The Kingdom

by Clive Cussler

  “Lever switch above the trigger on the right side.”

  “Got it. Okay.”

  Sam and Remi and the four Chinese soldiers stared at one another. For ten seconds, no one spoke. Finally Sam asked, “English?”

  The soldier on the far right said, “Small English.”

  “Right. Okay. You are my prisoners.”

  Remi sighed heavily. “Sam . . .”

  “Sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  “Now that you’ve got that out of your system, what do we do with them?”

  “We tie them up and . . . Oh, no. That’s not good.”

  “What?” Remi glanced at her husband. Sam’s narrowed eyes were staring over the heads of the soldiers toward the cab of the second truck. She followed his gaze and saw a silhouetted figure sitting in the cab. The figure ducked down suddenly.

  “We miscounted,” Sam muttered.

  “I see that.”

  “Get in the driver’s seat, Remi. Start the engine. Check for—”

  “You can be sure of it,” she replied, then turned on her heel and sprinted toward the front of the truck. A moment later the engine started. The four soldiers shuffled nervously and glanced at one another.

  “All aboard!” Remi shouted out the cab window.

  “Coming, dear!” Sam replied without turning.

  Sam shouted at the soldiers, “Move, move!” and gestured with the rifle. The men sidestepped away, leaving Sam a clear shot at the truck’s radiator. He raised his rifle and took aim.

  The fifth man, until now hidden in the second truck’s cab, suddenly stuck his torso out the driver’s window. Sam saw the silhouette of his rifle coming around toward him.

  “Stop!”

  The man kept twisting his body, the rifle coming around.

  Sam adjusted his aim and fired two shots through the windshield. The soldiers scattered, diving into the underbrush bordering the road. Sam heard a crack. Something thudded into the tailgate beside him. He ducked down, lurched sideways around the opposite bumper, turned again, and snapped off a trio of shots into what he hoped was the truck’s radiator or engine block. He turned, raced to the truck’s passenger’s door, jerked it open, and climbed in.

  “We’ve worn out our welcome,” he said.

  Remi put the truck in gear and mashed the accelerator.

  They hadn’t gotten a hundred yards before realizing Sam’s gunshots had either missed their mark or had been insufficient. In the side mirrors, he and Remi saw the truck’s headlights pop on. The four soldiers scrambled from cover and hopped aboard, two in the cab, the other two in the bed. The truck surged forward.

  Remi called, “Narrow bridge ahead!”

  Sam looked. Though still a couple hundred yards away, the bridge in question looked not just narrow but barely wider than their truck’s girth. “Speed, Remi,” he warned.

  “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “I meant, slow down.”

  “Joking. Hold on!”

  The truck hit a rut in the road and slewed sideways, lurched upward, then slammed back down. The bridge loomed in the windshield. Fifty yards to go.

  “Oh, of course,” Remi said, annoyed. “It had to be one of these.”

  Though wider and more heavily buttressed, the bridge was simply a larger version of the one they’d crossed on foot earlier that day.

  The truck lurched again. Sam and Remi were bounced from their seats, heads hitting the cab’s roof. Remi grunted, wrestling with the steering wheel.

  The bridgehead was almost upon them. At the last second, Remi slammed on the brakes. The brakes squealed, and the truck skidded to a stop. A cloud of dust enveloped them.

  Sam heard the clank-clank of gears and looked over to see his wife shifting the transmission into reverse. “Remi, what’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “A little reverse chicken,” she said with a grim smile.

  “Risky.”

  “As opposed to everything else we’ve done tonight?”

  “Touché,” Sam conceded.

  Remi slammed down on the accelerator. With a groaning whir from the engine, the truck started backing up, slowly at first but rapidly gaining speed. Sam glanced in the side mirror. Through the dust cloud created by Remi’s hasty stop, all he could see of the second truck was headlights. He leaned out the window and fired a three-round burst, then a second. The truck slewed sideways, out of Sam’s view.

  Eyes fixed on her own mirror, Remi said, “They’re stopping. They see us. They’re backing up.”

