The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  “A few minutes ago you said there is so little documentation. Does that mean there is some documentation?” Remi said.

  “There are a few letters, but written by friends. None in De Terzi’s own hand. It is what your justice system calls hearsay, si? Aside from those, there is only one other source that may be related to the stories. I am reluctant to mention it.”

  “Why?”

  “It is fiction, a short story written by De Terzi’s sister a few years after his death. Though named differently, the protagonist is clearly intended to be Francesco. Most thought the sister was trying to make money on his fame by exploiting the rumors.”

  “Can you give us the gist of the story?”

  “A fanciful tale, really.” Moretti gathered her thoughts. “The hero of the story leaves his home in Italy. After braving many dangers, he is captured by a tyrant in a strange land. He is forced to build a flying ship of war. The ship crashes in a desolate place, and just the hero and two of his comrades survive, only to eventually die of their injuries. The hero then finds a mysterious treasure, which the natives tell him is cursed, but he ignores the warning and undertakes an arduous journey back to the tyrant’s castle. Once there, he finds that his traveling companion, who the tyrant had been holding hostage, has been executed.

  “The hero returns to Italy with the treasure only to find more tragedy: his family has been killed by the plague. The hero is now convinced the curse is real, so he sets out to return the treasure to where he found it and is never heard from again.”

  Sam and Remi struggled to keep their faces expressionless.

  Sam said, “You don’t happen to have a copy of this story, do you?”

  “Yes, of course. I believe I have it in the original Italian as well as a very good English translation. As soon as we have finished our conversation, I will send you an electronic version.”

  38

  GOLDFISH POINT, LA JOLLA

  CALIFORNIA

  With copies of “The Great Dragon” on each of their iPads, Sam and Remi thanked Professor Moretti for her help. Sam and Remi read the story and e-mailed copies to Selma, Wendy, and Pete. As Remi was sending a copy of the story to Jack, Selma connected with him via iChat.

  “You two look absolutely giddy,” Karna said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What have you found?”

  Sam said to Remi, “You tell him.”

  Remi first recounted their conversation with Moretti, then gave everyone a summary of “The Great Dragon.”

  “Incredible,” said Selma. “You’ve both read the story?”

  “Yes,” said Sam. “It should be in your e-mail. You too, Jack.”

  “Yes, I see it here.”

  “How closely does the story match the bamboo engraving?” asked Wendy.

  “If you replace the clearly fictional bits of the story with De Terzi’s alleged testament, you get what reads like a factual account: the crash, the number of survivors, the discovery of a mysterious treasure, the trek home . . . It’s all there.”

  “And the time line fits,” Remi said. “Between the secondhand accounts of De Terzi’s comings and goings, he could easily have been traveling to and from China.”

  “I am flabbergasted,” said Karna.

  Pete, who was paging through the story on Sam’s iPad, said, “What’s this map on the frontispiece?”

  “That’s the hero’s journey to return the treasure,” replied Remi. “Jack, do you have that?”

  “Looking at it right now. It appears De Terzi arrives from the west and first stops at what is labeled here as a castle. This, we can assume, is Shekar Gompa.”

  “The launch base for the airship,” Sam said.

  “And possibly the burial site for Giuseppe,” added Remi.

  Karna continued: “From Shekar Gompa, De Terzi travels east to the Great City. Based on the position of Shekar, the city could be Lhasa.”

  “Why would he go there?” asked Wendy. “The crash site is forty miles south of Shekar Gompa. Wasn’t he trying to return the treasure?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied, “but in the story when he reaches the castle a local wise man tells him he must return the treasure to ‘its rightful home.’ He is told to seek out another wise man in the Great City to the west.”

  Karna picked up Sam’s line of thought: “From the Great City, De Terzi continues eastward, eventually arrives at . . . I don’t know. There’s only an X here.”

  “Shangri-La,” Remi suggested.

  There were a few moments of silence from Karna, then: “You’re going to have to excuse me. Apologies. I’ll get back to you.”

  The iChat screen went dark.

