The Kingdom (28 page)

Their benefactor’s instructions were simple: drive ten miles north to the town of Kutina, in the foothills of the Stara Planina Mountains. Find the Kutina Cultural History Museum, and ask to see the Deniv exhibit.

They pulled into Kutina shortly after one in the afternoon and stopped at a café for lunch. Using cobbled-together phrases, Sam and Remi were able to get directions to the museum.

“By the way,” Sam said as he opened the Fiat’s driver’s door, “did you get that man’s name? For the life of me, I can’t remember.”

With her own door half open, Remi paused. Her brows furrowed. “That’s funny . . . neither can I. Something that began with a
C
, I think.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, but was that his first name or his last name? Or both?”

 

Having seen more than their fair share of Eastern Orthodox churches, Sam and Remi were relieved to find the museum was located in an old butter yellow farmhouse overlooking the Iskar River. On either side of the structure was lush green horse pasture.

They parked in the museum’s gravel turnaround, got out, and climbed the porch steps. In the front door’s mullioned window was a universal “Be Back At” clock sign but in Cyrillic. The hands were pointed at two-thirty.

“Twenty minutes,” Sam said.

They sat down on the porch swing and rocked back and forth, chatting and killing time. A light rain began to fall, pattering on the roof above.

Remi asked, “Why don’t we have one of these? It’s relaxing.”

“We do,” Sam replied. “I bought it for you for Arbor Day four years ago.” Sam liked to surprise his wife with gifts on obscure holidays. “I haven’t had the time to put it together yet. I’ll move it to the top of my to do list.”

Remi hugged his arm. “Oh, that’s right. Arbor Day? Are you sure it wasn’t Groundhog Day?”

“No, we were in Ankara on Groundhog Day.”

“Are you sure? I could have sworn Ankara was in March . . .”

 

 

At 2:28 an old green Bulgaralpine coasted into the turnaround and pulled to a stop on the lawn. A lanky woman in granny glasses and a beret climbed out, saw them on the porch, and waved.
“Sdrawei!”
she called.

“Sdrawei!”
Sam and Remi replied in unison. “Hi, there!” and “Do you speak English?” were two phrases they tried to commit to memory whenever they visited a new country.

Sam now used the second phrase as the woman started up the porch steps. She replied, “Yes, I speak English. My sister, she lives in America—Dearborn, Michigan, America. She teaches me over the Internets. I am Sovka.”

Sam and Remi introduced themselves.

Sovka asked, “You have come to see the museums?”

“Yes,” said Remi.

“Good, then. Follow in, please.” Sovka unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Sam and Remi followed. The interior smelled of old wood and cabbage, and the walls were painted in a similar tone as the exterior: faded butter yellow. After hanging up her coat in the foyer closet, the woman led them into a small office in the converted front room.

“What brings you to this museums?” the woman asked.

Sam and Remi had discussed their approach on the way to Kutina and had decided on directness. “We’re interested in Father Arnost Deniv. Someone at the Bulgarian National Library in Sofia suggested you might have some artifacts related to him.”

Sovka’s eyes widened. “The Methodius? They know about our museums at the Methodius? In Sofia?”

Remi nodded. “Indeed they do.”

“Oh, I will be putting this into our soon news flyer paper. What a proud moment for us. To answer question: no, you are mistaken. We do not have
some
of Father Deniv’s personal matters. We have
all
of his personal matters here. May I ask, why are you interested with him?” Sam and Remi explained their book project, and Sovka nodded solemnly. “A dark time for the Church. Good that you are writing about it. Come.”

They followed Sovka out of the office, down the hall, then up a set of switchback steps to the second floor. Here the walls had been torn down, turning what looked like a thousand square feet of bedrooms into an open space. Sovka led them to the southeast corner of the house, where a cluster of glass display cases and hanging tapestries had been arranged to form an alcove. Ceiling pot lights shone down on the cases.

Remi saw it first, followed a moment later by Sam. “Do you see—”

“I do,” he replied.

Sovka asked over his shoulder, “Pardons me?”

“Nothing,” Remi replied.

