The Kingdom (7 page)

 

 

Two hours and a hundred sneezes later they returned the last book to its slot. Remi, who had finished photographing the display cases an hour earlier, had helped with the last hundred volumes.

“Nothing,” Sam said, backing away from a bookcase and wiping his hands on his pants. “You?”

“No. I did find something interesting in one of the cases, though.”

She powered up her camera, scrolled to the relevant picture, and showed Sam the display. He studied it for a moment. “What are those?”

“Don’t hold me to it yet, but I think they’re ostrich egg shards.”

“And the engraving? Is it a language? Art?”

“I don’t know. I took them out of the case and photographed each individually as well.”

“What’s the significance?”

“For us in particular, probably nothing. In a larger context . . .” Remi shrugged. “Perhaps a lot.”

In 1999, Remi explained, a team of French archaeologists discovered a cache of two hundred seventy engraved ostrich shell fragments at the Diepkloof Rock Shelter in South Africa. The shards were engraved with geometric patterns that dated back between fifty-five thousand and sixty-five thousand years ago and belonged to what is known as the Howiesons Poort lithic cultural period.

“The experts are still debating the significance of the engravings,” Remi continued. “Some argue it’s artwork; others, a map; still others, a form of written language.”

“Do these look similar?”

“I can’t recall, offhand. But if they’re of the same type as the South African shards,” Remi finished, “then they predate the Diepkloof find by at least thirty-five years.”

“Maybe Lewis didn’t know what he had.”

“I doubt it. Any archaeologist worth his or her salt would recognize these as significant. Once we find Frank and things get back to normal”—Sam opened his mouth to speak, and Remi quickly corrected herself—“normal for us, I’ll look into it.”

Sam sighed. “So for now, all we’ve got that is even remotely related to Nepal is that Devanagari parchment.”

Sam and Remi awoke to the sound of the pilot announcing their final approach to Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport. After having spent the majority of the past three days in the air, it took a solid thirty seconds before either of them was fully awake. Their United–Cathay Pacific–Royal Nepal flight had taken nearly thirty-two hours.

Sam sat up, stretched his arms above his head, then reset his watch to match the digital clock on his seat-back screen. Beside him, Remi’s eyelids fluttered open. “My kingdom for a good cup of coffee,” she murmured.

“We’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes.”

Remi’s eyes opened the rest of the way. “Ah, I’d almost forgotten.”

In recent years, Nepal had gotten into the coffee business. As far as the Fargos were concerned, the beans grown in the country’s Arghakhanchi region produced the best black gold in the world.

Sam smiled at her. “I’ll buy you as much as you can drink.”

“My hero.”

 

 

The plane banked sharply, and they both stared out the window. In the minds of most travelers, the name Kathmandu evokes exotic visions of Buddhist temples and robed monks, trekkers and mountaineers, incense, spice, ramshackle huts, and shadowed valleys hidden by Himalayan peaks. What doesn’t occur to the first-time visitor is the image of a bustling metropolis of 750,000 people with a ninety-eight percent literacy rate.

Seen from the air, Kathmandu seems to have dropped neatly into a crater-like valley surrounded by four towering mountain ranges: the Shivapuri, Phulchowki, Nagarjun, and Chandragiri.

Sam and Remi had been here on vacation twice before. They knew that despite its population, Kathmandu, on the ground, felt like a conglomeration of medium-sized villages shot through with veins of modernism. On one block you might find a thousand-year-old temple to the Hindu Lord Shiva, on the next a cell phone store; on major thoroughfares, sleek hybrid taxis and colorfully decorated rickshaws competing for fares; in a square, located directly across from each other, an Oktoberfest-themed restaurant and a curbside vendor selling bowls of
chaat
to passersby. And of course, tucked into the mountain slopes and atop the craggy peaks surrounding the city, hundreds of temples and monasteries, some older than Kathmandu itself.

 

 

Experienced travelers that they were, Sam and Remi were well prepared for customs and immigration and were passed through with a minimum of fuss. Soon they found themselves outside the terminal, standing on the ground transportation sidewalk beneath a modern curved awning. The terminal’s facade itself was done in pristine terra-cotta, with a deeply sloped roof adorned with hundreds of rectangular insets.