  Karna was back thirty minutes later. “There are some rough grid lines and other landmarks on this map I’ll have to cross-reference, but using the distance from Shekar Gompa to Lhasa as a benchmark, the final leg of De Terzi’s journey ended in an area that’s know today as the Tsangpo Gorge.”

  “Your front-runner for the location of Shangri-La,” said Sam.

  “Yes indeed. Sam, Remi, you may have just solved a riddle six hundred years in the making.”

  Sam said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. How long will it take you to nail down the locations on the map?”

  “I’ll start right now. Give me a day.”

  39

  ARUNACHAL PRADESH REGION

  NORTHERN INDIA

  “Jack!” Remi called. “I didn’t really believe you’d show up.”

  Karna’s SUV rolled to a stop, and he climbed out. Remi gave him a hug, Sam shook his hand. “Glad you’re on board, Jack.”

  “As am I.”

  Standing behind Karna, Ajay nodded and smiled at them.

  Karna said, “You two look better than when I last saw your faces. Remi, how’s the foot? And the ribs?”

  “Healed enough that I can get around without gritting my teeth. I’ve got ACE bandages, a good pair of hiking boots, and a bottle of ibuprofen.”

  “Outstanding.”

  “She’ll outmarch all of us,” Sam said.

  “Any trouble getting here? Any tails? Suspicious people?”

  Remi answered. “None of the above.”

  Since their last conversation with Charles King, they had neither seen nor heard from him, his children, or Zhilan Hsu. It was a development they found at once pleasing and unnerving.

  “Jack, how did you conquer your fear of flying?” said Sam.

  “I didn’t, actually,” Karna replied. “I was utterly terrified from the moment we lifted off from Kathmandu to the moment I stepped off the plane in Bangladesh. My excitement for our expedition temporarily overpowered my fear, and, voila, here I am.”

  “Here” was the end of a five-hundred-mile overland journey Sam and Remi had finished just a few hours earlier. Situated on the banks of the Siang River, the quiet town of Yingkiong, population nine hundred, was the last outpost of any significant population in northern India. From there, the next city, Nyingchi, Tibet, was a hundred miles northeast, through some of the world’s most forbidding jungles.

  Ten days had passed since their iChat conversation. It had taken that long to make all the necessary travel arrangements. True to his word, Karna had contacted them the next day, having worked nonstop in hopes of deciphering the map from “The Great Dragon.”

  De Terzi’s land navigation skills must have rivaled those of the Sentinels, Karna had explained. Both the bearings and distances on De Terzi’s map were remarkably accurate, missing the real-world measurements by less than a mile and one compass degree. Once finished with his calculations, Karna was certain he had triangulated the location of Shangri-La down to a two-mile diameter. As he had suspected all along, the coordinates were in the heart of the Tsangpo River Gorge.

  Sam and Remi had studied the area on Google Earth but had seen nothing but towering peaks, raging rivers, and thick forests. Nothing that looked like a mushroom.

  Karna said, “What say we retire to a bar for a drink and a bit of chalk talk? It’s b
est you understand the nastiness we’re in for before we set out in the morning.”

  The tavern was a two-story building with a corrugated tin lean-to roof and clapboard walls. Inside, the lower level was devoted to a reception area and a restaurant that looked as if it had been stolen from a 1950s Hollywood western: wooden floors, a long J-shaped bar, and vertical posts supporting exposed ceiling joists. Their rooms for the night, Karna told them, were on the second floor.

  The tavern was surprisingly crowded. They found a trestle table against the wall beneath a flickering neon Schlitz sign and ordered four beers. They were ice-cold.

  “Most of what I’m going to tell you I got from Ajay, but since he’s not the loquacious type you’ll have to rely on my memory. As I told you, these are Ajay’s old stomping grounds, so we’re in good hands. By the way, Ajay, what’s the status of our transportation?”

  “All arranged, Mr. Karna.”

  “Fantastic. Correct me if I get offtrack while I’m talking, Ajay.”

  “Yes, Mr. Karna.”

