The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  “How big is the file?”

  Remi checked her camera’s LCD screen. “Wow. Eight gigabytes. Far too big for standard e-mail.”

  “I think I know how we can get around that,” Sam replied. “Let’s pack up and get going.”

  After a quick call to Selma, who in turn called Rube, who in turn called his friends at the Sofia Academic Archivist Services Ltd, Sam and Remi found the office open when they arrived back in Sofia at six-thirty. As with his first visit, Sam was asked only to identify himself and offer a code phrase-this one different than the first-before he was led to an adjoining office and a computer terminal. The office’s high-speed Internet line made short work of the picture files, uploading them to Selma’s storage site in less than three minutes. Sam waited for the confirmation message, then returned to the Fiat and Remi.

  “Where to now?” she asked.

  Sam hesitated. Frowned. They’d been moving so fast since arriving in Kathmandu, they’d had no chance to consider the question.

  Sam said, “I vote we go home and regroup.”

  “Seconded.”

  27

  GOLDFISH POINT, LA JOLLA,

  CALIFORNIA

  “Great . . . thanks. We’ll look for him.”

  Selma hung up the phone and turned to the group gathered around the maple worktable: Sam, Remi, Pete, and Wendy.

  Selma said, “That was George. The Theurang disk model is done. He’s sending it over by bike messenger.”

  “Can’t wait to see what eight hundred photos look like in three dimensions,” Remi said.

  Arriving home after their Sofia-Frankfurt-San Francisco-San Diego flight, Sam and Remi had made their greetings, then promptly went to bed for a blissful ten hours. Refreshed, and their bodies mostly realigned with California time, they’d met the team in the workroom for a get-up-to-speed meeting.

  “No matter how good the model is,” Pete said, “it can’t compare to the real thing.”

  Resting in their formfitting black foam trays, the two genuine Theurang disks gleamed under the hard glare of the halogen pendant lights.

  “In looks, yes,” Sam replied. “But in utility value . . . As long as it helps point us where we need to go, it’s golden to me.”

  Selma asked, “Do you believe any of it?”

  “Which parts?”

  “The prophecy, Jack’s theory about the Theurang being an evolutionary missing link, Shangri-La . . . all of it.”

  Remi answered, “Well, Jack admitted it himself: we only have drawings of the Theurang, and there’s no telling how much they’re based on myth and how much on direct observation. I do think his argument is compelling enough that we should see this through to the end.”

  Sam nodded his agreement. “As for Shangri-La . . . A lot of legends are based on a kernel of truth. In modern popular culture, Shangri-La is synonymous with paradise. For the people of Mustang, it may have been nothing more than where the Theurang was originally found-and where it should rightfully be laid to rest. Place names are trivial. It’s the meaning we attach to them that counts.”

  “Sam, that’s almost poetic,” Remi said.

  He smiled. “I have my moments.”

  The intercom buzzed. Selma answered it, then walked out. She returned a minute later carrying a cardboard box. She opened the box, examined the contents, then removed them. She placed the modeled Theurang disk on the foam tray.

  The disk was nearly indistinguishable from its mates.

  “I’m impressed,” Sam said. “Good call, Selma.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fargo. Should we call Jack?”

  “In a bit. First, though, I think it’s time we touch base with King Charlie. I’d like to get him riled enough to talk.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Wendy.

  “Depending on how reliable his sources in Mustang are, he may believe his plan to drown us in the Kali Gandaki succeeded. Let’s see if we can rattle his cage. Selma, can you get me a secure line on the speaker here?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fargo. One moment.”

  Soon the line clicked open and began ringing. Charlie King answered with a gruff, “King here.”

  “Good morning, Mr. King,” said Sam. “Sam and Remi Fargo here.”

  Hesitation. Then a boisterous, “Morning to you too! Haven’t heard from you for a while. I was gettin’ a bit worried you two were renegin’ on our deal.”

  “Which deal is that?”

  “I got your friend released. Now you’re gonna turn over to me what you’ve found.”

