The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  For Sam and Remi, it felt good to be far from the relative bustle of Kathmandu and, hopefully, beyond the reach of the King clan.

  The plane continued to descend, rapidly bleeding off airspeed until it was, Sam estimated, flying only a few knots above stall speed. Remi looked at her husband questioningly. He smiled and said, “Short runway. It’s either bleed airspeed up here or slam on the brakes when we’re down.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  With a squelch and a shudder, the landing gear kissed the tarmac, and soon they were coasting toward a cluster of buildings at the southern end of the runway. The plane braked to a stop, and the engines began winding down. Sam and Remi collected their backpacks and headed for the door, which was already open. A ground crewman in dark blue coveralls smiled and gestured to the stepladder below the door. Remi climbed down, followed by Sam.

  They started walking toward the terminal building. To their right, a cluster of goats nibbled at brown grass beside the hangar. Beyond them, on a dirt road, they could see a line of musk ox being herded by an old man in a red beanie and green trousers. Occasionally, he tapped a wayward ox with a switch while making a clucking sound with his mouth.

  Remi gathered the collar of her parka closer to her neck and said, “I think this qualifies as brisk.”

  “I was going to go with bracing,” Sam replied. “We’re at about ten thousand feet, but there’s a lot less cover.”

  “And a lot more wind.”

  As if to punctuate Remi’s point, a gust whipped across the tarmac. Clouds of ochre dust obscured their vision for a few seconds before clearing, revealing in greater detail the scenery behind the airport buildings. Several hundred feet tall, the taupe-colored cliffs were deeply grooved from top to bottom, as though carved by giant fingertips. Smoothed by time and erosion, the patterns looked almost man-made-like the walls of some ancient fortress.

  Behind them a voice said, “Most of Mustang looks like that. At least the lower elevations.”

  Sam and Remi stopped and turned to see a mid-twenties man with shaggy blond hair smiling at them. He asked, “First time?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied. “But not yours, I’m betting.”

  “Fifth. I’m a trekking junkie, I guess you could say. Jomsom’s sort of the base camp for trekking in this region. I’m Wally.”

  Sam introduced himself and Remi, and the trio continued walking toward the terminal buildings. Wally pointed to several groups of people standing along the tarmac’s edge. Most were dressed in brightly colored parkas and standing beside heavy-duty backpacks.

  “Fellow trekkers?” asked Remi.

  “Yep. A lot of familiar faces too. We’re part of the local economy, I guess you could say. Trekking season keeps this place alive. Can’t go anywhere here without being attached to a guide outfit.”

  “And if you’d prefer not to?” asked Sam.

  “There’s a company of Nepalese Army troops stationed here,” Wally replied. “It’s a bit of a racket, really, but you can’t blame them. Most of these people make less in a year than we make in a week. It’s not so bad. If you prove you know what you’re doing, most of the guides just tag along and stay out of the way.”

  From a nearby group of trekkers a woman called, “Hey, Wally, we’re over here!”

  He turned, gave her a wave, then asked Sam and Remi, “Where are you headed?”

  “Lo Monthang.”

  “Cool place. It’s downright medieval, man. A real time machine. You already got a guide?”

  Sam nodded. “Our contact in Kathmandu arranged one.”

  Remi asked, “How long should it take to get there? According to the map, it’s-”

  “Maps!” Wally replied with a chuckle. “They’re not bad, fairly accurate on the horizontal, but the terrain here is like a piece of wadded-up newspaper that’s only been half flattened out. Everything changes. One day you could pass a spot that’s nice and flat, the next day it’s half choked by a landslide. Your guide will probably follow the Kali Gandaki River ravine most of the way-it should be mostly dry right now-so you should figure sixty miles total. At least twelve hours’ drive time.”

  “Which means overnight,” Sam replied.

  “Yep. Ask your guide. He’ll either have a nice tent set up or a trekkers’ hut reserved for you. You’re in for a treat. The trail that follows the Kali Gandaki ravine is the deepest in the world. On one side, you got the Annapurna mountains; the other, the Dhawalagiri. In between, eight of the twenty highest mountains in the world! The ravine trail is like a cross between Utah and Mars, man! The stupas and caves alone are-”

  The woman called again, “Wally!”

