The Kingdom

by Clive Cussler

  “Yes, of course. One moment.” The woman tapped on a keyboard below the counter and studied the monitor for a moment. “Professor Kaalrami is currently meeting with a graduate student in the library. The meeting is scheduled to end at three.” The woman produced a campus map, then circled their current location and that of the library.

  “Thank you,” Sam said.

  Kathmandu’s campus was small, with only a dozen or so main buildings centered atop a rise. Below were miles and miles of green terraced fields and thick forests. In the distance they could see Tribhuvan International Airport. To the north of this, just visible, were the pagoda-style roofs of the Hyatt Regency.

  They walked a hundred yards east down a hedge-lined sidewalk, turned left, and found themselves at the library’s entrance. Once inside, a staff member directed them to a second-floor conference room. They arrived as a lone student was leaving. Inside, seated at a round conference table, was a plump elderly Indian woman in a bright red-and-green sari.

  Remi said, “Excuse me, would you be Professor Adala Kaalrami?”

  The woman looked up and scrutinized them through a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. “Yes, I am she.” Her English was thickly accented with a lightly musical quality common to many Indian English speakers.

  Remi introduced herself and Sam, then asked if they could sit down. Kaalrami nodded to the pair of chairs opposite her. Sam said, “Does the name Lewis King mean anything to you?”

  “Bully?” she replied without hesitation.

  “Yes.”

  She smiled broadly; she had a wide gap between her front teeth. “Oh, yes, I remember Bully. We were . . . friends.” The glimmer in her eyes told the Fargos the relationship had gone beyond mere friendship. “I was affiliated with Princeton but had come to Tribhuvan University on loan. That was long before Kathmandu University was founded. Bully and I met at a social function of some kind. Why do you ask this?”

  “We’re looking for Lewis King.”

  “Ah . . . Ghost hunters, are you?”

  “I take that to mean you believe he’s dead,” Remi said.

  “Oh, I do not know. Of course I’ve heard the stories about his periodic manifestations, but I have never seen him, or any genuine pictures of him. At least, not in the last forty years or so. I’d like to think if he were alive, he would have come to see me.”

  Sam pulled a manila folder from his valise, pulled out a copy of the Devanagari parchment, and slid it across the table to Kaalrami. “Do you recognize this?”

  She studied it for a moment. “I do. That is my signature. I translated this for Bully in . . .” Kaalrami pursed her lips, thinking, “Nineteen seventy-two.”

  “What can you tell us about it?” Sam asked. “Did Lewis tell you where he found it?”

  “He did not.”

  Remi said, “To me, it looks like Devanagari.”

  “Very good, my dear. Close, but incorrect. It is written in Lowa. While not quite a dead language, it is fairly rare. At last estimate, there are only four thousand native Lowa speakers alive today. They are mostly found in the north of the country, up near the Chinese border, in what used to be—”

  “Mustang,” Sam guessed.

  “Yes, that’s right. And you pronounced it correctly. Good for you. Most Lowa speakers live in and around Lo Monthang. Did you know that about Mustang or was it a good guess?”

  “A guess. The only current lead we have on Lewis King’s whereabouts is a photograph in which he supposedly appears. It was taken a year ago in Lo Monthang. We found that parchment at Lewis’s home.”

  “Do you have this picture with you?”

  “No,” Remi said, then glanced at Sam. Their shared expression said, Why didn’t we ask for a copy of the picture? Rookie mistake. “I’m sure we can get it, though.”

  “If it is not too much trouble. I like to think I would recognize Bully if it were truly him.”

  “Has anyone else come to see you recently about King?”

  Kaalrami hesitated again, tapping an index finger on her lip. “A year ago, perhaps a bit longer than that, a pair of kids were here. Strange-looking pair—”

  “Twins? Blond hair, blue eyes, Asian features?”

  “Yes! I did not particularly like them. I know that is not a charitable thing to say, but I must be honest. There was just something about them . . .” Kaalrami shrugged.

  “Do you remember what they asked you?”

