Текст книги "The Kingdom"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

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 melange. 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 it.”

“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 tsstand 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 Remi’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.”

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 with 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 Journallast 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.”