The Kingdom

by Clive Cussler

  “Sam.”

  “Suit yourself. Call me Charlie.”

  King stared at them, a pleasant smile fixed on his face, until Zhilan returned with his now correctly cubed drink. She stood at his side, waiting as he tasted it. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Run along, now.” To the Fargos: “How goes your dig on that little island? What’s it called?”

  “Pulau Legundi,” Sam replied.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Some kind of—”

  “Mr. King—”

  “Charlie.”

  “Zhilan Hsu mentioned a friend of ours, Frank Alton. Let’s save the small talk for now; tell us about Frank.”

  “You’re also a direct man. You share that quality too, I’m guessin’, Remi?”

  Neither of them replied, but Remi gave him a sweet smile.

  King shrugged. “Okay, fair enough. I hired Alton a few weeks ago to look into a matter for me. Seems he’s up and disappeared. Poof! Since you two seem to be good at findin’ what ain’t easily found, and you’re friends of his, I thought I’d touch base with you.”

  “When did you last hear from him?” Remi asked.

  “Ten days ago.”

  “Frank tends to be a bit independent when he’s working,” Sam said. “Why do you—”

  “Because he was to check in with me every day. That was part of our deal, and he stuck to it until ten days ago.”

  “Do you have any reason to think something’s amiss?”

  “You mean, aside from him breakin’ his promise to me?” King replied with a hint of annoyance. “Aside from him takin’ my money and disappearin’?”

  “For argument’s sake.”

  “Well, the part of the world he’s in can be a tad hairy sometimes.”

  “And that is?” Remi asked.

  “Nepal.”

  “Pardon? You said—”

  “Yep. Last I heard, he was in Kathmandu. Sort of a backwater burg, but it can be tough if you ain’t got your wits about you.”

  Sam asked, “Who else knows about this?”

  “A handful of folk.”

  “Frank’s wife?”

  King shook his head, took a sip of whiskey. He screwed up his face. “Zee!”

  Zhilan was at his side five seconds later. “Yes, Mr. King?”

  He handed her the tumbler. “Ice is meltin’ too fast. Get rid of it.”

  “Yes, Mr. King.”

  And then she was gone again.

  Scowling, King watched her walk away, then turned back to the Fargos. “Sorry, you were sayin’?”

  “Have you told Frank’s wife?”

  “Didn’t know he had one. He didn’t give me emergency contact info. Besides, why worry her? For all I know, Alton’s taken up with some Oriental woman and is gallivantin’ around down there on my dime.”

  “Frank Alton wouldn’t do that,” Remi said.

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Have you contacted the Nepalese government?” asked Sam. “Or the American embassy in Kathmandu?”

  King gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Backward, all of ’em. And corrupt—the locals, that is. As for the embassy idea, I considered it, but I ain’t got the months it would take for them to get their butts in gear. I’ve got my own people on the ground there workin’ on another project, but they ain’t got the time to spend on this. And, like I said, you two have got a reputation for findin’ what other folks can’t.”

  Sam said, “First of all, Charlie, people aren’t things. Second, hunting for missing persons isn’t our specialty.” King opened his mouth to speak, but Sam raised his hand and went on: “That said, Frank’s a good friend, so of course we’ll go.”

  “Fantastic!” King slapped his knee. “Let’s talk nuts and bolts: how much is this gonna cost me?”

  Sam grinned. “We’re going to assume you’re kidding.”

  “About money? Never.”

  “Because he’s a good friend, we’ll foot the bill,” Remi said with a little edge to her voice. “We’ll need all the information you can give us.”

  “Zee’s already put together a file. She’ll give it to you on the way out.”

  “Give us the condensed version,” Sam said.

  “It’s a bit of a wheels-within-wheels situation,” King said. “I hired Alton to hunt down someone who’d disappeared in the same region.”

  “Who?”

  “My dad. When he first disappeared, I sent a string of folks out to look for him, but nothin’ came of it. It’s like he fell off the face of the earth. When this latest sighting came up, I beat the bushes for the best private eye I could find. Alton came highly recommended.”

