The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

He was only halfway down the tunnel when he heard footsteps at the entrance behind him. “Fast bastards,” Sam muttered, and kept going. Ahead, Remi had reached the end of the tunnel. She darted left into the den.

  Bullets ricocheted off the wall to his left. Sam leapt right, bounced off the wall, half turned, saw a pair of headlamp beams bouncing down the tunnel, and fired at them. He turned again, kept running. Five more strides brought him to the den. Remi was crouched beside the near wall.

  “Come on-”

  From the clearing they heard a gunshot, a pause, then a second gunshot.

  Sam took her hand, and they bounded up the ramp. Bullets thudded into the steps behind them. They reached the landing and started up the next flight. Remi’s foot slipped out from under her. She slammed chest first to the ground. She groaned.

  “Ribs?” Sam asked.

  “Yes . . . Help me up.”

  Sam lifted her to her feet, and they climbed the rest of the steps and stopped before the arch that led into the Great Room. Through clenched teeth Remi asked, “Ambush them?”

  “We’re outgunned, and they’re not going to charge up the steps. Sit here for a second and catch your breath. I’m going to check the next stairs.”

  His left foot had just touched the first step when Remi screamed, “Sam!”

  He turned to see Remi stooped over, running through the arch into the Great Room. To the right, a pair of figures appeared on the landing below and began charging up the steps.

  “Mistake, Sam,” he muttered.

  He fired two shots, but the snub-nose was worthless. Both bullets missed, sparking against the stone behind Russell and Marjorie. They ducked and backpedaled out of sight.

  Remi’s voice came through the archway: “Run, Sam! I’ll be okay.”

  “No!”

  “Just do it!”

  Sam eyeballed the distance to and angle of the Great Room’s archway and instinctively knew he’d never make it. Russell and Marjorie would cut him down before he got halfway.

  “Dammit,” Sam rasped.

  Russell and Marjorie popped up on the steps. The muzzles of their machine guns flashed orange.

  Sam turned and charged up the steps.

  Crouched in one of the tubs, her headlamp doused, Remi was just realizing her position was indefensible when the shots rang out.

  Silence.

  Then Russell’s whispered voice: “She’s in there. You take her, I’ll take him.”

  “Dead or alive?” Marjorie replied softly.

  “Dead. Mother says this is the right place. The Theurang is here. Once the Fargos are gone, we’ll have all the time in the world. Go!”

  Remi didn’t think but acted. She climbed out of the tub and crab-walked to the shaft. She took a deep breath, let it out, then jumped.

  One floor above Remi, Sam had found himself in a maze of small interconnecting rooms and corridors. Here, the roots and vines were much thicker, crisscrossing the spaces like monstrous cobwebs. Slivers of sunlight peeked through, casting the labyrinth in a greenish twilight.

  Having left his machete back at the tunnel entrance, there was nothing for Sam to do but duck and weave his way forward and deeper into the maze.

  Somewhere behind him he heard the crunch of footsteps.

  He froze.

  Three more steps. Closer now. Sam turned his head, trying to pin down the direction.

  “Fargo!” Russell shouted. “All my father wants is the Theurang. He’s decided not to destroy it. Do you hear me, Fargo?”

  Sam remained silent. He stepped to the left, under a thigh-sized root and through a doorway.

  “He wants the same thing you do,” Russell shouted. “He wants to see the Golden Man in a museum, where it belongs. You and your wife would be co-discoverers. Imagine the prestige!”

  “We’re not in this for the prestige,” Sam said under his breath. “Idiot.”

  To his right, farther down the corridor, a vine snapped, followed by a barely perceptible “Damn!”

  Sam crouched down, switched the .38 to his left hand, and looked around the corner. Twenty feet away, a figure was charging toward him. Sam fired. Russell stumbled and almost went down but regained his footing and dodged right and through a doorway.

  Sam stepped across the hall and crab-stepped over a root into the next room. He paused, flipped open the .38’s cylinder.

  He had one bullet left.

  Remi landed hard at the bottom of the pit and tried to shoulder-roll to dissipate the impact but slammed into something solid. White-hot flames spread across her rib cage. She swallowed the scream and forced herself to be still. She was in pitch-blackness. She was belowground, she guessed.

