“Something he didn’t want to end up in the hands of the Nazis,” Remi added. “He kept it to himself, bided his time through the war, then picked up his work again years later.”
“The question is,” Rube said, “why is Charlie King picking up where his father left off? From what we know about him, he never showed the slightest interest in his father’s work.”
“Maybe it’s the Theurang,” Sam said. “Maybe to him, it’s just another fossil to sell.”
“You could be right. If the description of this thing is even remotely accurate, it would be worth a fortune.”
Remi asked, “Rube, do we know whether the Nazi accusations against Lewis ever impacted Charlie?”
“Not that I could find. I think his success speaks for itself. And given how ruthless he is, I doubt anyone has the guts to bring it up anymore.”
“That’s about to change,” Sam said. “Time to push King Charlie’s comfort zone.”
They hung up, talked strategy for a few minutes, then Sam dialed King’s direct line. The man himself picked up on the first ring. “King.”
“Mr. King. Sam Fargo here.”
“I was wonderin’ when you’d get around to callin’. Your pretty wife with you?”
“Safe and sound,” Remi replied sweetly.
“It seems our partnership has hit a rocky patch,” King said. “My kids tell me you ain’t playin’ ball.”
“We’re playing ball,” Sam replied. “Just a different game than you are. Charlie, did you have Frank Alton kidnapped?”
“Kidnapped? Why would I do somethin’ like that?”
“That’s not an answer,” Remi pointed out.
“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 landing 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?”