  “You said ‘latest sighting,’” Remi observed. “What does that mean?”

  “Since my dad disappeared, there’ve been rumors of him popping up from time to time: a dozen or so times in the seventies, four times in the eighties—”

  Sam interrupted. “Charlie, exactly how long has your father been missing?”

  “Thirty-eight years. He disappeared in 1973.”

  Lewis “Bully” King, Charles explained, was something of an Indiana Jones type, but long before the movies came out: an archaeologist who spent eleven months out of the year in the field; a globe-trotting academic who’d visited more countries than most people knew existed. What exactly his father was doing when he disappeared, Charles King didn’t know.

  “Who was he affiliated with?” Remi asked.

  “Not sure what you mean.”

  “Did he work for a university or museum? Perhaps a foundation?”

  “Nope. He was a square peg, my pop. Didn’t go for all that stuff.”

  “How did he fund his expeditions?”

  King offered them an aw-shucks smile. “He had a generous and gullible donor. To be fair, though, he never asked for much: five thousand here and there. Workin’ alone, he didn’t have much overhead, and he knew how to live cheap. Most of the places he traveled, you could live for a few bucks a day.”

  “Did he have a home?”

  “A little place in Monterey. I never sold it. Never did anything with it, in fact. It’s still mostly the way it was when he went missin’. And, yeah, I know what you’re gonna ask. Back in ’seventy-three I had some people go through his house lookin’ for clues, but they didn’t find nothin’. You’re welcome to look for yourselves, though. Zee’ll get you the info.”

  “Did Frank go there?”

  “No, he didn’t think it’d be worth it.”

  “Tell us about the latest sighting,” Sam said.

  “About six weeks ago a National Geographic crew was doing some spread on an old city out there—Lo Manta somethin’ or another—”

  “Lo Monthang,” Remi offered.

  “Yeah, that’s the place. Used to be the capital of Mustang.”

  Like most people, King pronounced the name as he would the horse.

  “It’s pronounced Moos-tong,” Remi replied. “It was also known as the Kingdom of Lo, before it was absorbed by Nepal in the eighteenth century.”

  “Whatever you say. Never did like that sort of stuff. Fell kind of far from the tree, I guess. Anyway, in one of the photos they took there’s this guy in the background. A dead ringer for my dad—or at least how I think he’d look after nearly forty years.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Sam said.

  “It’s all I’ve got. Still wanna take a crack at it?”

  “Of course we do.”

  Sam and Remi stood up to leave. They shook hands all around. “Zee’s got my contact info in there. You’ll be giving her updates. Let me know what you find. I’d appreciate regular reports. Good huntin’, Fargos.”

  Charles King stood in the doorway of his Gulfstream and watched the Fargos return through the gate, mount their scooters, then disappear down the road. Zhilan Hsu came walking back through the gate, trotted up the plane’s stairs, and stopped in front of King.

  “I do not like them,” she said.

  “And why is that?”
>
  “They do not show you enough respect.”

  “I can do without that, darlin’. Just as long as they live up to their reputation. From what I’ve read, those two have a real knack for this kind of thing.”

  “And if they go beyond what we ask of them?”

  “Well, hell, that’s why I’ve got you, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, Mr. King. Shall I go there now?”

  “No, let’s let things unfold natural-like. Get Russ on the horn, will ya?”

  King walked aft and dropped into one of the recliners with a grunt. A minute later Zhilan’s voice came over the intercom. “I have him ready for you, Mr. King. Please stand by.”

  King waited for the warbled squelch that told him the satellite line was open. “Russ, you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “How’s the dig goin’?”

  “On track. Had some problems with a local making a fuss, but we took care of him. Marjorie’s in the pit right now, cracking the whip.”

  “I’ll bet she is! She’s a pistol. Just keep a sharp eye out for them inspectors. They ain’t supposed to show up outta the blue. I’m paying outta my ears as it is. Anything extra I’m takin’ outta your salary.”

