Warren Murphy: Bamboo Dragon

"The curse of self-indulgence," said Chiun.

"I'm going now," Remo announced. "Time to meet the others."

If Chiun heard Remo speak, he gave no sign. His sparkling eyes were focused on the television set once more, his every sense apparently in tune with the fictitious trials and tribulations of the Calendars, McGreevys, Potters and their ilk.

Chiun's devotion to the soap opera had never ceased to baffle Remo, taken in conjunction with that fine disdain the Master of Sinanju demonstrated for most other things American. If he had not been so familiar with Chiun, the old man's crystal clarity of thought, he might have misjudged Chiun's preoccupation with the soaps as a precursor of senility. Instead, he took it simply as another part of what made Chiun the rare, complex, sometimes infuriating person that he was.

The door closed softly, locking automatically as Remo left the suite. Behind him, seated on the floor, the Master of Sinanju turned away from Whitney Calendar and faced the door.

"Trust no one," he said softly, in Korean. "And take care, my son."

The Shangri-la Hotel was situated some four hundred yards beyond the Merlin and southward, where Jalan P. Ramlee crossed Man Sultan Ismail. It ranked among Kuala Lumpur's newest, most luxurious hotels, with several restaurants and more than seven hundred rooms.

It seemed to Remo that he wasn't followed on the walk between hotels, but then again, there was no point in tailing him if he was blown. His enemy—or enemies—would simply have to wait for Remo to present himself, an insect blundering into the spiderweb.

Except that he was not an ordinary insect, this one. He could sting, as they had learned with the attempt on Remo in the marketplace.

The message had been waiting for him when he checked in at the Hotel Merlin. Dr. Safford Stockwell, Ph.D., requested the pleasure of Dr. Ward's company at 5:00 p.m., to introduce the other members of the expedition and discuss last-minute strategy before departure, first thing in the morning. Remo hadn't bothered to return the call, preferring to remain aloof for now, but he wasn't about to miss the first glimpse of his fellow jungle travelers in the flesh.

Especially now that one of them had tried to have him killed.

The expedition's leader occupied suite 413. There was enough time left for Remo to bypass the elevator, taking to the stairs. As he ascended, Remo summed up what he knew of Safford Stockwell from the information passed along by CURE.

An eminent paleontologist with numerous publications and several major fossil discoveries to his credit, Dr. Stockwell was a Harvard graduate who did his alma mater proud. Of late, his specialty was Asian dinosaurs, which made him perfect for the Tasek Bera expedition. On the downside, he was fifty-eight years old and had confined himself to teaching, with sporadic forays into print, the past six years. Depending on his physical condition, Stockwell might become a burden once they left paved roads and riverboats behind. He didn't figure as a killer, but it was impossible to say with any certainty before they met in person. Age and dwindling economic prospects could be ample motivators for a change of character in later life, especially if the rumors about Stockwell's private life were accurate.

The rumbles out of Washington, where Stockwell taught at Georgetown and donated time at the Smithsonian, suggested ah affair—some said a soon-to-be-announced engagement—featuring the veteran dinosaur hunter and his protégée, one Audrey Moreland. Blond and beaming in the snapshots Remo had examined, Moreland was a paleobotanist out of UCLA, some twenty-five years Stockwell's junior. They had formed a bond of sorts soon after her arrival on the teaching staff at Georgetown, and it had been only natural for Stockwell to select her as his number two when he was tapped to head up the Malaysian team.

As for the rumored romance, Remo didn't know or care if the reports were accurate. On balance, he imagined it would make things simpler all around if Dr. Moreland was in love with Stockwell. That way, she would be less likely to go into business for herself and start prospecting for uranium—or hiring killers on the side.

The fourth floor might have been deserted, judging from the traffic in the hallway. Remo closed the stairwell access door behind him, checked the numbers visible from where he stood and set off to his right, in search of 413. He knew that he was truly in the Orient, when large hotels ignored the superstitious Western terror of "unlucky" numbers.

"White men," Remo muttered, constantly amused—or angered—by the eccentricities of his own race. But oddly, he was less amused when Chiun made his biting observation.

He stopped at 413 and hesitated for a moment, listening, his head turned slightly to one side and tilted toward the door. Other people would have heard a murmur of voices and the occasional word, but Remo's senses were heightened through Sinanju training, and the conversation came through, distinct and clear. Four people talking: two of them American, one British, by the sound, and one that could have been a native. Asian, anyway. One of the two Yanks was a woman, with a sultry voice that still possessed a cutting edge.

"What do we really know about this Dr. Renton Ward?" she asked the others. "I mean, we've never even seen him."

"Equal footing, there," her fellow countryman replied. "He hasn't seen us, either."

"You know what I mean," the woman answered, sounding peevish.

"We were fortunate that anyone could make the trip on such short notice," said the older man who must be Safford Stockwell. "Anyway, I've read his book and several of his monographs. He knows his subject."

"Even so—"

The subject of their conversation rapped three times against the door, imagining how easy it would be to put his hand and arm completely through the flimsy wooden panel. That would give them something to discuss around the campfire, but Remo wasn't prepared to discard his cover yet, despite the fact that it was evidently blown. They had a jungle trek ahead of them, and he would have to stay in character as long as possible.

The door was opened by a walking slab of muscle dressed in khaki. Jungle Jim on steroids, with the sickly sweet aroma of a full-time carnivore exuding from his sunbaked skin. The man was six foot five or six, with sandy hair combed straight back from a face that looked like sculpted leather. He was looking down his nose at Remo, literally, with a pair of cold gray eyes. That nose had taken brutal punishment at one time, and an impressive scar ran from the left eyebrow to the jaw hinge, just below his ear.

"And you are?"

Here's the Brit, thought Remo as he answered, "Renton Ward."

An older man stepped forward, easing past the hulk and offering his hand. The grip was firm enough, but there was no real strength behind it.

"Dr. Ward, come in, please. We were just discussing you."

"That explains it, then," said Remo.

"Sorry?"

"Why my ears were burning."

"Ah." Confusion flickered for an instant in the aging academic's eyes before he shook it off and introduced himself. "I'm Dr. Stockwell. Safford Stockwell."

Fearless leader, Remo thought, as if I couldn't guess. The man was fifty-eight, according to his file, but could have passed for ten years older at a glance. White hair, receding in a George Bush pattern, and a face that seemed to droop, with wattles showing underneath his chin. Whatever muscle tone and color Stockwell had acquired from years of fieldwork, chasing dinosaur remains, had long since vanished under the fluorescent classroom lights. He might be stronger than he looked, of course, but Remo guessed that he would burn out early on the trail, become a major burden if their group encountered any major obstacles requiring physical exertion.