The Pagodas of Pahang

By Duncan Watt

Number twenty in the Wallace Boys series. While Zainal was searching the sunken Hana-Maru for treasure, he came across a magnificent kris, the wonderful wavy-bladed knife of the Malays that forms so much of their legends.

When the Arabic inscriptions have been deciphered, it leads the boys off in a search of the rain forests of Malaysia for a ruined temple lost deep in the jungles of Taman Negara, the main National Park of Malaysia, encountering much of the wildlife of the Malay Peninsula, tigers, a slow loris, a rather bad-tempered king cobra and the little mouse deer, pelanduk - the animal of so many Malay legends.

Their search is complicated by a group of ex-Communists who have returned to the jungle to continue their banditry. From their hide-out, surrounded by lethal booby traps, the outlaws have ambushed the Eastern & Oriental Express Train that plies its luxurious way between Singapore and Bangkok. One of the most elegant of all trains, the Eastern & Oriental is forced to make a detour, and when the raiders board it, they take a hostage in the form of the beautiful Flavia, a rockstar princess.

However, an idea taken from Alfred Russel Wallace’s book 'The Malay Archipelago', a king cobra, a gecko and a story about a pontianak - a beautiful female ghost - all lead to an extremely satisfactory conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Watt
• Release date: May 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476336527

Duncan Watt

I was born in Africa where I grew up; but I have lived in countries like England, America, Papua New Guinea and Japan. I have now lived in Singapore for 35 years.When I was teaching in Zambia I wrote a couple of books in simplified English for my students and these were published by Oxford University Press. Since living in Singapore, where I have, among other things, appeared on the TV News for nearly twenty years, I have written 20 books in my Wallace Boys Series - 11 of which were published here in Singapore.Please visit The Wallace Boys Web Site to find out more about the books, and there is more about me too.

Book preview

The Pagodas of Pahang

An Adventure of the

Duncan Watt

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright Duncan Watt, 1996

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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To those who own the rain forests of Malaysia

and allow us to visit their home.

The author has donated some of his royalties to:

The Malaysian Nature Society

and

The Malaysian Department of Wildlife

and National Parks.

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Grateful thanks are extended to Ms Jennie Chua and Mr Arnold Tan of the Raffles Hotel for their kind help. The photograph of the hotel facade has been printed with the permission of the Raffles Hotel.

My sincere thanks to Mr Tom Evers-Swindell, Ms Myra French and all at the Eastern & Oriental Express for their invaluable help and kindness. The photographs of the luxury train have been printed with the permission of E & O.

Thanks to the staff at the Singapore National Library for their kindness and ready help in my research.

Grateful thanks to Mr N Sivasothi of the National University of Singapore for his help with leeches and gibbons.

Thanks to Mr Francis Lim of the Singapore Zoo for his help with details of the king cobra.

Thanks to Mr Sutari Supari for his help on jungle trekking.

Dr John N Miksic of the National University of Singapore very kindly put the writer on the trail of a ruined city in the jungles of Malaysia!

Mr Christopher P Side and Mr Mark Rangel were very patient and helpful when it came to drawing the maps. Many thanks!

Cover and illustrations by Paul O’Shea

Maps and diagrams by Duncan Watt

Contents

1. Ambush!

2. A Journey into Hell

3. The Lives of the Rich and Famous

4. Keeping a Discreet Distance

5. Booby-Trapped

6. Two Down, Two To Go

7. The Kris

8. Checking the Facts

9. Preparations

10. The Mysteries of 130 Million Years Ago

11. Bruce Takes a Swim

12. Bruce is Captured

13. Putting Kheng Peng’s Plan into Action

14. Has Zainal Lost It?

15. Snakes Alive!

16. Tarzan Comes to Taman Negara

17. Zainal Explains

18. The Tunnel

19. Bruce Has a Trick or Two up His Sleeve!

Glossary

A note about Malaysia and the Communist Emergency

Taman Negara

Ruritania

A list of books readers might be interested in reading

Equipment for camping in the jungle

Maps and Diagrams

South-East Asia

Peninsular Malaysia

Taman Negara

The Malay Peninsula about AD 675

Part of Taman Negara

The area around Sungai Teku

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1

Ambush!

