The Kingdom

by Clive Cussler

“I sent Frank Alton out there to do a job for me. He got himself in over his head, pissed off the wrong people. I have no idea where he is.”

  “Another nonanswer answer,” Sam said. “Okay, let’s move on. All you have to do is listen. We’ve got what you’re after—”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You’re not listening. We’ve got what you’re after—what your dad spent his lifetime hunting for. And, as you probably guessed, we paid a visit to your concentration camp in the Langtang Valley.”

  “I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “We collected thousands of photos—mostly of documents we found laying around in an office trailer—but a few of them of your wife, or concubine, or whatever you call her in the privacy of your Gulfstream. As luck would have it, when we took the pictures, she was murdering one of your employees. We’ve got a picture of his face as well.”

  Charlie King did not respond for a long ten seconds. Finally he sighed. “I think you’re fulla horse crap, Sam, but clearly somethin’s got you excited. You’ve got my attention.”

  “First things first. Release Frank—”

  “I told you I don’t—”

  “Shut up. Release Frank Alton. When we get a call from him saying he’s safe and unharmed in the comfort of his home, we’ll meet with Russell and Marjorie and reach an understanding.”

  “Now who’s sayin’ a lot without sayin’ much?” King replied.

  “It’s the only deal you’re going to get,” Sam replied.

  “Sorry, friend, I’m goin’ to decline. I think you’re bluffin’.”

  “Suit yourself,” Sam said, and hung up.

  He laid the phone on the coffee table. He and Remi looked at each other. She asked, “Odds?”

  “Sixty–forty it rings in under a minute.”

  She smiled. “No bet.”

  At the fifty-second mark, Sam’s phone trilled. He let it go off three more times, then picked up. Charlie King said, “You’d make a decent poker player, Sam Fargo. Glad we could reach an understanding. I’ll make some calls and see what I can find out about Frank Alton. Can’t promise nothin’, of course, but—”

  “If we don’t hear from him in twenty-four hours, the deal is off.”

  Charlie King was silent for a few beats. Then, “Keep your phone nearby.”

  Sam disconnected.

  Remi asked, “What if King thinks we’ve got the evidence with us?”

  “He knows better than that.”

  “Do you think he’ll follow through?”

  Sam nodded. “King’s smart enough to have insulated himself. Whoever took Frank probably made sure their faces were hidden. There’ll be no trail leading back to King, so he’s got nothing to lose and everything to gain by going along.”

  “Then why do you look so worried?” Remi asked her husband.

  “Do I?”

  “You’ve got the squinty-eyed thing going on.”

  Sam hesitated.

  “Tell me, Sam.”

  “We just got done beating up on one of the world’s richest men, a sociopathic control freak who got where he is by crushing his enemies. He’ll release Frank, but something tells me King is sitting in his office planning a counterattack.”

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  Eight thousand miles away, Charles King was doing just that.

  After hanging up the phone, he paced his office, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing beyond his rage. Muttering to himself, King stalked to his office window and stared out over the city. To the west, the sun was setting.

  “Fine, Fargos,” he rasped. “Round goes to you. Enjoy it. Ain’t gonna happen again.” He walked to his desk and stabbed the Intercom button. “Marsha, get me Russell and Marjorie.”

  “Yes, Mr. King, one moment.” Thirty seconds passed, then, “Dad—”

  “Shut up and listen. Is Marjorie there?”

  “I’m here, Daddy.”

  “Zhilan?”

  “Yes, Mr. King.”

  “What in blazes do you three idiots think you’re doin’ out there! The Fargos just called me and whipped me from pillar to post. They say they got pictures of you, Zee, killin’ some local at the Langtang site. What went on there?”

  Russell answered, “I got a call this morning from the head of site security. He said they found a suspicious vehicle and raised the alarm. They found one man unconscious, but nothing appeared to be missing.”

  “How’d he get knocked out?”

  “They’re not sure. He may have fallen.”

  “Bull! Did we have any pendin’ shipments?”

  “Two trucks,” replied Marjorie. “As soon as the alarm was raised, they were evacuated by Colonel Zhou’s men. It’s standard procedure, Daddy.”