  “You’re experiencing a case of wishful memory, Charlie. The deal was that we’d meet with Russell and Marjorie and reach an understanding.”

  “Well, dammit, son, what’d you think that meant? I give you Alton, and you give me what I want.”

  Remi said, “We’ve decided you’re in breach of contract, Charlie.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “We’re talking about the bogus tour guide you hired to kill us in Mustang.”

  “I did no such-”

  Sam interrupted: “Difference without a distinction. You ordered your children or your wife to get it done.”

  “You think so, huh? Well, go ahead and prove it.”

  “I think we can do better than that,” Sam replied. Beside him, Remi mouthed, What? Sam shrugged and mouthed back, I’m playing it by ear.

  King said, “Fargo, I been threatened by tougher and richer men than you. I hose their blood off my boots just ’bout everyday. How ’bout you just give me what I want and we’ll part company friends.”

  “It’s too late for that-the friends part, that it. As for the prize you’re after-the prize your father spent most of his adult life hunting for-we’ve got it. It’s sitting right in front of us.”

  “Bull.”

  “Mind your manners, and we might send you a picture. First, though, why don’t you explain your interest in it?”

  “How ’bout you tell me what you think you found.”

  “A wooden chest, shaped like a cube, in the possession of a soldier who’d been dead for half a millennium or so.”

  King didn’t respond immediately, but they could hear him breathing on the line. Finally, in a hushed tone, he said, “You really have it.”

  “We do. And unless you start telling us the truth, we’re going to open it and see what’s inside for ourselves.”

  “No, hold it right there. Don’t go doin’ that.”

  “Tell us what’s inside.”

  “Could be one of a couple things: a big coin-shaped thing or a bunch a bones. Either way, they won’t mean much to you.”

  “Then why do they mean so much to you?”

  “None of your business.”

  From across the table, Selma, standing behind her laptop, held up an index finger. Sam said, “Mr. King, can you hold for just a moment?”

  Without waiting for a response, Pete reached over to the speakerphone and tapped the Mute button.

  Selma said, “Forgot to tell you: I’ve been doing a little more digging into King’s teen years. I came across a blog written by a former reporter at the New York Times. The woman claims that during an interview with King three years ago, she asked him a question he didn’t like. After staring daggers at her, he terminated the interview. Two days later she was fired. She hasn’t been able to find a legitimate job in journalism since then. King blackballed her.”

  Remi asked, “What did she ask him?”

  “She asked why in King’s high school yearbook everyone referred to him by the nickname Adolf.”

  “That’s it?” said Sam. “That’s all?”

  “That’s it.”

  Wendy said, “We already know Lewis King was a Nazi in name only, and Charlie had nothing to do with any of it, so why would-”

  “Kids being kids,” Remi replied. “Think about it: Lewis King was largely absent from Charlie’s life from an early age. On top of that, everywhere Charlie went he probably got teased mercilessly about his Nazi roots. It
doesn’t sound like much from our perspective, but for a kid, for a teenager . . . Sam, this could be King’s hot button. Back then, he was a petulant child with no power. Now he’s a petulant billionaire with more power than many heads of state.”

  Sam considered this. He nodded at Pete, who unmuted the phone. “Apologies, Charlie. Where were we? Oh, that’s right: the box. You said it could contain a coin or some bones, correct?”

  “That’s right?”

  “And your father wanted them for what? Some obscure Nazi occult ritual? Something Himmler dreamed up with Adolf?”

  “Shut up, Fargo!”

  “Your dad spent his life hunting for this. How can you be sure he didn’t have some ties to a secret postwar Nazi organization?”

  “I’m warnin’ you . . . Shut your mouth!”

  “Is that why you want the Golden Man, Charlie? Are you trying to finish what your goose-stepping dad couldn’t?”

  From the speaker came the sound of something heavy crashing down on wood followed by jumbled static. King’s voice came back on the line: “I ain’t no Nazi!”