  From up the shaft came Marjorie’s voice. “Remi? Come on out. I know you’re hurt. Come out, and I’ll help you.”

  Not going to happen, sister, Remi thought.

  She cupped her hands around the headlamp, clicked it on, and took a quick scan. At her back was a wall; directly ahead, a wide, downward-sloping tunnel. Archways lined either side of the tunnel. Remi clicked off her lamp.

  On hands and knees, she crawled ahead. When she’d put what she thought was enough distance between her and Marjorie, she turned her headlamp back on. One hand pressed against her ribs, Remi climbed to her feet. She chose an archway at random and stepped through it. To her left was another arch.

  From the tunnel she heard a thump, then a grunt. She peered around the corner in time to see a headlamp turning toward her. Remi raised her pistol, took aim, and fired three quick shots. The muzzle of Marjorie’s weapon mushroomed orange.

  Remi backpedaled, turned, and darted through the next arch.

  Sam knew Russell was behind him and across the corridor.

  One bullet, Sam thought. Russell had more than that, and probably spare magazines as well. Sam needed to draw him in, ten feet or less, close enough that he couldn’t miss.

  Careful to keep the corridor in his mind’s eye, Sam crept deeper into the room, then stepped left through an archway. He turned right, stepped up to the next arch, and risked a glance into the corridor.

  Through the archway across from him Sam heard a snap. Russell.

  Pistol raised to waist height, Sam back-stepped away from the door. When he drew even with the next arch, he turned to step through it.

  Russell was standing in the corridor. Sam raised his gun, took aim. Russell took a step and disappeared. Sam took two large strides forward and, gun leading the way, sidestepped into the corridor.

  He found himself standing face-to-face with Russell.

  Sam knew that Russell was younger and stronger than him, and the King boy was also lightning fast. Before Sam could squeeze the trigger, Russell swung the butt of his machine gun upward, the stock arcing toward Sam’s chin. Sam jerked backward. The butt struck a glancing blow. Sam’s eyesight flashed red. On instinct, he charged forward, engulfing Russell in a bear hug that pinned his arms to his side. They stumbled backward. Russell planted his back foot and spun his body, taking Sam along with him. Sam found his footing again, drew his knee back, and slammed it forward into Russell’s groin. Russell grunted. Sam kneed him again, then again. Russell’s legs buckled, but he managed to stay upright.

  Wrapped up, they stumbled into the next room, bounced off a wall, and then lurched into yet another room. Russell reared his head back, tucked his chin. Sam thought, Head butt, and tried to turn away from it, but it was too late. The top of Russell’s forehead slammed into Sam’s eyebrow. His eyesight flashed red again, then blackness began creeping in from the sides. Sam exhaled hard, drew in a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and held on. His vision cleared slightly. He drew his own head back, but the height difference made a face strike impossible. Sam chose instead Russell’s collarbone. This time, Russell let out a yelp of pain. Sam head-butted again, then again. Russell’s machine gun hit the ground.

  They spun again, Russell trying to use his superior strength to either dislodge Sam or slam him against a wall.

  Su
ddenly Sam felt Russell’s balance change; he was backpedaling quicker than his feet could keep up. Sam’s judo training took hold. He would capitalize on Russell’s imbalance. Sam put everything he had into his legs and charged forward. Feet scrabbling over the vines and roots, he bulldozed Russell backward, picking up speed. They bounced through an arch, and then they were back in the corridor. Sam kept pushing.

  And then they were stumbling, Russell’s balance having given out. They were enveloped by a curtain of foliage. Sam heard and felt vines snapping around them. Over Russell’s shoulder he saw daylight. Sam released his death grip on Russell and snapped his head forward, catching him in the sternum. Russell disappeared through the curtain. Sam, trying to arrest his own momentum, pitched through the opening and into space.

  Sam’s vision was filled with sky, granite walls, a churning river far below-

  He slammed to a stop. The impact knocked the wind out of him. He sucked in a couple lungfuls of air. All he saw was a black steel cylinder.

  Gun, he thought numbly. He was still clutching his pistol.

