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.
"The main stream turning south from here," Kuching Kangar explained. "We going east more, to the Tasek Bera. That way."
He was pointing as he spoke, into a wall of trees that seemed to offer little hope of passage. At a closer look, though, Remo saw a narrow trail of sorts, no doubt worn down by animals who chose the path of least resistance when they came down to the river for a drink. If it was anything like Vietnam, he realized, the jungle would be crosshatched with a thousand secret trails, some of them leading nowhere, long abandoned by those early men who'd blazed them, others bustling with life around the clock.
A well-used trail meant predators and prey, the food chain in its basic, elemental form. From this point on, they would be forced to watch for everything from snakes to prowling tigers, careful not to wind up on the menu of some forest hunter who had never learned the fear of man.
Pike Chalmers had the rifle off his shoulder now, and while he didn't work the bolt, he could as easily have taken care of that before he left his cabin. Put a live round in the chamber, leave the weapon's safety off and you were primed for anything—an accident included, if it came to that. How easy it would be for him to stumble, yank the trigger as he fell… and who could blame him if the bullet wound up taking Remo's head off?
"After you," said Chalmers, smiling as they fell into a rough formation.
"I'll be fine," said Remo. "They could use the big artillery up front, in case we meet an elephant or something."
"Yes, please, come with me," the guide instructed Chalmers, waiting while the hulk moved up to take his place in line. With Dr. Stockwell in third place and Sibu Sandakan behind him, that left Audrey fifth, with Remo bringing up the rear.