Even from ten feet away, the curved edge of gold seemed to leap out at them from the case near the wall. Hearts pounding, Sam and Remi stepped into the alcove. There, on the top shelf, resting on a folded jet-black cassock trimmed in burnt orange, was the Theurang disk.

 

 

Sovka spread her arms with a flourish and said, “Welcome to the Deniv Collections. Everything in his possessions at the time of death is here.”

Sam and Remi tore their eyes from the disk and looked around. In all, there were perhaps twenty items, most of it clothing, grooming tools, writing instruments, and a few scraps of correspondence mounted in shadow boxes.

“What’s this item here?” Remi said as casually as possible.

Sovka looked at the Theurang disk. “We are not to be certain. We believe it is a keepsake of sorts, perhaps from within his missionary quest in savage lands.”

“It’s fascinating,” Sam said, leaning closer. “We’ll just have a look around, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I am over here, if help is needed.”

Sovka wandered off but never strayed out of eyesight.

“This complicates matters,” Remi whispered to Sam.

Relieving Besim Mala of his Theurang disk had been an easy decision. Here, however, Arnost Deniv’s disk was a part of recognized history. Breaking into the museum after hours would be easy enough, they knew, but neither Sam nor Remi felt good about that option.

“Let’s confer with our experts,” Remi suggested.

They told Sovka they would be back shortly, then stepped out onto the porch. They dialed Selma, asked her to conference in Jack Karna, then waited through two minutes of squelches and clicks as she made the appropriate connections. Once Karna was on the line, Sam explained their situation.

Remi asked, “Jack, what exactly do you need from the disks to make them compatible with the mural map? Is it the disk itself or the markings on it?”

“Both, I suspect. Is there any chance she would lend it to you?”

“Doubtful,” Sam replied. “This is her pride and joy. And I’m worried that if we ask, she’ll get suspicious. Right now, she’s helpful and cooperative. We don’t want that to change.”

Selma asked, “Jack, how similar in size and shape are the disks?”

“From my research, I would say nearly identical. You’ll know for sure when you compare the one Sam and Remi just sent you with the one you retrieved from the chest.”

Remi said, “Selma, what are you thinking?”

“Too early to say, Mrs. Fargo, but if you’ll all hold for a bit . . .” The line clicked and went silent. True to her word, Selma was back in three minutes: “I can build one,” she said without preamble. “Well, not me, but I have a friend of a friend who can replicate one with tool-and-die CAD/CAM precision. If we supply him with enough of the right kind of pictures, he can model the missing disk.”

Sam said, “I assume you have a specifications list?”

“Sending it to you right now.”

 

 

After securing Sovka’s agreement to let them photograph the Deniv Collection in return for a small donation to the museum’s “New Roof Fund,” Sam and Remi drove back to Sofia, and, following both Selma’s directions and her shopping list, they collected what they needed: two professional-quality triangle-scale rulers, a lazy Susan turntable, a black inch-high display stand on which the disk could rest, and lights and a tripod for Remi’s camera.

They were back in Kutina by four and shooting thirty minutes after that. Careful to pay the right amount of attention to every artifact in the collection lest Sovka become too interested, they photographed each in turn, leaving the Theurang disk for last. Having become bored with the process, Sovka had disappeared into her downstairs office.

“This would be much easier if we were unscrupulous,” Sam observed.

“Think of it as good Karma. Besides, who knows what the penalty for historical artifact theft is in Bulgaria.”

“Both valid points.”

With the light box erected and white linen backdrop in place, Sam set up the lights according to Selma’s instructions. Once done, Remi placed the display stand on the turntable, then the disk flat on the stand. Finally the scaled rulers were put in place, forming an L around the disk.

After taking a series of test shots and making some adjustments to the camera, Remi began shooting: five pictures for each eight-degree turn of the turntable, for a total of forty-five turns or two hundred twenty-five pictures in all. They repeated the process for the disk’s opposite side, then shot another series with it standing upright on its stand. Then, last, a series of close-ups of the disk’s twin faces, concentrating on the symbols.

