"I'm Remo," he said.
"That's a very unusual name," she said.
Remo smiled at her again. Smith's taste in foster daughters impressed him.
"I wouldn't know," he said. "I've had it all my Ufe."
"Where'd your parents get it?"
"I don't know. I don't remember. They both died when I was very young."
Joey Webb caught her breath.
"That's very interesting," she said. "I was an orphan, too."
"Small world," Remo said.
Stacy cleared his throat, and Joey shook her head quickly as though suddenly startled awake.
"Oh," she said, "I'm being rude."
She turned and nodded toward a stocky, strong-looking man standing beside her. He was tenderly holding a freshly bandaged arm.
"This is Oscar. Oscar Brack," she said. "He's the man who runs the day-to-day operations of this project."
The two men nodded at each other.
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"And you know Roger," Joey said. "It's made my day," Remo said.
Stacy swallowed, and Joey Webb restrained a smile.
Remo thought quickly. He didn't know yet who was who and what was what, but he might make more sparks fly if he alienated everybody. That wound on Brack's arm didn't have to mean a thing; he could have arranged to have himself shot at to remove suspicion. And Smith himself said that he had not seen Joey Webb for many years; for whatever reason, she might be involved with trying to sabotage her own project. Since Stacy hadn't given his real identity away, he might as well take advantage of it.
Joey was talking to him. "Roger says that you're a tree reclamation technician?"
"That's right," Remo said.
"What exactly do you do?"
"Damned if I know," Remo said. "Guess I just keep my eye on you so you don't go messing up the forest."
"You guess?" Brack said. "You don't know?"
"I never got closer to a tree than a dog-leash away before I got this job," Remo said.
He could see Joey's attitude change immediately. It was obvious that this was a woman who took her trees seriously. She had folded her arms under her breasts and was staring coldly at Remo.
Remo chuckled.
"What's so funny?" she said.
"I was just thinking about what my uncle told me," Remo said.
"And what was that, O'Sylvan?" Brack asked.
"Well, you've got to remember that my uncle is a
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pretty smart guy. He got me this job. My very first one."
"I see," Joey said, slowly drumming her long ringers on her upper arms.
"Yeah," Remo said. "My uncle, he's a ward leader back in Jersey City, and one day when I was twelve years old, he said to me, 'Remo, there's more graft to be made in trees than there is anywhere else in government. Except maybe being a cop or a judge.' That's what he told me."
Remo chuckled again.
Joey looked as if she were about to throw up and burst into tears at the same time. Coldly she turned away from Remo and hurried back to her room, slamming the door behind her.
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CHAPTER FIVE
Joey Webb walked into the center of her room, her fists clenched hard at her sides. Her face turned as red as her hair, and finally she unleashed her temper by throwing a very unladylike roundhouse right at a lampshade.
Pow. She hit it solid. The lamp spun off the end table and fell unbroken, into an overstuffed chair.
She let it lie there.
"Damn," she muttered. "Damn, damn, and damn."
She jumped onto her bed and covered her head with a pillow, not moving, trying not to think.
There was a knock at the door. She ignored it; whoever it was would go away. She did not want to see anyone or talk to anyone. Not even to faithful old Oscar Brack. It had been a lousy day, preceded by a disastrous month. She didn't know what bothered her most: that someone was trying to destroy the copa-ibas or that someone had killed her fiancé, Danny.
She thought of the snake attack and with a twinge of guilt realized how lucky she was that she had decided at the last moment not to go with Danny.
He had called her from the copa-iba stand and told her that he had finally discovered who was trying to destroy the trees, and why. He would be along to pick
57
her up in a few minutes, he said. Then they were going off to warn Tulsa Torrent authorities about what he'd learned. He was afraid to use any of the telephones in the camp.
But he never arrived, and she missed him, and she was upset that this project that her father had given his life for was possibly going down the drain; the final straw was that lunatic Remo O'Sylvan.
