, then, for the true ringer to have reinforcements standing by.

They marched for several hours, pausing every mile or two for brief rest stops, before they reached a clearing in the jungle, maybe twenty yards across and thirty long. Nearby, a short hike northward, Remo's ears picked up the sounds of running water from a stream.

"Camp here tonight," their guide announced, and dropped his heavy pack.

Chapter Nine

"What would produce a clearing in the woods like this?" asked Dr. Stockwell, shrugging off his pack as he addressed his question to the group at large.

Their guide was first to answer. "Some say giants rest here long ago," he said. "Kick over trees while sleeping."

"Giants," Chalmers muttered. "Bloody rubbish."

"It could easily be something in the soil," said Audrey Moreland, speaking as their botanist in residence. "A nutrient deficiency, perhaps, or deviation in the depth of topsoil."

"I almost prefer the giant story," Stockwell said. "It's more… romantic somehow."

"Bloody great oaf sleeping rough and knocking over trees," said Chalmers. "Where's the romance?"

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Chalmers. Romance needn't be a thing of lust and sweaty flesh. It can be attitude and atmosphere, as well."

"I'll take mine straight up, thank you very much."

The pup tents were assembled quickly, Remo helping Audrey out with hers when she got tangled up.

"There's not much room in here," she told him, frowning.

Remo said, "There's not supposed to be. It's one per customer."

"Suppose I wanted company?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I guess you'd have to improvise."

"I'm good at that," she said, and let him feel her breasts again as she brushed past him, wriggling clear.

He followed, caught a parting glimpse of Audrey's swaying backside as she headed for the tree line.

"Audrey?" Dr. Stockwell called, sounding anxious.

"Call of nature, Safford. I'll be fine."

Pike Chalmers watched her go, felt Remo watching him and glared back in defiance, resting one hand on his Colt revolver. Like a frigging cowboy, Remo thought, and broke off the staring game himself this time, as if he didn't recognize the challenge.

Let it go, he told himself. For now.

The time might come when he would have to deal more forcefully with Chalmers, but he saw no need to push it now. He would give the Brit some rope, enough to hang himself if he were so inclined.

As if by mutual consent, the five men waited until Audrey had returned from answering her call of nature, only then resuming the assorted tasks required to put their camp in shape.

"Need dry wood for the fire," Kuching Kangar announced, at which point Dr. Stockwell and the Malay deputy went off to lay in a supply.

"Be careful, Safford," Audrey cautioned, her tone almost admonishing him.

"We won't go far," said Stockwell, taking it as a sincere expression of concern.

"Is there a stream nearby?" asked Remo, playing greenhorn to the hilt.

"That way," the guide directed him, a bony finger pointing toward the trees, due north. "Not far."

"I'll fetch some water," Remo said, and found the coffeepot among their meager cooking gear.

"I'll help," Audrey volunteered, scooping up another pot and trailing Remo toward the trees.

It didn't take them long to lose sight of the camp, though Remo still picked up the sound of voices crystal clear. There was another trail of sorts, though smaller than the one they had been following throughout the afternoon, which led directly from the clearing to the stream.

"Is this your first time in the jungle?" Audrey asked.

"In Asia," Remo lied. "I've tramped around a fair bit in the Western Hemisphere."

"When you were chasing vipers?"

"More or less."

"That sounds like an exciting life."

"It has its moments."

"I can imagine."

No, you can't, he thought, but said, "I can't believe you're all that bored. You don't seem like the type who'd stick with something if it drove you up the wall."

"Oh, really? What type am I, Renton?"

"An adventuress at heart, I'd say. You like a bit of living on the edge."

"That doesn't mean I turn my nose up at security," she said.

"Of course not. Still… "

"Still, what?"

"I can't imagine you'd be satisfied to settle for a safe job in a rut."

"You may be right, at that."

They reached the stream, and Remo found it somewhat larger than he had expected. Twenty feet across, he guessed, from where they stood, and deep enough that he couldn't make out the bottom more than two feet from the shore.

"No crocodiles, you said." Her fingers were already toying with the buttons of her denim shirt.

"I wouldn't recommend a swim, regardless," Remo said.

"Why not?"

"Contaminants, for one thing."

"What, you mean pollution in a place like this? I don't believe it."

"I was thinking parasites," said Remo. "Anything from microbes up to flukes and leeches. We'll be boiling any water prior to drinking it. And just because you don't see crocs, it doesn't mean the fish are friendly."

Audrey made a sour face at Remo. "Thanks for spoiling Eden, Dr. Ward."

"You said you wanted someone to watch out for you."

"That's right, I did."

They filled their pots and walked back to the camp, found Sibu Sandakan and Dr. Stockwell there ahead of them, with ample wood to build a decent fire. They put the water on to boil, while Chalmers took his Weatherby and went to have a look around. It troubled Remo, thinking of the Brit beyond his sight line with the big scoped rifle, but he let it go. If Chalmers pulled a stunt like that in camp, it would mean killing all the witnesses, as well, and Remo didn't think he had the stones for that.

