The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  “We get the picture,” Remi interrupted. “So, what’s for dinner?”

  Dinner consisted of prepackaged dehydrated meals that when combined with boiling water morphed into a goulash melange. Sam and Remi had tasted worse, but by only a narrow margin. After they finished eating, Thule redeemed himself with steaming mugs of tongba, a slightly alcoholic Nepalese millet tea, which they sipped as night enveloped the gorge. They chatted, and sat in silence for another thirty minutes, before dimming the camp lanterns and retreating to their respective tents.

  Once nestled into their sleeping bags, Remi sat reading a trekker’s guide she’d downloaded onto her iPad while Sam studied a map of the area under the beam of a flashlight.

  Remi whispered, “Sam, remember what Wally mentioned at the airport about ‘the chokes’?”

  “We never asked Thule about it.”

  “In the morning.”

  “I think now would be better,” she replied, and handed Sam her iPad. She pointed to a section of text. He read:

  Known colloquially as “the chokes,” these narrow ravines found along the length of the Kali Gandaki Gorge can be treacherous in the springtime. At night, meltwater runoff from the surrounding mountains frequently flash floods the ravines with little notice, rising to a height of-

  Sam stopped reading, handed the iPad back to Remi, and whispered, “Pack your gear. Just the essentials. Quietly.” Then aloud, he called, “Mr. Thule?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Thule?”

  After a few moments’ delay, they heard the scuff of a boot on gravel, followed by, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Tell us about the chokes.”

  A long pause. “Uh . . . I am afraid I am not familiar with that phrase.”

  More scuffing on gravel, the distinctive click of one of the Toyota’s doors being opened.

  Hurrying now, Sam unzipped his sleeping bag and rolled out. Already mostly clothed, he grabbed his jacket, slipped it on, and quietly unzipped the tent. He crept out, looked left and right, then stood up. Thirty feet away he could just make out Thule’s silhouette leaning through the Toyota’s driver’s-side door. He was rummaging around the interior. On his feet, Sam began creeping toward the Toyota. He was twenty feet away when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head.

  Faintly at first, then more distinctly, he heard the rush of water. Across the ravine he could see the stream was roiling, white water lapping at the sides of the cliff.

  From behind, Sam heard a tsst and turned around to see Remi poking her head from the tent flap. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he replied with a palm out: Wait.

  Sam crept toward the Toyota. When he’d closed the gap to ten feet, he ducked down and continued on, stooped over, around the rear bumper to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Sam stopped, peeked around the corner.

  Thule was still leaning into the Toyota, with only his legs visible. Sam eyed the distance between them: five feet. He extended his leg, carefully planted his foot, and began shifting his weight forward.

  Thule whipped around. Clutched in his hand was a stainless-steel revolver.

  “Stop, Mr. Fargo.”

  Sam stopped.

  “Stand up.” Thule’s charmingly stunted speech had vanished. Only a slight accent remained.

  Sam stood up. He said, “Something tells me we should have checked your ID when you offered.”

  “That would have been wise.”

  “How much did they pay you?”

  “For rich people like you and your wife, a pittance. For me, five years’ worth of wages. Do you want to offer me more?”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No. The people made it clear what would happen to me if I betrayed them.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see the river had begun expanding outward, and, far behind, the rush of water was gaining in volume. Sam knew he needed to play for time. Hopefully, the man before him would let down his guard, if only momentarily.

  “Where’s the real Thule?” Sam asked.

  “Two feet to your right.

  “You killed him.”

  “It was part of the task. Once the waters recede, he will be found along with you and your wife, his head crushed by the rocks.”

  “Along with you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Unless you have a spare spark ignition wire laying around,” Sam replied, patting his jacket pocket.

  On impulse, Thule’s eyes darted toward the Toyota’s interior. Anticipating this, Sam had started moving even as he’d patted his pocket. He was in midleap, his hands a foot from Thule, when the man spun back around, the barrel of his revolver lashing out; it caught Sam high on the forehead, a glancing blow that nevertheless gashed his scalp. He stumbled backward and dropped to his knees, gasping.

