"You mean he may not be lying?"
"The CIA has been with him at the hospital for two days, and I saw him for several hours. He won't change his story."
"Well, if what he says is true..."
"Then he's talking about a buildup of extremely advanced weaponry in an isolated area dangerously close to the U.S. mainland," Smith said grimly.
"A secret army?" Remo asked.
Smith held out his hands. "An army, a military base, an espionage station... It could be anything."
"What does the Guatemalan government say?"
"They categorically deny the presence of any foreign military power on their territory," Smith said. "Under the circumstances, the President of the United States can't risk sending in armed troops to investigate. That's where you come in."
"To check things out."
"To confirm or deny Diehl's allegations. If there are laser weapons in use, we want one of them. And of course you'll do what you can to stop any possible encroachment of enemy troops toward the United States."
Remo said, "Does it have to be a jungle?"
"You were looking forward to going a few minutes ago," Smith said, standing up. "You'll leave tomorrow morning on a commercial flight to Guatemala City. After that, you'll have to make your own way. A large part of your journey will be on foot, I'm afraid."
"Excellent," Chiun said. "He can use the exercise."
?Chapter Three
There was something about the jacaranda tree that looked familiar. Possibly because the Peten jungle was full of jacaranda trees. Possibly because the greenery in the region of Guatemala where Remo and Chiun were walking had been growing, steadily and uninterrupted, for the past 20 million years and offered barely enough light at four o'clock in the afternoon to see two feet in front of them. Possibly because Remo and Chiun walked without leaving tracks.
If they had been ordinary men, the damp, overgrown earth beneath their feet would have been crumpled and squashed, and their every move would have left marks. But the teachings of Sinanju had ingrained in both the old Oriental and the young American an instinct for balance that permitted them to move without a trace.
So it took Remo several hours to realize that they had been traveling in a continuous circle around the familiar looking jacaranda.
"Balls," said Remo, who was unwise in the ways of philosophical thought.
"At last," said Chiun, who was not.
Remo looked, stony faced, to the old man. "You knew we were walking in a circle?"
"Please," Chiun said wearily. "How often must one fall from the hump of a horse to realize he is riding a camel?"
"Huh?"
"The scent of the river. It grows weaker and stronger as one walks toward and away from it. The shadows on the leaves move with direction as well as time. There were a hundred signs pointing the way to our destination. A thousand clues..."
"And one map," Remo added, "which you gave to the stewardess on the plane."
"It was not the map I gave the lovely lady who recognized the Master of Sinanju and was concerned for his privacy."
The Pan Am stew's concern for Chiun's privacy centered around a Barbra Streisand movie being shown in the cabin, for which several other passengers refused to sit in reverent silence. One of those passengers decided to maintain an appropriate attitude after discovering that his head had been stuffed in one of the plane's toilets. Another found the pleasures of silence when he was packed neatly into the seat cushion of the passenger immediately in front of him.
The captain, who did not at first understand Chiun's desire to watch the movie in peace, finally agreed that the old man had a point. He arrived at this revelation while hanging by his fingertips from a window of the L-1011, flapping like a banner from the flying craft. Yes, indeed, the gentleman certainly did have a point there, the stewardess readily agreed as she evacuated the other passengers to seats in other cabins. Then she brought Chiun foot warmers and pillows and a box of chocolates donated by the passengers in the first-class cabin, who also understood that the Master of Sinanju wished to hear Barbra Streisand's golden tones without the babble of unappreciative louts.
"It was too the map. You wrote something on the back of it and handed it to her. I saw you."
"It was paper. On it I wrote one of the finest verses of Wang, the poet and greatest Master of Sinanju. It was something she would treasure in the dreariness of her life."
"The map on the other side of it was something I would have treasured, too."
"You are impossible," Chiun said. "I raise you from a nothing— less than nothing, a white man— but do I get even a single shred of respect for my efforts? Did I receive even a thank you when you demanded that I, an old man in the twilight of my life, leap from a moving airplane?"
"We had to jump out of the plane because every bureaucrat in Guatemala was at the airport waiting to deport us. Smitty would've loved that. And it wasn't like it was flying. It was taxiing."
Chiun sniffed. "Not even a thank you."
"Thank you, Chiun," Remo said elaborately. "Thank you for taking the map out of my pocket after I'd already jumped out of the plane and it was too late to take it back."
"It was nothing," Chiun said, smiling sweetly.
Remo exhaled noisily. "Well, there's no point in arguing about the map. It's gone."
"A map is unnecessary."
"But we don't know where we're going," Remo explained. "I only remember that it was somewhere west of Progresso, in the jungle. Here we are. Information terminated."
"We could ask."
"Oh, sure. We've been tramping around this overgrown greenhouse all day. We haven't seen so much as a chipmunk."
"You haven't," Chiun said. "But that is to be expected. You also did not see the tree we passed three times."
Remo tossed down the empty canvas bag he was carrying. "Okay, I give up," he said. "Show me this mysterious traffic cop of the jungle. I'll ask directions."
Chiun nodded. Through the dense brush, Remo could make out a form moving with the subtle signs of human breathing. It was a man, old by the sound of him. He was wearing a loose brown garment of some kind and was bent over at the waist, as if examining something on the ground. In his hands were bunches of white flowers.
"You were right," Remo said, amazed.
"Again," Chiun said off-handedly.
"Hey there, excuse me," Remo shouted. He made it a habit of announcing himself wherever he wanted to be seen approaching. Otherwise, he'd discovered, he seemed to materialize out of nowhere, usually scaring out of their socks whoever it was he wanted to talk to. It didn't make for good first impressions.
"Holy shit," the old man said, his hand on his heart. "You scared the socks off me. You American?"
Remo nodded. "You?"
The old man held up two fingers, making the peace sign. "Sebastian Birdsong. First Church of Krishna the Undraftable, Los Angeles, California. Peace, man."
Birdsong looked as if he were forty going on seventy. His gray shoulder-length hair was matted with dreadlocks, the result of years of wear without benefit of comb or shampoo. One hoop earring glinted from his right ear. Over his stooped shoulders was draped a cotton caftan, which had once been orange, sporting a paisley design, but had degenerated through unwashed ages to a stiff, uniformly gray-brown color, its sleeves frayed to the elbow. On his feet were crumbling leather strips that had once been a pair of sandals.