  He said to Sam and Remi, “Hey, I gotta go. Nice meeting you. Travel safe. And stay out of chokes after dusk.”

  They shook hands all around, and Wally starting jogging toward his group.

  Sam called, “Chokes?”

  “Your guide will tell you!” Wally called over his shoulder.

  Sam turned to Remi, “Stupas?”

  “Most commonly known as a chortens here. They’re essentially reliquaries-mound-like structures containing sacred Buddhist artifacts.”

  “How big?”

  “They can range from the size of a garden gnome to a cathedral. One of the largest is back in Kathmandu, in fact. The Boudhanath.”

  “The dome draped in all the prayer flags?”

  “That’s the one. Mustang’s got a huge concentration of them, mostly of the gnome-sized variety. Some estimates put the number in the low thousands, and that’s just along the Kali Gandaki River. Up until a few years ago, Mustang was all but off-limits to tourism for fear of desecration.”

  “Fargos!” a male voice called. “Fargos!”

  A bald Nepalese man in his mid-forties picked his way through a crowd of milling trekkers and trotted toward them, panting, “Fargos, yes?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied.

  “I am Basanta Thule,” the man replied in decent English. “I am your guide, yes?”

  “You’re a friend of Pradhan’s?” Remi said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know who that is. I was asked by Mr. Sushant Dharel to meet you. You were expecting someone else? Here, I have identification . . .” Thule began reaching into the side pocket of his jacket.

  “No, that’s fine,” Sam replied with a smile. “Good to meet you.”

  “And you, and you. Here, I will take those.”

  Thule grabbed their backpacks and gestured with his head toward the terminal building. “My vehicle is this way. Follow, if you will.” He trotted off.

  Sam said to Remi, “Very tricky, Mizz Bond.”

  “Am I growing paranoid in my advancing age?”

  “No,” Sam replied with a smile. “Just more beautiful. Come on, let’s catch up or we’re going to lose our guide.”

  After a cursory stop at the customs desk to satisfy what Sam and Remi guessed was Mustang’s firm if tacit belief in its semi-autonomous status, Sam and Remi stepped outside and found Thule at the curb beside a white Toyota Land Cruiser. Judging by the dozens of nearly identical vehicles lining the street, each of which seemed to bear a unique trekking company logo, Toyota was the four-wheeler of choice for the region. Thule smiled at them, shoved the remainder of Sam’s backpack in the Toyota’s cargo area, and slammed shut the hatch.

  “I have arranged accommodations for the night,” Thule announced.

  “We’re not leaving for Lo Monthang immediately?” Remi asked.

  “No, no. Very bad luck to start a journey at this time of day. Better to start tomorrow morning. You will eat and rest and enjoy Jomsom, and then we will depart first thing in the morning. Come, come . . .”

  “We’d prefer to leave now,” Sam said, not moving.

  Thule paused. He pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, then said, “It is your choice, of course, but the landslide will not be cleared until morning.”

  “What landslide?” replied Remi.

  “Yes, between here and Kag
beni. We would not get more than a few kilometers up the valley. And then there will be the traffic jam, of course. Many trekkers in Mustang now. Better to wait until morning, yes?” Thule opened one of the Toyota’s rear passenger doors and flourished his arm toward the backseat.

  Sam and Remi looked at each other, shrugged, then stepped into the SUV.

  After ten minutes of the Toyota winding through the narrow streets, Thule brought it to a stop before a building a few miles southeast of the airstrip. The brown-on-yellow sign read “Moonlight Guest House. Tub Baths-Attached Bathrooms-Common Bathrooms.”

  With a smile and a raised eyebrow, Remi said, “It appears bathrooms are the big draw in Jomsom.”

  “And monochromatic architecture,” Sam added.

  From the front seat Thule said, “Indeed. Jomsom offers the best accommodations in the area.”

