The Kingdom

by Clive Cussler

  Sam checked his phone. “Voice message,” he said. He listened to it, gave Remi a wink, and redialed. Selma’s voice came over the speaker thirty seconds later: “Where are you?”

  “In the land of wicker and copper,” Sam replied.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Do you have good news for us?”

  “Here, hang on.”

  A moment later a male voice came on the line. It was Frank Alton. “Sam, Remi . . . I don’t know how you did it, but I owe you my life.”

  “Nonsense,” Remi replied. “You saved ours in Bolivia a few times over.”

  “Are you okay?” Sam asked.

  “A few bumps and bruises, but nothing permanent.”

  “Have you seen Judy and the kids?”

  “Yes, as soon as I got home.”

  Sam said, “Selma, how are things?”

  “Absolutely awful,” she replied.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Based on a healthy respect of Charles King’s reach, and perhaps a tinge of paranoia, Sam and Remi had instituted the “duress rule”: had Selma or any of them been at gunpoint or otherwise in jeopardy, an answer other than “awful” would have raised the alarm.

  Remi said, “Frank, what can you tell us?”

  “Not much more than you already know, I’m afraid. Selma’s brought me up to speed. While I agree King’s a snake and he’s not telling the whole truth, I have no proof he was behind my kidnapping. I was knocked out and snatched off the street. I never saw them coming. Can’t tell you where I was held. When I woke up, I was blindfolded until they shoved me out of the van again. When I took the blindfold off, I was standing before the stairs to a Gulfstream jet.”

  “Speaking of eerie, did you meet the King twins?”

  “Oh, those two. They were waiting for me at the airport. I thought I’d walked into a Tim Burton remake of The Addams Family. I’m guessing they’re the product of King and his Dragon Lady?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied. “What’s your take on Lewis King?”

  “A hundred-to-one that he’s been dead for decades. I think I was just bait for you two.”

  “Our thought as well,” Remi agreed. “We’re still working out the details, but we think it was something to do with an old Himalayan legend.”

  “The Golden Man,” replied Frank.

  “Right. The Theurang.”

  “From what little I was able to gather before I was taken, that’s what Lewis King was after when he disappeared. He was obsessed by it. Whether the thing is real or not, I don’t know.”

  “We think it is,” Sam replied. “We’re going to see a man in Lo Monthang tomorrow. With any luck, he’ll be able to shed more light on the mystery.”

  17

  KALI GANDAKI GORGE,

  DHAWALAGIRI ZONE, NEPAL

  For the fourth time in an hour, Basanta Thule brought the Toyota Land Cruiser to a stop, the knobby tires crunching on the gravel that blanketed the valley floor. Above, the sky was a cloudless royal blue. The crisp air was perfectly still.

  “More stupas,” Thule announced, pointing out the side window. “There . . . and there. You see.”

  “We do,” Sam replied, he and Remi glancing out Sam’s rolled-down window. Shortly after leaving Jomsom that morning, they’d made the mistake of expressing an interest in chortens; since then, Thule had made it his mission to point out each and every one. They’d covered less than two miles so far.

  For politeness’s sake, Sam and Remi climbed out, walked around, and took a few pictures. While none of the chortens were taller than a few feet, they were nonetheless impressive—miniature temples painted snow-white sitting atop the ridge lines overlooking the gorge like silent sentries.

  They climbed back into the Toyota and set out again, driving in silence for some time before Remi said, “Where’s the landslide?”

  There was a long pause. “We passed it some time ago,” Thule replied.

  “Where?”

  “Twenty minutes ago . . . the slope of loose gravel beside the boulder we saw. It does not take much to block the way, you see.”

  After another pause for lunch—and a chorten-viewing stop that Sam and Remi tactfully declared their last—they continued north, following the serpentine course of the Kali Gandaki and passing a series of hamlets that were largely indistinguishable from Jomsom. Occasionally they would spot trekkers in the foothills above, ant-like against the mountains in the distance.