“Where did Selma book us?”

“The Hyatt Regency.”

Remi gave her nod of approval. On their last visit to Kathmandu, in hopes of immersing themselves in Nepali culture, they’d stayed in a hostel that happened to be located next to a yak-breeding corral. Yaks, they discovered, had little concern for modesty, privacy, or sleep.

Sam stepped to the curb to hail a taxi. Behind them came a male voice: “Would you be Mr. and Mrs. Fargo?”

Sam and Remi turned and found themselves facing a man and woman, both in their early twenties and both near-duplicate images of not only each other but Charles King as well—save one startling difference. While the King children had been blessed with their father’s white-blond hair, blue eyes, and big smile, their faces also bore subtle yet distinct Asian characteristics.

Remi gave Sam a sideways glance that he immediately and correctly interpreted: her hunch about Zhilan Hsu had been at least partially right. However, unless the Fargos were assuming too much, her relationship went far beyond that of a common mistress.

“We would be,” Sam replied.

The man, who also shared his father’s height but not his corpulence, stuck out his hand and gave each of them a vigorous handshake. “I’m Russell. This is my sister Marjorie.”

“Sam . . . Remi. We weren’t expecting a reception.”

“We decided to take the initiative,” Marjorie said. “We’re here on some business for Daddy, so it’s no trouble.”

Russell said, “If you’ve never visited Kathmandu before, it can be a bit disconcerting. We’ve got a car. We’ll be happy to take you to your hotel.”

 

 

The Hyatt Regency was two miles northwest of the airport. The ride went smoothly, if not quickly, inside the King children’s Mercedes-Benz sedan. Inside its sound-controlled interior and tinted windows, Sam and Remi found the trip a tad surreal. At the wheel, Russell navigated the confusing narrow streets easily while Marjorie, in the front passenger’s seat, gave them a running travelogue over her shoulder with all the charm of a canned tour guide script.

At last they pulled up to the Hyatt’s covered lobby turnaround. Russell and Marjorie were out of the car and holding open the backseat doors before Sam and Remi had touched the handles.

Like the airport terminal’s, the Hyatt Regency’s architecture was a blend of old and new: a sprawling six-story facade in terra-cotta and cream topped by a pagoda-style roof. The lush manicured grounds occupied twenty acres.

A bellman approached the car, and Russell barked something in Nepali. The man nodded vigorously and forced a smile, then retrieved the luggage from the trunk and disappeared into the lobby.

“We’ll let you get settled in,” said Russell, then handed them each a business card. “Give me a call later, and we can discuss how you’d like to proceed.”

“Proceed?” Sam repeated.

Marjorie smiled. “Sorry, Daddy probably forgot to tell you. He asked us to be your guides while you look for Mr. Alton. See you tomorrow!”

With almost synchronized smiles and waves, the King children climbed back into the Mercedes and pulled away.

Sam and Remi watched the receding car for a few seconds. Then Remi murmured, “Is anyone in the King family normal?”

Forty-five minutes later they were settled into their suite and enjoying their coffee.

 

 

After spending the afternoon lying around the pool relaxing, they returned to their suite for cocktails. Sam ordered a Sapphire Bombay Gin Gibson, and Remi asked for a Ketel One Cosmopolitan. They finished reading the dossier Zhilan had given them at the Palembang Airport. While on the surface it seemed thorough, they found little of substance on which they could start their hunt.

“I have to admit,” Remi said, “the combination of Zhilan Hsu’s and Charlie King’s genes produced . . . interesting results.”

“That’s very diplomatic of you, Remi, but let’s be honest: Russell and Marjorie are scary. Combine their appearance with their over-the-top friendliness and you’ve got a pair of Hollywood-born serial killers. Did you see specific traces of Zhilan in them?”

“No, and I’m half hoping there aren’t. If she’s their mother, that means she was probably eighteen or nineteen when she had them.”

“Which would’ve put King in his mid-forties at the time.”

