The Kingdom

by Clive Cussler

  In the speedboat’s aft seat, Remi Fargo looked up from her book—a little “escapist reading” entitled The Aztec Codices: An Oral History of Conquest and Genocide—pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead, and gazed at her husband. “Trouble?”

  He turned to her and gave her an admiring stare. “Just enjoying the scenic view.” Then Sam gave an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows.

  Remi smiled. “A smooth talker.” She closed the book and placed it on the seat beside her. “But Magnum P.I., you’re not.”

  Sam nodded at the book. “How is it?”

  “Slow reading, but the Aztecs were fascinating people.”

  “More than anyone ever imagined. How long until you’re finished with that one? It’s next on my reading list.”

  “Tomorrow or the next day.”

  As of late, each of them had been saddled with a daunting amount of homework, and the island to which they were headed was largely the cause. In any other circumstances, the speck of land between Sumatra and Java might be a tropical getaway, but it had in the last few months been turned into a dig site crawling with archaeologists, historians, anthropologists, and of course a plethora of Indonesian government officials. Like all of them, each time Sam and Remi visited the island, they had to negotiate the tree house–like rope city the engineers had strung above the site lest the ground collapse below the feet of the people trying to preserve the find.

  What Sam and Remi had discovered on Pulau Legundi was helping to rewrite Aztec and U.S. Civil War history, and as the directors of not only this project but also two others, they had to stay current on the mountain of data coming in.

  It was for them a labor of love. While their passion was treasure hunting—a decidedly hands-on, field-intensive avocation based as much on instinct as it was on research—each of them had come to it from a scientific background, Sam a Caltech-educated engineer, Remi an anthropology and history major from Boston College.

  Sam had fallen fairly close to the familial tree: his father, now passed away, had been one of the lead engineers on NASA’s space programs, while his mother, Eunice, now seventy-one, lived in Key West, the sole proprietor, captain, and chief bottle washer of a snorkeling and deep-sea-fishing boat. Remi’s mother and father, a custom homebuilder and a pediatrician/author respectively, were both retired and living the good life in Maine, raising llamas.

  Sam and Remi had met in Hermosa Beach at a jazz bar called The Lighthouse. On a whim, Sam had stopped in for a cold beer, and he found Remi and some colleagues letting off steam after spending the past few weeks hunting for a sunken galleon off Abalone Cove.

  Neither of them were starry-eyed enough to remember their first meeting as instant love, but the spark was undeniable; talking and laughing over drinks, they closed down The Lighthouse without noticing the hours slipping by. Six months later, they were married there in a small ceremony.

  With Remi’s encouragement, Sam had been pursuing an idea he’d been tinkering with, an argon laser scanner designed to detect and identify alloys at a distance, through soil and water alike. Treasure hunters, universities, corporations, mining outfits, and the Department of Defense came begging for licenses, checkbooks open, and within a couple years Fargo Group Ltd was turning a seven-figure profit. Four years later they accepted a buyout offer that left them undeniably wealthy, set for the rest of their lives. Instead of sitting back, however, they took a monthlong vacation, then established the Fargo Foundation, and set out on their first joint treasure hunt. The wealth recovered went to a long list of charities.

  Now the Fargos stared in silence at the island before them. Remi murmured. “Still a little hard to fathom, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is,” Sam agreed.

  No amount of education or experience could have prepared them for what they’d found on Pulau Legundi. The chance discovery of a ship’s bell off Zanzibar had mushroomed into discoveries that would occupy the attention of generations of archaeologists, historians, and anthropologists.

  Sam was shaken from his reverie by the double whoop of a marine horn. He turned to port; half a mile away, a thirty-six-foot Sumatran Harbor Patrol boat was headed directly for them.

  “Sam, did you forget to pay for gas back at the rental place?” Remi asked wryly.

  “No. Used the counterfeit rupiah I had lying around.”

  “That might be it.”