Unless, of course, he'd planned from the beginning to be coming back alone.

Their evening meal was simple. Freeze-dried stroganoff in plastic pouches that relaxed a bit when it was boiled, producing not-so-haute cuisine with the appeal of third-rate airline food. Still, it was filling, washed down with a good supply of strong black coffee. Remo drank and felt the caffeine tuning up his nerves, preparing him to stay alert as long as necessary through the night.

Through practice of Sinanju, he had learned to minimize the sleeping time his body needed, taking full advantage of whatever relaxation came his way. He could remain awake for days on end without apparent strain, or "sleep" while he was marching, paying just enough attention on the trail to keep from stumbling into traps and snares. In any case, he had caught up on sleeping in Kuala Lumpur and Dampar. If something happened in the middle of the night, he meant to know about it and respond effectively.

Among his five companions, there were mixed reactions to a long day in canoes and on the trail. Their guide displayed no symptoms of fatigue, but that was only natural for someone working on his own home ground. Pike Chalmers also seemed alert, a veteran in the bush, while Sibu Sandakan and Dr. Stockwell were already yawning over supper, winding down their conversation early, with remarks about an early start and long days yet to come. A glance at Audrey showed her dozing by the camp fire, but she came awake at once when Stockwell called her name and urged her to turn in.

"I think I will, at that" She barely glanced at Remo, turning toward her pup tent, but his mind was elsewhere, focused on the job at hand.

He had lost touch with their pursuers since they stopped to pitch the camp. It was as if the others had retreated, drawing back to some safe distance, minimizing any risk of contact in the dark. There would be no point moving on the camp tonight, he thought, before they even had a chance to start their search, but it was difficult to judge the plans of strangers he had never even seen. If one of his companions simply meant to use the expedition as a cover at the outset, jettison the deadwood early on and start pursuing the uranium in earnest on his or her own, one killing ground might serve as well as any other.

Still, he told himself, they hadn't even reached the Tasek Bera yet. Another day, without any mishaps, before they reached the jungle neighborhood where Terrence Hopper's party had come to grief. If it was me doing it, thought Remo, I'd put the ambush off until the targets brought me closer to the mark, perhaps did some of the attendant dirty work.

Don't count on total strangers to be rational.

With that in mind, he said good-night and crawled into his pup tent, feigning sleep and waiting while the others turned in, one by one. Pike Chalmers sat up for an hour after supper, polishing the Weatherby but never speaking to their Malay guide. Kuching Kangar, in turn, was last to crawl inside his tent, as if his job included seeing all his charges safely tucked in bed.

Another thirty minutes passed, with Remo listening to those around him through the thin walls of his tent. When he was reasonably sure that all of them were sleeping, Remo wormed his way outside, a silent shadow gliding past the fire and off into the trees.

He spent a moment standing on the border of the clearing, eyes closed, reaching out with other senses to the night. He paid no real attention to the sounds of birds and insects and nocturnal predators. It was indeed the absence of their noise that would alert him to potential danger. That, and the peculiar, artificial sounds most men are physically unable to avoid. The whisper of a shoe sole brushing over sand or stone, so much more sinister than snapping twigs. Metallic sounds of any kind that rang out loud and clear in nature's realm. A sneeze or whisper. Fabric kissing flesh.

But there was nothing, and he walked back to the stream, content to be alone. The bats were out and skimming low across the water, snatching insects from the air. A fish jumped somewhere off to Remo's left, and something larger was growling on the far side of the stream, put off by Remo's scent.

Good hunting.

He heard the footsteps coming moments later, turned to greet the new arrival, smelling Audrey well before his eyes picked out her silhouette in dappled moonlight. When he stepped out, right in front of her, she jumped and gave a little squeal.

"For God's sake, Renton!" Even startled, she was whispering, as if to keep their meeting secret from the others.

"Trouble sleeping?" Remo asked.

"It's all too much, you know? I mean, I'm tired, but there's too much to see and do. It won't last long enough."

"You may feel differently this time next week."

"I won't," she said. "It's the adventure of a lifetime, right?"

"You'll have to work your butt off in the next few days," he said.

"Not all of it, I hope."

A subtle movement in the tree beside her caught his eye, and Remo's hand flashed out, almost too fast for Audrey's eyes to follow.

"What—?"

He held the wriggling viper up in front of her, gripped close behind its spade-shaped head, the body twining fluidly around his forearm. Remo checked the coloration of its scales and smiled at Audrey.

"Trimeresurus flavoviridis," he announced.

"It's poisonous?"

"Sharp local pain and hemorrhages of the internal organs," he replied. "Intensive bleeding from the bite itself is not uncommon."

As he spoke, he flung the snake away from him, out toward the middle of the stream. It splashed down, quickly surfaced, started swimming for the distant shore.

"You have quick hands," she said.

"Sometimes."

"I guess you saved my life."

"My pleasure," Remo said.

"How can I ever thank you?"

"Well… "

"I know," she said. "I'll improvise."