  “Just general questions about Bully—if I had any old letters from him or remember him talking about his work in the region. I could not help them.”

  “They didn’t have a copy of this parchment?”

  “No.”

  Sam asked, “We never found the original translation. Would you mind?”

  “I can give you the essence of it, but a written translation will take a while. I could do that tonight, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” said Remi. “We’d be most grateful.”

  Professor Kaalrami adjusted her glasses and centered the parchment before her. Slowly she began tracing her finger down the lines of text, her lips moving soundlessly.

  After five minutes, she looked up. She cleared her throat.

  “It is a royal edict of sorts. The Lowa phrase does not translate well to English, but it is an official order. Of that, I’m certain.”

  “Is there a date?”

  “No, but if you look here, at the upper left corner, there’s a piece of text missing. Was it on the original parchment?”

  “No, I photographed it exactly as it appeared. Do you remember if the date was on the original you saw?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Would you care to venture a guess?”

  “Do not hold me to this, but I would estimate between six and seven hundred years old.”

  “Go on, please,” Sam prompted.

  “Again, you must wait for the written version . . .”

  “We understand.”

  “It is an order to a group of soldiers . . . special soldiers called Sentinels. They are instructed to carry out a plan of some kind—something detailed in another document, I suspect. The plan is designed to remove something called the Theurang from its place of hiding and transport it to safety.”

  “Why?”

  “Something to do with an invasion.”

  “Does it explain what the Theurang is?”

  “I do not think so. I am sorry, most of this is only vaguely familiar to me. This was four decades ago. I remember the word because it is unusual, but I do not think I followed up on it. I am a classics teacher. However, I have no doubt there is someone on staff here who would be of more help with the word. I can check for you.”

  “We’d appreciate that,” Sam replied. “Do you remember Lewis’s reaction when you gave him the translation?”

  Kaalrami smiled. “He was elated, as I recall. But, then again, Bully never lacked for enthusiasm. He lived life to its fullest, that man.”

  “Did he say where he found the parchment?”

  “If he did, I don’t remember. Perhaps tonight, while I’m translating this, more will come back to me.”

  “One last question,” Remi said. “What do you remember about the time Lewis disappeared?”

  “Oh, yes, I remember. We spent the morning together. We had a brunch picnic along a river. The Bagmati, on the southwestern side of the city.”

  In unison, Sam and Remi leaned forward. Sam asked, “Chobar Gorge?”

  Professor Kaalrami smiled and tilted her head at Sam. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess. And after the picnic?”

  “Lewis had his backpack with him—that was more common than not for him. He was always on the move. It was a beautiful day, warm, not a cloud in the sky. As I recall, I took pictures. I had a new camera, one of those first instant Polaroid models, the ones that folded up. Back then, it was a marvel of technology.”

  “Please tell us you still have those pictures.”

  “I may. It w
ill depend on my son’s technical skills. If you’ll excuse me.” Professor Kaalrami got up, walked to the side table, picked up a phone, and dialed. She spoke in Nepali for a couple minutes, then looked over to Sam and Remi and covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Do you have mobiles with e-mail access?”

  Sam gave her his address.

  Kaalrami spoke on the phone for another thirty seconds, then returned to the table. She sighed. “My son. He tells me I need to come into the digital age. Last month he started scanning—is that the right word?—all my old photo albums. He finished the ones from the picnic last week. He’s sending them to you.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said. “And to your son.”

  Remi said, “You were saying, about the picnic . . . ?”

  “We ate, enjoyed each other’s company, talked, then—in the early afternoon, I think—we parted company. I got in my car and drove away. The last I saw of him, he was crossing the Chobar Gorge bridge.”

  6

  KATHMANDU, NEPAL

  The drive to Chobar Gorge went quickly as they first headed west, back toward the city on Arniko Highway. On the outskirts they turned south on the Ring Road and followed it along Kathmandu’s southern edge to the Chobar region. From there it was a simple matter of following two signs. An hour after leaving Professor Kaalrami, they pulled into Manjushree Park, overlooking the gorge’s northern cliff, at five p.m.

