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.