  He got out, hurried around to Remi’s door, and opened it. He offered his hand to her. She graciously took it and climbed out, followed by Sam.

  Thule said, “I will collect your luggage. You go inside. Madame Roja will assist you.”

  Five minutes later they were in the Moonlight Guest House’s Royal Executive Suite, complete with a queen bed and a sitting area filled with an assortment of wickeresque lawn furniture. As Madame Roja had promised, their bathroom was in fact attached to their suite.

  “I will return for you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, yes?” Thule said from the doorway.

  “Why so late?” Sam asked.

  “The landslide will have-”

  “The traffic jam,” Sam finished. “Thanks, Mr. Thule. We’ll see you then.”

  Sam shut the door. From the bathroom he heard Remi say, “Sam, look at this.”

  He found a wide-eyed Remi standing beside a gigantic copper claw-foot tub. “It’s a Beasley.”

  “I think the more common term is ‘bathtub,’ Remi.”

  “Very funny. Beasleys are rare, Sam. The last one was made in the late nineteenth century. Do you have any idea what this is worth?”

  “No, but something tells me you do.”

  “Twelve thousand dollars, give or take. This is a treasure, Sam.”

  “And it’s the size of a Studebaker. Don’t even think of trying to fit it into your carry-on.”

  Remi tore her eyes from the tub and looked at him mischievously. “It is big, isn’t it?”

  Sam returned her smile. “Indeed.”

  “Care to be my lifeguard?”

  “At your service, madam.”

  An hour later, clean and happy and prune-skinned, they settled into the sitting area. Through the balcony windows they could see the peaks on Annapurna in the distance.

  Sam checked his phone. “Voice message,” he said. He listened to it, gave Remi a wink, and redialed. Selma’s voice came over the speaker thirty seconds later: “Where are you?”

  “In the land of wicker and copper,” Sam replied.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Do you have good news for us?”

  “Here, hang on.”

  A moment later a male voice came on the line. It was Frank Alton. “Sam, Remi . . . I don’t know how you did it, but I owe you my life.”

  “Nonsense,” Remi replied. “You saved ours in Bolivia a few times over.”

  “Are you okay?” Sam asked.

  “A few bumps and bruises, but nothing permanent.”

  “Have you seen Judy and the kids?”

  “Yes, as soon as I got home.”

  Sam said, “Selma, how are things?”

  “Absolutely awful,” she replied.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Based on a healthy respect of Charles King’s reach, and perhaps a tinge of paranoia, Sam and Remi had instituted the “duress rule”: had Selma or any of them been at gunpoint or otherwise in jeopardy, an answer other than “awful” would have raised the alarm.

  Remi said, “Frank, what can you tell us?”

  “Not much more than you already know, I’m afraid. Selma’s brought me up to speed. While I agree King’s a snake and he’s not telling the whole truth, I have no proof he was behind my kidnapping. I was knocked out and snatched off the street. I never saw them coming. Can’t tell you where I was held. When I woke up, I was blindfolded until they shoved me out of the van again. When I took the blindfold off, I was standing before the stairs to a Gulfstream jet.”

  “Speaking of eerie, did you meet the King twins?”

  “Oh, those two. They were waiting for me at the airport. I thought I’d walked into a Tim Burton remake of The Addams Family. I’m guessing they’re the product of King and his Dragon Lady?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied. “What’s your take on Lewis King?”

  “A hundred-to-one that he’s been dead for decades. I think I was just bait for you two.”

  “Our thought as well,” Remi agreed. “We’re still working out the details, but we think it was something to do with an old Himalayan legend.”

  “The Golden Man,” replied Frank.

  “Right. The Theurang.”

  “From what little I was able to gather before I was taken, that’s what Lewis King was after when he disappeared. He was obsessed by it. Whether the thing is real or not, I don’t know.”

  “We think it is,” Sam replied. “We’re going to see a man in Lo Monthang tomorrow. With any luck, he’ll be able to shed more light on the mystery.”

