Текст книги "The Kingdom"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

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.

“You have both made history,” Karna said. “While I don’t imagine the larger world will realize the significance of the find, the people of Mustang and Nepal certainly will. What you have there, in fact, is the final resting place of a Sentinel. The four characters engraved into the top of the box . . . Do you have a better photos of them?”

“No, sorry.”

“Where is the box right now?”

Sam replied, “In San Diego, with Selma, our chief researcher.”

“Oh, goodness. Is she-”

“Fully qualified,” Remi said. “She’s trying to open it-carefully, without damaging it.”

“Very good. I may be able to help her with that.”

“Do you know what’s inside?”

“I may. I’ll come to that shortly. How much did Sushant tell you about the Sentinels and the Theurang?”

“A good overview,” Remi said, “but he made it clear you’re the expert.”

“That’s very true. Well, Sentinels were guardians of the Theurang. The honor was handed down from father to son. They were trained from the age of six for one purpose and one purpose alone. The Himanshu Decree of 1421 was one of four times the Theurang has been evacuated from Lo Monthang. The previous three instances, all of which preceded an invasion, ended favorably, and the Theurang was subsequently returned to the capital. The invasion of 1421 was different, however. The ‘Marshal of the Army’ at the time, Dolma, convinced the King and his advisers that this invasion would be different. He was certain it would spell the beginning of the end of Mustang. Not to mention the prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” Sam prompted.

“Yes. I’ll spare you the particulars, most of which involve Buddhist legend and numerology, but the prophecy stated that a time would come when the Kingdom of Mustang would fall, and the only way it would ever rise again was if the Theurang was returned to its birthplace.”

“Here?” Remi said. “That’s what Sushant told us.”

“My dear friend is mistaken. Not his fault, really. The popular history of Mustang and the Theurang is spotty at best. First, you must understand something: the people of Mustang never considered themselves owners of the Golden Man but rather its caretakers. How exactly did Sushant describe the nature of the Theurang?”

“Its appearance?”

“No, its . . . nature.”

“I think the term he used was ‘birth giver.’”

Karna considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “As a metaphor, perhaps. Mrs. Fargo, you’re an anthropologist by training, are you not?”

“That’s right.”

“Good, good. Give me just a moment.” Karna stood up and disappeared down the side hall. They heard what sounded like books being shuffled on a shelf, then Karna returned carrying two leather-bound tomes and an inch-thick manila folder. He sat back down, leafed through the books until he found the pages he was looking for, then set them aside, facedown, on the floor.

He said, “The Kingdom of Mustang was never a grand place. The architecture is more functional, more modest-like its people-but long ago they were quite learned, far ahead of the Western world in many ways.”

Karna turned to Remi. He asked, “You’re an anthropologist, what do you know about Ardi?”

“The archaeological find?”

“Indeed.”

Remi thought for a moment. “It’s been a while since I read the reports, but this is what I remember: Ardi’s the nickname given to a four-and-a-half-million-year-old fossil found in Ethiopia. As I recall, the scientific name is Ardipithecus ramidus.

“Though there’s a lot of debate surrounding the find, the consensus is that Ardi is something of a missing link in human evolution-a bridge between higher primates, like monkeys, apes, and humans, and their more distant relatives, like lemurs.”

“Very good. And its characteristics?”

“Skeleton similar to a lemur’s but with primate attributes: grasping hands, opposable thumbs, clawless digits with nails, and short limbs. Did I miss anything?”

“Top marks,” replied Karna. He opened his manila envelope, pulled out an eight-by-ten color photograph, and handed it to Sam and Remi. “This is Ardi.”

As Remi had described, the fossilized creature, lying on its side in the dirt, looked like a cross between a monkey and a lemur.

“Now,” Karna said, “here’s a popular artist’s rendering of the Theurang.”

He withdrew a piece of paper from his folder and handed it across. The color printout showed a drawing of a gorilla-like creature with massive arms and a squat head dominated by a wide fang-filled mouth and an enormous jutting tongue. Instead of having legs, it was supported by a column of muscle that ended in a single webbed foot.

“Notice any similarities to Ardi?” Karna asked.

“None,” Sam replied. “This looks like a cartoon.”

“Indeed. It comes from a legend involving Tibet’s first King, Nyatri Tsenpo, who was said to have descended from the Theurang. In Tibet, over the millennia, the Theurang became something of a boogeyman. The Mustang version, however, is quite different.” Karna picked up one of the books and handed it to Sam and Remi.

The page was open to a crude but highly stylized drawing. The tone was decidedly Buddhist in nature, but there was no mistaking the subject of the rendering.

Remi murmured. “Ardi?”