  Shortly after five o’clock, they entered a narrower section of the gorge. The cliffs towering fifty feet above them closed in, and the sun dimmed. The air wafting through Sam’s open window grew chilled. Finally, after slowing to a walking pace, Thule steered them through an archway of rock barely wider than the Toyota and then into a winding tunnel. The tires sloshed through the stream and echoed off the walls.

  Fifty yards later they rolled into an elongated clearing, measuring forty feet wide and a quarter mile long. At the northern end of the ravine was a second slot opening in the rock. To their right, the river gurgled through an undercut section of the cliff.

  Thule steered left, made a wide circle so the Toyota’s nose was pointed back the way they’d come, and then braked to a stop. “We will camp here,” he announced. “We will be protected from the wind.”

  “Why so early?”

  Thule turned in his seat and gave them a broad smile. “Here night falls quickly, along with the temperature. Best to have the shelters erected and the fire started before dark.”

  With the three of them working together, they quickly had the shelters—a pair of older Vango siege-style tents—set up and ready for occupancy, complete with eggshell mattress pads and subzero sleeping bags. As Thule got a small fire started, Sam ignited a trio of kerosene lanterns that hung from poles at the edge of their camp. Flashlight in hand, Remi was taking a tour of the ravine. Thule had mentioned that trekkers had in the past found Kang Admi tracks in this area of the gorge. Translated loosely as “snowman,” the term was one of dozens used to describe the Yeti, the Himalayan version of Bigfoot. While not necessarily a blind believer in the legend, the Fargos had encountered enough oddities in their travels that they knew better than to discount it out of hand; Remi had decided to indulge her curiosity.

  After twenty minutes, she wandered back into the yellow glow of lanterns around the camp. Sam handed her a wool cap and asked, “Any luck?”

  “Not so much as a toe track,” Remi replied, tucking a few strands of loose auburn hair beneath the cap.

  “Do not give up hope,” Thule remarked from beside the fire. “We may hear the beast’s call during the night.”

  “And what are we listening for?” Sam asked.

  “That depends upon the person, yes? As a child, I heard the cry once. It sounded like . . . part man, part bear. In fact, one of the Tibetan words for Yeti is ‘Meh-teh’—‘man-bear.’”

  “Mr. Thule, this sounds like a tall tale designed to enthrall tourists,” Remi said.

  “Not at all, miss. I heard it. I know people who have seen it. I know people who have found its tracks. I personally have seen a musk ox whose head had been—”

  “We get the picture,” Remi interrupted. “So, what’s for dinner?”

  Dinner consisted of prepackaged dehydrated meals that when combined with boiling water morphed into a goulash mélange. Sam and Remi had tasted worse, but by only a narrow margin. After they finished eating, Thule redeemed himself with steaming mugs of tongba, a slightly alcoholic Nepalese millet tea, which they sipped as night enveloped the gorge. They chatted, and sat in silence for another thirty minutes, before dimming the camp lanterns and retreating to their respective tents.

  Once nestled into their sleeping bags, Remi sat reading a trekker’s guide she’d downloaded onto her iPad while Sam studied a map of the area under the beam of a flashlight.

  Remi whispered, “Sam, remember what Wally mentioned at the airport about ‘the chokes’?”

  “We never asked Thule about i
t.”

  “In the morning.”

  “I think now would be better,” she replied, and handed Sam her iPad. She pointed to a section of text. He read:

  Known colloquially as “the chokes,” these narrow ravines found along the length of the Kali Gandaki Gorge can be treacherous in the springtime. At night, meltwater runoff from the surrounding mountains frequently flash floods the ravines with little notice, rising to a height of—

  Sam stopped reading, handed the iPad back to Remi, and whispered, “Pack your gear. Just the essentials. Quietly.” Then aloud, he called, “Mr. Thule?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Thule?”

  After a few moments’ delay, they heard the scuff of a boot on gravel, followed by, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”

  “Tell us about the chokes.”