  They watched as the boat closed the gap to a quarter mile, where it turned first to starboard, then to port in a crescent turn that brought it alongside them a hundred feet away. Over a loudspeaker, an Indonesian-accented voice said, in English, “Ahoy. Are you Sam and Remi Fargo?”

  Sam raised his arm in the affirmative.

  “Stand by, please. We have a passenger for you.”

  Sam and Remi exchanged puzzled glances; they were expecting no one.

  The Harbor Patrol boat circled them once, closing the distance, until they were three feet off the port beam. The engine slowed to idle, then went silent.

  “At least they look friendly,” Sam muttered to his wife.

  The last time they’d been approached by a foreign naval vessel had been in Zanzibar. There it had been a patrol boat equipped with 12.7mm cannons and crewed by angry-looking sailors bearing AK-47s.

  “So far,” Remi replied.

  On the boat’s afterdeck, standing between two blue-uniformed police officers, was a petite Asian woman in her mid-forties with a lean angular face and a hairdo that bordered on being a crew cut.

  “Permission to come aboard?” the woman asked. Her English was almost flawless, with only the barest trace of an accent.

  Sam shrugged. “Permission granted.”

  The two policemen stepped forward as though preparing to help her cross the gap, but she ignored them, taking a single fluid stride that vaulted her off the gunwale and onto the Fargos’ afterdeck. She landed softly, cat-like. She turned to face Sam and Remi, who was now standing at her husband’s side. The woman stared at them a moment with a pair of impassive black eyes, then handed them a business card. It said simply “Zhilan Hsu.”

  “What can we do for you, Ms. Hsu?” asked Remi.

  “My employer, Charles King, requests the pleasure of your company.”

  “Our apologies, but we’re not familiar with Mr. King.”

  “He is waiting for you aboard his private aircraft at the private charter terminal outside Palembang. He wishes to speak with you.”

  While Zhilan Hsu’s English was technically flawless, there was a disconcerting stiffness to it, as though she were an automaton.

  “That part we understand,” Sam said. He handed the card back to her. “Who is Charles King and why does he want to see us?”

  “Mr. King has authorized me to tell you it concerns an acquaintance of yours, Mr. Frank Alton.”

  This got Sam’s and Remi’s attention. Alton was not just an acquaintance but rather a close, longtime friend, a former San Diego police officer turned private detective who Sam met in judo class. Sam, Remi, Frank, and his wife, Judy, had a standing monthly dinner date.

  “What about him?” Sam asked.

  “Mr. King wishes to speak to you directly regarding Mr. Alton.”

  “You’re being very secretive, Ms. Hsu,” Remi said. “Care to tell us why?”

  “Mr. King wishes to—”

  “Speak with us directly,” Remi finished.

  “Yes, that is right.”

  Sam checked his watch. “Please tell Mr. King we will meet him at seven o’clock.”

  “That is four hours from now,” said Zhilan. “Mr. King—”

  “Is going to have to wait,” Sam finished. “We have business we need to attend to.”

  Zhilan Hsu’s stoic expression flashed to anger, but the look was gone almost as soon as it appeared. She simply nodded and said, “Seven o’clock. Please be on time.”

  Without another word, she turned and leaped gazelle-like off the deck to the Harbor Patrol boat’s gunwale. She pushed past the police
men and disappeared into the cabin. One of the policemen tipped his cap to them. Ten seconds later the engines growled to life and the boat pulled away.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Sam said a few seconds later.

  “She’s a real charmer,” Remi said. “Did you catch her choice of words?”

  Sam nodded. “‘Mr. King has authorized.’ If she understands the connotation, then we can assume Mr. King is going to be just as genial.”

  “Do you believe her? About Frank? Judy would have called us if anything had happened.”

  While their adventures often led them into dicey situations, their daily lives were fairly calm. Still, Zhilan Hsu’s unexpected visit and mysterious invitation had both their internal warning alarms going off. As unlikely as it seemed, the possibility of a trap was something they couldn’t ignore.

  “Let’s find out.” Sam said.

