The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  “We understand, Selma,” Remi interrupted. “East is bad.”

  Sam and Remi looked at each other and nodded. Sam said, “Selma, how long until dusk?”

  As it turned out, the approach of nightfall was the least of their worries. While the shop-located in Orikum, a resort municipality ten miles south of Vlore in the crook of the bay-had a wide selection of injection-molded plastic kayak models available, none of them came in anything but retina-burning reds, yellows, or oranges, or a Jackson Pollockesque mix of the three. With no time to shop for stealthier color schemes, they bought the best pair of the lot, along with double-ended oars and life jackets.

  After a quick stop at a hardware store, they returned to Vlore. Having had good luck with them since Kathmandu, they found a military surplus store and bought an all-black outfit for each of them: boots and socks, long underwear, wool pants, knit cap, and an oversized long-sleeved turtleneck sweater to cover the neon orange life jacket. A bag of just-in-case odds and ends and a pair of dark rucksacks rounded out the spree. Then they set out.

  Sam drove around the recreation area for several minutes, but they saw no one. The parking lots and beaches were empty. From a cliff overlook, they scanned the waters below and again saw no one.

  “Probably too early in the year,” Sam said. “School’s still in session.”

  “We should assume there’ll be patrols,” Remi said. “Park Rangers or local police.”

  Sam nodded. “Good point.” If found, the Fiat would either be ticketed or towed. In either case, it was a complication they didn’t need. Worse still, the local authorities might push the panic button and assume they had a pair of vacationers lost at sea, which would undoubtedly attract the attention of the Navy and/or Coast Guard-the very thing Sam and Remi were trying to avoid.

  After twenty minutes of tooling around the recreation area’s dirt roads, Sam found a brush-choked drainage ditch into which he backed the Fiat. Under Remi’s careful eye for detail, they rearranged the brush until the vehicle was invisible from the road.

  Together they stepped back to admire the job.

  “They could have used you in England before D-day,” Sam remarked.

  “It’s a gift,” Remi agreed.

  Rucksacks on their backs, they dragged their kayaks down the hill to a secluded cove they’d spotted earlier. Measuring less than forty feet wide, with a shallow white sand beach, the inlet leading out to sea was two hundred yards long and curved, protecting them from prying eyes.

  With forty-five minutes of light remaining, they set about camouflaging the kayaks. Using cans of black and gray marine spray paint, they emblazoned the sides, tops, and bottoms of the craft in jagged overlapping stripes until not a sliver of neon plastic showed. Sam’s paint job, while functional, lacked the artistic flair of Remi’s work. Her kayak bore a striking resemblance to the slashed camouflage pattern found on World War I warships.

  He stepped back a few paces, studied each kayak in turn, then said, “Are we sure you aren’t reincarnated from some OSS operative?”

  “Not entirely.” She nodded at his kayak. “Do you mind?”

  “Have at it.”

  A couple of minutes and half a can of spray paint later, Sam’s kayak looked almost identical to her own. She turned to him: “What do you think?”

  “I feel . . . unmanned.”

  Remi walked over and kissed him. She smiled. “If it helps, I think your kayak is bigger than mine.”

  “Very funny. Let’s get changed.”

  After they donned their surplus clothes, their regular clothes went into the rucksacks, which in turn each went into the bow compartment of each kayak.

  With nothing else to do, they sat together in the sand and watched the sun’s descent, watched as the shadows lengthened over the water, and darkness slowly engulfed the inlet.

  When night had fully fallen, they dragged the kayaks down to the water, each shoving halfway out before climbing in and pushing off with the tip of an oar. Soon they were moving through the inlet. They took ten minutes to practice maneuvering the kayaks, getting a feel for the oars and the balance, until they were confident they were ready.

  With Sam in the lead, Remi behind and to his right, they paddled down the inlet, oars making a barely perceptible hiss as they cut through the water. Soon the mouth of the inlet came into view; beyond that, a vast dark carpet of water. As Selma had predicted, the sky was partially overcast, with only the faintest moon glow reflecting off the water. Two miles ahead, almost due north, they could see the dark lump of Sazan Island.

