The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  “Where did the legend originate?” Sam asked. “Where and when did they find the Theurang?”

  “No one knows-or, at least, no one I’ve found. It’s my hope that before I die, I can answer that exact question. Maybe your discovery will be the lost puzzle piece.”

  “Do you think the Theurang is in the box we found?”

  “Not unless a terrible mistake had been made. One of the skills the Sentinels had to master was celestial navigation. No, I’m quite certain you found the Sentinel where you did because that’s where he was ordered to go.”

  “Then what do you think is inside?”

  “Either nothing or a clue to the Theurang’s birthplace-the location to which it was allegedly taken in 1421.”

  “What kind of clue?” asked Remi.

  “A disk, roughly four inches in diameter, hewn from gold and engraved with symbols of some kind. The disk, when used in conjunction with two other disks and a special map, would pinpoint the Theurang’s final resting place.”

  “You know nothing else about it?” Sam said.

  “I know the name of the place.”

  “Which is?”

  “The ancient translation is a bit complicated, but you would it know it by its popular moniker: Shangri-La.”

  20

  LO MONTHANG,

  MUSTANG, NEPAL

  Karna said, “I can see by your expressions you think I’m winding you up.”

  “You don’t strike us as a winding-up kind of guy,” Sam said, “but you have to admit that Shangri-La is a bit of a fairy tale.”

  “Is it? What do you know about it?”

  “It’s a fictional utopia, a valley located somewhere in the Himalayas, filled with ridiculously happy and worry-free people.”

  “You forgot immortal,” Remi said.

  “Right, sorry. Immortal.”

  “That’s Shangri-La as depicted in the novel: James Hilton’s 1933 Lost Horizon. Another example of popular culture shanghaiing and adulterating a fascinating-and possibly true-tale.”

  “You have our attention,” Remi said.

  “Mention of Shangri-La, and its analogues, can be found in many cultures in Asia. Tibetans refer to it as Nghe-Beyul Khimpalung. They believe it is in the Makalu-Barun region or the Kunlun Mountains or, the most recent candidate, the ancient city of Tsaparang in western Tibet. Several places in India have also been proposed as the true location, as well as dozens in China, including Yunnan, Sichuan, Zhongdian . . . Add to the list Bhutan and the Hunza Valley in northern Pakistan.

  “Now, here’s the truly interesting part: as you know, the Nazis were a bit mad for the occult. The expedition Lewis ‘Bully’ King was a part of in 1938 . . . One of its objectives was to find Shangri-La. They felt certain it would be home to an ancient master race, Aryans unspoiled by time and genetic impurities.”

  “We didn’t know that,” Remi said.

  “Perhaps King Charles isn’t after the Theurang alone but Shangri-La as well,” Karna said.

  “Anything’s possible,” Sam replied. “But King doesn’t strike me as a big believer in the fantastic, true or otherwise. If he can’t touch it, see it, or smell it-”

  “Or sell it,” Remi added.

  “Or sell it, he’s not interested,” Sam finished. “What do you believe, Karna? I assume you believe it’s real? Of all the possibilities you presented, which one fits?”

  “None of the above. My research and my instincts tell me that for the people of Mustang, Shangri-La represented a wellspring-both the birthplace and the eternal resting place of the Theurang, a creature they believed was their universal ancestor. I suspect what we today call Shangri-La was where the Theurang was originally discovered. How long ago, I cannot say, but that’s what I believe.”

  “And if you had to place money on its location?” Remi asked.

  “I think the Tibetan etymology holds the key: shang, which is also tsang, combined with ri, together means mountain, and la, means pass.”

  “So, Tsang Mountain Pass,” Remi said.

  “Not quite. In the royal dialect of ancient Mustang, la also means gorge or canyon.”

  “The Tsangpo Gorge,” Sam replied. “That’s a lot of territory. The river that runs through it-the Yarlung Tsangpo-is how long? A hundred twenty miles?”

  “One hundred fifty,” Karna answered. “Bigger than your Grand Canyon, in many ways. And the mountains are thickly forested. Some of the most daunting terrain in the world.”