  A long pause. “Uh . . . I am afraid I am not familiar with that phrase.”

  More scuffing on gravel, the distinctive click of one of the Toyota’s doors being opened.

  Hurrying now, Sam unzipped his sleeping bag and rolled out. Already mostly clothed, he grabbed his jacket, slipped it on, and quietly unzipped the tent. He crept out, looked left and right, then stood up. Thirty feet away he could just make out Thule’s silhouette leaning through the Toyota’s driver’s-side door. He was rummaging around the interior. On his feet, Sam began creeping toward the Toyota. He was twenty feet away when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head.

  Faintly at first, then more distinctly, he heard the rush of water. Across the ravine he could see the stream was roiling, white water lapping at the sides of the cliff.

  From behind, Sam heard a tsst and turned around to see Remi poking her head from the tent flap. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he replied with a palm out: Wait.

  Sam crept toward the Toyota. When he’d closed the gap to ten feet, he ducked down and continued on, stooped over, around the rear bumper to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Sam stopped, peeked around the corner.

  Thule was still leaning into the Toyota, with only his legs visible. Sam eyed the distance between them: five feet. He extended his leg, carefully planted his foot, and began shifting his weight forward.

  Thule whipped around. Clutched in his hand was a stainless-steel revolver.

  “Stop, Mr. Fargo.”

  Sam stopped.

  “Stand up.” Thule’s charmingly stunted speech had vanished. Only a slight accent remained.

  Sam stood up. He said, “Something tells me we should have checked your ID when you offered.”

  “That would have been wise.”

  “How much did they pay you?”

  “For rich people like you and your wife, a pittance. For me, five years’ worth of wages. Do you want to offer me more?”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No. The people made it clear what would happen to me if I betrayed them.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see the river had begun expanding outward, and, far behind, the rush of water was gaining in volume. Sam knew he needed to play for time. Hopefully, the man before him would let down his guard, if only momentarily.

  “Where’s the real Thule?” Sam asked.

  “Two feet to your right.

  “You killed him.”

  “It was part of the task. Once the waters recede, he will be found along with you and your wife, his head crushed by the rocks.”

  “Along with you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Unless you have a spare spark ignition wire laying around,” Sam replied, patting his jacket pocket.

  On impulse, Thule’s eyes darted toward the Toyota’s interior. Anticipating this, Sam had started moving even as he’d patted his pocket. He was in midleap, his hands a foot from Thule, when the man spun back around, the barrel of his revolver lashing out; it caught Sam high on the forehead, a glancing blow that nevertheless gashed his scalp. He stumbled backward and dropped to his knees, gasping.

  Thule stepped forward and cocked his leg. Sam saw the kick coming and braced himself while trying to roll away. The top of Thule’s foot slammed into his side and flipped him onto his back.

  “Sam!” shouted Remi.

  He rolled his head to the right and saw Remi sprinting toward him.

  “Get the gear!” Sam croaked. “Follow me!”

  “Follow you? Follow you where?”

  The Toyota’s engine grumbled to life.

  Moving on instinct, Sam rolled onto his belly, pushed himself onto his knees, then got to his feet. He stumbled toward the nearest lantern, six feet to his left. Through his pain-hazed vision he saw, down the ravine, a twenty-foot-tall wave of white water churning through the slot. Sam snatched the lantern off the pole with his left hand, then turned back toward the Toyota and forced his legs into a shuffling sprint.

  The Toyota’s transmission engaged, the wheels sprayed gravel, peppering Sam’s lower legs. He ignored it and kept moving. As the Toyota lurched forward, Sam jumped. His left leg landed on the rear bumper; he clamped his right hand on the roof rack’s rail.

  The Toyota surged ahead, fishtailing on the gravel and jerking Sam from side to side. He held on, pulled himself closer to the cargo hatch. Thule straightened the Toyota out and sped toward the ravine entrance, now fifty yards away. Sam stuck the lantern’s handle between his teeth and used his left hand to turn the wick knob. The flame guttered, then brightened. He grasped the lantern in his left hand again.

