"Remo, Chiun, come quick!" she cried. "Hurry!" Fearing the worst as she ducked back outside, the two Sinanju Masters flew for the door. When they emerged into the sunlight, they found Amanda standing a few yards from the hangar, surrounded by her pastel pink luggage. She was staring across the tarmac, a look of near rapturous bliss on her sweating face.
A new private jet had landed and taxied to a stop. People milled around the plane.
"You're not going to believe it," Amanda said. "I just saw him." She was craning her neck for a better look.
"Who?" Remo asked. "St. Clair?" He looked hopefully at the small crowd.
He didn't see the head of the CCS. All attention seemed to be focused around the thin, balding man in sunglasses who had just stepped into view.
When she saw the man reappear, Amanda grabbed Remo by the arm. Her digging nails pressed white finger marks in his skin.
"Geez, lady, lay off," Remo snarled.
A single tap on the back of her wrist and her hand sprang back open. Amanda hardly noticed.
"Don't you recognize Prick?" she asked.
Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju. "Did she just insult me again?" he said, assuming this was some new slang phrase he'd missed.
"Do not look at me," the old Korean said. "English when practiced by the modern British is confusing enough. I have long given up trying to keep track of whatever it is you Americans do to vulgarize it.
"Prick is a world-famous singer," Amanda explained. "You must have heard of him."
Remo looked back over at the new arrival, eyes narrowing. The man in the sunglasses wore an opennecked shirt and a pair of torn jeans. Remo realized that he had indeed seen him before.
"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding. "He's the one and only loudmouth in the music business who's always spouting off about something or other like he's the world's freaking nanny. Good thing there's not more like him or no one would ever take music stars seriously."
A pair of loincloth-wearing natives stepped down from the plane. They carried spears, blowguns and copies of Rolling Stone with their pictures on the cover. Remo recognized them from the Primeval Society benefit concert in New York.
Amanda watched Prick eagerly as he and the tribesmen stepped over to a waiting limo. The flush to her cheeks was no longer due solely to the Brazilian heat.
"He's done a great job focusing attention on the plight of the rain forest," Amanda breathed.
"Beats working for a living," Remo said. "You think he has to use that name because of truth-in-advertising laws?" To the Master of Sinanju, he said, "Chiun, can I see that map for a minute?"
The old Korean produced the map they'd found on the CCS plane from the folds of his kimono, handing it to Remo.
"He's here for the big Pan Brazil Eco-Fest," Amanda said as she watched photographers swarm the limo. Something big and papery crinkled in front of her face, blocking her view of Prick. "What's that?" she asked. Leaning back, she saw it was a map.
"Your buddy St. Clair and his hired killer left it for us to find," Remo said. "Any idea what's there?" He pointed to the circled section.
Amanda shook her head. "No," she said worriedly. "The CCS does a lot of work down here. It could be a project I don't know about. Did you say the killer was here?"
Remo nodded. "He must have got here just before us."
Suddenly, Prick was forgotten. "And you let me out here to fend for myself alone?" she said, aghast. "He could be anywhere, and you abandoned me? You-you incompetents!"
Frantically, she grabbed up only one of her bags. Using it as a pink shield, she covered her head and went running for the terminal.
Remo handed the map back to Chiun. "I'm glad we don't really work for her," he groused. "That servant-bashing is starting to get on my nerves." He cast a raised eyebrow at Amanda's abandoned luggage. "Should I?" he sighed.
"Why?" the Master of Sinanju replied blandly. "There must be something in them the street urchins of this squalid land could use."
Turning, he padded off toward the terminal. Remo nodded. "Consider it the first shot in the battle for servants' rights," he said to himself. With a mental image of dozens of Brazilian beggars dressed in Amanda Lifton's pink nighties, he struck off after Chiun.
HERR HAHN WATCHED them go. First the girl, then the men.
Hahn had seen everything he wanted to see on the security monitors. They had taken the bait. The Masters of Sinanju had the map.
It was still possible he could get one or two of them before they left Macapa but, if not, true success would inevitably come up the dark depths of the Amazon. Hubert St. Clair wouldn't approve of his actions. But this was no longer about his employer.
Leaving the body of the murdered security officer to rot in the heat of the small shed, Herr Hahn hurried out into the stifling Brazilian afternoon.