The Kingdom

by Clive Cussler

  Water began gushing through the door seams.

  Remi said, “Let’s not do that, then.”

  “Right.” Sam closed his eyes, thinking. Then: “The winch. We’ve got them on each bumper.”

  He searched the dashboard for the controls. He found a toggle switch labeled Rear and flipped it from Off to Neutral. He said to Remi, “When I give the word, flip that to Engage.”

  “You think it’s powerful enough to drag us?”

  “No,” Sam replied. “I need a headlamp.”

  Remi rummaged around the backpack and came out with the headlamp. Sam settled it on his head, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then climbed over the seat, using the headrest as a handhold. He repeated this maneuver until he was wedged into the Toyota’s cargo area. He unlatched the glass hatch, shoved it open, then, lying with his back pressed against the seat, mule-kicked the hatch until the glass tore free from its hinges and plunged into the water. He stood up.

  Below, the water churned over the Toyota’s undercarriage. Icy mist billowed around him.

  Remi called, “The engine’s dead.”

  Sam hinged forward at the waist, reached down, and grabbed the winch hook with both hands. Hand over hand, he began taking up the slack.

  The winch froze.

  “Climb up to me!”

  Remi scrabbled over the front seat, reached back, retrieved the backpack, and handed it to Sam, then used his extended arm to climb into the cargo area.

  “No!” she cried.

  “What?”

  Sam looked down. The beam of his headlamp illuminated a ghostly white face pressed against plastic sheeting.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “I forgot to tell you. Meet the real Mr. Thule.”

  “Poor man.”

  The Toyota shuddered, slid sideways a few feet, then stopped, wedged tightly in the rock archway and standing perfectly upright.

  Remi tore her eyes off the dead man’s face and said, “I assume we’re climbing again.”

  “With any luck.”

  Sam peeked over the tailgate. The water had enveloped the rear tires.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Two minutes. Help me.”

  He turned his body sideways, and Remi helped him don the backpack. Next, he flipped his right leg over the tailgate, then his left, then slowly stood up, arms extended for balance. Once steady, he shone his headlamp over the rock face beside the Toyota.

  It took him three passes before he found what he needed: a two-inch-wide vertical fissure fifteen feet above them and three feet to the right. Above that, a series of handholds that led to the top of the cliff.

  “Okay, hand it up,” Sam said to Remi.

  She extended the winch hook toward him. He leaned down, grabbed it. His foot slipped, and he crashed onto one knee. He regained his balance and stood erect again, this time with his left arm braced on the Toyota’s roof rack.

  “Go get ’em, cowboy,” Remi said with a brave smile.

  Winch hook dangling from his right hand, Sam swung the cable like a propeller until he’d gained enough momentum, then let it fly. The hook clinked against the rock face, slid sideways over the fissure, and plunged into the water.

  Sam retrieved the hook and tried again. Another miss.

  He felt cold water envelop his left foot. He looked down. The water was past the bumper and was now lapping up against the tailgate.

  “We’ve sprung more leaks,” Remi said.

  Sam tossed the hook again. This time it slid cleanly into the fissure and bit down momentarily before coming free.

  “Fourth time’s the charm, right?”

  “I think the phrase is—”

  “Work with me, Fargo.”

  Sam chuckled. “Right.”

  Sam took a moment to tune out the churning water and the pounding of his heart. He closed his eyes, refocused, then opened his eyes and began swinging the cable again.

  He let go.

  The hook sailed upward, clanked off the rock, and began sliding toward the fissure. Sam realized the speed was too great. As the hook skipped over the crack, he snapped the cable sideways. The hook snapped backward like a striking snake and wedged itself in the fissure.

  Gently, Sam gave the cable a tug. It held. Another tug. The hook slipped, then bit down again. Then, hand over hand, he began taking up tension on the cable until the hook was buried up to its eyelet.

  “Yee-haw!” Remi called.

  Sam extended his hand and helped Remi over the tailgate. Water was sloshing over their feet and tumbling into the Toyota’s interior. Remi nodded toward the corpse of Mr. Thule.