  Thule stepped forward and cocked his leg. Sam saw the kick coming and braced himself while trying to roll away. The top of Thule’s foot slammed into his side and flipped him onto his back.

  “Sam!” shouted Remi.

  He rolled his head to the right and saw Remi sprinting toward him.

  “Get the gear!” Sam croaked. “Follow me!”

  “Follow you? Follow you where?”

  The Toyota’s engine grumbled to life.

  Moving on instinct, Sam rolled onto his belly, pushed himself onto his knees, then got to his feet. He stumbled toward the nearest lantern, six feet to his left. Through his pain-hazed vision he saw, down the ravine, a twenty-foot-tall wave of white water churning through the slot. Sam snatched the lantern off the pole with his left hand, then turned back toward the Toyota and forced his legs into a shuffling sprint.

  The Toyota’s transmission engaged, the wheels sprayed gravel, peppering Sam’s lower legs. He ignored it and kept moving. As the Toyota lurched forward, Sam jumped. His left leg landed on the rear bumper; he clamped his right hand on the roof rack’s rail.

  The Toyota surged ahead, fishtailing on the gravel and jerking Sam from side to side. He held on, pulled himself closer to the cargo hatch. Thule straightened the Toyota out and sped toward the ravine entrance, now fifty yards away. Sam stuck the lantern’s handle between his teeth and used his left hand to turn the wick knob. The flame guttered, then brightened. He grasped the lantern in his left hand again.

  “One chance,” Sam muttered to himself.

  He took a breath, let the lantern dangle at arm’s length for a moment, then heaved it like a grenade. The lantern twirled upward over the Toyota’s roof and crashed onto the hood, shattering. Flaming kerosene splashed across the windshield.

  The effect was immediate and dramatic. Startled by the wave of fire across his windshield, Thule panicked, jerking the wheel first left, then right, the double slewing motion sending the Toyota up on two wheels. Sam lost his grip. He felt himself flying. Saw the ground rushing toward him. He curled himself into a ball at the last instant, smashed into the ground on his hip, and let himself roll. Dully in the back of his mind he heard a crash; glass shattering and the crunch of metal. He rolled over, blinked his vision clear.

  The Toyota had crashed with its hood wedged into the narrow rock arch.

  Sam heard footsteps, then Remi’s voice as she knelt beside him: “Sam . . . Sam! Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Sam touched his fingers to his forehead and looked at the blood. “Scalp wound,” he muttered. He grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and patted it on the wound.

  Remi said, “Sam, don’t-”

  “See? All better.”

  “Anything broken?”

  “Not that I can tell. Help me up.”

  She ducked under his shoulder, and they stood up together.

  Sam asked, “Where’s the-”

  In answer to his question, water washed across their feet. Within seconds, it rose to their ankles.

  “Speak of the devil,” Sam said. In unison, they turned around. Water was rushing through the
northern end of the ravine.

  The water was roiling around their calves.

  “That’s cold,” Remi said.

  “Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Sam replied. “Our gear?”

  “Everything worthwhile is in my pack,” Remi replied, turning her shoulder so he could see it. “Is he dead?”

  “Either that or unconscious. If not, I think he’d be shooting at us by now. We need to get that thing started. It’s our only chance to outrun the flood.”

  They headed toward the Toyota, Remi in the lead and Sam limping behind her. She slowed as she reached the vehicle’s rear bumper, then crept around to the driver’s door and peeked inside.

  She called, “He’s out.”

  Sam shuffled up, and together they opened the door and dragged Thule out. He plunged into the water.

  To Remi’s unspoken question Sam said, “We can’t worry about him. In a minute or so this is all going to be underwater.”

  Remi climbed into the Toyota and across to the passenger’s seat. Sam followed and slammed the door shut behind him. He turned the key. The starter whined and clicked, but the engine refused to start.

  “Come on . . .” Sam muttered.

  He turned the key again. The engine caught, sputtered, died.