  “I’ve got it under control.”

  “Good. Now, tell me somethin’ good. Find anything juicy?”

  “Not yet. But we came across some trace fossils that our expert says are promising.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve heard that before. You forgettin’ about that con man in Perth?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The one who told you he had one of them Malagasy dwarf hippo fossils? He was supposed to be an expert too.”

  “And I handled him, didn’t I?”

  King paused. His scowl faded, and he chuckled. “That, you did. But listen up, son. I want one of them Calico whatchamacallits. A real one.”

  “Chalicotherium,” Russ corrected.

  “I don’t give a damn what it’s called! Latin! God save me. Just get me one! I already told that no-good Don Mayfield I got one comin’, and I got a space all ready for it. We clear?”

  “Yes, sir, we’re clear.”

  “Okay, then. New business: just met with our newest recruits. Sharp operators, the both of ’em. I imagine they ain’t gonna waste much time. With any luck, they’ll probably have a poke around the Monterey place, then head your way. I’ll let you know when they’re in the air.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure you keep a tight leash on ’em, you hear me? If they get away from you, I’ll have your hide.”

  3

  GOLDFISH POINT, LA JOLLA,

  NEAR SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  After parting company with King, Sam and Remi had returned to Pulau Legundi, where, as expected, they found Professor Stan Dydell surveying the site. Remi’s former teacher at Boston College had taken a sabbatical to participate in the multiple excavations. After hearing their news about Alton, Dydell agreed to oversee the dig until they returned or found a permanent replacement.

  Thirty-six hours and three connections later they landed in San Diego at noon local time. Sam and Remi had driven straight to the Alton home to break the news to Frank’s wife. Now, with their luggage deposited in their own home’s foyer, they’d made their way downstairs to Selma’s domain, the workroom.

  Measuring two thousand square feet, the high-ceilinged space was dominated by a twenty-foot-long maple-topped worktable lit from above by halogen pendant lamps and surrounded by high-backed stools. Along one wall was a trio of half cubicles—each equipped with a brand-new 12-core Mac Pro workstation and a thirty-inch Cinema HD Display—a pair of glassed-in offices, one each for Sam and Remi, an environmentally controlled archive vault, a small screening room, and a research library. The opposite wall was dedicated to Selma’s only hobby: a fourteen-foot, five-hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium filled with a rainbow-hued assortment of fish. Its soft gurgling lent the workroom a mellow ambience.

  Above the first-floor work space, the Fargos’ home was a three-story, twelve-thousand-square-foot Spanish-style house with an open floor plan, vaulted ceilings, and enough windows and skylights that they rarely had their lights on for more than a couple hours a day. What electricity they did draw was primarily supplied by a robust array of newly installed solar panels on the roof.

  The top floor contained Sam and Remi’s master suite. Directly below this were four guest suites, a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen/great room that jutted over the cliff and overlooked the ocean. On the second floor was a gymnasium containing both aerobic and circuit training exercise equipment, a steam room, a Hydro-Worx endless lap pool, a climbing wall, and a thousand square feet of hardwood floor space for Remi to practice her fencing and Sam his judo.

  Sam and Remi took a pair of stools at one corner of the worktable. Selma joined them. She wore her traditional work attire: khaki pants, sneakers, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses complete with a neck chain. Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden wandered over to listen. Tan, fit, blond, and easygoing, Selma’s assistants were quintessential Californians but far from beach bums. Jeff had a degree in archaeology, Wendy in social sciences.

  “She’s worried,” Remi now said. “But did a good job of hiding it, for the kids. We told her we’d keep her updated. Selma, if you could touch base with her every day while we’re gone . . . ?”

  “Of course. How was your audience with His Highness?”

  Sam recounted their meeting with Charlie King. “Remi and I discussed this on the plane. He says all the right things and has the ol’ country boy routine down pat, but something doesn’t sit right about him.”