  Karna sighed. “Can’t get him to call me Jack. Been trying for years.”

  “He and Selma play by the same handbook,” Sam replied.

  “Right. Here’s the quick and dirty about Arunachal Pradesh: depending on who you ask, we’re in China right now.”

  “Whoa! Say that again,” Sam said.

  “China officially claims most of this region as part of southern Tibet. Of course, to the people and the government here, Arunachal Pradesh is an Indian state. The northern border between Arunachal Pradesh and China is called the McMahon Line, drawn up as part of a treaty between Tibet and the United Kingdom. The Chinese never bought into it, and India never enforced the border until 1950. Bottom line, China and India both claim it but neither does much about it.”

  “What does that mean for a military presence?” asked Sam.

  “Nothing. There are some Indian troops in the region, but the Chinese stay north of the McMahon Line. It’s all fairly amicable, really.”

  “That’s good for our team,” Remi said.

  “Yes, well . . . What isn’t so wonderful is the ANLF-the Arunachal Naga Liberation Force. They’re the latest and greatest terrorist group in the area. They’ve been keen on kidnapping as of late. That said, Ajay says we probably won’t have any trouble with them; the Army has been cracking down.”

  Sam said, “According to the maps, our destination is twenty-five miles into China. Based on the landscape, I’m assuming there aren’t any border checkpoints.”

  “You’re correct. As I mentioned back in Mustang, the border is fairly open. Several hundred trekkers jaunt across it every year. Actually, the Chinese government doesn’t seem to care. There’s nothing of any strategic importance in the area.”

  “More good news,” Remi said. “Now tell us the downside.”

  “You mean aside from the ridiculously rugged terrain?”

  “Yes.”

  “The downside is that we will be, for all intents and purposes, invading China. If we’re unlucky enough to get caught, we’ll probably end up in prison.”

  “We’ve already faced the possibility once,” Sam replied. “Let’s do our best to avoid that, shall we?”

  “Right. Okay, let’s move on to snakes and venomous insects . . .”

  After a quick supper that consisted of tandoori chicken, Sam and Remi retired for the evening. They found their rooms in keeping with the hostel’s motif: Hollywood western chic sans the chic. Though the outside temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees, the humidity was stifling. The room’s creaking ceiling fan slowly churned the air, but after sunset the temperature began dropping, and soon the room was comfortable.

  They were asleep by eight.

  They awoke the next morning to the sound of Ajay knocking softly on their door and whispering their names. Bleary-eyed, Sam crawled out of bed in the darkness and shuffled to the door.

  Ajay said, “Coffee, Mr. Fargo.”

  “No tea? This is a pleasant surprise. It’s Sam, by the way.”

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five a.m.”

  “Uh-oh,” Sam murmured, and glanced over at Remi’s sleeping form. Mrs. Fargo was not exactly a morning person. “Ajay, would you mind bringing us two more cups of coffee right away?”

  “Of course. In fact, I will bring the carafe.”

  The group assembled in the tavern thirty minutes later for breakfast. Once they were done, Karna said, “We’d best pack. Our death trap should be here anytime now.”

  “Did you say ‘death trap’?” Remi asked.

  “You might know it by its common name: helicopter.”

  Sam chuckled. “After what we’ve been through, we almost prefer your description. Are you sure you can handle it?”

  Karna held up a softball-sized Nerf ball. It was riddled with finger holes. “Stress toy. I’ll survive. The ride will be short.”

  With their gear assembled and packed, they soon regrouped at the northern edge of Yingkiong near a dirt clearing.

  “Here he comes,” Ajay said, pointing to the south where an olive green helicopter was skimming over the surface of the Siang.

  “It looks positively ancient,” Karna observed.

  As it drew even with the clearing and slowed to a hover, Sam spotted a faded Indian Air Force roundel on the side door. Someone had tried and failed to paint over the orange, white, and green insignia. The group turned away from the rotor downwash and waited until the dust settled.

  “Ajay, what is this thing?” asked Karna.

  “A Chetak light utility helicopter, sir. Very reliable. As a soldier, I flew in these many times.”