  “One more time,” Remi said, gave him a smile and held up crossed fingers.

  Sam closed his eyes, took a breath, and turned the key again.

  The starter clicked over, the engine coughed once, then again, then roared to life.

  Sam was about to shift into gear when they felt the Toyota lurch forward. Remi turned in her seat and saw water lapping at the lower edge of the door.

  “Sam . . .” Remi warned.

  Eyes on the rearview mirror, Sam replied, “I see it.”

  He shifted into reverse and pressed the accelerator. The Toyota’s four-wheel drive bit down. The vehicle began inching backward, the quarter panels shrieking as they were dragged along the rock walls.

  They were shoved forward again.

  “I’m losing traction,” Sam said, worried that the rising water would drown the engine.

  He pressed the accelerator again, and they felt the tires grab hold, only to give way again.

  Sam pounded the steering wheel. “Damn!”

  “We’re afloat,” Remi said.

  Even as the words left her mouth, the Toyota’s hood was being shoved deeper into the slot. Nose-heavy from the engine, the vehicle began tipping downward as the tide shoved the rear upward.

  Sam and Remi were silent for a moment, listening to the water rush around the car and bracing themselves against the dashboard as the Toyota continued pitching downward.

  “How long would we last in the water?” Remi asked.

  “Providing we’re not instantly crushed to pulp? Five minutes until the cold gets us; past that, we lose motor control and go under.”

  Water began gushing through the door seams.

  Remi said, “Let’s not do that, then.”

  “Right.” Sam closed his eyes, thinking. Then: “The winch. We’ve got them on each bumper.”

  He searched the dashboard for the controls. He found a toggle switch labeled Rear and flipped it from Off to Neutral. He said to Remi, “When I give the word, flip that to Engage.”

  “You think it’s powerful enough to drag us?”

  “No,” Sam replied. “I need a headlamp.”

  Remi rummaged around the backpack and came out with the headlamp. Sam settled it on his head, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then climbed over the seat, using the headrest as a handhold. He repeated this maneuver until he was wedged into the Toyota’s cargo area. He unlatched the glass hatch, shoved it open, then, lying with his back pressed against the seat, mule-kicked the hatch until the glass tore free from its hinges and plunged into the water. He stood up.

  Below, the water churned over the Toyota’s undercarriage. Icy mist billowed around him.

  Remi called, “The engine’s dead.”

  Sam hinged forward at the waist, reached down, and grabbed the winch hook with both hands. Hand over hand, he began taking up the slack.

  The winch froze.

  “Climb up to me!”

  Remi scrabbled over the front seat, reached back, retrieved the backpack, and handed it to Sam, then used his extended arm to climb into the cargo area.

  “No!” she cried.

  “What?”

  Sam looked down. The beam of his headlamp illuminated a ghostly white face pressed against plastic sheeting.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “I forgot to tell you. Meet the real Mr. Thule.”

  “Poor man.”

  The Toyota shuddered, slid sideways a few feet, then stopped, wedged tightly in the rock archway and standing perfectly upright.

  Remi tore her eyes off the dead man’s face and said, “I assume we’re climbing again.”

  “With any luck.”

  Sam peeked over the tailgate. The water had enveloped the rear tires.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Two minutes. Help me.”

  He turned his body sideways, and Remi helped him don the backpack. Next, he flipped his right leg over the tailgate, then his left, then slowly stood up, arms extended for balance. Once steady, he shone his headlamp over the rock face beside the Toyota.

  It took him three passes before he found what he needed: a two-inch-wide vertical fissure fifteen feet above them and three feet to the right. Above that, a series of handholds that led to the top of the cliff.

  “Okay, hand it up,” Sam said to Remi.

  She extended the winch hook toward him. He leaned down, grabbed it. His foot slipped, and he crashed onto one knee. He regained his balance and stood erect again, this time with his left arm braced on the Toyota’s roof rack.

  “Go get ’em, cowboy,” Remi said with a brave smile.