  He knelt down by the driver’s seat, retrieved his backpack from under the dashboard, and pulled out his satellite phone from one of the side pockets. He dialed, and a few seconds later a female voice said, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Thought this was going to be the lucky call,” Sam said. He had a running bet with Remi that someday he’d catch Selma Wondrash off guard, and she’d call either of them by the first name.

  “Not today, Mr. Fargo.”

  Their chief researcher, logistical guru, and keeper of the inner sanctum, Selma was a former Hungarian citizen who, despite having lived in the United States for decades, still retained a trace of an accent—enough that it gave her voice a slight Zsa Zsa Gabor lilt.

  Selma had managed the Library of Congress’s Special Collections Division until Sam and Remi lured her away with the promise of carte blanche and state-of-the-art resources. Aside from her hobby aquarium and a collection of tea that occupied an entire cabinet in the workroom, Selma’s only passion was research. She was at her happiest when the Fargos gave her an ancient riddle to unravel.

  “Someday, you’ll call me Sam.”

  “Not today.”

  “What time is it there?”

  “About eleven.” Selma rarely went to bed before midnight and rarely slept past four or five in the morning. Despite this, she never sounded anything less than wide awake. “What have you got for me?”

  “A dead end, we’re hoping,” Sam replied, then recounted their visit from Zhilan Hsu. “Charles King comes off like the anointed one.”

  “I’ve heard of him. He’s rich with a capital R.”

  “See if you can dig up any dirt about his personal life.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Have you heard any news from the Altons?”

  “No, nothing,” replied Selma.

  “Call Judy and see if Frank’s out of the country,” Sam requested. “Look into it discreetly. If there is a problem, we don’t want to alarm Judy.”

  “When do you meet King?” Selma asked.

  “In four hours.”

  “Got it,” Selma said with a laugh in her voice. “By then, I’ll know his shirt size and his favorite flavor of ice cream.”

  2

  PALEMBANG, SUMATRA

  Twenty minutes early for their meeting, Sam and Remi pulled their scooters to a stop beside the hurricane fence bordering Palembang Airport’s private terminal area. As Selma had predicted, they found the tarmac before the hangars crowded with a handful of private planes, all of them either single- or twin-engine prop models. Save one: a Gulfstream G650 jet. At sixty-five million dollars, the G6 was not only the world’s most expensive executive jet but also the fastest, capable of nearly a Mach 1 top speed, with a range of over eight thousand miles and a ceiling of fifty-one thousand feet—ten thousand feet higher than commercial jets.

  Given what Selma had discovered about the mysterious Mr. King, the presence of the G6 was of little surprise to Sam and Remi. “King Charlie,” as he was known to his close friends and enemies alike, was currently ranked eleventh on Forbes’s Richest People list, with a net worth of 23.2 billion dollars.

  Having started out in 1964 as a sixteen-year-old wildcatter in the oil fields of Texas, King had by the age of twenty-one started his own drilling company, King Oil. By twenty-four, he was a millionaire; by thirty, a billionaire. Through the eighties and nineties, King expanded his empire into mining and banking. According to Forbes, if King spent the rest of his life playing checkers in his penthouse office in Houston, he would still be earning a hundred thousand dollars an hour in interest.

  For all that, however, King was in his daily life unostentatious to a fault, often tooling around Houston in his 1968 Chevy pickup and eating at his favorite greasy spoon. And while not quite at the same level as Howard Hughes, he was rumored to be something of a recluse and a stickler for privacy. King was rarely photographed in public, and when he did attend events, whether business or social, he usually did so virtually via webcam.

  Remi looked at Sam. “The tail number matches Selma’s research. Unless someone stole King’s jet, it appears the man himself is here.”

  “The question is, why?”

  In addition to giving them a brief biography of King, Selma had done her best to trace Frank Alton, who, according to his secretary, was out of the country on a job. While she hadn’t heard from him for three days, she was unconcerned; Alton often dropped from communication for a week or two if the job was particularly complex.