  Sam suddenly stopped paddling. He held up a closed fist: Stop. Remi took her oar out of the water, laid it across her lap, and waited. Using exaggerated and slow movements, Sam pointed to his ear, then up toward the top of the cliff to the right.

  Ten seconds passed.

  Then Remi heard it: an engine, followed by the soft squeal of brakes.

  Sam looked back at Remi, pointed to the rock wall, then put his oar back in the water and headed in that direction. Remi followed. Sam turned his kayak parallel with the cliff, then rotated in his seat, placed a hand on Remi’s bow, and steered her in.

  “Ranger?” Remi whispered.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  They sat still, eyes cast upward.

  At the edge of the cliff a match flared, then went out and was replaced by the glowing tip of a cigarette. In the faint glow Sam glimpsed the brim of a military-style cap. For five minutes they sat motionless, watching as the man finished his smoke. At last he turned and walked back the way he’d come. A car door opened, then slammed shut. The engine started, and the car began moving away, tires crunching on the gravel.

  Sam and Remi waited another five minutes in case of a double back, then set out again.

  A quarter mile into the bay, it became clear that Selma’s tide prediction was similarly accurate. While neither Sam nor Remi were surprised, they also knew the ocean was a fickle beast; even a relatively gentle one-knot eastward current would have made the crossing twice as hard, forcing them to make constant course adjustments to compensate for the surge. Fail at this, and they could easily find themselves caught in the Adriatic and on their way to Greece.

  Soon they found their rhythm, stroking in unison and quickly eating up the distance to Sazan. At the halfway point they stopped for a break. Remi brought her kayak alongside Sam’s, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the gentle rocking of the waves.

  “Patrol,” Remi said suddenly.

  To the northeast a large speedboat came around the island’s headland from the direction of the base. It kept turning, bow coming about until it was pointed directly at them. Sam and Remi sat frozen, watching and waiting. Though well-camouflaged, their kayaks wouldn’t escape the attention of a spotlight a quarter mile away.

  On the boat’s bow a spotlight popped on, skimmed over the island’s southern shoreline, then went dark again. The patrol boat kept coming toward them

  “Come on,” Sam muttered. “Go take some shore leave.”

  The boat swerved to the east.

  Remi said, “Good boy. Keep going.”

  It did. They watched for a few more minutes as the boat’s navigation lights grew more distant, then finally merged with the light clutter of Vlore in the distance.

  Sam looked at his wife. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  They covered the remaining mile in about twenty minutes. Having already done a virtual reconnaissance of the island with Google Earth, Sam had picked out their landing point.

  Measuring roughly three miles from north to south and a mile at its widest point, Sazan resembled, Sam thought, a misshapen guppy. The park station was on the guppy’s back, a cove on the northeastern coast, while their landing site was the guppy’s tail, at the extreme southern tip, near the old World War II-era fortifications.

  Mostly devoid of vegetation save ground brush and a few patches of dwarf pines, the rocky terrain was dominated by two high hills near the i
sland’s center. It was on one of these hills that they hoped to find the old monastery and, if Earta’s information was accurate, the occupants of the Zvernec Island graveyard, including the late Bishop Besim Mala.

  As was normal for Sam and Remi, they were traveling far and jumping through a lot of hoops based on a big “if.” Such was the life of professional treasure hunters, they’d learned during their years of searching.

  As they neared the shore, the waves got choppy, crashing on jutting rocks and half-submerged coquina flats. The plastic kayaks performed admirably, bouncing off the rocks and skidding over shoals, until Sam and Remi were able to half paddle, half push themselves into the shallows, where they climbed out and waded ashore.

  They crouched down to catch their breath and survey their surroundings.

  The rock-strewn beach was barely deeper than their kayaks were long and was backstopped by a four-foot-tall rock wall; beyond this wall, a steep hill dotted with green scrub. Halfway up the hill, a garage-sized structure was built into the hillside.

  “Pillbox,” Sam whispered.