  “Don’t lecture me, girl. Did the trucks arrive at the transfer point?”

  Russell replied, “We haven’t gotten confirmation yet, but allowing for delays—”

  “You’re assumin’. Don’t assume. Pick up the phone and find those trucks.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Zee, what’s this about a killin’? Is it true?”

  “Yes. One of the workers was caught stealing. I had to set an example. His body has already been disposed of.”

  King paused, then grunted. “Okay, then. Good work. As for you two morons . . . The Fargos told me they’ve got the Golden Man.”

  “How?” Marjorie asked. “Where?”

  “They’ve got to be lying,” Russell added.

  “Maybe so, but this kind of stuff is their bailiwick. It’s why we brought ’em into this. Guess we underestimated them. Figured Alton would be enough to keep ’em in line.”

  Marjorie said, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Daddy.”

  “Shut up. We gotta assume they’re tellin’ the truth. They want Alton set loose. Is there any way he could’ve seen anything or could identify anybody?”

  Zhilan answered. “I looked into it when I got here, Mr. King. Alton knows nothing.”

  “Okay. Go rescue him. Feed ’im, clean ’im up, and put ’im on the Gulfstream. The Fargos said as soon as Alton’s home, they’ll meet with Russell and Marjorie and talk about handin’ over the whatchamacallit.”

  “We can’t trust them, Daddy,” said Russell.

  “I know that, dummy. Just put Alton on the jet and leave the rest to me. The Fargos wanna play hardball? They’re about to see what real hardball feels like.”

  16

  JOMSOM VILLAGE,

  DHAWALAGIRI ZONE, NEPAL

  The single-engine Piper Cub banked sharply and descended through three thousand feet. Sitting on opposite sides of the aisle, Sam and Remi watched the chalky gray cliffs rise up, seemingly swallowing the plane as it lined up for the final approach to the airstrip. Above and beyond the cliffs rose the dark snow-veined peaks of the Dhawalagiri and Nilgiri ranges, their upper reaches half hidden in clouds.

  Though they’d left Kathmandu only an hour earlier, their arrival here was just the beginning of the journey; the remainder would take another twelve hours by road. As with everything in Nepal, distances measured on a map were all but useless. Their ultimate destination, the former capital of the Kingdom of Mustang, Lo Monthang, lay only a hundred forty miles northwest of Kathmandu but was inaccessible by air. Instead, their chartered plane would drop them here, in Jomsom, a hundred twenty miles due east of Kathmandu. They would then follow the Kali River Valley north for fifty miles to Lo Monthang, where they would be met by Sushant Dharel’s local contact.

  For Sam and Remi, it felt good to be far from the relative bustle of Kathmandu and, hopefully, beyond the reach of the King clan.

  The plane continued to descend, rapidly bleeding off airspeed until it was, Sam estimated, flying only a few knots above stall speed. Remi looked at her husband questioningly. He smiled and said, “Short runway. It’s either bleed airspeed up here or slam on the brakes when we’re down.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  With a squelch and a shudder, the la
nding gear kissed the tarmac, and soon they were coasting toward a cluster of buildings at the southern end of the runway. The plane braked to a stop, and the engines began winding down. Sam and Remi collected their backpacks and headed for the door, which was already open. A ground crewman in dark blue coveralls smiled and gestured to the stepladder below the door. Remi climbed down, followed by Sam.

  They started walking toward the terminal building. To their right, a cluster of goats nibbled at brown grass beside the hangar. Beyond them, on a dirt road, they could see a line of musk ox being herded by an old man in a red beanie and green trousers. Occasionally, he tapped a wayward ox with a switch while making a clucking sound with his mouth.

  Remi gathered the collar of her parka closer to her neck and said, “I think this qualifies as brisk.”

  “I was going to go with bracing,” Sam replied. “We’re at about ten thousand feet, but there’s a lot less cover.”

  “And a lot more wind.”