“Eight hundred pictures,” Remi said, straightening up from her tripod.

“How big is the file?”

Remi checked her camera’s LCD screen. “Wow. Eight gigabytes. Far too big for standard e-mail.”

“I think I know how we can get around that,” Sam replied. “Let’s pack up and get going.”

 

 

After a quick call to Selma, who in turn called Rube, who in turn called his friends at the Sofia Academic Archivist Services Ltd, Sam and Remi found the office open when they arrived back in Sofia at six-thirty. As with his first visit, Sam was asked only to identify himself and offer a code phrase—this one different than the first—before he was led to an adjoining office and a computer terminal. The office’s high-speed Internet line made short work of the picture files, uploading them to Selma’s storage site in less than three minutes. Sam waited for the confirmation message, then returned to the Fiat and Remi.

“Where to now?” she asked.

Sam hesitated. Frowned. They’d been moving so fast since arriving in Kathmandu, they’d had no chance to consider the question.

Sam said, “I vote we go home and regroup.”

“Seconded.”

“Great . . . thanks. We’ll look for him.”

Selma hung up the phone and turned to the group gathered around the maple worktable: Sam, Remi, Pete, and Wendy.

Selma said, “That was George. The Theurang disk model is done. He’s sending it over by bike messenger.”

“Can’t wait to see what eight hundred photos look like in three dimensions,” Remi said.

Arriving home after their Sofia–Frankfurt–San Francisco–San Diego flight, Sam and Remi had made their greetings, then promptly went to bed for a blissful ten hours. Refreshed, and their bodies mostly realigned with California time, they’d met the team in the workroom for a get-up-to-speed meeting.

“No matter how good the model is,” Pete said, “it can’t compare to the real thing.”

Resting in their formfitting black foam trays, the two genuine Theurang disks gleamed under the hard glare of the halogen pendant lights.

“In looks, yes,” Sam replied. “But in utility value . . . As long as it helps point us where we need to go, it’s golden to me.”

Selma asked, “Do you believe any of it?”

“Which parts?”

“The prophecy, Jack’s theory about the Theurang being an evolutionary missing link, Shangri-La . . . all of it.”

Remi answered, “Well, Jack admitted it himself: we only have drawings of the Theurang, and there’s no telling how much they’re based on myth and how much on direct observation. I do think his argument is compelling enough that we should see this through to the end.”

Sam nodded his agreement. “As for Shangri-La . . . A lot of legends are based on a kernel of truth. In modern popular culture, Shangri-La is synonymous with paradise. For the people of Mustang, it may have been nothing more than where the Theurang was originally found—and where it should rightfully be laid to rest. Place names are trivial. It’s the meaning we attach to them that counts.”

“Sam, that’s almost poetic,” Remi said.

He smiled. “I have my moments.”

The intercom buzzed. Selma answered it, then walked out. She returned a minute later carrying a cardboard box. She opened the box, examined the contents, then removed them. She placed the modeled Theurang disk on the foam tray.

The disk was nearly indistinguishable from its mates.

“I’m impressed,” Sam said. “Good call, Selma.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fargo. Should we call Jack?”

“In a bit. First, though, I think it’s time we touch base with King Charlie. I’d like to get him riled enough to talk.”

“What do you mean?” asked Wendy.

“Depending on how reliable his sources in Mustang are, he may believe his plan to drown us in the Kali Gandaki succeeded. Let’s see if we can rattle his cage. Selma, can you get me a secure line on the speaker here?”

“Yes, Mr. Fargo. One moment.”

Soon the line clicked open and began ringing. Charlie King answered with a gruff, “King here.”

“Good morning, Mr. King,” said Sam. “Sam and Remi Fargo here.”

Hesitation. Then a boisterous, “Morning to you too! Haven’t heard from you for a while. I was gettin’ a bit worried you two were renegin’ on our deal.”

“Which deal is that?”

“I got your friend released. Now you’re gonna turn over to me what you’ve found.”

“You’re experiencing a case of wishful memory, Charlie. The deal was that we’d meet with Russell and Marjorie and reach an understanding.”