  Over the roar of the engine they heard the pop-pop-pop of gunfire. They ducked down. With her head below the dashboard, Remi leaned sideways for a better view of her mirror. The pursuing truck was in full reverse mode now, but the combination of Remi’s collision-course ploy and Sam’s gunfire had clearly rattled the driver. The truck careened from one side to the other, the tires bumping over the berm alongside the road.

  “Brace for impact!” Remi shouted.

  Sam leaned back in his seat and jammed his feet against the dashboard. A moment later the truck jolted to a stop. Remi glanced at her mirror. “They’re off the road.”

  “Let’s not stick around,” Sam prompted.

  “Right.”

  Remi shifted back into drive and pressed the gas pedal. Once again the head of the bridge appeared.

  “It didn’t take,” Remi announced. “They’re back on the road.”

  “Persistent, aren’t they? Hold the truck steady for a bit,” he said, then opened his door.

  “Sam, what are—”

  “I’ll be in back if you need me.”

  He slung the rifle around his neck and then, using the cab’s door-frame for support, climbed down onto the running board. With his free hand he grabbed the canvas side cover and jerked, ripping free the snap enclosures. He grabbed the vertical brace, hooked his left leg over the side, then pulled himself into the bed. He crawled to the cab’s rear wall and slid back the slot window.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, yourself. Hold tight, I’m closing your door.”

  Remi jerked the truck to the right, then to the left. Sam’s open door banged shut. She asked, “What’s your plan?”

  “Sabotage. How close are they?”

  “Fifty yards. We hit the bridge in ten seconds.”

  “Got it.”

  Sam crawled to the tailgate. In the dim light, he groped along the truck bed until his hand found one of the other rifles. He picked it up and dropped his own, then hurriedly collected the other magazines.

  “Bridge!” Remi shouted. “Slowing down!”

  Sam waited until he heard the overlapping thud of the truck’s tires bumping over the planking, then stuck his upper torso through the rear flap, aimed the rifle at the bridge deck, and opened fire. The bullets thudded into the wood, punching through the gaps and sending up plumes of wood chips. He ducked back through the flap, changed magazines, then opened fire again, this time alternating between the bridge deck and the oncoming truck, which had just crossed onto the bridge. Their truck swerved left, bumped into the side rail, then straightened out. Sam saw an orange muzzle flash from the window. A trio of bullets slammed into the tailgate below him. He threw himself backward onto the bed. Another salvo of gunfire shredded the rear flap and peppered the cab wall.

  “Sam?” Remi called.

  “It didn’t work!”

  “So I gathered!”

  “How do you feel about the wanton destruction of fossil artifacts?”

  “Generally against it, but this a special occasion!”

  “Buy me some time!”

  Remi began braking, then speeding up, in hopes of spoiling the shooter’s accuracy. Sam flipped over onto his belly, groped until he found the first ratchet strap securing the crates, and hit the Release button. In short order he had the remainder of the straps free. He crawled to the tailgate and flipped the release; it crashed down.

  “Bombs away,” Sam called, and shoved the first crate
out. It bounced off the bridge deck, slammed squarely into the truck’s bumper, and burst open. Wood shards and packing hay went flying.

  “No effect,” Remi called.

  Sam waddled backward, put his shoulder to the entire stack of crates, then braced his feet against the cab wall and began pushing. With a groan, the stack began sliding along the bed. Sam paused, coiled his legs, and shoved hard, like a linebacker going after a blocking sled.

  The line of crates slid off the tailgate and began tumbling toward the pursuing truck. Sam didn’t wait to see the results but instead sidestepped to the other stack of crates and repeated the process.

  From behind came the squeal of brakes. Shattering glass. The crunch of metal impacting wood.

  “That did the trick!” Remi called. “They’re stopped dead in their tracks!”

  Sam rose to his knees and looked through the slot at Remi. “But for how long?”

  She glanced at him, offered a quick smile. “However long it takes them to dislodge a half dozen crates from under their chassis.”