  They got out and stretched their legs. As he had been for the past hour, Sam checked his iPhone for incoming mail. He shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

  Hands on hips, Remi surveyed the surroundings. “What are we looking for?” she asked.

  “A giant neon marquee with ‘Bully Was Here’ flashing on it would be nice, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  The truth was, neither of them knew if there was anything to find. They’d come here based on what might be little more than a coincidence: both Frank Alton and Lewis King had spent their final hours here before disappearing. However, knowing Alton as they did, it was doubtful he’d come here without a good reason.

  Aside from a pair of men eating an early dinner on a nearby bench, the park—itself little more than a low hill covered in brush and bamboo and a spiral hiking trail—was deserted. Sam and Remi walked down the gravel entrance drive and followed the winding track to the head of the Chobar Gorge. While the main bridge was built of concrete and wide enough to accommodate cars, the gorge’s lower reaches and opposite bank were accessible only via three plank-and-wire suspension bridges, all set at different heights and all reached by hiking trails. On both sides of the gorge, small temples were set into the hillside, partially hidden by thick trees. Fifty feet below, the Bagmati frothed and crashed over clusters of boulders.

  Remi walked to an information placard attached to the bridge’s facade. She read aloud the English version:

  “‘Chovar Guchchi is a narrow valley formed by the Bagmati River, the only outlet of the entire Kathmandu Valley. It is believed that Kathmandu Valley once held a giant lake. When Manjusri first came upon the valley, he saw a lotus on the surface. He sliced open this hillside to drain the water from the lake and make way for the city of Kathmandu.’”

  Sam asked, “Who is Manjusri?”

  “I’m not sure exactly, but, if I had to guess, I would say he was a bodhisattva—an enlightened person.”

  Sam was nodding as he checked his e-mail. “Got it. Professor Kaalrami’s son came through.”

  He and Remi walked to a nearby tree to get out of the setting sun. Sam called up the pictures, five in all, and scrolled through them. While they had been digitized well enough, the photos had that old Polaroid feel: slightly washed out, the colors a bit unnatural. The first four photos were of young Lewis King and Adala Kaalrami, each reclining or sitting on a blanket, plates and glasses and picnic supplies laid out around them.

  “None of them together,” Remi remarked.

  “No timer,” Sam replied.

  The fifth photo was of Lewis King, this time standing, facing the camera in three-quarters profile. On his back was an old frame-style backpack.

  They studied the photos a second time. Sam exhaled heavily and said, “Shouldn’t have gotten our hopes up.”

  “Don’t speak too soon,” Remi said, leaning closer to the iPhone’s screen. “You see what he’s holding in his right hand?”

  “An ice ax.”

  “No, look closer.”

  Sam did so. “A caver’s ax.”

  “And look at what’s clipped to his back, to the left of his sleeping bag. You can just make out the curve of it.”

  Sam kept his eyes fixed on the screen. A smile spread on his face. “I don’t know how I missed that. I’ll be damned. It’s a hard hat.”

  Remi nodded. “Equipped with a headlamp. Lewis King was going spelunking.”

  Not knowing for sure what they were looking for but hoping they were correct, they took only ten minutes to find it. Near the opposite shore’s bridgehead was a roofed, open-fronted kiosk with wooden slots containing informational brochures. They found a recreational map of the gorge and scanned the numbered dots and description labels.

  A mile upriver from the bridge, on the northern bank, was a dot labeled “Chobar Caves. Closed to the Public. No Unauthorized Access.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Remi said. “For all we know, Lewis was headed into the mountains and Frank was simply lost.”

  “Long shots are what we do,” Sam reminded his wife. “Besides, it’s either this or we spend another day with Russell and Marjorie.”

  This did the trick. Remi said, “What are the odds Kathmandu has an REI outlet?”

  As expected, the odds were nil, but they did find a Nepalese Army surplus shop a few blocks west of Durbar Square. The equipment they purchased was far from modern but of decent quality. While neither of them was remotely convinced an exploration of the Chobar Caves would further their cause, it felt good to be taking action. This had become one of their mottos: when it doubt, do something. Anything.

