Bamboo Dragon td-108

by Warren Murphy

  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."

  "Of course, that's it."

  "Could be the same," said Remo, edging close to Audrey as he spoke. "As I recall, they sank it in the final reel."

  "It's not that bad."

  "It's floating, anyway. How long until we reach Dampar?"

  "A little over forty miles downstream," said Stockwell, joining them. "I understand we have to make some stops along the way."

  And so they did. Their boat, the Babi Kali, was apparently on tap for everything from mail delivery to grocery drops, with better than a dozen ports of call along the route from Temerloh to Dampar, to the south. Some of the cargo squawked and cackled, trailing feathers on the deck, but most of it was bagged or crated, everything from fruit and vegetables to canned goods, medicine and a replacement motor for an ailing generator.

  There were tiny sleeping cabins down below, next to the head, with bunks stacked one atop the other like a parody of summer camp, but Remo chose a spot on deck, along the starboard rail, from which to watch the jungle pass. It brought back memories, of course, but there were also things that he had never noticed in his other life, when he was focused on a kill-or-be-killed game to the exclusion of all else. A flock of brightly colored birds exploding from the treetops like a sentient rainbow. Fish that broke the surface, leaping up to snag a flying insect from the air. Small groups of natives peering f
rom the reeds along the riverbank, believing they were perfectly concealed.

  Sinanju went beyond the normal scope of martial arts, beyond the kind of David Carradine philosophy you got from watching whites portraying Asian mystics on TV. It was a way of life that harmonized the human form with Nature, giving up resistance and accepting what could be when body, heart and mind were one. It was not a religion, in the sense that any holy man or book dictated moral dos and don'ts to sheeplike followers, with promises of pain or pleasure based upon their willingness to grovel in the dirt. Instead, the Master of Sinanju taught his chosen students how to maximize potential, with a vengeance. Sloth, negligence, bad diet could hold them back, and proper breathing was the portal that opened up that other realm.

  "It takes my breath away," said Audrey Moreland, stepping up to join Remo at the railing.

  Remo glanced around. "Where's Dr. Stockwell?"

  "Down below." She flashed a rueful smile. "He gets a trifle seasick, I'm afraid."

  "We're on a river."

  "All the same."

  "And Chalmers?"

  "Playing with his guns, I should imagine. Would you like me to go find him?"

  "Not on my account."

  She faced back toward the jungle, moved a half step closer, leaning on the rail beside him, with her shoulder touching his. "My fieldwork in the past has all been digs in the United States," she told him, lowering her voice to something like a confidential tone. "I can't believe I'm really here. It's like… "

  "A fantasy?"

  "Exactly."

  "I could pinch you if you like."

  "Why, Dr. Ward, is that a proposition?"

  "Well… "

  "You know, I really think I owe you something. For last night."

  "Last night?"

  "With Chalmers."

  "That was nothing," Remo told her.

  "Oh, I understand he slipped and hit his head. A funny thing about his nose, though, don't you think? I could have sworn he'd fallen on his back."

  "It was dark," he said. "I didn't pay that much attention."

  "Anyway, the point is you were willing to defend me, standing up to someone twice your size. If you hadn't come along… I mean, I'm sure he meant to… well, you know."

  "It's done."

  "I wish he wasn't coming with us, Renton. Anything can happen in a place like this," she said. "It would mean so much to me if I had someone to depend on."

  Audrey turned toward Remo as she spoke, and edged a little closer so that one firm breast was pressed against his arm. She wore a bra today, but there was no ignoring the insistent pressure of her nipple, even masked by several layers of fabric.

  "You've got Dr. Stockwell," Remo said.

  Her laughter startled him—spontaneous, explosive. There was nothing shy or juvenile about it.

  "Safford? Please!" Her nipple prodded Remo's arm for emphasis. "If we run into a Tyrannosaurus rex, he'll quote you all the vital stats before the damned thing swallows him alive. When it comes down to people in the real world, though, away from academia… well, let's just say he's no Clint Eastwood."

  "Even in defense of someone special?"

  Audrey blinked at Remo, with a hint of color rising in her cheeks, then laughed again. "My God," she said, "don't tell me that nonsense has traveled all the way from Georgetown to New Orleans."

  "What nonsense is that?"

  "About my 'hot affair' with Safford. Christ, I'd like to get my hands on the pathetic creep who started that one circulating."

  "So you're not… involved?"

  She struck a pose, with one hand on her hip, the other on the rail. "Do I look like a fossil, Renton?"

  "Hardly."

  "There you go. We work together, and we're friends. The past three years, we've gone to dinner maybe half a dozen times. He's nice, you understand? And safe."

  "But you get tired of nice and safe."

  "Who doesn't?" Audrey moved in again, her body heat washing over Remo.

  "Well, there's always Chalmers."

  "I refuse to mate outside my species, thank you very much." She hesitated, staring into Remo's eyes. "Oh, hey… you're not… I mean… "

  "Not what?"

  She raised a hand, limp-wristed. "You know."

  His turn to laugh. "Not lately."