  Higher up the hill stood what looked like a stone shack-a lookout post, perhaps-and higher still, a hundred yards away on the crest of the hill, was a three-story brick barracks-style building. Black glassless window openings stared out over the sea.

  After five minutes of looking and listening, Sam whispered, “Nobody home. Anything catch your eye?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t see any graffiti,” Sam remarked.

  “Does that mean something?”

  “If I were a kid living in Vlore, I doubt I could resist sneaking out here. While it wasn’t my thing as a teenager, I knew plenty of guys who would’ve spray-painted the hell out of that pillbox just to prove they’d been here.”

  Remi nodded. “So either Albanian youth are particularly law-abiding or . . .”

  “Nobody who sneaks over here stays free long enough to make mischief,” Sam finished.

  23

  SAZAN ISLAND, ALBANIA

  Under the light of a half-moon, they began slogging their way up the hill road. Though the crest was only a crow’s flight mile away and a few hundred feet higher than the barracks, the road’s serpentine path doubled the actual distance.

  Finally they reached the last bend in the road. Once around it, they spotted the crest of the hill. Sam gestured for Remi to wait, then ducked off the road and picked his way through the scrub brush until he could see over the crest. He gave her an All clear wave, and she joined him.

  She said, “The promised land.”

  “A promised land that’s seen much better days,” Sam replied.

  Though before leaving for the peninsula they’d studied the structure on Google Earth, the overhead view had shown the church as merely an unremarkable, cross-shaped building. Now, up close, they could see a conical belfry, tall boarded-up windows, and a once-red tiled roof bleached pink from centuries of sunlight.

  They found the main double doors locked, so they circled the church. On the north side they found two items of interest: a waist-high ragged hole in the brick wall and an unrestricted view of the northern half of Sazan, including the Park Rangers station half a mile below, situated on a man-made breakwater cove illuminated by pole-mounted lights. Sam and Remi counted three boats and three buildings.

  Remi said, “Let’s find Bishop Mala and get out of here.”

  24

  SAZAN ISLAND, ALBANIA

  As soon as they ducked through the hole in the wall, they realized their task was going to be much harder than they’d anticipated. Instead of stepping into an open space, they found themselves standing in a labyrinth.

  On either side and ahead of them, eroding wooden coffins were stacked eight high and four deep, forming a corridor that was barely wider than their shoulders. Headlamps illuminating the way, they walked to the end of the corridor. They found themselves at a T-turn. To the left and right, more coffins.

  “Are you keeping count?” Sam whispered.

  “A hundred ninety-two so far.”

  “The Zvernec graveyard isn’t that big.”

  “It is if they were packing them shoulder to shoulder and stacking them. We know Mala died in 1436. Even if his was the first burial, we could be talking about five-plus centuries.”

  “I just got a shiver down my spine. Left or right?”

  Remi chose left. They walked a few paces. Ahead, Sam’s head-lamp washed over an exterior brick wall.

  “Dead end,” he said.

  “Was that a pun?”

  “Freudian slip.”

  They turned around, and, with Remi in the lead, proceeded past the T-turn and down the adjoining corridor. At the end of this, a right turn, followed by another sixty-four coffins, followed by a left turn and more coffins. The pattern continued through another five turns until the body count exceeded six hundred.

  At last they entered an open space. Here the coffins were also stacked eight high, all the way to the vaulted ceiling’s crossbeams. Sam and Remi turned in a circle, headlamps sweeping over walls of white pine.

  “There,” Sam said suddenly.

  On the western wall, behind a mountain of rotting pine, was a row of stone sarcophagi. “Fourteen,” Remi said. “The same as the number of mausoleums in the graveyard.”

  “That’s a bit of good luck,” Sam replied. He counted the coffin wall behind the sarcophagi. “Unbelievable,” he murmured. “Remi, there are over a thousand corpses in this building.”

  “Earta must have been mistaken. After the storm and flood, they must have taken all the bodies. Zvernec isn’t so much a graveyard as it is a charnel pit.”

  “There’s no smell.”

  “According to Selma, the last burial was in 1912. Even with embalming, there’s probably little flesh left.”