  “If you’re right about the location and the legend,” Remi said, “it’s no wonder Shangri-La’s remained hidden all this time.”

  Karna smiled. “As we sit here together, we may be closer to finding it-and the Golden Man-than anyone else in history.”

  “Closer, perhaps,” Sam replied, “but not there. You said we need all three disks. Let’s say the chest Selma has contains one of them. We’ll still need the other two.”

  “And the map,” said Remi.

  “The map is the least of our hurdles,” Karna said. “I’ve located four candidates, one of which I’m certain will serve our purposes. As for the other two disks . . . How do you feel about the Balkans?”

  Sam and Remi exchanged glances. Remi said, “We once had some bad lamb in Bulgaria, but, aside from that, we have nothing against it.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Karna said with a mischievous smile. “What I’m about to tell you I’ve never shared with anyone. Despite the high regard in which I’m held here, I am not sure how my adopted countrymen would welcome my theory.”

  “Again, you have our attention,” Sam said.

  “Three years ago, I uncovered some texts I believe were written by the personal secretary to the King in the weeks leading up to the 1421 invasion.”

  “What kind of texts?”

  “A personal diary of sorts. The King had of course been informed of the strength of the invading army, and he agreed with the prophecy that Mustang’s demise was at hand. Further, he had his doubts that the Sentinels could carry out their duties. He felt the odds against them were overwhelming. He was also convinced someone from within his inner circle had turned traitor and was feeding the enemy information.

  “In secret, he assigned the finest of the Sentinels-a man known as Dhakal-the task of transporting the Theurang to Shangri-La. In two of the three chests ostensibly containing the disks, he placed fakes. One was genuine.”

  “And the other two disks?” asked Remi.

  “Given to a pair of priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

  Neither Remi nor Sam spoke immediately. Karna’s non sequitur was so abrupt, they weren’t sure they’d heard him correctly.

  “Say that again,” said Sam.

  “A year before the invasion, Lo Monthang was visited by a pair of priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

  “This was the fifteenth century,” Remi said. “At that time, the nearest outpost of the Church would have been . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.

  “In present-day Uzbekistan,” Karna replied. “Fourteen hundred miles from here. And to answer your question, no, I have found no mention in Church histories referring to missionaries traveling that far east. I have something better. I’ll get to that shortly.

  “As the King’s diary tells, he welcomed the missionaries into his court, and they soon became friends. A few months after they arrived, an attempt was made on the King’s life. The priests came to his aid, and one of them was wounded. He became convinced these two foreigners were part of the prophecy, sent to ensure the Theurang could one day be returned to Lo Monthang.”

  “So he gave each of them a disk for safekeeping and sent them back to their home countries before the invasion,” Remi guessed.

  “Exactly so.”

  “Please tell me you found references to them somewhere,” Sam asked.

  Karna smiled. “I did. Fathers Besim Mala and Arnost Deniv. Both names appear in Church records from the fifteenth century. Both men were dispatched to Samarkand, Uzbekistan,
in 1414. With the death of Genghis Khan, the weakening of the Mongol Empire, and the rise of Tamerlane, the Eastern Orthodox Church was keen on spreading Christianity to the heathens, as it were.”

  “What became of our intrepid priests?” Remi asked.

  “Mala died in 1436 on the Albanian island of Sazani. Deniv died six years after that in Sofia, Bulgaria.”

  “The time line fits,” said Sam. “If they left Lo Monthang in 1421, they would have made it back to the Balkans a year or so later.”

  Sam and Remi fell silent, each lost in thought.

  Karna said, “A bit fantastic, isn’t it?”

  “I’m glad you said it,” Sam replied. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

  “I’m not offended. I know how it sounds. And you’re right to be skeptical. I myself spent the first year after I found the diary trying to debunk it, with no success. Here’s what I propose: I will turn over my research notes to this Selma of yours. If she can disprove my theory, so be it. If not, then . . .”

  “Balkans, here we come,” Remi said.