It was sudden. It was shocking. It was deafening. The train’s dining saloon came to a dead halt instantaneously. The contents and occupants, however, continued with their journey for a few moments longer, the laws of physics being what they are! Chairs tumbled; crockery, cutlery, and all the paraphernalia and trappings of exquisite table settings went hurtling forward unchecked, to land shattered and splintered along the carpeted aisle; vases of exquisite orchids toppled, spilling their contents amongst the debris and confusion.

Tableware, and plates of food slammed viciously against the passengers. The spotless damask table cloths were instantly stained deep red from shattered crystal wine glasses. The wine waiter, juggling a champagne bottle and ice bucket, tottered, spilling the contents in a glittering diamond cascade. Ice cubes skittered the length of the carriage, adding to the disaster. Vainly trying to regain his balance, the waiter trod on one of the cubes. His feet slipped from beneath him and he was propelled halfway down the dining saloon, trying to halt his forward progress with a marked lack of success. The champagne bottle, shaken to the limit, popped its cork, adding to the din.

Screams of terror and fear competed with the indescribable clamour as the whole train screeched to a halt. From a distance, came the agonized shrieking of tortured metal as the diesel engine ploughed into the bridge girders; the coaches behind concertinaed and were in imminent danger of toppling helter-skelter down the railway embankment; they teetered precariously but held steady, with the engine itself coming to rest half over the swollen, swirling waters of the river below the bridge, rocking, lit by the lurid purple glow of savage bolts of lightning.

Momentarily, the lights went out in the dining saloon, but thankfully they flickered back on again. In the complete silence that followed the disaster, broken only by the heavy rush of monsoon rain on the roof of the carriage and the nearly continuous crash of thunder, the passengers began to pick themselves up and, wonder of wonders, it appeared that none was seriously hurt. The relief was palpable. Outbreaks of nervous laughter greeted an American passenger’s comment: I’ve heard about a tossed salad, but this is ridiculous!

At once, the train manager started straightening tables and chairs, assuring the stunned diners that everything was all right now and that he would check to see what was happening. I’ll go forward through the train to see the extent of the damage and keep you informed.

You are going nowhere! a harsh voice cut across the babble, following the train manager’s announcement.

As one, the passengers spun round. Framed in the doorway to the dining saloon, stood a dark figure clad in camouflage fatigues. Over his head he wore a black ski-mask, effectively hiding his face. But what he carried in his hands had more impact. With a sudden gesture, he pointed the gun at the ceiling of the saloon and squeezed the trigger. The utter, horrified silence that had greeted the arrival of the intruder was shattered as the muzzle spat orange gouts of flame. Starting with the far corner of the dining saloon, the gunman allowed the gun’s recoil to walk the stream of bullets the length of the wooden ceiling, stitching its way through the beautiful, hand-crafted paintings of flowers, puncturing the roof. Empty 7.62 cartridge cases tinkled to the floor.

With their ears ringing from the noise and the acrid stench of cordite in their nostrils, the cowering passengers watched the man casually change to another forward-curving magazine, locking it into place. To anyone with any knowledge of weaponry, they would have known that this was the Chinese version of the Russian AK-47, the Kalashnikov, arguably the finest assault rifle ever made, the weapon most favoured by terrorists the world over.

Now that I have your complete and undivided attention, I want you to do exactly as I say. First, will all of you pick yourselves up off the floor, straighten the chairs to some semblance of order and sit down? At the moment, you all look rather ridiculous. Then we can get down to business.

With wary haste, the occupants of the dining saloon did as they were bid, fearfully keeping an eye out for the gun that seemed to cover each and every one of them.

The gunfire obviously acted as a signal. Within seconds, four others, similarly clad, shouldered their way into the dining salon, weapons held at the ready, fingers on triggers.

That’s much better. And now that we’re all sitting comfortably - no, probably not completely comfortably - this is what we are going to do. Here, the intruder indicated his companions, standing silently in the aisle leading to the train’s galley. Without any hesitation, all of you are going to divest yourselves of everything that you have on you that is even the remotest bit valuable. My friends will be circulating amongst you with sacks; you are heartily urged to give generously, as I’m sure you need no reminding. He gave a sinister laugh. He tilted his head slightly as a sign for his accomplices to start.

