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."