  He was lying, belly first, in the crook of a moss-covered tree. He looked around and pieced together what he was seeing. They’d fallen from a temple window. The tree, having grown half embedded in the temple’s exterior wall, was rooted in a tiny patch of earth at the edge of the plateau. Over the edge was a thousand-foot drop into the Tsangpo Gorge.

  Sam heard a groan below him. He craned his neck down and spotted Russell lying on his back next to the tree. His eyes were open and staring directly into Sam’s.

  His face twisted in pain, Russell sat up. His right hand slid down his pant leg and jerked it up his calf. Strapped to his boot was a holster. Russell grabbed the butt of the revolver.

  “Don’t, Russell,” Sam said.

  “Go to hell.”

  Sam extended his arm and laid the .38’s front sight over Russell’s chest. “Don’t,” he warned again.

  Russell unbuckled the holster and slid out the revolver.

  “Last chance,” Sam said.

  Russell’s hand began to rise.

  Sam shot him in the chest. He let out a gasp, then fell backward, lifeless eyes staring at the sky.

  Led by her wildly dancing headlamp, Remi charged through the archway. Bullets thunked into the stone around her. Remi spun, blindly fired two shots back the way she had come, then turned and kept running.

  She stumbled back into the corridor. The pit was up the slope to her left. Remi turned right and continued on, half limping, half sprinting. Ahead, her headlamp flicked over a dark circle in the floor. It was another shaft. In pain, and with her injured ankle quickly failing her, Remi tried to swerve around the shaft but slipped and tumbled through the opening.

  The fall was mercifully short, perhaps half the depth of the first pit. Remi landed hard on her butt. This time, the pain was too intense to contain. She screamed. She rolled over, looking for her gun. It was gone. She needed something . . . anything. Marjorie was coming.

  Remi’s headlamp came to rest next to a wooden object. Even before her conscious mind had told her what the object was, her senses were processing it: dark wood, thick black lacquer, no visible seams . . .

  She reached out, snagged the edge of the box with her fingertips, and rolled it toward her. In the bright cone of light from her headlamp, Remi saw four symbols, four Lowa characters, in a grid pattern.

  “Gotcha!”

  Marjorie dropped from the opening above and landed like a cat at Remi’s feet. Marjorie, having slung the machine gun across her back for the jump, now reached back and grabbed the stock. She brought it around toward Remi.

  “Not today!” Remi shouted.

  She grabbed the Theurang box with both hands, raised it over her head, then bolted upright and slammed it into Marjorie’s forehead.

  Pinned by Remi’s headlamp beam, Marjorie’s face went slack. With blood streaming down her forehead, her eyes rolled upward. She fell backward and went still.

  Stunned, Remi scooted backward until she was pressed against solid stone. She closed her eyes.

  Some time later, a sound penetrated her half-conscious mind.

  “Remi? Remi?”

  Sam. ”I’m here!” she shouted. “Down here!”

  Thirty seconds later Sam’s face appeared at the top of the shaft. “Are you okay?”

  “I may need a little checkup, but I’m alive.”

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  Remi patted the Theurang box beside her. “I just happened upon it. Pure dumb luck.”

  “Is Marjorie dead?”

  “I don’t think so, but I hit her pretty hard. She may never be the same again.”

  “An improvement, then. Are you ready to come up?”

  Sam, now armed with Russell’s machine gun, had made his way back to the main tunnel. Unsure of Zhilan’s location, he simply grabbed his backpack and found his way to the second pit and Remi.

  Thirty minutes later they were both back in the Great Room. Together, they reeled Marjorie’s limp body up the shaft. Sam handed Remi the machine gun, then scooped up Marjorie and folded her across his shoulder.

  “Keep an eye out for the Dragon Lady,” he told Remi. “If you see her, shoot first and forget the questions.”

  As they neared the tunnel exit, Remi stopped. “Do you hear that?”

  “Yes . . . Someone’s whistling.” A smile spread across Sam’s face. “It’s ‘Rule, Britannia!’”

  Cautiously, Sam and Remi stepped out of the tunnel.

  Sitting twenty feet away, his back against a boulder, was Jack Karna. He spotted them and stopped whistling. He gave them a cheery wave.