  “How old?”

  “Nineteen sixty-eight.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “If I had told you, Mr. Karna, you would not have come.”

  “Oh, you’re damned right. All right, all right, let’s get on with it.”

  With Jack clawing furiously at his Nerf ball, the group packed their gear aboard, then took their seats. Ajay checked their fivepoint seat harnesses, then slid the door shut and gave the pilot a nod.

  They lifted off, the nose tilted forward, and surged ahead.

  Partially for ease of navigation and partially to increase their chances of rescue should the Chetak crash, the pilot followed the serpentine course of the Siang River. The few pockets of habitation that lay north of Yingkiong were situated along its banks, Ajay explained. With luck, someone would see the Chetak go down and report the incident.

  “Oh, that’s just fantastic!’” Karna shouted over the rush of the engine.

  “Squeeze your ball, Jack,” Remi replied. “Ajay, do you know this pilot?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Fargo, very well. We served together in the Army. Gupta now runs a cargo business-brings supplies to the far parts of Arunachal Pradesh.”

  The Chetak continued north, skimming a few hundred feet above the brown waters of the Siang, and before long they found themselves flying through knife-edged ridges and plummeting valleys, all of it covered in jungle so thick Sam and Remi could see nothing but a solid carpet of green. In most places the Siang was wide and sluggish, but several times, as the Chetak passed through a gorge, the waters were a maelstrom of froth and crashing waves.

  “Those are Class VI waters down there,” Sam called, staring out the window.

  “That’s nothing,” Karna replied.

  “Where we’re headed, the Tsangpo River Gorge, is known as the Everest of Rivers. There are sections of the Tsangpo that defy classification.”

  Remi said, “Has anyone ever tried traversing those?”

  “Oh, yes, a number of times. Mostly extreme kayakers, right, Ajay?”

  Ajay nodded. “Many lives have been lost. Bodies never found.”

  “They don’t wash downstream?” asked Sam.

  “Bodies are usually either trapped forever in hydraulics, where they are ground into pulp along the bottom or they are ground into
pulp while being dragged down the gorges. There is not much left to find after that.”

  After they had traveled forty minutes, Gupta turned in his seat and called, “Coming up on Tuting Village. Prepare for landing.”

  Sam and Remi were surprised to find that Tuting had a dirt airstrip partially overgrown with jungle. They touched down, and everyone climbed out. To the east, higher up the valley, they glimpsed a few roofs peeking above the treetops. Tuting Village, Sam and Remi assumed.

  “From here, we hike,” Karna announced.

  He, Sam, and Remi began unloading their gear.

  “Pardon, just one moment,” Ajay said. He was standing ten feet away with the pilot. “Gupta has a proposal he wishes you to consider. He asked me how far into China we are going, and I told him. For a fee, he will fly us very close to our destination.”

  “Isn’t he worried about the Chinese?” asked Sam.

  “Very little. He says they maintain no radar in the area, and from here to our destination the valleys only deepen, and that there is almost no habitation. He can fly unseen, he believes.”

  “Well, that’s a damned sight better than a six-day march in and back,” Karna observed. “How much does he want?”

  Ajay spoke to Gupta in Hindi, then said, “Two hundred thousand rupees-or roughly four thousand U.S. dollars.”

  Sam said, “We don’t have that much cash on us.”

  “Gupta assumed this. He says he will happily take a credit card.”

  They agreed to Gupta’s terms, and in short order the pilot was on the helicopter’s radio, transmitting Sam’s Visa information to his home base in Itanagar.

  “This is surreal,” Sam said. “Standing here, in the back of beyond, while an Indian pilot runs our card.”

  “As I said back in Nepal, never a dull moment,” Remi replied. “I know my ankle will appreciate this itinerary change.”

  Ajay called, “Gupta says you are approved. We can lift off whenever you are ready.”

  Airborne and heading north along the Siang again, they soon passed over the last Indian settlement before the border. Gengren disappeared behind them in a flash, and then Gupta announced, “We are crossing the McMahon Line.”