“Yes,” Karna answered. “As if suddenly animated. This, I believe, is the most accurate portrayal of the Theurang. What you’re looking at, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, is the Golden Man.”

Sam and Remi were silent for a full minute as they stared at the drawing and tried to absorb Karna’s words. Finally Sam said, “You’re not suggesting this creature was-”

“Alive in contemporary Mustang? No, of course not. I suspect the Theurang is a distant cousin of Ardi’s, probably a much later missing link, but certainly millions of years old. I have other drawings that show the Theurang with all of Ardi’s attributes: the grasping hands, the opposable thumbs. Other drawings show it with more primate-like facial features.”

“Why is it called the Golden Man?” asked Sam.

“Legend has it that when on display in Lo Monthang’s Royal Palace, the Theurang was fully assembled and articulated in such a way that it appeared human. In 1315, shortly after Lo Monthang was founded, the first King of Mustang-Ame Pal-decided the Theurang’s aspect wasn’t sufficiently glorious. He had the bones gilded with gold and the eye sockets adorned with gems, along with the fingertips. The teeth, which were said to have been mostly intact, were covered in gold leaf.

“He must have been quite a sight,” Remi said.

“‘Gaudy’ is the word I use,” Karna replied, “but who am I to argue with the Ame Pal?”

Remi said, “Are you suggesting the people here developed a theory of evolution before Darwin did?”

“Theory? No. A firm belief? Absolutely. In the nearly thirty years I’ve spent here, I’ve found texts and artwork that make it clear the people of Mustang firmly believed man sprang from earlier creatures-primates in particular. I can show you cave murals that depict a distinct line of progression from lower forms to modern man. More important, despite popular belief, the Theurang was revered not in a religious sense but rather an historical one.”

“Where did the legend originate?” Sam asked. “Where and when did they find the Theurang?”

“No one knows-or, at least, no one I’ve found. It’s my hope that before I die, I can answer that exact question. Maybe your discovery will be the lost puzzle piece.”

“Do you think the Theurang is in the box we found?”

“Not unless a terrible mistake had been made. One of the skills the Sentinels had to master was celestial navigation. No, I’m quite certain you found the Sentinel where you did because that’s where he was ordered to go.”

“Then what do you think is inside?”

“Either nothing or a clue to the Theurang’s birthplace-the location to which it was allegedly taken in 1421.”

“What kind of clue?” asked Remi.

“A disk, roughly four inches in diameter, hewn from gold and engraved with symbols of some kind. The disk, when used in conjunction with two other disks and a special map, would pinpoint the Theurang’s final resting place.”

“You know nothing else about it?” Sam said.

“I know the name of the place.”

“Which is?”

“The ancient translation is a bit complicated, but you would it know it by its popular moniker: Shangri-La.”

20

LO MONTHANG,

MUSTANG, NEPAL

Karna said, “I can see by your expressions you think I’m winding you up.”

“You don’t strike us as a winding-up kind of guy,” Sam said, “but you have to admit that Shangri-La is a bit of a fairy tale.”

“Is it? What do you know about it?”

“It’s a fictional utopia, a valley located somewhere in the Himalayas, filled with ridiculously happy and worry-free people.”

“You forgot immortal,” Remi said.

“Right, sorry. Immortal.”

“That’s Shangri-La as depicted in the novel: James Hilton’s 1933 Lost Horizon. Another example of popular culture shanghaiing and adulterating a fascinating-and possibly true-tale.”

“You have our attention,” Remi said.

“Mention of Shangri-La, and its analogues, can be found in many cultures in Asia. Tibetans refer to it as Nghe-Beyul Khimpalung. They believe it is in the Makalu-Barun region or the Kunlun Mountains or, the most recent candidate, the ancient city of Tsaparang in western Tibet. Several places in India have also been proposed as the true location, as well as dozens in China, including Yunnan, Sichuan, Zhongdian . . . Add to the list Bhutan and the Hunza Valley in northern Pakistan.

“Now, here’s the truly interesting part: as you know, the Nazis were a bit mad for the occult. The expedition Lewis ‘Bully’ King was a part of in 1938 . . . One of its objectives was to find Shangri-La. They felt certain it would be home to an ancient master race, Aryans unspoiled by time and genetic impurities.”

“We didn’t know that,” Remi said.

“Perhaps King Charles isn’t after the Theurang alone but Shangri-La as well,” Karna said.

“Anything’s possible,” Sam replied. “But King doesn’t strike me as a big believer in the fantastic, true or otherwise. If he can’t touch it, see it, or smell it-”

“Or sell it,” Remi added.