  “I don’t suppose we could take him with us?”

  “Let’s not push our luck,” Sam replied. “We will, however, add him to the list of things Charlie King and his evil spawn have to answer for.”

  Remi sighed, nodded.

  Sam gestured grandly to the cable. “Ladies first.”

  18

  LO MONTHANG,

  MUSTANG, NEPAL

  Twenty hours after Sam and Remi climbed over the cliff top and left the Toyota to the waters of the Kali Gandaki, the pickup truck in whose bed they were riding coasted to a stop at a fork in the dirt road.

  The driver, Mukti, a gap-toothed Nepali with a crew cut, called through the back window, “Lo Monthang,” and pointed at the road heading north.

  Sam gently shook Remi awake from her curled position against a bag of goat feed and said, “Home sweet home.”

  She groaned, pushed aside the coarse cotton, and sat up, yawning. “I was having the weirdest dream,” she said. “Something similar to The Poseidon Adventure, but we were trapped inside a Toyota Land Cruiser.”

  “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “Are we there?”

  “More or less.”

  Sam and Remi thanked the driver, climbed out, and watched as the truck turned onto the south fork and disappeared around the bend. “Too bad about the language barrier,” Remi said.

  With only a smattering of Nepali words and phrases between them, neither Sam nor Remi had been able to tell their driver that he had possibly saved their lives. For all he knew, he’d simply picked up a pair of wayward foreigners who’d somehow lost their tour group. His indulgent smile suggested this was not a rare event in these parts.

  Now, exhausted but thankfully warm and dry, they stood on the outskirts of their destination.

  Surrounded by a tall wall of patchwork rock, brick, and mud-thatch mortar, the ancient capital of the once-great Kingdom of Mustang was small, occupying a half mile square in a shallow valley surrounded by low rolling hills. Inside Lo Monthang’s walls, most of the structures were also constructed from a mishmash of mud and brick, all of it painted in shades of white ranging from grayish to brownish and bordered with layered thatch roofing. Four structures rose above the rest: the Royal Palace and the red-roofed Chyodi, Champa, and Tugchen temples.

  “Civilization,” Remi said.

  “Everything is relative,” Sam agreed.

  After they had wandered the wilds of Mustang for what seemed like days, the otherwise medieval Lo Monthang seemed positively metropolitan.

  They started walking up the dirt road toward the main gate. Halfway there, a boy of eight or ten appeared and sprinted toward them, calling, “Fargos? Fargos?”

  Sam raised his hand in greeting and called in Nepali, “Namaste. Hoina.” Hello. Yes.

  The boy, now beaming, skidded to a stop before them and said, “Follow, yes? Follow?”

  “Hoina,” Remi replied.

  After leading them through the winding alleys of Lo Monthang under the curious gaze of hundreds of villagers, the boy stopped before a thick wooden door set in a whitewashed wall. He lifted the tarnished brass knocker, rapped twice, then said to Sam and Remi, “Pheri bhetaunla,” then scampered off down a side alley.

  They heard footsteps clicking on wood from inside the building, and a few seconds later the door swung open, revealing a frail mid-sixties man w
ith long gray hair and a matching beard. His face was heavily lined and brown. To their surprise, he greeted them with an upper-crust British accent:

  “Good morning. Sam and Remi Fargo, I presume?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Sam said, “Yes. Good morning. We’re looking for a Mr. Karna. Sushant Dharel from Kathmandu University arranged a meeting.”

  “Indeed he did. And indeed you have.”

  “Pardon?” Remi replied.

  “I am Jack Karna. Well, where are my manners? Please come in.”

  He stood aside, and Sam and Remi stepped inside. Similar to the exterior of the building, the interior walls were whitewashed, and the floor was constructed with old but well-scrubbed wooden planks. Several Tibetan-style rugs covered the floor, and the walls were dotted with tapestries and framed bits of parchment. Along the west wall, beneath thick casement windows, was a seating area with cushions and pillows and a low coffee table. Against the east wall was a potbellied stove. A small hallway led out of the room and into what looked like a sleeping area.