  “His girl Friday, for one thing,” Remi said, then described Zhilan Hsu. While outside King’s presence, the woman had a thoroughly unnerving demeanor, her behavior aboard the Gulfstream had told a different story. King’s displeasure over the number of ice cubes in his Jack Daniel’s and her mortified reaction told them not only that she was frightened of her employer but that he was a domineering control freak.

  “Remi’s also got an interesting hunch about Ms. Hsu,” Sam said.

  Remi said, “She’s his mistress. Sam’s not so sure, but I’m positive. And King’s grip on her is iron-fisted.”

  “I’m still preparing a biography of the King family,” Selma said, “but, so far, still no luck on Zhilan. I’ll keep working. With your permission, I may call Rube.”

  Rube Haywood, another friend of Sam’s, worked at the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. They’d met, of all places, at the CIA’s infamous Camp Peary covert operations training facility when Sam was with DARPA (the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) and Rube was an up-and-coming case officer. While “The Farm” was a prerequisite course for someone like Rube, Sam was there as part of a cooperative experiment: the better engineers understood how case officers worked in the field, DARPA and the CIA proposed, the better they would be able to equip America’s spies.

  “If you need to, go ahead. Another thing,” Sam added. “King claims he has no idea what his father’s area of interest was. King claims he’s been searching for him for almost forty years and yet he knows nothing about what drove the man. I don’t buy it.”

  Remi added, “He also asserts that he hasn’t bothered contacting either the Nepalese government or the U.S. embassy. Somebody as powerful as King would get action with just a few phone calls.”

  “King also claimed Frank wasn’t interested in his father’s Monterey house. But Frank’s too thorough to have ignored that. If King had told Frank about it, he would have gone.”

  “Why would King lie about that?” Pete said.

  “No idea,” replied Remi.

  “What does all that add up to?” Wendy asked.

  “Somebody who’s got something to hide,” replied Selma.

  “Our thoughts exactly,” Sam said. “The question is, what? King also has a tinge of paranoia. And, to be fair, as wealthy as he is, he’s probably got scammers coming at h
im in droves.”

  “In the end, none of that matters,” Remi said. “Frank Alton is missing. That’s where we need to focus our attention.”

  “Starting where?” asked Selma.

  “Monterey.”

  MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA

  Sam took the corners slowly as the car’s headlights probed the fog that swirled over the ground and through the foliage that lined the winding gravel road. Below them, the lights of the cliff-side houses twinkled in the gloom, while farther out the navigation beacons of fishing boats floated in the blackness. Remi’s window was open, and through it they could hear the occasional mournful gong of a buoy in the distance.

  Tired though they were, Sam and Remi were anxious to get started on Frank’s disappearance, so they’d caught the evening shuttle flight from San Diego to Monterey’s dual-runway Peninsula Airport, where they’d rented a car.

  Even without seeing the structure itself, it was clear Lewis “Bully” King’s home was worth millions. More accurately, the property on which it sat was worth millions. A view of Monterey Bay did not come cheap. According to Charlie King, his father had purchased the home in the early fifties. Since then, appreciation would have worked its magic, turning even a tarpaper shack into a real estate gold mine.

  The car’s dashboard navigation screen chimed at Sam, signaling another turn. As they rounded the corner, the headlights swept over a lone mailbox sitting atop a listing post.

  “That’s it,” Remi said, reading the numbers.

  Sam pulled into a driveway lined with scrub pine and a rickety no-longer-white picket fence that seemed to be held erect only by the vines entangling it. Sam let the car coast to a stop. Ahead, the headlights illuminated a thousand-square-foot saltbox-style house. Two small boarded-up windows flanked a front door, below which was a set of crumbling concrete steps. The facade was painted in what had likely once been a deep green. Now what hadn’t peeled away had faded to a sickly olive color.

  At the end of the driveway, partially tucked behind the house, stood a single-car garage with drooping eaves troughs.

  “That’s a nineteen-fifties house, all right,” said Remi. “Talk about no frills.”