  As if to punctuate Remi’s point, a gust whipped across the tarmac. Clouds of ochre dust obscured their vision for a few seconds before clearing, revealing in greater detail the scenery behind the airport buildings. Several hundred feet tall, the taupe-colored cliffs were deeply grooved from top to bottom, as though carved by giant fingertips. Smoothed by time and erosion, the patterns looked almost man-made—like the walls of some ancient fortress.

  Behind them a voice said, “Most of Mustang looks like that. At least the lower elevations.”

  Sam and Remi stopped and turned to see a mid-twenties man with shaggy blond hair smiling at them. He asked, “First time?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied. “But not yours, I’m betting.”

  “Fifth. I’m a trekking junkie, I guess you could say. Jomsom’s sort of the base camp for trekking in this region. I’m Wally.”

  Sam introduced himself and Remi, and the trio continued walking toward the terminal buildings. Wally pointed to several groups of people standing along the tarmac’s edge. Most were dressed in brightly colored parkas and standing beside heavy-duty backpacks.

  “Fellow trekkers?” asked Remi.

  “Yep. A lot of familiar faces too. We’re part of the local economy, I guess you could say. Trekking season keeps this place alive. Can’t go anywhere here without being attached to a guide outfit.”

  “And if you’d prefer not to?” asked Sam.

  “There’s a company of Nepalese Army troops stationed here,” Wally replied. “It’s a bit of a racket, really, but you can’t blame them. Most of these people make less in a year than we make in a week. It’s not so bad. If you prove you know what you’re doing, most of the guides just tag along and stay out of the way.”

  From a nearby group of trekkers a woman called, “Hey, Wally, we’re over here!”

  He turned, gave her a wave, then asked Sam and Remi, “Where are you headed?”

  “Lo Monthang.”

  “Cool place. It’s downright medieval, man. A real time machine. You already got a guide?”

  Sam nodded. “Our contact in Kathmandu arranged one.”

  Remi asked, “How long should it take to get there? According to the map, it’s—”

  “Maps!” Wally replied with a chuckle. “They’re not bad, fairly accurate on the horizontal, but the terrain here is like a piece of wadded-up newspaper that’s only been half flattened out. Everything changes. One day you could pass a spot that’s nice and flat, the next day it’s half choked by a landslide. Your guide will probably follow the Kali Gandaki River ravine most of the way—it should be mostly dry right now—so you should figure sixty miles total. At least twelve hours’ drive time.”

  “Which means overnight,” Sam replied.

  “Yep. Ask your guide. He’ll either have a nice tent set up or a trekkers’ hut reserved for you. You’re in for a treat. The trail that follows the Kali Gandaki ravine is the deepest in the world. On one side, you got the Annapurna mountains; the other, the Dhawalagiri. In between, eight of the twenty highest mountains in the world! The ravine trail is like a cross between Utah and Mars, man! The stupas and caves alone are—”

  The woman called again, “Wally!”

  He said to Sam and Remi, “Hey, I gotta go. Nice meeting you. Travel safe. And stay out of chokes after dusk.”

  They shook hands all around, and Wally starting jogging toward his group.

  Sam called, “Chokes?”

  “Your guide will tell you!” Wally called over his shoulder.

  Sam turned to Remi, “Stupas?”

  “Most commonly known as a chortens here. They’re essentially reliquaries—mound-like structures containing sacred Buddhist artifacts.”

  “How big?”

  “They can range from the size of a garden gnome to a cathedral. One of the largest is back in Kathmandu, in fact. The Boudhanath.”

  “The dome draped in all the prayer flags?”

  “That’s the one. Mustang’s got a huge concentration of them, mostly of the gnome-sized variety. Some estimates put the number in the low thousands, and that’s just along the Kali Gandaki River. Up until a few years ago, Mustang was all but off-limits to tourism for fear of desecration.”

  “Fargos!” a male voice called. “Fargos!”

  A bald Nepalese man in his mid-forties picked his way through a crowd of milling trekkers and trotted toward them, panting, “Fargos, yes?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied.

  “I am Basanta Thule,” the man replied in decent English. “I am your guide, yes?”

  “You’re a friend of Pradhan’s?” Remi said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know who that is. I was asked by Mr. Sushant Dharel to meet you. You were expecting someone else? Here, I have identification . . .” Thule began reaching into the side pocket of his jacket.