  Karna said, “I was about to send out a search party for you. You look a bit travel worn. Are you quite all right?”

  “We had a bit of a hiccup in our travel plans,” Sam offered.

  “Indeed you did. News reached me a few hours ago. Some trekkers found a guide vehicle destroyed in one of the chokes south of here. Two bodies washed ashore near Kagbeni. I feared the worst.” Before they could answer, Karna ushered them toward the pillows, where they sat down. “The tea is ready. Give me just a moment.”

  A few minutes later he placed a silver tea service on the table, along with a plate piled high with scones and crustless cucumber sandwiches. Karna poured tea and then sat down across from them.

  “Now. Do tell me your tale,” Mr. Karna prompted.

  Sam recounted their journey, beginning with their arrival in Jomsom and ending with their arrival at Lo Monthang. He left out any mention of King’s involvement in the assassination attempt. Through it all, Karna asked no questions, and, aside from a few arches of his eyebrow, gave no reaction.

  “Extraordinary,” he said at last. “And you have no idea of this impostor’s name?”

  “No,” said Remi. “He was in a bit of a hurry.”

  “I can imagine. Your escape is the stuff of Hollywood.”

  “Par for the course, unfortunately,” Sam said.

  Karna chuckled. “Before we go on, I should make the local brahmins—the council—aware of what happened.”

  “Is that necessary?” Sam asked.

  “Necessary, and of benefit to you. You are in Lo Monthang now, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. We may be a part of Nepal, but we are quite autonomous. Have no fear, you will not be held responsible for what happened, and unless the council considers it absolutely necessary, the Nepalese government will not be involved. You are safe here.”

  Sam and Remi considered what he had said, then gave their assent.

  Karna picked up a brass bell from the floor beside his cushion and rang it once. Ten seconds later the boy who greeted them on the approach road appeared from the side hallway. He stopped before Karna and bowed sharply.

  In what sounded like rapid-fire Lowa, Karna spoke to the boy for thirty seconds. The boy asked a single question, then bowed again, walked to the front door, and stepped out.

  Karna said, “Fear not. All will be well.”

  “Forgive us,” Remi said, “but the curiosity is killing us: your accent is—”

  “Oxford through and through, yes. I am in fact British, though I haven’t been home for . . . fifteen years, I suppose. I have lived in Mustang for thirty-eight years this summer. Most of that time, in this very house.”

  “How did you come to be here?” Sam asked.

  “I came as a student, actually. Anthropology, mainly, with a few side interests. I spent three months here in 1973, then went home. I wasn’t there for two weeks before I realized Mustang had gotten under my skin, as they say, so I returned and never left. The local priests believe I am one of them—reincarnated, of course.” Mr. Karna smiled, shrugged. “Who can say? Without doubt, though, I have never felt more at home anywhere else.”

  “Fascinating,” Sam replied. “What do you do?”

  “I suppose I am an archivist of sorts. And an historian. My main focus is documenting Mustang’s history. Not the history you read on Wikipedia, though.” He saw Remi’s confused expression and said with a smile, “Yes, I know about Wikipedia. I have satellite Internet here. Quite extraordinary, given the remoteness of the place.”

  “Quite,” Remi agreed.

  “I am—and have been for nearly twelve years—writing a book that will, with any luck, serve as a comprehensive history of Mustang and Lo Monthang. A hidden history, if you will.”

  “Which explains why Sushant thought you were the person we should see,” said Sam.

  “Indeed. He told me you were particularly interested in the legend of the Theurang. The Golden Man.”

  “Yes,” replied Remi.

  “He did not, however, tell me why.” Karna was now serious, his eyes peering hard at Sam and Remi. Before they could answer, he went on: “Please understand. I mean no offense, but your reputation has preceded you. You are professional treasure hunters, are you not?”

  “It’s not the term we prefer,” Sam replied, “but it’s technically accurate.”

  Remi added, “We keep none of what we find for ourselves. Any financial compensation goes to our foundation.”

  “Yes, I read that. Your reputation is in fact quite good. The trouble is, you see, I have had visitors before. People after the Theurang for what I fear were nefarious reasons.”