  15

  HYATT REGENCY HOTEL,

  KATHMANDU, NEPAL

  Sam stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and rubbing his hair with another. “You hungry for a nice breakfast?”

  “Famished,” replied Remi. She was sitting at a table in front of a mirror, tying her hair into a ponytail. She wore the standard white towel of the hotel.

  “Room service or go down to the dining room?”

  “The weather is perfect. Let’s dine out on the balcony.”

  “Sounds good.” Sam walked over to an end table, picked up the phone, and dialed room service. “I’d like one salmon and a bagel, one eggs Benedict, a bowl of fruit, and sourdough toast and coffee.” He waited until the voice in the kitchen repeated the order correctly. Then he rang off and called the bar.

  When the bartender answered, Sam asked, “I’d like two Ramos Fizzes. Yes, a Ramos Fizz.”

  “You know how to treat a lady,” said Remi.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. He doesn’t know how to make one.” Sam tried again.

  “How about a Harvey Wallbanger. Wallbanger. It’s made with vodka, Galliano, and orange juice. I see, no Galliano.” Sam shook his head and tried once more. “All right, send up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.”

  Remi laughed. “You really know how to treat a lady.”

  “That’s the best you can do?” said Sam into the phone. “Okay, send it up well chilled.

  He set the receiver back in its cradle. “No champagne. The only thing left after a political convention is a sparkling white from China.”

  “I didn’t know the Chinese made anything sparkling.” She looked at him with a sarcastic smile. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Sam shrugged. “Any port in the storm.”

  The phone rang. Sam picked it up. “One moment.” He switched on the speaker.

  “Morning, Rube,” Sam said into the speakerphone.

  “For you, maybe,” Rube replied. “It’s dinner time here. I hear you and your lovely bride are enjoying yet another relaxing vacation.”

  “Everything is relative, Rube,” Remi replied. “How’re Kathy and the girls?”

  “Great. They’re at Chuck E. Cheese’s right now. Your call saved me from going.”

  “Don’t let us keep you,” Sam said with a half smile. “We can talk later.”

  “Oh, no, my friend. There’s nothing more important than this. Trust me. Okay, brief me. Are you in jail? How many local laws have you broken?”

  “No. And none that we’re aware of,” Remi replied. “I’ll let Sam explain.”

  Though aware Rube had already received some information from Selma, Sam started at the beginning, with Zhilan Hsu boarding their boat near Pulau Legundi and ending with their escape from King’s covert archaeological site.

  The night before, after leaving their pursuers stalled on the bridge, Sam had driven through the darkness, looking for signs or landmarks that Remi could match to her map. After several hours of fruitless turns and dead ends, they finally crossed a recognizable mountain pass—the Laurebina—and not long after pulled into the outskirts of Pheda, some twenty miles due east of the camp. Predictably, they’d found the village dark and lifeless save a cinder-block and tin-roofed building that turned out to be the local pub. After breaking through the considerable language barrier, they managed to make a trade with the owner: their truck for his car—a thirty-year-old orange–and–primer gray Peugeot—and directions back to Kathmandu. Just before dawn, they pulled into the Hyatt Regency’s parking lot.

  Rube listened to Sam’s story without speaking. Finally he asked, “Let me make sure I understand this: you snuck into King’s camp, witnessed a murder, wreaked havoc with what were probably a guard contingent of Chinese soldiers, then stole one of their trucks that happened to be loaded with black market fossils, which you then used as depth charges to stop your pursuers. Does that about cover it?”

  “More or less,” Sam said.

  Remi added, “And the thirty or so gigabytes of intelligence we collected.”

  Rube sighed. “You know what I did last night? I painted our master bathroom. You two . . . Okay, send me your data.”

  “Selma’s already got it. Contact her, and she’ll give you a link to a secure online storage site.”

  “Got it. I know my bosses at Langley will be interested in the Chinese angle, and I’m sure we can find someone at the FBI interested in King’s black market fossil operation. I can’t promise any of it will pan out, but I’ll run with it.”

  “That’s all we ask,” Sam said.