Remo watched as she began unbuttoning her shirt. "I warned you once about the swimming," he reminded her.

"Who says I'm going in the water?"

Sometime in between the pitching of her tent and trailing Remo to the stream, she had removed her bra. Not that she needs one, Remo thought. Her breasts were firm and round, defying gravity, with nipples that seemed tawny but would almost certainly be pink in daylight.

She dropped the blouse behind her, moving faster as she started on the buckle of her belt. It stalled her for a moment, Audrey blushing, but she got it then, unsnapped her jeans and ran the zipper down. Paused long enough to work her shoes off, treating Remo to a bit of jiggle in the process. Rolled snug denim down across hips, buttocks, thighs.

No panties, either, he observed.

"Is this what they call dressing for success?"

"Depends on what your goal is," she replied. "Now, you."

"We hardly know each other," Remo said.

"That's about to change."

"You think so?"

Audrey moved against him, toasty velvet. "I insist on seeing what else you can do besides catch snakes," she said.

And Remo showed her, starting slowly, using only some of the specific skills Chiun had taught him in the early days. His fingers came together at the small of Audrey's back, the touch enough to make her squirm against him, yet so light he barely grazed her skin. A dip to trace the cleft between her buttocks, then his hands rose higher, following the sleek curve of her spine to tease the nape of Audrey's neck. She trembled, moaning softly as she clasped her hands behind his neck and leaned against him, almost going limp.

Sex is a combination of psychology and physiology—the former more anticipation than achievement, while the latter is controlled by pressure, friction, heat and cold. Sinanju recognized three distinct techniques for bringing women to the pinnacle of sexual fulfillment. One method used twenty-seven steps, another thirty-seven and the last mode fifty-two—although Chiun was adamant that only a Korean woman could survive the total treatment with her sanity intact.

Remo started teasing her, beginning with the insides of her ears, then down the side of Audrey's neck. He found her pulse and lingered there, tap-tapping until she sighed in rapture before he moved down to the hollow of her throat. Her legs would not support her now, and all her weight was on his shoulders until Remo marched her three steps backward and leaned her against the nearest tree. He guided Audrey's hands above her head and showed her how to grip a branch to keep from falling down.

"Hang on," he said.

"God, yes!"

He picked up where he had left off, and it was getting hard to hold her back.

"Please hurry!"

Another breathless gasp came from Audrey as he gave her what she wanted, and he protected the sensation until her spasms had subsided into small, involuntary tremors.

"Act Two is next," he told her, rising to his feet.

"I can't," she moaned.

"You will."

"Too much!"

But she could handle it all right, although she was a quivering mess until her release came again, followed by a long, slow drift into the afterglow.

They lay together on the mossy ground, and after several moments Audrey started giggling. She pressed her face against his chest to mute the sound, but couldn't seem to stop.

"What's funny?" Remo asked her.

"Nothing, Jesus! It was—" Audrey hesitated, speechless for a moment. "I just realized, you're not a screamer after all."

"I'm screaming on the inside," Remo said.

"Tell me about it. I believe I shorted something out."

"I'll check your wiring for you," Remo told her, reaching down between her thighs.

She caught his wrist. "Not on your life! My life, I mean. You think they have a Flight for Life out here in case of strokes or heart attacks?"

She was coherent, but her eyes were slightly glazed, and Remo thought perhaps it was a good thing that his demonstration hadn't gone beyond the thirteen basic steps. It would be awkward, carting Audrey through the jungle on a litter, and they didn't have a straitjacket.

"We should be getting back," she said a moment later, stirring feebly, reaching for her clothes.

"I'll help you."

"No," she said. "I still know how to dress myself."

It took her three attempts to put her jeans on, though, before she got her balance back. The rest of it was simple by comparison, and with her clothes on, she looked more or less composed.

"You ought to package that," she told him. "You could make a killing."

"It requires a certain inspiration," Remo lied.

"And sweet talk, too. The total package. Do they teach that in New Orleans?"

Remo smiled. "I pick up bits and pieces as I go along," he said.

"I'll bet you do. All kinds of pieces, with a touch like that."

"We aim to please."

"Your aim was perfect," Audrey told him. "I can't wait to try some more of that once I regain my strength."

"If we have time," he said.

"I'll make time," Audrey answered, moving in to kiss him lightly on the lips. "We'd better not go back together, just in case."

"All right."

He watched her go, took time to check his pulse and blood pressure. Both normal, well below the average. Remo let five minutes pass before he followed Audrey back in the direction of the sleeping camp.

And this time, he was unaware of being followed through the trees.

Chapter Ten

The morning summoned mixed reactions from his traveling companions, Remo noted as he moved about the camp. Stockwell and Sibu Sandakan were visibly fatigued and out of shape, but each seemed anxious to continue with the march. Pike Chalmers was the same as ever—surly, misanthropic, with a hard gleam in his eye that spoke to Remo of a personal agenda he was keeping hidden. As for Audrey, while the early-morning sun highlighted shadows underneath her eyes, as if from weariness, she seemed to have a new spring in her step.