  Sam smiled and sang softly, “Dem bones . . . dem bones . . . dem dry bones.”

  “Don’t give up your day job. Let’s check for markings. Mala’s mausoleum bore a huge patriarchal cross; maybe they did the same for his sarcophagus.”

  A quick check of the end of each sarcophagus showed no crosses. Sam and Remi walked along the row, using their headlamps to peer on the top of each stone coffin. Of the fourteen, three had been chiseled with the Eastern Orthodox Church symbol.

  They sat together on the floor and stared at it. Remi asked, “How heavy do you think each one is?”

  “Four, five hundred pounds.” Then, after a moment: “But the lid . . . that’s a different story. Crowbar.”

  “Pardon?” Remi asked with a smile. She was used to her husband’s cerebral non sequiturs; they were his way of working through problems.

  “We forgot a crowbar. That lid weighs a hundred pounds at most, but prying open that seam while the sarcophagus is wedged in there . . . Damn, I knew I had that We’re forgetting something important feeling.”

  “Luckily, you have a plan.”

  Sam nodded. “Luckily, I have a plan.”

  Having long ago learned the universal value of three items-rope, wire, and duct tape-Sam and Remi rarely went into the field without them even when the specific task or journey didn’t obviously call for any of them. This time, in a hurry to beat nightfall, they’d forgotten one of the trio in addition to the crowbar: wire. The fifty-foot coil of climbing rope and the duct tape would be enough, Sam hoped.

  It took only a few minutes of scrabbling over the church’s crossbeams before they found what they needed: a loose L bracket. After twisting it free, Sam used his body weight to smash it closed over the rope’s center point. Next he crawled over the sarcophagus and wriggled the bracket into the rear seam beneath the lid. Then, grasping the rope like reins, he tugged until the L bracket was firmly seated in place. Finally he and Remi tossed the ends of the rope over a beam and used their combined body weight to slowly take up the slack until the far end of the lid began rising.

  “I’ve got it.” Remi said through clenched teeth, taking Sam’s end. “Go ahead.”

 
; Sam hurried forward, bent over the lid, and slipped his fingers under its near side. He leaned backward and straightened his legs. The lid popped up and slid free between his legs. The L bracket popped free with a metallic twang.

  Together, they stepped around the lid and leaned forward, their headlamps panning over the sarcophagus’s contents.

  “Bones, bones, and more bones,” Remi said.

  “And not a glint of gold in sight,” Sam replied. “One down, two to go.”

  Though neither of them voiced the worry, Sam and Remi both had the gut feeling that whichever sarcophagus they chose next, it too would be the wrong choice. Similarly, neither of them dared acknowledge the nagging voice of doubt in the back of each’s head-that Father/Bishop Besim Mala had not been faithful to the King of Mustang’s request and that the second Theurang disk had been long ago discarded or lost, along with the Golden Man and, if Jack Karna were right, the location of Shangri-La.

  Thirty minutes and a second sarcophagus lid later, they found themselves staring at a second set of bones and a second strikeout.

  Ninety minutes after they entered the church, they slid back the lid of the third and final sarcophagus. Exhausted, Sam and Remi sat before it and took a minute to catch their breath.

  “Ready?” Sam said.

  “Not really, but let’s get it over with,” replied Remi.

  On hands and knees, they crawled forward, went on either side of the stone lid, and, after taking a deep breath, peeked over the edge into the sarcophagus.

  From the blackness a sliver of gold winked back at them.

  25

  SOFIA, BULGARIA

  Shortly after dawn, exhausted but triumphant, they were back on the peninsula and on their way to the hotel in Vlore.

  Having already expressed to Selma concern over shipping the Theurang disk back to San Diego via standard means, Sam and Remi found their chief researcher had, predictably, made alternative arrangements. Rube Haywood, their old CIA friend, had given her the name and address of a reliable and discreet courier service in Sofia. Whether the service was somehow affiliated with his employer, Rube declined to say, but the sign over the building’s door, which read “Sofia Academic Archivist Services Ltd” told Sam all he needed to know.