  “No, that’s fine,” Sam replied with a smile. “Good to meet you.”

  “And you, and you. Here, I will take those.”

  Thule grabbed their backpacks and gestured with his head toward the terminal building. “My vehicle is this way. Follow, if you will.” He trotted off.

  Sam said to Remi, “Very tricky, Mizz Bond.”

  “Am I growing paranoid in my advancing age?”

  “No,” Sam replied with a smile. “Just more beautiful. Come on, let’s catch up or we’re going to lose our guide.”

  After a cursory stop at the customs desk to satisfy what Sam and Remi guessed was Mustang’s firm if tacit belief in its semi-autonomous status, Sam and Remi stepped outside and found Thule at the curb beside a white Toyota Land Cruiser. Judging by the dozens of nearly identical vehicles lining the street, each of which seemed to bear a unique trekking company logo, Toyota was the four-wheeler of choice for the region. Thule smiled at them, shoved the remainder of Sam’s backpack in the Toyota’s cargo area, and slammed shut the hatch.

  “I have arranged accommodations for the night,” Thule announced.

  “We’re not leaving for Lo Monthang immediately?” Remi asked.

  “No, no. Very bad luck to start a journey at this time of day. Better to start tomorrow morning. You will eat and rest and enjoy Jomsom, and then we will depart first thing in the morning. Come, come . . .”

  “We’d prefer to leave now,” Sam said, not moving.

  Thule paused. He pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, then said, “It is your choice, of course, but the landslide will not be cleared until morning.”

  “What landslide?” replied Remi.

  “Yes, between here and Kagbeni. We would not get more than a few kilometers up the valley. And then there will be the traffic jam, of course. Many trekkers in Mustang now. Better to wait until morning, yes?” Thule opened one of the Toyota’s rear passenger doors and flourished his arm toward the backseat.

  Sam and Remi looked at each other, shrugged, then stepped into the SUV.

  After ten minutes of the Toyota winding through the narrow streets, Thule brought it to a stop before a building a few miles southeast of the airs
trip. The brown-on-yellow sign read “Moonlight Guest House. Tub Baths—Attached Bathrooms—Common Bathrooms.”

  With a smile and a raised eyebrow, Remi said, “It appears bathrooms are the big draw in Jomsom.”

  “And monochromatic architecture,” Sam added.

  From the front seat Thule said, “Indeed. Jomsom offers the best accommodations in the area.”

  He got out, hurried around to Remi’s door, and opened it. He offered his hand to her. She graciously took it and climbed out, followed by Sam.

  Thule said, “I will collect your luggage. You go inside. Madame Roja will assist you.”

  Five minutes later they were in the Moonlight Guest House’s Royal Executive Suite, complete with a queen bed and a sitting area filled with an assortment of wickeresque lawn furniture. As Madame Roja had promised, their bathroom was in fact attached to their suite.

  “I will return for you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, yes?” Thule said from the doorway.

  “Why so late?” Sam asked.

  “The landslide will have—”

  “The traffic jam,” Sam finished. “Thanks, Mr. Thule. We’ll see you then.”

  Sam shut the door. From the bathroom he heard Remi say, “Sam, look at this.”

  He found a wide-eyed Remi standing beside a gigantic copper claw-foot tub. “It’s a Beasley.”

  “I think the more common term is ‘bathtub,’ Remi.”

  “Very funny. Beasleys are rare, Sam. The last one was made in the late nineteenth century. Do you have any idea what this is worth?”

  “No, but something tells me you do.”

  “Twelve thousand dollars, give or take. This is a treasure, Sam.”

  “And it’s the size of a Studebaker. Don’t even think of trying to fit it into your carry-on.”

  Remi tore her eyes from the tub and looked at him mischievously. “It is big, isn’t it?”

  Sam returned her smile. “Indeed.”

  “Care to be my lifeguard?”

  “At your service, madam.”

  An hour later, clean and happy and prune-skinned, they settled into the sitting area. Through the balcony windows they could see the peaks on Annapurna in the distance.