  From his living quarters, Karna retrieved his laptop, an Apple MacBook Pro with a seventeen-inch screen, which he placed on the coffee table before them. He connected one end of an Ethernet cable to the laptop’s port and the other to a wall jack leading up to what Sam and Remi guessed was Karna’s satellite dish.

  Soon, Selma’s face appeared in the iChat window. Standing behind her, looking over each shoulder, were Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden, and, behind them, the workspace in the Fargos’ San Diego home. Predictably, Selma was in her uniform of the day: horn-rimmed glasses on a neck chain and a tie-dyed T-shirt.

  Accommodating a three-second satellite transmission delay, Remi made the introductions, then brought Selma and the others up to speed. As was her way, Selma asked no questions during Remi’s report, and was silent for a full minute afterward as she mentally collated the information.

  “Interesting,” was all she said.

  “That’s it?” Sam asked.

  “Well, I assume you’ve already told Mr. Karna, in your own diplomatic way, how far-fetched this sounds.”

  At this, Jack Karna chuckled. “They did indeed, Ms. Wondrash.”

  “Selma.”

  “Jack, then.”

  “Do you have your research material digitized?”

  “Of course.”

  Selma gave Karna a link to the office’s server, then said, “Upload it there, and I’ll start working through it. In the meantime, I’ll turn the chest over to Pete and Wendy. The three of you can see about opening it.”

  It took twenty minutes to upload all of Karna’s research notes. Once done, and after badgering Sam and Remi into having a nap in his guest room, Karna, Pete, and Wendy went to work on the box. Karna first asked to see enhanced pictures of the chest, including a close-up of the engraved characters.

  He peered at them on his laptop screen, tilting his head first one way, then the other, until muttering something under his breath. He stood up suddenly, marched down the hallway, and returned a minute later with a tiny book bound in red-dyed textile. This he flipped through for several more minutes before calling, “Aha! Just as I thought: the characters are a derivation of Lowa and yet another royal dialect. The inscription is meant to be read vertically, from right to left. Roughly translated, it says:

  “Through fulfillment, prosperity

  “Through resistance, anguish . . .”

  Wendy said, “I think I read that in a self-help book once.”

  “I have no doubt,” Karna said, “but in this case it’s intended as a warning-a curse. I suspect these characters were inscribed on each of the Sentinels’ boxes.”

  Pete said, “In short, ‘Take this to its destination, and you’ll find happiness; interfere with or impede that, and you’re screwed.’”

  “Impressive, young man,” said Karna. “Not the words I would use, of course, but you arrested the gist of the message.”

  “Would this have been intended for the Sentinels?” Wendy asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. It was designed for the enemy or anyone who came into possession through illicit means.”

  “But if the dialect is that obscure, who aside from Mustang royalty would have been able to understand the warning?”

  “That’s beside the point. The curse stands, ignorance be damned.”

  “Harsh,” said Pete.

  “Let’s take a closer look at this box, shall we? In one of Remi’s pictures, I noticed the tiniest of seams along a bottom edge of the box.”

  “We noticed that too,” Wendy replied. “Hold on, we’ve got a close-up . . .”

  A few clicks of the mouse later, the image in question filled Karna’s screen. He studied the photo for several minutes before saying, “Do you see the seam I’m talking about? The one that looks like a series of eight dashes?”

  “Yes,” said Pete.

  “And the full seam opposite that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Forget that one. It’s a decoy. Unless I miss my guess, the dashed seam is a combination lock, of sorts.”

  “The gaps are almost paper-thin,” said Wendy. “How can-”

  “Two millimeters, I would say. You’ll need a shim, of sorts; a thin but strong type of metal or alloy. Inside each of those dashes will be a brass or bronze flange, each with three vertical depression settings: up, middle, and fully down.”

  “Hold on,” Wendy said. “I’m doing the math . . . That’s over sixty-five hundred possible combinations.”

  “Not overly daunting,” Pete said. “With enough patience, and time, you could eventually pick it.”

  Karna said, “True, if not for one fact: you only get one crack at it. Enter the wrong combination, and the internal mechanism locks itself.”