The knock on the door was louder this time, and reluctantly she decided that whoever was there wasn't going to go away.
"Come in if you have to," she called out.
Brack and Stacy came into the room. Brack looked around, saw the upset lamp, and went over and returned it to its place on the table.
Joey got off the bed and walked to the window. Stacy sat on the edge of the bed—God, how she hated that, she thought—and Oscar sat in the chair.
"Are you all right?" Oscar asked.
Joey nodded. "I guess so. What do you want?" she asked in general, and then specifically to Stacy; "What do you want?"
Stacy looked nervous. "I don't know. Oscar said he wanted to talk to us after O'Sylvan left, so here I am. What's on your mind, Brack?"
Joey looked at Brack. For a moment their eyes met. She could tell from the look in his eyes that the sturdy man was in great pain from his gunshot wound.
"Oscar?" she said.
"Yeah, Brack, what is it?" Stacy demanded.
The sturdy sixty-year-old Brack glowered at the man who was officially his boss. There was no mistaking the contempt in the look; it was a look that said Stacy wasn't smart enough, tough enough, or man enough to
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have the job he held, a job that Oscar Brack had wanted for almost ten years.
"I just want to know, Stacy, what it is you're doing around here. Danny dead, accidents to the machinery up with the copa-ibas, people shooting at us ... what are you doing about it?"
"A lot," Stacy said.
"Such as," Brack persisted.
"Well, first of all, I don't know that I have to answer to you. Remember, Tulsa Torrent put me in charge of the show up here, not you. I'm sure if they thought you could do this job better, you'd have this job."
"I'm not interested in the goddamn job; I'm interr ested in us staying alive—Joey, me, and those trees."
Joey just watched the conversation. She had always refused to take sides in the fight that had been simmering between the two men for as long as she could remember.
"What are you doing about keeping us alive?" Brack demanded.
"Everything that can possibly be done," Stacy said. He had raised himself into an erect position on the edge of the bed.
There was a long, ugly silence.
"Which means you're doing nothing," Brack said.
"No, it doesn't mean I'm doing nothing. I've beefed up security all over the area; Tve posted new warning signs to keep out trespassers; and I'm putting in television monitors to keep an eye on things."
"Great," Brack sneered. "We're getting shot at, and you're hanging up signs and television sets. Swell."
There was more silence before Joey spoke.
"What about this O'Sylvan, Roger?" she said. "Did you really have to inflict him on us?"
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"It wasn't my doing," Stacy said. "The government sent him. I thought he was supposed to help us here. Instead, he turns out to be another goddamn bureaucrat."
Brack laughed. "Help us? He couldn't tell a tree from a turnip. It's all kind of typical of the way things are going here," he said.
"I can see there isn't much use talking to you about this tonight," Stacy said: He looked elaborately at his watch. "I have something important to see to tonight, so if you'll excuse me ..."
<
br /> Stacy stood up and walked toward the door. As he passed Brack, he said, "I want you in my office at eight o'clock in the morning—sharp."
"What?"
"You heard me. Eight o'clock sharp." His voice had a razor's edge in it. "Do you understand?"
Brack swallowed, then nodded.
"Oh, and one other thing," Stacy said.
"What's that?" asked Brack, not even bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice.
"I think I should have you examined by a second doctor. I want to make sure that wound's as bad as it's supposed to be. The company is tough on malingerers."
He didn't wait for a reply. As soon as he finished speaking he pulled the door shut behind him.
Brack jumped to his feet and stared at the door. "Malingerer," he said. "That bastard . . . that . . ." He started for the door.
Joey called to him softly, "Oscar."
He turned to her, but she said, "Forget it. Just forget it."
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"I should have left him back there in the jungle to die," Brack said. "I should have had that pilot turn his plane around and fly right the hell out of there. I never should have landed and saved his worthless Ufe. What did I get for it? Tell me. What did I get out of it?"