  17

  KALI GANDAKI GORGE,

  DHAWALAGIRI ZONE, NEPAL

  For the fourth time in an hour, Basanta Thule brought the Toyota Land Cruiser to a stop, the knobby tires crunching on the gravel that blanketed the valley floor. Above, the sky was a cloudless royal blue. The crisp air was perfectly still.

  “More stupas,” Thule announced, pointing out the side window. “There . . . and there. You see.”

  “We do,” Sam replied, he and Remi glancing out Sam’s rolled-down window. Shortly after leaving Jomsom that morning, they’d made the mistake of expressing an interest in chortens; since then, Thule had made it his mission to point out each and every one. They’d covered less than two miles so far.

  For politeness’s sake, Sam and Remi climbed out, walked around, and took a few pictures. While none of the chortens were taller than a few feet, they were nonetheless impressive-miniature temples painted snow-white sitting atop the ridge lines overlooking the gorge like silent sentries.

  They climbed back into the Toyota and set out again, driving in silence for some time before Remi said, “Where’s the landslide?”

  There was a long pause. “We passed it some time ago,” Thule replied.

  “Where?”

  “Twenty minutes ago . . . the slope of loose gravel beside the boulder we saw. It does not take much to block the way, you see.”

  After another pause for lunch-and a chorten-viewing stop that Sam and Remi tactfully declared their last-they continued north, following the serpentine course of the Kali Gandaki and passing a series of hamlets that were largely indistinguishable from Jomsom. Occasionally they would spot trekkers in the foothills above, ant-like against the mountains in the distance.

  Shortly after five o’clock, they entered a narrower section of the gorge. The cliffs towering fifty feet above them closed in, and the sun dimmed. The air wafting through Sam’s open window grew chilled. Finally, after slowing to a walking pace, Thule steered them through an archway of rock barely wider than the Toyota and then into a winding tunnel. The tires sloshed through the stream and echoed off the walls.

  Fifty yards later they rolled into an elongated clearing, measuring forty feet wide and a quarter mile long. At the northern end of the ravine was a second slot opening in the rock. To their right, the river gurgled through an undercut section of the cliff.

  Thule steered left, made a wide circle so the Toyota’s nose was pointed back the way they’d come, and then braked to a stop. “We will camp here,” he announced. “We will be protected from the wind.”

  “Why so early?”<
br />
  Thule turned in his seat and gave them a broad smile. “Here night falls quickly, along with the temperature. Best to have the shelters erected and the fire started before dark.”

  With the three of them working together, they quickly had the shelters-a pair of older Vango siege-style tents-set up and ready for occupancy, complete with eggshell mattress pads and subzero sleeping bags. As Thule got a small fire started, Sam ignited a trio of kerosene lanterns that hung from poles at the edge of their camp. Flashlight in hand, Remi was taking a tour of the ravine. Thule had mentioned that trekkers had in the past found Kang Admi tracks in this area of the gorge. Translated loosely as “snowman,” the term was one of dozens used to describe the Yeti, the Himalayan version of Bigfoot. While not necessarily a blind believer in the legend, the Fargos had encountered enough oddities in their travels that they knew better than to discount it out of hand; Remi had decided to indulge her curiosity.

  After twenty minutes, she wandered back into the yellow glow of lanterns around the camp. Sam handed her a wool cap and asked, “Any luck?”

  “Not so much as a toe track,” Remi replied, tucking a few strands of loose auburn hair beneath the cap.

  “Do not give up hope,” Thule remarked from beside the fire. “We may hear the beast’s call during the night.”

  “And what are we listening for?” Sam asked.

  “That depends upon the person, yes? As a child, I heard the cry once. It sounded like . . . part man, part bear. In fact, one of the Tibetan words for Yeti is ‘Meh-teh’-‘man-bear.’”

  “Mr. Thule, this sounds like a tall tale designed to enthrall tourists,” Remi said.

  “Not at all, miss. I heard it. I know people who have seen it. I know people who have found its tracks. I personally have seen a musk ox whose head had been-”