  They heard a branch snap behind them and turned to find Zhilan Hsu on the other side of the fence only five feet away. Her legs and lower torso were hidden by foliage. She regarded the Fargos with her black eyes for a few seconds, then said, “You are early.” Her tone was slightly less severe than that of a prosecuting attorney.

  “And you’re light on your feet,” Remi said.

  “I’ve been watching for you.”

  Sam said with a half smile, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not nice to sneak up on people?”

  Zhilan’s face remained stoic. “I never knew my mother.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Mr. King is ready to see you now; he must depart promptly at seven-fifty. I will meet you at the gate on the eastern side. Please have your passports ready.”

  With that, Zhilan turned, stepped into the bushes, and disappeared.

  Eyes narrowed, Remi stared after her. “Okay, it’s official: she’s creepy.”

  “Seconded,” Sam said. “Let’s go. King Charlie awaits.”

  They pulled their scooters into a spot beside the crossbarred gate and walked up to a small outer building where Zhilan was standing beside a uniformed guard. She stepped forward, collected their passports, and handed them to the guard, who glanced at each before handing them back.

  “This way, please,” Zhilan said, and led them around the building, through a pedestrian gate, then to the Gulfstream’s lowered stairs. Zhilan stepped aside and gestured for them to continue on. Once aboard, they found themselves in a small but neatly appointed galley. To the right, through an archway, was the main cabin. The bulkheads were covered in lustrous walnut inlaid with silver teacup-sized Texas Lone Star emblems, the floor in thick burgundy carpet. There were two seating areas, one a grouping of four leather recliner-type seats around a coffee table, the second, aft, a trio of overstuffed settees. The air was crisp and air-conditioned. Faintly, through unseen speakers, came Willie Nelson’s “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”

  “Oh, boy,” Remi muttered.

  Somewhere aft, a voice with a Texas twang said, “I think the fancy word for all this is ‘cliché,’ Mizz Fargo, but, heck, I like what I like.”

  From one of the backward-facing leather recliners a man rose and turned to face them. He was six foot four, two hundred pounds—nearly half was muscle—with a tan face and thick, carefully styled silver-blond hair. Though Sam and Remi knew Charles King was sixty-two, he looked fifty. He smiled broadly at them; his teeth were square and startlingly white.

  “Once Texas gets into your blood,” King said, “it
’s near impossible to get it out. Believe me, I’ve had four wives do their damnedest, with no luck.”

  Hand outstretched, King strode toward them. He wore blue jeans, a faded powder blue denim shirt, and, to Sam and Remi’s surprise, Nike running shoes rather than cowboy boots.

  King didn’t miss their expressions: “Never liked those boots. Uncomfortable as hell, and impractical. Besides, all the horses I got are for racin’, and I ain’t exactly jockey-sized.” He shook Remi’s hand first, then Sam’s. “Thanks so much for comin’. Hope Zee didn’t put you off. She ain’t much for small talk.”

  “She’d make a good poker player,” Sam agreed.

  “Hell, she is a good poker player. Took me for six thousand bucks in ten minutes the first—and last—time we played. Come on in, take a seat. Let’s get you somethin’ to drink. What’ll you have?”

  “Bottled water, please,” Remi said, and Sam nodded for the same.

  “Zee, if you don’t mind. I’ll have the usual.”

  From close behind Sam and Remi, Zhilan said, “Yes, Mr. King.”

  They followed him aft to the settee area and sat down. Zhilan was only seconds behind them with a tray. She placed Sam’s and Remi’s waters before them and held out a whiskey-rocks to King. He did not accept the tumbler but simply stared at it. He scowled, glanced at Zhilan, and shook his head. “How many ice cubes in there, honey?”

  “Three, Mr. King,” Zhilan said hastily. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Zee, just plop another one in there, and I’ll be fine.” Zhilan hurried off, and King said, “No matter how many times I tell her, she still forgets sometimes. Jack Daniel’s is a fickle spirit; gotta get the ice just right or it ain’t worth a damn.”

  Sam said, “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You’re a wise man, Mr. Fargo.”