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.