  “One chance,” Sam muttered to himself.

  He took a breath, let the lantern dangle at arm’s length for a moment, then heaved it like a grenade. The lantern twirled upward over the Toyota’s roof and crashed onto the hood, shattering. Flaming kerosene splashed across the windshield.

  The effect was immediate and dramatic. Startled by the wave of fire across his windshield, Thule panicked, jerking the wheel first left, then right, the double slewing motion sending the Toyota up on two wheels. Sam lost his grip. He felt himself flying. Saw the ground rushing toward him. He curled himself into a ball at the last instant, smashed into the ground on his hip, and let himself roll. Dully in the back of his mind he heard a crash; glass shattering and the crunch of metal. He rolled over, blinked his vision clear.

  The Toyota had crashed with its hood wedged into the narrow rock arch.

  Sam heard footsteps, then Remi’s voice as she knelt beside him: “Sam . . . Sam! Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Sam touched his fingers to his forehead and looked at the blood. “Scalp wound,” he muttered. He grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and patted it on the wound.

  Remi said, “Sam, don’t—”

  “See? All better.”

  “Anything broken?”

  “Not that I can tell. Help me up.”

  She ducked under his shoulder, and they stood up together.

  Sam asked, “Where’s the—”

  In answer to his question, water washed across their feet. Within seconds, it rose to their ankles.

  “Speak of the devil,” Sam said. In unison, they turned around. Water was rushing through the northern end of the ravine.

  The water was roiling around their calves.

  “That’s cold,” Remi said.

  “Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Sam replied. “Our gear?”

  “Everything worthwhile is in my pack,” Remi replied, turning her shoulder so he could see it. “Is he dead?”

  “Either that or unconscious. If not, I think he’d be shooting at us by now. We need to get that thing started. It’s our only chance to outrun the flood.”

  They headed toward the Toyota, Remi in the lead and Sam limping behind her. She slowed as she reached the vehicle’s rear bumper, then crept around to the driver’s door and peeked inside.

  She called, “He’s out.”

  Sam shuffled up, and together they opened the door and dragged Thule out. He plunged into the water.

  To R
emi’s unspoken question Sam said, “We can’t worry about him. In a minute or so this is all going to be underwater.”

  Remi climbed into the Toyota and across to the passenger’s seat. Sam followed and slammed the door shut behind him. He turned the key. The starter whined and clicked, but the engine refused to start.

  “Come on . . .” Sam muttered.

  He turned the key again. The engine caught, sputtered, died.

  “One more time,” Remi said, gave him a smile and held up crossed fingers.

  Sam closed his eyes, took a breath, and turned the key again.

  The starter clicked over, the engine coughed once, then again, then roared to life.

  Sam was about to shift into gear when they felt the Toyota lurch forward. Remi turned in her seat and saw water lapping at the lower edge of the door.

  “Sam . . .” Remi warned.

  Eyes on the rearview mirror, Sam replied, “I see it.”

  He shifted into reverse and pressed the accelerator. The Toyota’s four-wheel drive bit down. The vehicle began inching backward, the quarter panels shrieking as they were dragged along the rock walls.

  They were shoved forward again.

  “I’m losing traction,” Sam said, worried that the rising water would drown the engine.

  He pressed the accelerator again, and they felt the tires grab hold, only to give way again.

  Sam pounded the steering wheel. “Damn!”

  “We’re afloat,” Remi said.

  Even as the words left her mouth, the Toyota’s hood was being shoved deeper into the slot. Nose-heavy from the engine, the vehicle began tipping downward as the tide shoved the rear upward.

  Sam and Remi were silent for a moment, listening to the water rush around the car and bracing themselves against the dashboard as the Toyota continued pitching downward.

  “How long would we last in the water?” Remi asked.

  “Providing we’re not instantly crushed to pulp? Five minutes until the cold gets us; past that, we lose motor control and go under.”