At once, the others began making their way down the length of the saloon working in pairs; one holding the opened sack, his weapon slung over his back; while the other kept his gun at the ready, indicating each passenger in turn - silently. There was no need for words - the guns spoke volumes!

All of you who have safety deposit boxes in your compartments are cordially invited to write down the number of the coach, compartment and the combination numbers, together with your names. You can use the dinner seating arrangement cards that you were given earlier. And please write neatly - if I can’t read something, I won’t hesitate to shoot you. Up till now, the mocking voice from behind the ski-mask had held a light bantering tone, but these last words were uttered in such a way that no one doubted their veracity.

There was a certain amount of shuffling as the passengers hastily rummaged for their seating cards and pens or pencils from inside dinner jacket pockets or tucked away in elegant evening bags.

Very sensible you are all being. I hope that you will continue to be so. He collected the cards and handed them to one of his accomplices, who disappeared down the wood-panelled corridor in the direction of the sleeping compartments. Just then, there came a ragged burst of gunfire from one of the nearby coaches. It sounds like someone’s not cooperating very wisely. My assistants have strict orders that they must be obeyed instantly - we don’t want to waste time.

By now, the work of collecting wallets, purses, rings, diamond-studded wrist watches and dazzling earrings was going apace. One pair of intruders had reached a table at which three people sat; obviously a father, mother and their very beautiful teenage daughter. The father, distinguished and greying slightly at the temples, was impeccably dressed in a white tuxedo which was cut to reveal a sash that crossed his chest, bemedalled with a number of orders. The silk lapel of the jacket held a delicate purple orchid. His wife, looking regal in a shimmering gown of burgundy velvet and a glittering tiara in her hair, had hardly moved a muscle since the arrival of the intruders. Now she calmly reached up to her head and removed the tiara which she tossed into the waiting sack with the utmost contempt.

Looking frightened, but taking her cue from her mother, the daughter similarly reached up to her emerald-encrusted tiara. From beneath her neatly layered auburn hair, two beautifully wrought drop earrings of a deep green that matched her eyes caught the light. Emotionlessly, she tilted her head slightly, allowing her hair to drop away, revealing the side of her face. Carefully, as though merely getting ready for bed, she removed first one earring and then the other.

Thank you, Princess, came the mocking tones from the man who appeared to be the leader of the group. He crossed to their table in one fluid movement of cat-like grace.

Marginally, her eyes narrowed as she looked across at the masked man. So they knew who she was, she thought, remembering the uneasy feeling that she had had earlier in the day; the feeling that she was being watched. But these thoughts were driven from her as she watched her father struggling with the royal signet ring on his little finger.

I can’t, he said calmly. It’s stuck.

The bulges of skin and flesh resisted all his attempts to pull the ring free.

No problem, the man replied with a sinister chuckle, transferring his AK-47 to one hand with dextrous ease, grasping it by the pistol grip. He reached round his back with his right hand, and in the next instant a forty-centimetre parang[1] flashed above the dining table, the deadly blade honed to razor sharpness. We came prepared. He leant forward suddenly before the other could move, grasping the father’s wrist and pinioning it to the table like a band of steel.

The girl’s eyes opened wide in terror, but her mother calmly leant forward, picking up the butter dish.

May I? she asked without looking up, and, without waiting for an answer, she reached across the table, lifting her husband’s hand. The intruder’s grip was released but the parang remained poised threateningly above the table.

As though she had all the time in the world, she scooped up some of the slightly melted butter and applied it to the offending little finger. With great deliberation, she carefully wiped her fingers on her table napkin. With a deft twist of the wrist, she eased the signet ring off her husband’s little finger and pitched it into the sack held by the silent assistant. A much less drastic method, I’m sure you’ll agree, she added, looking directly into the intruder’s dark eyes, totally unafraid.

Outside, the raging monsoon rainstorm increased in intensity. The torrential rain hammered incessantly on the roof of the carriage, dripping in through the ragged holes caused by the burst from the intruder’s AK-47. Vivid flashes of lightning illuminated the scene outside the carriage as bright as day, revealing the jungle trees lining the railway track tossed violently in the strong wind.

What is this? What’s this all about? The train manager had at last found his voice, which, needless to say, was quivering slightly, but as he was nominally in charge of the train he felt that it was up to him to wave the flag. He was a short, plump little man with a mop of untidy hair, and he had never been so afraid in his whole life. Who are you and what do you want? he squeaked, barely audible above the roaring thunder outside.