  “That does complicate things.”

  “We’ve not yet begun to unravel the complications, my boy. Once past the combination, the real challenge begins.”

  “How?” Wendy said. “What?”

  “Have you ever heard of a Chinese puzzle box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think of what you have before you as the mother of all Chinese puzzle boxes. As it so happens, I believe I have the combination to the initial locking mechanism. Shall we get started . . . ?”

  Three hours later Sam and Remi, now awake, refreshed, and armed with cups of tea, joined Karna before his laptop just in time to hear Pete exclaim through the iChat window, “Got it!” On-screen, he and Wendy were leaning over the worktable, the Sentinel box between them. It was brightly illuminated by an overhead halogen lamp.

  Another iChat screen popped up on the screen, this one displaying Selma’s face: “Got what?”

  “It’s a Chinese puzzle box,” replied Wendy. “Once we got past the combination, a narrow panel popped open. Inside were three tiny wooden switches. Following Jack’s directions, we flipped one. Another panel opened, then more switches, and so on . . . How many moves now, Jack?”

  “Sixty-four. One more to go. If we’ve done our job, it’ll open. If not, we may lose the contents forever.”

  “Explain that,” Sam said.

  “Oh, goodness, I didn’t mention the booby trap, did I? So sorry.”

  “Mention it now,” Remi said.

  “If the box contains a disk, it will be suspended in the middle of the primary compartment. Set into the sides of that compartment will be glass vials filled with corrosive liquid. If your last move is the wrong one or you try to force the compartment open . . .” Karna made a hissing sound. “You get an unidentifiable lump of gold.”

  “I hope I’m wrong,” said Selma, “but I don’t think there’s a disk in there.”

  “Why?” asked Pete.

  “Odds. Sam and Remi stumble upon the only Sentinel box ever found and it just happens to contain the one genuine disk in the bunch?”

  Karna said, “But they didn’t ‘stumble’ upon it, did they? They were following in the footsteps of Lewis King-a man who had spent
at least eleven years chasing the Theurang. Whatever his motives, I doubt he was on a goose chase that day at Chobar Gorge. It appears he never found the Sentinel’s burial chamber, but I suspect he wasn’t there for an empty box.”

  Selma considered this. “Logical,” was all she said.

  “One way to find out,” Sam said. “Who’s going to do the honors? Pete . . . Wendy?”

  Pete said, “I’m nothing if not chivalrous. Go ahead, Wendy.”

  Wendy took a deep breath, reached into the box, and flipped the appropriate switch. An inch-wide rectangular hatch slid open beside her fingers.

  Karna said softly, “Now gently slide your pinkie finger up along the inside of the box until you feel a square button.”

  Wendy did so. “Okay, got it.”

  “Slide that button . . . let me see . . . slide it to the right-no, left! Slide it to the left.”

  “Left,” Wendy repeated. “Are you sure?”

  Karna hesitated a moment, then nodded firmly. “Yes, left.”

  “Here I go.”

  Through the laptop’s speaker Sam and Remi heard a wooden snick.

  Wendy cried, “The top’s open!”

  “Now carefully lift the lid straight upward. If it’s there, the disk will be suspended from the underside.”

  Moving with exaggerated slowness, Wendy began lifting the lid an inch at a time. “It’s got some heft to it.”

  “Don’t let it swing,” Karna whispered. “A little more . . .”

  Pete rasped, “I can see a cord hanging down. Looks like catgut or something similar.”

  Wendy kept lifting.

  The halogen light reflected off something solid, a curved edge, a glint of gold.

  “Be ready, Peter,” said Karna.

  Wendy lifted the lid the rest of the way. The remainder of the cord rose from the box. Dangling at its end: the prize, a four-inch-wide golden disk.

  With latex-gloved hands, Pete reached out. Wendy lowered the disk into his palms, and he transferred it to a foam-lined tray on the table.

  The group let out a collective breath.

  “Now comes the hard part,” Karna said.

  “What?” Wendy said with exasperation. “That wasn’t the hard part?”