Bamboo Dragon td-108

by Warren Murphy

  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.