I would have thought what we want is obvious, my little man! We want all your valuables. Who we are is less obvious, and I’m afraid will have to remain a mystery. I’m not prepared to satisfy your curiosity on that point. He glanced round the dining saloon which looked more like a major battle zone. Pale faces, haggard and gaunt, peered at him, trying to read his thoughts, fearful that with just one sweep of his AK-47 he would wipe them all out. He glanced at his watch. Very good, he said, as he received nods from his silent accomplices.

Others, appearing from the corridors at either end of the dining saloon, joined them. It seemed as though the raid on the Eastern & Oriental Express Train was a total success.

Now perhaps, thought the girl, these people would just go and leave them alone. All she wanted was to be left with her parents. She had so much she wanted to say to them. Her father, ashen-faced across the table, caught her glance and smiled encouragingly as though to say: They’ll be gone soon and everything will be fine, you’ll see. Her mother raised her arm and gathered her daughter into a hug Flavia had almost forgotten existed. She felt safe with them; they wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

At that moment, the man who appeared to be the leader of the bandits turned round. Ah. Our illustrious helmsman and his mate. His voice still held its mocking tones.

Quiet! snapped a querulous voice. You talk too much. Have you got everything? The newcomer, like the others, was clad in camouflage fatigues and ski-mask, but he was much shorter. He was also obviously very much older than the man who had done all the speaking; in fact, from his voice and his posture, the passengers would have put him down as being an elderly man. In his gnarled hands he carried a weapon very different from the AK-47s borne by the rest of the bandits; with its straight magazine, this gun was smaller and it looked older, like its owner. Behind him, silent and still, stood a tall figure clothed entirely in black. Long tapering fingers, like an eagle’s talons, tightly gripped an AK-47.

All is under control, Helmsman, came the unabashed response. I would say that it’s time to leave now. We’ve got what we came for. But before we do, it is necessary to take a hostage. You realize, ladies and gentlemen, that we need to guarantee our safety, so we will be taking one of you with us. Any attempts to follow and the hostage dies. Some of our men, our very best snipers, will be lying hidden in the jungle on either side of the train watching. No one is to leave until we decide that you can. It will be a brave man who makes the first attempt! I need hardly add that we have destroyed the RT equipment on board and all the phones. Now, about the hostage - who shall it be? His gaze flickered across the frightened faces before him. "Eenie-meenie-minie-mo."

For the most part, eyes were immediately averted, looking anywhere but at their tormentor. Don’t choose me. For God’s sake, not me, the bowed heads seemed to say.

However, at least three pairs of eyes did not avert their gaze. They belonged to the family of father, mother and daughter. Unwaveringly, provocatively even, they returned the man’s stare. Even before he spoke, the girl knew what he was going to say. The decision had been made long before, of that she was sure. All along, she was to be the target. The man with the AK-47 was merely playing with her. She now knew she had been quite correct in her suspicions that she had been observed that morning. Was it only that morning? she thought. It felt such a long time ago.

You, Princess. I think you’ll do. You will be coming with us. Fractionally, the AK-47 shifted until the unwavering barrel pointed directly at the girl.

2

A Journey into Hell

The girl’s heart skipped a beat and her mother hugged her closer as her father reached across the table to take her hand in a vice-like grip.

Leave my daughter. Take me. The father struggled to his feet.

We don’t want you, old man. We know who you are, but it’s your daughter we want. Roughly, the man with the AK-47 pushed the girl’s father to one side with his weapon and pulled the girl up out of her seat. You’re coming with us, Princess.

Come. Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time. Get the girl and go, the man referred to as the Helmsman growled angrily. As I said, you talk too much, Chik.

Momentarily, there was a flash of anger in the younger intruder’s voice. No names, remember! he snapped. Pushing the girl before him, he frogmarched her to the end of the dining saloon.

Flavia! her mother called out in anguish, her composure breaking for the first time. Flavia!

"Don’t worry, mother, father. I’ll see you again. Remember. I’ll see you again; goodbye."

With that, she was bundled unceremoniously through the sliding door and onto the high steps that led out of the carriage into the pelting rain that continued to lash the side of the train. A livid, purple