Joey laughed. "Me?" she suggested.
Brack thought for a moment, then nodded. "Rights you. Joey, you make it worthwhile."
He sank back into the. chair and Joey returned to sit on the bed.
"I've been thinking," she said, "about this Remo O'Sylvan."
"Yes?"
"When I came in here, I was all steamed up that the government had just sent someone to bother us and mess up the project. But I'm beginning to think that there's nobody as dumb as this O'Sylvan wants us to think he is."
"Yeah, he is. He's that dumb. You heard him. The son of a ward leader."
"Nephew," she corrected.
"Nephew, son, it doesn't matter," Brack said.
"I don't think so," Joey Webb said. "But think about it. We both know that the oil people and the nuke people own a lot of the government, and both of them are trying to stop this project. Right?"
"Maybe," Brack said. "Probably. I wouldn't be surprised."
"Well, I wouldn't be surprised either if Mr. Remo O'Sylvan is somebody from the government, but who's really working for the oil companies or the nukes."
"Good theory," Brack said. "But how do you prove it?"
61 '
Joey looked at him, arched one eyebrow, threw out her chest, and very quickly thrust her tongue into her cheek, then removed it. "I'll find out," she said. "Don't you worry. I'll find out."
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CHAPTER SIX
The mountains played tricks with the sounds, leading them up one slope and dropping them over another, bending them back and forth around crests and whipping them down valleys, and then stirring the whole thing in eddies of frosty air and sending them out into the night.
It took Remo ten minutes before he found what he was looking for, and when he did, his thin-soled black Italian loafers were still dry, even though he had traveled more than two miles over snowdrifts that were higher than his head.
In the end, it wasn't so much the sound that led him where he wanted to be, but the smell. At first he thought he was back in Times Square again or maybe on the Santa Monica Freeway, so strong was the smell of burning gasoline.
He had come tramping up a steep incline, gliding smoothly across the face of the powdery snow, hooked around a natural stone wall, and there it was: a valley, maybe a hundred yards long and twice that deep. And in the valley there was no snow, and it was not winter. Instead, grass was growing luxuriantly and a hundred trees were in full foliage.
Warming the valley, creating its artificial summer,
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and filling the air with stench and noise were what looked like nine vastly oversized gasoline heaters, each a 15-foot-square box that burned fuel at a blue-white heat and, through connected fans and ducts, blew the warm air down into the valley.
Remo stopped to study what lay beside him, scratching his 'head and twisting it from side to side at the same time. Whatever it was, it looked impressive. Then he sensed something.
"You are slow," the voice beside him said. "I have been waiting here for you for hours. And your feet are wet again. I have told you about that before."
"I'm sorry I took so long, Little Father," Remo said, "and my feet are dry."
"We will not quibble over small things," Chiun said. "Did you come here to comfort me before I freeze to death while you are spending your time in comfort before a warm fire?"
"Sorry about that," said Remo. "It's your choice after all."
"Sorry. Sorry. That is all you say. Sorry you are late. Sorry your feet are wet . . ." "They're dry," Remo said.
"Sorry. Yes. You are a very sorry person. And sorriest of all he would be who would not let the Master bring his few meager possessions so that I might not have to spend my time in these mountains like the wild deer or bear or camel." "No camels up here," Remo said. "What do you know of camels? Nothing. I will tell you. You know nothing of camels. As you know nothing of responsibility, and so I am forced to face the elements here alone."
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"Chiun, thirteen steamer trunks just wouldn't hack it," said Remo.
"Why hot?"
"You're supposed to be a wise and gentle, old religious man . . ."
"It sounds exactly like me," Chiun said.
"... who's up here on a spiritual retreat. Remember? You told Smith that once every ten years or so you have to commune with nature?"
"Correct. Get to the point if you have one."
"Little Father, saintly men do not take thirteen lacquered chests of Cinzano ashtrays and stolen restaurant napkins with them when they go into the mountains to meditate."