  “There’s a better-than-average chance that King’s already ordered the site shut down. By now, it could be just an abandoned pit in the middle of the forest.”

  “We know.”

  “What about your friend Alton?”

  “We’re half hoping, half guessing we’ve found what King wants,” Remi replied. “Or at least enough to get his attention. We’re calling him after we hang up with you.”

  “King Charlie is scum,” Rube warned. “People have been trying to take him down all his life. They’re all dead or ruined, and he’s still standing.”

  Remi replied, “Something tells us what we’ve got is very personal for him.”

  “The Theurock—”

  “Theurang,” Remi corrected. “The Golden Man.”

  “Right. It’s a gamble,” Rube replied. “If you’re wrong and King doesn’t give a damn about the thing, all you’ve got are allegations of black market fossil trade—and, like I said, there’s no guarantee anything will stick to him.”

  “We know,” Sam replied.

  “And you’re going to roll the dice anyway.”

  “Yes,” said Remi.

  “Big surprise. By the way, before I forget, I’ve learned a little more about Lewis King. I assume you’ve both heard of Heinrich Himmler?”

  “Hitler’s best friend and Nazi psychopath?” Sam asked. “We’ve heard the name.”

  “Himmler and most of the upper echelon of the Nazi Party were obsessed with the occult, especially as it pertained to Aryan purity and the Thousand Year Reich. Himmler was arguably the most intrigued by it. Back in the thirties and throughout World War Two, he sponsored a number of scientific expeditions to the world’s darkest corners in hopes of finding evidence to support the Nazis’ claims. One of them, organized in 1938, a year before the war started, was dispatched to the Himalayas in search of evidence of Aryan ancestry. Care to guess the name of one of the lead scientists?”

  “Lewis King,” Remi replied.

  “Or, as he was known then, Professor Lewes Konig.”

  Sam said, “Charlie King’s father was a Nazi?”

  “Yes and no. My sources tell me he probably joined the party out of necessity, not zealousness. Back then, if you wanted government funding, you needed to be a party member. There are plenty of accounts of scientists joining and doing perfunctory researc
h into Nazi theories so they could conduct pure scientific research on the side. Lewis King was a perfect example of this. By all accounts, he was a dedicated archaeologist. He didn’t give a damn about Aryan bloodlines or ancestry.”

  “So why did he go on the expedition?”

  “I don’t know, but what you found in the cave—this Golden Man business—is a strong possibility. Unless King was lying, it sounds like soon after Lewis King immigrated to the U.S. he started his globe-trotting.”

  “Maybe he found something on Himmler’s expedition that piqued his interest,” Sam speculated.

  “Something he didn’t want to end up in the hands of the Nazis,” Remi added. “He kept it to himself, bided his time through the war, then picked up his work again years later.”

  “The question is,” Rube said, “why is Charlie King picking up where his father left off? From what we know about him, he never showed the slightest interest in his father’s work.”

  “Maybe it’s the Theurang,” Sam said. “Maybe to him, it’s just another fossil to sell.”

  “You could be right. If the description of this thing is even remotely accurate, it would be worth a fortune.”

  Remi asked, “Rube, do we know whether the Nazi accusations against Lewis ever impacted Charlie?”

  “Not that I could find. I think his success speaks for itself. And given how ruthless he is, I doubt anyone has the guts to bring it up anymore.”

  “That’s about to change,” Sam said. “Time to push King Charlie’s comfort zone.”

  They hung up, talked strategy for a few minutes, then Sam dialed King’s direct line. The man himself picked up on the first ring. “King.”

  “Mr. King. Sam Fargo here.”

  “I was wonderin’ when you’d get around to callin’. Your pretty wife with you?”

  “Safe and sound,” Remi replied sweetly.

  “It seems our partnership has hit a rocky patch,” King said. “My kids tell me you ain’t playin’ ball.”

  “We’re playing ball,” Sam replied. “Just a different game than you are. Charlie, did you have Frank Alton kidnapped?”

  “Kidnapped? Why would I do somethin’ like that?”

  “That’s not an answer,” Remi pointed out.