So far so good, he thought. As last in line, he had a chance to watch them all, react to any challenge from the head of the procession as might be appropriate. And while the others had no way of knowing it, his placement at the rear provided more protection, from that quarter, than the big guns did up front—unless, of course, they wound up being ambushed by a dinosaur.
Get real.
For Remo's money, they were just as likely to encounter Elvis, or do lunch with Sasquatch on a UFO from Graceland. It didn't surprise him in the least that ivory-tower scientists would grab themselves a free vacation in the Far East, chasing pipe dreams, but it would amaze him if their quest bore fruit.
But then again, thought Remo, he'd been amazed before.
He had to give the storytellers credit, anyway. If they were going to select a spot on earth where almost anything seemed possible, the dark heart of peninsular Malaysia was a perfect choice. He didn't need a lecture from the head of CURE to realize that few white men had passed this way before, and none of them had lingered long enough to leave their mark behind. As for the natives—if there was a local tribe—they would be well content to hide themselves from prying Western eyes and go about their business as they had for generations, prowling thunder lizards notwithstanding. Given any kind of choice, the natives would feel kindlier to jungle creatures—even monstrous ones—than to a group of white men dropping in with guns and cameras to disrupt the scheme of things.
He wondered idly what Chiun would have to say about their quest, beyond his yen for magic dragon's teeth. Would it amuse him, or would he be irritated by the scientific arrogance of men and women pledged to strip the globe of every secret it possessed?
Even as the speculative thoughts ran through his mind, his body remained focused on the impressions conveyed by this hotbed of life around them. For they were not alone. His ears picked up the sounds of rodents scurrying in the underbrush, while birds and monkeys flitted in the branches overhead. He glimpsed a snake, just gliding out of sight as Audrey passed, but couldn't make a firm ID from what he saw.
And there was something else.
It was a feeling more than anything Remo could put his finger on. No scent or sound to back it up as yet, but something told him they were being followed. From a distance, cautiously, with skill and cunning. Whether the pursuer was a man or animal, he couldn't say.
Snap out of it, he thought. You're dreaming.
Except he knew he wasn't.
Pursuit of the discipline imparted by Chiun had entailed the opening of senses most men never realized that they possessed. It took some practice, granted, but the trick, once understood, was no more difficult than listening to spoken words or opening your eyes to see.
And they were being followed, definitely.
He could feel it in his gut.
But Remo kept the knowledge to himself. First off, he could not prove his feeling to the others, short of putting on a full-scale demonstration of Sinanju, backtracking to find whoever—or whatever—was pursuing them, and he didn't intend to tip his hand that way. Not yet. Without the proof, though, they would simply think he was a nervous Nellie, suffering from jitters in a strange environment. And while his ego could withstand the knocks, there was another, more compelling motive for withholding what he knew.
If Dr. Smith was right about the ringer on their team, it was entirely possible the guilty party would have outside help available, on call for assistance with chores like digging, transportation or disposal of unwanted witnesses. How many helpers? Remo couldn't even start to guess. It could be two or twenty, even more if some official agency was chipping in to help find the uranium.
He didn't fear the numbers, but uncertainty displeased him. Chiun had always made a point of stressing that a skilled assassin takes pains to identify his enemies and deal with them by any means available to minimize the risks and stress of life. A head of state would only be removed if proper payment was received, but troops or terrorists pursuing the assassin were fair game at any time.
Chill out.
It would have been a simple thing for Remo to fall back, leave the party for a while and backtrack, find out who or what was hanging on their trail, but Audrey might glance back and miss him, raise a hue and cry that would result in inconvenient questions, at the very least. For now, Remo decided, it would be enough for him to know that they were being followed, and stay alert in case the tracker moved up into striking range. If that happened, he would have to act, if only to defend himself.
Meanwhile, his first job was observing Dr. Stockwell and the others, trying to decide which one—if any of them—was most likely to be harboring a secret, personal agenda. Chalmers almost seemed too obvious a choice, the way he put his feelings on display, but even that could be a sly diversion.
Dr. Stockwell was the classic scientist, a one-trick pony dedicated to his chosen field… or was he? Had the tedium of teaching gotten on his nerves? Did the potential profits from uranium make Stockwell's Georgetown salary resemble an insulting pittance?
What of Audrey Moreland, then? Her academic face concealed a sly, seductive personality that some of her acquaintances, at least, would never see. Was there another face behind those two, with greedy eyes fixed on a payday that would leave her set for life?
And there was always Sibu Sandakan, official watchdog for the Malay government. It would be simple for the deputy or his superiors to summon troops and track the expedition, just in case they stumbled over something—dinosaurs, uranium, whatever—that the government might later wish to seize and milk for badly needed revenue. Suppose their chaperon got greedy, went in business for himself on the black market. What would stop a troop of soldiers from obeying him if they believed his orders issued from the top?
Too many suspects, Remo told himself. If nothing else, at least the thought of two or three collaborating on some kind of shady deal appeared remote. More reason, then, for the true ringer to have reinforcements standing by.
They marched for several hours, pausing every mile or two for brief rest stops, before they reached a clearing in the jungle, maybe twenty yards across and thirty long. Nearby, a short hike northward, Remo's ears picked up the sounds of running water from a stream.
"Camp here tonight," their guide announced, and dropped his heavy pack.
Chapter Nine
"What would produce a clearing in the woods like this?" asked Dr. Stockwell, shrugging off his pack as he addressed his question to the group at large.
Their guide was first to answer. "Some say giants rest here long ago," he said. "Kick over trees while sleeping."
"Giants," Chalmers muttered. "Bloody rubbish."
"It could easily be something in the soil," said Audrey Moreland, speaking as their botanist in residence. "A nutrient deficiency, perhaps, or deviation in the depth of topsoil."
"I almost prefer the giant story," Stockwell said. "It's more… romantic somehow."
"Bloody great oaf sleeping rough and knocking over trees," said Chalmers. "Where's the romance?"
"You misunderstand me, Mr. Chalmers. Romance needn't be a thing of lust and sweaty flesh. It can be attitude and atmosphere, as well."
"I'll take mine straight up, thank you very much."
The pup tents were assembled quickly, Remo helping Audrey out with hers when she got tangled up.
"There's not much room in here," she told him, frowning.
Remo said, "There's not supposed to be. It's one per customer."
"Suppose I wanted company?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"I guess you'd have to improvise."
"I'm good at that," she said, and let him feel her breasts again as she brushed past him, wriggling clear.