He looked at Chiun, who stood leaning against a tree, arms folded impassively, and looking down at the full blooming winter trees in the artificially warmed valley.
"Remo, there is one thing I don't understand," Chiun said, staring down at the trees.
"Yes?"
"I have tried to insulate you from the world, as much for the world's protection as for yours. So where do you learn all this nonsense?"
"What? About thirteen steamer trunks?" Remo said. "They're not filled with stolen ashtrays and napkins and matchbooks?"
"They are filled with personal treasures that do not concern you. But nowhere does it say that one cannot meditate without being miserable and cold. Maybe Chinese believe that, maybe monkey-faced Japanese; they believe anything. But how did these stupid ideas come to infect you?"
"I guess I'm a disappointment to you."
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"You certainly are."
"I'll try to make it up to you."
"It's too late now," Chiun said.
They stood in silence, both looking down at the val-ley.
"These are those copa-iba trees, I guess," Remo said.
"They do not look like any Korean tree I ever saw," Chiun said.
"One of us has to stay here and watch them," Remo said.
"Perhaps if I had just one of my trunks, I would be able to do that," Chiun said. "But I have nothing except the clothes on my back. And besides, somebody is already watching them."
"Who? Where?"
"There is some big clod wandering around out there," Chiun said softly. He waved his hand toward the lip of the valley to their left. "I have heard him splashing around."
And then the fires went out. The roaring died. For a moment the hills were filled with the echoes of the dying flames, and then there was only the sound of the giant fans now blowing cold air onto the giant copaibas. Then that sound, too, died away, and the only sound left was that of the mountain wind.
Chiun and Remo stood silently for the space of seven slow heartbeats. Then Chiun raised a bony finger and pointed to the farthest left burner.
"There," he said. "Two men."
After another heartbeat, Chiun p
ointed to a second spot, closer to the mouth of the copa-iba valley.
"And there. The other man, the big clumsy one."
"Stay here, Little Father," Remo said. He started moving in a long, fast glide toward the two men.
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Remo knew he was not the only one moving through the moon-clouded dark. Ahead of him, he could hear the pair of men trying to get away. And off to his left, he could hear the sound of the big man moving as quickly and quietly across the snow as he could.
In seconds, Remo had closed the distance between himself and the two men to just a few dozen yards. So, to Remo's surprise, had the big man. For a moment then, everyone but Remo stopped moving, and the mountain was as quiet as mountains ever get on cold, windy winter nights.
The light of the moon rebounded off the powdery white snow, and the edges of the valley were surprisingly bright. Remo could feel the temperature dropping, as warm air stopped rising out of the copa-iba valley. If the trees really needed a tropical climate to live, the cold would soon destroy them. Cutting off the gas-fired heating machines was their death sentence.
The big man was to Remo's left. He had stopped moving, and now he stood upright, stock-still, only a few yards from the other two men. They too stopped momentarily. Then the big man called out.
"Allo. Allo there," he roared in a voice loud enough and deep enough to match his six-foot-six and 250 pounds. "You will please to stop. We must talk."
The words were bellowed in a heavy French accent.
The man closest to the big man quickly slapped a rifle to his shoulder, and rapidly and surely squeezed off two rounds at the big man. But he was too late. The big man had seen the motion begin and had dived for cover behind the framework supporting one of the blowers.
The bullets cracked and whined through the frigid night air, but they missed their target. The big man
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started to stand up again, and this tiine the man was waiting for him. The rifle cracked again; again the big man ducked. But this time he did not escape unharmed, because as he pulled himself back into cover— successfully avoiding the bullet once more—he hit his head against one of the platform's steel support bars. The resulting crack set the whole structure echoing and re-echoing. The big man cursed loudly, moaned softly, and fell face forward into the snow.
Remo was confused. He had assumed all three men were working together, but' it was obvious now that the big man was on a different team from the other two.
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