The junglewas completely silent. Not a buzzing cicada, not a hornbill cry, nor a distant chattering monkey. Utterly silent-and no wonder, Hagar thought. He shook his head as he looked at the ten camera crews from around the world now clustered in little groups on the jungle floor, protecting their lenses from the dripping moisture as they peered upward into the trees overhead. He had told them to be silent, and indeed nobody was actually talking. The French crew smoked cigarettes. Although the German crew maintained silence, the cameraman kept snapping his fingers imperiously as he gestured to his assistant to do this and that. The Japanese crew from NHK was quiet, but beside them, the CNN crew out of Singapore whispered and murmured and changed lenses, clanking metal boxes. The British Sky TV crew from Hong Kong had come inappropriately dressed. They now had their running shoes off and were plucking leeches from between their toes, swearing as they did so.

Hopeless.

Hagar had warned the companies about conditions in Sumatra and the difficulty of filming there. He had recommended that they send wildlife photography teams experienced in fieldwork. No one had listened. Instead, they had rushed the nearest available crews to Berastagi, and as a result half the teams had talent standing by, microphones held ready, as if they were waiting to ambush a head of state.

They had been waiting for three hours.

So far, the talking orangutan had failed to make an appearance, and Hagar was prepared to bet he never would. Hagar caught the eye of one of the French team and gestured for him to put out his cigarette. The guy shrugged and turned his back to Hagar. He continued smoking.

One of the Japanese team slipped through the group and stood beside Hagar. He whispered, “When does the animal come?”

“When it’s silent.”

“So, you mean not today?”

Hagar made a helpless gesture, palms upward.

“We are too many?”

Hagar nodded.

“Perhaps tomorrow, we will come alone.”

“All right,” Hagar said.

Just then a ripple of excitement ran through the crews; they jumped to their cameras, adjusted their tripods, and began to film. Hagar heard the soft murmur of voices in many languages. Nearby, the Sky TV man held his microphone close to his lips and spoke in a stage whisper: “We are standing here deep in the remote jungles of Sumatra, and there, just across the way, we see the creature that has aroused the speculation of the entire world-the chimpanzee that is said to talk and, yes, even to swear.”

Christ, Hagar thought. He turned to see what they were filming. He caught a glimpse of brownish fur and a dark head. The animal was clearly no larger than two feet tall, and almost immediately gave the low moaning call of the pig-tailed macaque.

The camera crews were electrified. Microphones pointed like so many gun barrels toward the quick-moving animal. They heard more moans from the distant foliage. Obviously a good-size troop was here.

The Germans recognized it first.“Nein, nein, nein!” The cameraman stepped irritably away from the camera.“Es ist ein macaque.”

Soon the canopy overhead was thrashing as a dozen macaques swung through the area and headed north.

One of the Brits turned to Hagar. “Where’s the chimp, then?”

“Orangutan,” Hagar said.

“Whatever. Where is he?” His voice was impatient.

“He doesn’t keep an appointment calendar,” Hagar said.

“Is this where he’s usually found? Yes? Can we put some food out for him, something to attract him? Make some mating call?”

“No,” Hagar said.

“No way to attract him, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“We just sit here and hope for the best?” The journalist glanced at his watch. “They want tape by noon.”

“Unfortunately,” Hagar said, “we’re in the jungle. It happens when it happens. It’s the natural world.”

“Not if it talks, it’s not natural,” the cameraman said. “And I haven’t got all fucking day.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Hagar said.

“Find me the fucking monkey!” the guy yelled. His shout agitated the macaques in the trees, made them scamper and moan.

Hagar looked at the others. The French cameraman said, “Perhaps quieter? For everybody.”

“Bugger off, you miserable fuckwit,” the Brit said.

“Easy, mate.” A huge man from the Australian crew stepped forward and put his hand on the Brit, who swung a roundhouse to his jaw. The Australian caught his hand, twisted it, and shoved him into his tripod. The tripod went down, the cameraman sprawling. The rest of the British crew jumped the Aussie, whose teammates rushed to his defense. So did the Germans. Soon three crews were swinging wildly. When the French tripod fell, and their camera was splattered with mud, other crews began to fight as well.

Hagar just stared.

No orang today, he thought.