  “Did these people happen to be a young man and woman?” Sam asked. “Caucasian twins with Asian features.”

  Karna’s left eyebrow arched. “Spot-on. They were here a few months ago.”

  Sam and Remi shared a glance. Silently, they agreed they could and should trust Karna. They were in as remote a location as they’d ever been, and the attempt on their lives the day before told them Charles King had taken the gloves off. Not only did they need Karna’s knowledge but they needed a trustworthy ally.

  “Their names are Russell and Marjorie King. Their father is Charles King—”

  “King Charlie,” Karna interrupted. “I read an article about him in the Wall Street Journal last year. Bit of a cowboy, I gather. A bumpkin, yes?”

  “A very powerful bumpkin,” Remi replied.

  “Why on earth does he want you dead?”

  “Why, precisely, we’re not sure,” Sam replied, “but we’re convinced he’s after the Theurang.”

  Sam went on to recount their affiliation with Charles King. He left nothing out. He told Karna what they knew, what they suspected, and what remained a mystery.

  “Well, one mystery I can address immediately,” Karna said.

  “These evil twins, the King children, clearly gave me a bogus name. But during their visit, they did mention the name Lewis ‘Bully’ King. When I told them what I’m about to tell you, they reacted with no apparent shock. Strange, given who they are.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That Lewis King is dead. He died in 1982.”

  19

  LO MONTHANG,

  MUSTANG, NEPAL

  Shocked, Sam and Remi didn’t speak for several moments. Finally Remi said, “How did he die?”

  “Fell into a crevasse about ten miles from here. In fact, I helped recover his body. He is buried in the local cemetery.”

  “And you told the King twins this?” Sam asked.

  “Indeed. Their reaction was one of . . . disappointment, I suppose. Now, knowing who they are, it seems particularly coldhearted, doesn’t it?”

  “In keeping with the family character,” Remi replied. “Did they tell you why they were looking for him?”

  “They were very evasive, which is why I found an excuse to cut our visit short. All I could gather was, they were looking for King and
had an interest in the Theurang. I didn’t much care for the cut of their jib. It’s nice to know my instincts were right. So, it seems clear that Charles King knew his father was dead when he contacted you.”

  “And knew it when he hired Alton,” Sam said. “The report about the photo showing Lewis here was another fabrication.”

  “All designed to get you involved in the hunt for the Golden Man,” Karna added. “Not much of a deep thinker, this King, is he? He expected you would come here to find your friend, then pick up the hunt for the Theurang without getting suspicious, then lead the twins straight to it.”

  “So it seems,” Remi said. “The best-laid plans . . .”

  “Of country cretins and loathsome offspring,” Karna finished. “The larger question is, why is the Theurang so important to King? You don’t suppose he’s some kind of closet Nazi, do you, picking up the banner of his father’s expedition?”

  “We don’t think so,” said Sam. “We’ve started to wonder if it’s simply an obsession or a side business like his black market fossil endeavors. Either way, the Kings have kidnapped and murdered for the Theurang.”

  “Not to mention enslaved,” Remi added. “The people at the dig site can’t come and go as they please.”

  “That too. Regardless of his motives, we can’t let the Golden Man fall into his hands.”

  Karna picked up his teacup and raised it in salute. “It’s decided, then: we are at war with the King family. All for one?”

  Sam and Remi raised their cups and said in unison, “And one for all.”

  “Tell me more about the burial chamber you found,” Karna said. “Leave nothing out.”

  Remi briefly described the alcove they’d found in the Chobar Gorge cave, then retrieved her iPad from the backpack and brought up the gallery of photos she’d taken during their exploration. She handed it to Karna.

  Fascinated by the iPad, he spent a minute turning it over in his hands and playing with the interface before looking up, wide-eyed, at Sam and Remi.

  “I really must get one of these. All right . . . to business.” He spent the next ten minutes studying Remi’s photos, panning and zooming the iPad’s interface, clicking his tongue and muttering words like “wondrous” and “astonishing.” At last, he handed the iPad back to Remi.