  “The apple never falls far from the tree, Charlie. Here’s how I think it happened. Your dad learned about the existence of the Theurang during the 1938 expedition, then after the war the family moves to America, where he continues your Nazi indoctrination. In your twisted minds, the Theurang is some kind of Holy Grail. Lewis disappeared trying to find it, but he taught you well. You’re not going to-”

  “That bastard! That idiot! He traipses off leaving my mother back in Germany, then does the same damned thing when she gets here! When my mom swallows a bottle of pills, he don’t even bother comin’ back for the funeral. He killed her and he don’t even have the decency to show up!

  “Good ol’ eccentric Lewis! He don’t give a damn what they say about him, and he can’t understand why it’d bother me. Every day, every damned day, I had to listen to them whispering behind my back, giving me that damned Heil Hitler! All that, and I still beat ’em. Beat ’em all! I could buy and sell every single one of ’em now.

  “You think I’m after the Golden Man ’cause it meant so much to my dad? You think I’m some kind of duty-bound son? What a joke. When I get my hands on that thing, I’m going to crush it into dust! And if there’s a God in heaven, my dad will be watching!” King paused, and let out a forced chuckle. “Besides, you two have been thorns in my paw since day one. I’ll be damned if you’re gonna take what’s rightfully mine.”

  Sam didn’t respond immediately. One look at Remi told him they were of like minds: for the child Charlie King they felt absolute pity. But King was no longer a child, and his insane mission to exact revenge on his long-dead father had cost people their lives.

  Sam said, “That’s what this is? A tantrum? King, you’ve murdered, kidnapped, and enslaved people. You’re a sociopath.”

  “Fargo, you don’t know what you’re-”

  “I know what you’ve done. And I know what you’re capable of doing before this is all over. I’m going to make you a promise, King: not only are we going to make sure you don’t get the Golden Man but we’re going to make sure you go to prison for what you’ve done.”

  “Fargo, you listen to me! I will kill-”

  Sam reached out and hit the Disconnect button.

  The line went dead.

  There was silence around the worktable.

  Then, softly, from Selma: “Well, he sounds a tad peeved.”

  Her gross understatement broke the tension. They all broke out in laughter. When it died away, Remi said, “The question is, if we follow through on our promise, will King end up in prison or a rubber room?”

  THISULI, NEPAL

  Colonel Zhou had agreed to the late-night meeting partially out of curiosity, partially out of necessity. His arrangement with the strange-faced American zazhong-half-breeds-had thus far been lucrative, but now that he knew their true identities, and that of their father, Zhou was anxious to change the terms of their partnership. What Charles King was doing in Nepal didn’t bother Zhou. What annoyed him was how little he had charged them in . . . handling fees, as the Americans say. Getting the fossils to Lhasa and through customs was easy enough, but finding and securing trustworthy distributors for such banned merchandise was far trickier-and, as of tonight, much pricier.

  A few minutes before midnight, Zhou heard the growl of an SUV engine outside. The two soldiers behind the colonel rose from their chairs and brought their assault rifles to the low ready position.

  “I’ve ordered them searched this time,” he told his men. “Still, do not let your guards down.”

  One of the exterior guards stepped across the threshold, gave Zhou a nod, then disappeared. A moment later Marjorie and Russell King stepped out of the darkness into the flickering glow of the kerosene lantern. They were not alone. A third figure, a willowy, grim-faced Chinese woman, stepped into the room. The King children’s body language told Zhou this new woman would be speaking for the trio.

  And then he saw it, the similarities in the eyes and nose and cheekbones. Mother and children, Zhou thought. Interesting. He decided to play out the hand. He rose from his seat at the trestle table and nodded respectfully at the woman. “Shall I call you Mrs. King?”

  “No. Hsu. Zhilan Hsu.”

  “Please, sit down.”

  Zhilan took the bench, her hands folded neatly on the table before her. The King children remained standing, mirroring the at-attention posture of Colonel Zhou’s soldiers. Zhou sat down.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

  “My husband requires something of you.”

  “Does he?”