“Did you notice the lack of Texas accents? I think I caught a trace of Ivy League in some of their vowels.”

“So Daddy shipped them out of Texas and off to college. What I want to know is, how did they know what flight we were on?”

“Charlie King flexing his muscles? Showing us he’s well connected?”

“Probably. That might also explain why he didn’t tell us to expect the Wonder Twins. As powerful as King is, he probably fancies himself a master at keeping people off guard.”

“I’m not fond of having them shadow us everywhere.”

“Neither am I, but let’s play along tomorrow and see what they know about Frank’s activities. I have a sneaking suspicion the King family knows a lot more than they’re letting on.”

“Agreed,” Remi replied. “It all adds up to one thing, Sam: King is trying to play the puppet master. The question is, why? Because he’s a control freak or because he’s hiding something?”

The door chimes rang. As he moved to the door to retrieve an envelope that had just been slid under it, Sam said, “Ah, confirmation of our dinner reservations.”

“Really?”

“Well, only if you can be ready to leave in thirty minutes,” replied Sam.

“Love to, and where are we going?”

“Bhanchka and Ghan,” responded Sam.

“How did you remember?”

“How can you forget such memorable food, the ambience, and Nepalese cuisine in Nepal!”

Twenty-five minutes later Remi had changed into Akris slacks and a top, with a matching jacket thrown over her arm. And Sam, freshly shaved, wearing a blue Robert Graham shirt and dark gray slacks, ushered her out the door.

 

 

Remi was only marginally surprised to awaken at four a.m. to find her husband not in bed but rather in an armchair in the suite’s sitting area. When something was badgering Sam Fargo’s subconscious, he rarely could sleep. She found him under the soft glow of a lamp reading the dossier Zhilan had given them. Using her hip, Remi gently shoved aside the manila folder. Then she settled into his lap and wrapped her long La Perla silk robe tightly around her.

“I think I found the culprit,” he said.

“Show me.”

He flipped through a series of paper-clipped pages. “The daily e-mail reports that Frank was sending King. They start the day he arrived here and end the morning he disappeared. Do you notice anything different about the last three e-mails?”

Remi scanned them. “No.”

“He signed each one ‘Frank.’ Look at the ones prior.”

Remi did so. She pursed her lips. “Simply signed ‘FA.’”

“That’s how he signed e-mails to me too.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Just speculating. I’d say either Frank didn’t send the last three e-mails or he did and was trying to embed a distress signal.”

“I think that’s unlikely. Frank would have found a more clever code.”

“So that leaves us with the other option. He disappeared earlier than King believes.”

“And someone was posing as him,” Remi concluded.

In the predawn gloom, the Range Rover pulled off the main road. Its headlights swept over green terraced fields as it followed the winding road to the bottom of the valley, where it intersected another road, this one narrower and rutted with mud. The Rover bumped along the track for several hundred yards before crossing a bridge. Below, a river churned, its dark waters lapping at the bridge’s lowermost girders. On the opposite bank the Rover’s headlights briefly illuminated a sign. In Nepali, it read “Trisuli.” Another quarter mile brought the Rover to a squat gray-brick building with a patchwork tin roof. Beside a wooden front door, a square window glowed yellow. The Rover coasted to a stop before the building, and the engine shut off.

Russell and Marjorie King climbed out and headed for the door. A pair of shadowed figures emerged from behind each corner of the building and intercepted them. Each man carried an automatic weapon diagonally across his body. Flashlights clicked on, panned over the King children’s faces, then clicked off. With a jerk of the head, one of the guards gestured for the pair to enter.

Through the door, a single man was sitting at a wooden trestle table. Aside from this and a flickering kerosene lantern, the room was barren.

“Colonel Zhou,” Russell King grunted.

“Welcome, my nameless American friends. Please sit.”

They did so, taking the bench across from Zhou. Marjorie said, “You’re not in uniform. Please don’t tell us you’re afraid of Nepalese Army patrols.”

Zhou chuckled. “Hardly. While I’m sure my men would enjoy the target practice, I doubt my superiors would look kindly on my crossing the border without going through proper channels.”