  Winch hook dangling from his right hand, Sam swung the cable like a propeller until he’d gained enough momentum, then let it fly. The hook clinked against the rock face, slid sideways over the fissure, and plunged into the water.

  Sam retrieved the hook and tried again. Another miss.

  He felt cold water envelop his left foot. He looked down. The water was past the bumper and was now lapping up against the tailgate.

  “We’ve sprung more leaks,” Remi said.

  Sam tossed the hook again. This time it slid cleanly into the fissure and bit down momentarily before coming free.

  “Fourth time’s the charm, right?”

  “I think the phrase is-”

  “Work with me, Fargo.”

  Sam chuckled. “Right.”

  Sam took a moment to tune out the churning water and the pounding of his heart. He closed his eyes, refocused, then opened his eyes and began swinging the cable again.

  He let go.

  The hook sailed upward, clanked off the rock, and began sliding toward the fissure. Sam realized the speed was too great. As the hook skipped over the crack, he snapped the cable sideways. The hook snapped backward like a striking snake and wedged itself in the fissure.

  Gently, Sam gave the cable a tug. It held. Another tug. The hook slipped, then bit down again. Then, hand over hand, he began taking up tension on the cable until the hook was buried up to its eyelet.

  “Yee-haw!” Remi called.

  Sam extended his hand and helped Remi over the tailgate. Water was sloshing over their feet and tumbling into the Toyota’s interior. Remi nodded toward the corpse of Mr. Thule.

  “I don’t suppose we could take him with us?”

  “Let’s not push our luck,” Sam replied. “We will, however, add him to the list of things Charlie King and his evil spawn have to answer for.”

  Remi sighed, nodded.

  Sam gestured grandly to the cable. “Ladies first.”

  18

  LO MONTHANG,

  MUSTANG, NEPAL

  Twenty hours after Sam and Remi climbed over the cliff top and left the Toyota to the waters
of the Kali Gandaki, the pickup truck in whose bed they were riding coasted to a stop at a fork in the dirt road.

  The driver, Mukti, a gap-toothed Nepali with a crew cut, called through the back window, “Lo Monthang,” and pointed at the road heading north.

  Sam gently shook Remi awake from her curled position against a bag of goat feed and said, “Home sweet home.”

  She groaned, pushed aside the coarse cotton, and sat up, yawning. “I was having the weirdest dream,” she said. “Something similar to The Poseidon Adventure, but we were trapped inside a Toyota Land Cruiser.”

  “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “Are we there?”

  “More or less.”

  Sam and Remi thanked the driver, climbed out, and watched as the truck turned onto the south fork and disappeared around the bend. “Too bad about the language barrier,” Remi said.

  With only a smattering of Nepali words and phrases between them, neither Sam nor Remi had been able to tell their driver that he had possibly saved their lives. For all he knew, he’d simply picked up a pair of wayward foreigners who’d somehow lost their tour group. His indulgent smile suggested this was not a rare event in these parts.

  Now, exhausted but thankfully warm and dry, they stood on the outskirts of their destination.

  Surrounded by a tall wall of patchwork rock, brick, and mud-thatch mortar, the ancient capital of the once-great Kingdom of Mustang was small, occupying a half mile square in a shallow valley surrounded by low rolling hills. Inside Lo Monthang’s walls, most of the structures were also constructed from a mishmash of mud and brick, all of it painted in shades of white ranging from grayish to brownish and bordered with layered thatch roofing. Four structures rose above the rest: the Royal Palace and the red-roofed Chyodi, Champa, and Tugchen temples.

  “Civilization,” Remi said.

  “Everything is relative,” Sam agreed.

  After they had wandered the wilds of Mustang for what seemed like days, the otherwise medieval Lo Monthang seemed positively metropolitan.

  They started walking up the dirt road toward the main gate. Halfway there, a boy of eight or ten appeared and sprinted toward them, calling, “Fargos? Fargos?”

  Sam raised his hand in greeting and called in Nepali, “Namaste. Hoina.” Hello. Yes.