  “Tallyho, Fargos. Oh, wait, that rhymes. How clever of me.”

  Dumbfounded, Sam and Remi walked toward him. As they drew nearer they could see tufts of white emergency dressing jutting from a scarf tied around Karna’s neck. He was cradling Ajay’s Beretta in his lap.

  A few feet away, Zhilan Hsu lay flat on her back, her head propped up by Ajay’s balled-up parka. Wrapped around the midpoint of each of her thighs was a bloody field dressing. Zhilan was awake. She glared at them but said nothing.

  Remi said, “Jack, I think an explanation is in order.”

  “Quite. As it turns out, Russell is a good shot but not an expert marksman. I believe he was trying to shoot through me and get Ajay in the process. His damned bullet punched through that muscle . . . What it’s called, between the shoulder and the neck?”

  “Trapezius?” Sam offered.

  “Yes, that’s it. Two inches to the right and I’d be a goner.”

  “Are you in pain?” Remi asked.

  “Of course, a monumental amount. Say, what’s that you’re carrying, lovely Remi?”

  “A little something we found lying around.”

  Remi set it down beside Karna. He smiled and gave the lid a pat.

  “What about her?” Sam asked.

  “Ah, the Dragon Lady. Very simple, really. She thought I was dead; she let her guard down. As she approached, I grabbed Ajay’s gun-this one here-and shot her in the right leg. Then again in the left leg for good measure. I think it took the wind out of her sails, don’t you?”

  “I’d say so.”

  Sam turned to Zhilan. He crouched down and dumped Marjorie on the ground beside her. Zhilan reached out and touched her daughter’s face. Sam and Remi watched, stunned, as Zhilan’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  “She’s alive,” Sam told her.

  “And Russell?”

  “No.”

  “You killed him? You killed my son?”

  “Only because he gave me no choice,” said Sam.

  “Then I will kill you, Sam Fargo.”

  “You can try. But think about this first: we could have left Marjorie in there to die. We didn’t. Jack could have killed you. He didn’t. You’re here because of your husband. He sent you and your children to do his dirty work, and now one of them is dead.

  “We’re getting off th
is mountain and we’re taking you with us. As soon as we get to a phone, we’re going to call the FBI and tell them everything we know. You’ve got a choice to make: do you want to be a witness or a defendant alongside your husband? No matter what, you’re going to jail, but depending on how you play your cards Marjorie might have a chance.”

  Remi said, “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “She’s got a long life ahead of her. It’s largely up to you how she spends it: free, and out from under her father’s thumb, or in prison.”

  Zhilan’s hateful stare suddenly gave out. Her face went slack, as though she had just let down a heavy burden. She said, “What would I need to do?”

  “Tell the FBI everything you know about Charles King’s illegal dealings-every nasty thing he’s ever done or ordered you to do on his behalf.”

  Remi said, “A smart lady like you, I’ll bet you’re a big believer in insurance. You have a very thick file on King stashed away somewhere, don’t you?”

  “What’s it going to be?” Sam asked.

  Zhilan hesitated, then nodded.

  “Good choice. Jack, we seem to have misplaced our radios.”

  “I have mine right here.”

  “Get on the line and try to raise Gupta. It’s time to get out of here.”

  EPILOGUE

  KATHMANDU, NEPAL

  WEEKS LATER

  Sam and Remi’s rescue from the Shangri-La temple mountain had unfolded without any dilemma. As he had promised, Gupta had orbited the area, listening and waiting for their call. He returned and picked them up. Four hours after they left Chinese airspace, Gupta landed the Chetak at Itanagar Airport.

  Since they were the only witnesses to what had occurred on the mountain, aside from the deceased Z-9 crew, no one in the Chinese government was aware of the incursion. As far as anyone knew, Gupta and his passengers had simply been on a sightseeing tour.

  After a brief checkup at an Itanagar hospital, Sam and Remi were dismissed. Marjorie was kept overnight for observation. Like her father, she was hardheaded, suffering only a mild concussion from Remi’s blow.

  Karna refused medical attention until he was across the border in Nepal but had his entry and exit bullet wounds cleaned and dressed by Gupta.