  Shortly before seven they pulled back into the Hyatt’s parking lot. As Sam climbed out he spotted Russell and Marjorie standing beneath the turnaround awning.

  Sam muttered, “Bandits at three o’clock.”

  “Oh, yuk.”

  “Don’t open the tailgate. They’ll want to go with us.”

  Russell and Marjorie jogged over to them. “Hey,” Russell said, “we were getting worried about you. We came by to see how you were doing, and the concierge said you’d rented a car and left.”

  Marjorie asked, “Everything okay?”

  “We were mugged twice,” Remi replied, deadpan.

  “And I think I was tricked into marrying a goat,” Sam added.

  After a few seconds, the King children broke into smiles. “Oh, you’re kidding,” Russell said. “We get it. Seriously, though, you shouldn’t wander off—”

  Sam cut him off. “Russell, Marjorie, I want you to listen to me. Do I have your attention?”

  He got two nods in return.

  “Between the two of us, Remi and I have traveled in more countries than either of you can probably name—combined. We appreciate your help, and your . . . enthusiasm, but from this point on, we’ll call you if we need you. Otherwise, leave us alone and let us do what we came here to do.”

  Mouths hanging half open, Russell and Marjorie King stared at him. They glanced at Remi, who simply shrugged. “What he says, he means.”

  “Are we clear?” Sam asked them.

  “Well, yes, sir, but our father asked us—”

  “That’s your problem to solve. If your father wants to talk to us, he knows how to reach us. Any more questions?”

  “I don’t like this,” Russell said.

  Marjorie added, “We’re just trying to help.”

  “And we’ve thanked you. Now you’re testing our limits of politeness. Why don’t you two run along. We’ll call if we get into trouble we can’t handle.”

  After a few moments’ hesi
tation, the King children turned and walked back to their Mercedes. They pulled out and slowly passed Sam and Remi, staring hard at them through Russell’s rolled-down window before accelerating away.

  “If looks could kill,” Remi said.

  Sam nodded. “I think we may have just seen the true faces of the King twins.”

  7

  CHOBAR GORGE, NEPAL

  They set out shortly before four the next morning, hoping to arrive at the gorge before sunrise. While they had no idea how strictly the Chobar Caves’ no-trespassing rule was enforced—or whether the area was even patrolled by the police—they didn’t want to take any chances.

  At five, they pulled into Manjushree Park and found a spot under a tree not visible from the main road. Headlights off, they sat in silence for two minutes, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the Nissan’s engine cooling down, before climbing out, opening the tailgate, and gathering their gear.

  “Did you really expect them to tail us?” Remi asked, settling her pack over her shoulders.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. My gut tells me they’re bad to the core, and I know without a doubt King didn’t ask them to help us. He ordered them to keep an eye on us.”

  “I agree. Hopefully, your heart-to-heart with them will do the trick.”

  “Bad bet,” Sam said, and slammed the tailgate.

  Led by the glow of the rising sun, they walked down to the bridgehead. As advertised on their map, twenty yards to the east of the bridge, behind a copse of bamboo, they found the trail. With Sam in the lead, they headed upriver.

  The first quarter mile was an easy hike, the path three feet wide and covered in well-groomed gravel, but this soon changed as the grade steepened. The trail narrowed and began going through a series of switchbacks. The foliage closed in, forming a partial canopy over their heads. To their right and below, they could hear the river gurgling softly.

  They reached a fork. To the left, the trail headed due east, away from the river; to the right, down toward the river. They paused only a few moments to double-check their map and Sam’s iPhone compass, then took the right-hand path. After another five minutes of walking, they came to a forty-five-degree slope into which rough steps had been cut. At the bottom, they found themselves facing not a trail but a rickety suspension bridge, its left side affixed to the cliff by lag bolts. Vines had overrun the bridge, so tightly twisted around the supports and wires that the structure looked half man-made, half organic.