  “Yes. First he requires that you understand this: we know that your name is not Zhou, and you are not a colonel in the People’s Liberation Army. Your name is in fact is Feng, and you are a general.”

  General Feng felt like his stomach had turned to a block of ice. It was an act of will to keep the panic from showing on his face. “Is that so?”

  “It is. We know everything about you, including all of your other illicit activities: small-arms dealing, heroin smuggling, and so on. We also know who in your chain of command is an ally of yours and who is an enemy. In fact, my husband is on quite good terms with a certain general named Gou. Do you know the name?”

  Feng swallowed hard. He felt his world crumbling around him. He managed a barely perceptible, “I do.”

  “General Gou is not fond of you, is he?”

  “No.”

  “Have I made my point?” Zhilan Hsu asked.

  “You have.”

  “Let’s talk about our partnership. My husband, in fact, is pleased with the services you have provided and would like to offer you a fifteen percent increase on all transactions.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “My husband is aware of that. He also asks a favor of you.”

  Even as the words were leaving his mouth, Feng was cursing himself. “A favor suggests no compensation.”

  Zhilan’s hard obsidian eyes stared at Feng for a few moments before answering. “I misspoke. Perhaps ‘task’ is a better word. Of course, he is happy to compensate you in the amount of two hundred thousand U.S. dollars. But only if you succeed.”

  Feng struggled to keep the smile from his face. “Of course. That is only fair. What’s the nature of this task?”

  “There are people-two of them, to be specific-who are threatening our business interests here. We expect that they will be traveling along the border in the coming weeks, perhaps even crossing into the TAR,” Zhilan said, referring to the Tibet Autonomous Region. “We want you to intercept them.”

  “You will need to be more specific.”

  “Captured and held for us or killed. I will give you the order when the time comes.”

  “How close to the border will they be traveling?”

  “In some places, less than a few miles.”

  “The border is many hundreds of miles long. How would one find two
individuals in all of that?”

  “Don’t be obtuse,” Zhilan said, her voice taking on a harder edge. “You have under your command fourteen Harbin Z-9 helicopters equipped with infrared radars, night-vision cameras, and missiles, both anti-air and anti-tank.”

  Feng sighed. “You are extraordinarily well informed.”

  “Your command also maintains seventy-nine observation posts along the border. Is this also correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “We suspect the people will have to use a helicopter to transit some of the more remote areas. There are a limited number of charter companies in Nepal that offer such services. In order to make your task easier, we will be monitoring these companies.”

  “Then why not intercept these people before they board?”

  “We will allow them to . . . complete their mission before you take action against them.”

  “What is their mission?”

  “They are looking for something. We want them to succeed.”

  “What are they looking for?”

  “You do not need to know that. General, I have explained what is required of you; I have given you all the information you need to make a decision. So decide, please.”

  “I accept. I will need information on the targets.”

  Zhilan reached into the front pocket of her parka and withdrew an SD card. She slid it across the table to Feng, then stood up. “Make sure you are ready when I call.”

  28

  JOMSOM, NEPAL

  Acutely aware that, in Charles King, they’d enraged a lion that had thus far only been annoyed, Sam and Remi had instructed Selma to find them an alternate route to Mustang.

  Everyone involved knew the Theurang was somewhere in the Himalayas, and King now knew that the Fargos, possessing a significant lead in the race, would have to return to Nepal. Sam and Remi had no doubt that Russell and Marjorie King, along with their mother, Zhilan Hsu, would be on the lookout for them. Only time would tell what other forces King would bring to bear, but they intended to walk very carefully until this odyssey was over.

  A series of marathon flights eventually took them to New Delhi, India, where they drove two hundred fifty miles southeast to the city of Lucknow, where they picked up a single-engine charter flight another two hundred miles northeast to Jomsom. They’d left the trekker’s hub less than a week earlier, and as the plane’s wheels squealed on the airstrip tarmac both Sam and Remi felt a sense of deja vu. This sensation was only heightened as they headed for the terminal amid throngs of trekkers and guide service reps vying for their business.