  "No, I didn't think so." Audrey's hip was rubbing his now, just in case the rigid nipple didn't make her point. "A woman knows."

  "The intuition thing," he said.

  "That, too."

  "Does Dr. Stockwell know you're just good friends?"

  "He should. I mean, we haven't done it, anything like that."

  "Sometimes a man sees what he wants to see."

  "I don't know what he's seeing, Renton, but I haven't shown him anything. I'm not responsible for anyone's imagination."

  "So you're up for grabs, then."

  "I've been known to do some grabbing of my own."

  "Empirical research?"

  "The finest kind."

  "I hate to change the subject—"

  "Don't."

  "A brief detour."

  Audrey almost pouted. "If you must."

  "About this dinosaur… "

  "Oh, Renton. This is where you ask me whether I believe we'll find a world that time forgot?" She smiled and shook her head. "The truth is, I don't' have a clue."

  "But here you are."

  "Damned right. When was the last time you were in a classroom, Renton?"

  "Oh, it's been a while."

  "I teach four days a week," she said. "That doesn't sound like much, I know. The pay's all right—it's not some godforsaken high school where the students carry guns. I'm not complaining, really… well, I am, but it's a small complaint, okay? It's boring, Renton. Every twelve to eighteen months, I write another monograph on ancient spoors, whatever, and I play the game with office politics. But this… I mean, we're having an adventure, right? And if we do find something, think of it!"

  "Like prospecting," he offered, dangling the bait.

  "I never thought of it that way," said Audrey, "but I guess that's right. You go out looking, maybe strike it rich, or maybe come back empty-handed. But at least you did something."

  "You're awfully young to be stuck in a rut," he said.

  "I'm not that young, but thanks for noticing."

  "I couldn't miss."

  "It's hard to understand, I guess, unless you've been there, from a woman's point of view. I mean, if you want some excitement, all you have to do is milk your cobra."

  Remo smiled at that. "You need a hobby," he suggested.

  "Oh, I have one," Audrey told him, "but it needs discretion. Fraternizing with the students is a no-no, and I wouldn't touch most of my colleagues with a ten-inch pole, assuming I could find one."

  "That's a problem, if you set your sights too high."

  "I'm flexible," she said. "You'd be surprised."

  "I might, at that."

  A splash drew their attention to the riverbank, where a long reptilian tail was vanishing from sight.

  "No crocodiles?"

  "That's one thing, when you deal with living species," Remo said. "They don't play by the rules."

  "Makes life more interesting," said Audrey. "What are your rules, Renton?"

  "Live and let live," Remo said. "What goes around—"

  "Is there a Mrs. Dr. Ward?" she interrupted him.

  "Well, there's a candidate of sorts… "

  "Sounds to me as if you still have… options."

  "Those we have… until we die."

  "I'm surprised."

  "How so?"

  "You seem the type a woman who would want to tie down for good."

  "Most, or many women would. It's a certain instinct with them."

  "I'm not most women," Audrey said.

  "I'm picking up on that."

  "I like perceptive men. They know what makes a woman tick."

  "Is that so difficult?"

  "You'd be surprised. I've had my
share of 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am.'"

  "Disgraceful."

  "Which is not to say I'm out of touch with urgency."

  "It never crossed my mind," said Remo.

  "I mean, quickies have their place," she said. "In public, for example."

  Remo smiled and shook his head. "I really couldn't say."

  "You've missed a lot," said Audrey. "What you need is an accomplished tutor."

  "I get wrapped up in my work," he said.

  "You know the rule—all work… "

  "You've got a point."

  Her left hand dropped below the rail and out of sight, warm fingers lightly grazing Remo's fly.

  "You, too."

  A whistle sounded, and the Babi Kali swung toward shore. A sagging wooden dock thrust outward from the bank. On shore, a white nun in her fifties waited, flanked by half a dozen Malays.

  "I should go and check on Safford," Audrey remarked.

  "Sounds like a plan."

  "I'll see you later, to continue our discussion."

  "Looking forward to it," Remo said.

  Dampar made Temerloh look like Times Square on New Year's Eve. The swaybacked pier groaned underfoot, as if it might collapse at any moment. There were about a dozen buildings visible, with jungle pressing close around them. The humidity had nourished jungle rot on anything that wasn't cleaned or painted frequently. The local "inn" consisted of eight cabins drawn up in a line to face the river, fifty yards back from the shore. The furnishings included steel-frame cots and camp chairs, folding tables, propane lamps and plenty of mosquito netting. The electric generator ran on diesel fuel and conked out periodically, without apparent reason. In addition to the cabins, there was a ramshackle trading post, a small infirmary, a one-room school and a communal dining hall.

  Their host was a short, chunky Malay in his forties, squeezed into a well-worn polyester suit. His oily smile reminded Remo of a used-car salesman, but it turned out that he owned Dampar lock, stock and pesthole. He was generous with compliments when they arrived, and favored Audrey with a leer that would have had a hooker quoting prices. While a team of natives set about unloading their equipment from the Babi Kali, he conveyed them to their cabins.