“Or sell it, he’s not interested,” Sam finished. “What do you believe, Karna? I assume you believe it’s real? Of all the possibilities you presented, which one fits?”

“None of the above. My research and my instincts tell me that for the people of Mustang, Shangri-La represented a wellspring-both the birthplace and the eternal resting place of the Theurang, a creature they believed was their universal ancestor. I suspect what we today call Shangri-La was where the Theurang was originally discovered. How long ago, I cannot say, but that’s what I believe.”

“And if you had to place money on its location?” Remi asked.

“I think the Tibetan etymology holds the key: shang, which is also tsang, combined with ri, together means mountain, and la, means pass.”

“So, Tsang Mountain Pass,” Remi said.

“Not quite. In the royal dialect of ancient Mustang, laalso means gorge or canyon.”

“The Tsangpo Gorge,” Sam replied. “That’s a lot of territory. The river that runs through it-the Yarlung Tsangpo-is how long? A hundred twenty miles?”

“One hundred fifty,” Karna answered. “Bigger than your Grand Canyon, in many ways. And the mountains are thickly forested. Some of the most daunting terrain in the world.”

“If you’re right about the location and the legend,” Remi said, “it’s no wonder Shangri-La’s remained hidden all this time.”

Karna smiled. “As we sit here together, we may be closer to finding it-and the Golden Man-than anyone else in history.”

“Closer, perhaps,” Sam replied, “but not there. You said we need all three disks. Let’s say the chest Selma has contains one of them. We’ll still need the other two.”

“And the map,” said Remi.

“The map is the least of our hurdles,” Karna said. “I’ve located four candidates, one of which I’m certain will serve our purposes. As for the other two disks . . . How do you feel about the Balkans?”

Sam and Remi exchanged glances. Remi said, “We once had some bad lamb in Bulgaria, but, aside from that, we have nothing against it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Karna said with a mischievous smile. “What I’m about to tell you I’ve never shared with anyone. Despite the high regard in which I’m held here, I am not sure how my adopted countrymen would welcome my theory.”

“Again, you have our attention,” Sam said.

“Three years ago, I uncovered some texts I believe were written by the personal secretary to the King in the weeks leading up to the 1421 invasion.”

“What kind of texts?”

“A personal diary of sorts. The King had of course been informed of the strength of the invading army, and he agreed with the prophecy that Mustang’s demise was at hand. Further, he had his doubts that the Sentinels could carry out their duties. He felt the odds against them were overwhelming. He was also convinced someone from within his inner circle had turned traitor and was feeding the enemy information.

“In secret, he assigned the finest of the Sentinels-a man known as Dhakal-the task of transporting the Theurang to Shangri-La. In two of the three chests ostensibly containing the disks, he placed fakes. One was genuine.”

“And the other two disks?” asked Remi.

“Given to a pair of priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

Neither Remi nor Sam spoke immediately. Karna’s non sequitur was so abrupt, they weren’t sure they’d heard him correctly.

“Say that again,” said Sam.

“A year before the invasion, Lo Monthang was visited by a pair of priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

“This was the fifteenth century,” Remi said. “At that time, the nearest outpost of the Church would have been . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.

“In present-day Uzbekistan,” Karna replied. “Fourteen hundred miles from here. And to answer your question, no, I have found no mention in Church histories referring to missionaries traveling that far east. I have something better. I’ll get to that shortly.

“As the King’s diary tells, he welcomed the missionaries into his court, and they soon became friends. A few months after they arrived, an attempt was made on the King’s life. The priests came to his aid, and one of them was wounded. He became convinced these two foreigners were part of the prophecy, sent to ensure the Theurang could one day be returned to Lo Monthang.”

“So he gave each of them a disk for safekeeping and sent them back to their home countries before the invasion,” Remi guessed.

“Exactly so.”

“Please tell me you found references to them somewhere,” Sam asked.

Karna smiled. “I did. Fathers Besim Mala and Arnost Deniv. Both names appear in Church records from the fifteenth century. Both men were dispatched to Samarkand, Uzbekistan, in 1414. With the death of Genghis Khan, the weakening of the Mongol Empire, and the rise of Tamerlane, the Eastern Orthodox Church was keen on spreading Christianity to the heathens, as it were.”

“What became of our intrepid priests?” Remi asked.

“Mala died in 1436 on the Albanian island of Sazani. Deniv died six years after that in Sofia, Bulgaria.”

“The time line fits,” said Sam. “If they left Lo Monthang in 1421, they would have made it back to the Balkans a year or so later.”

Sam and Remi fell silent, each lost in thought.

Karna said, “A bit fantastic, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you said it,” Sam replied. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

“I’m not offended. I know how it sounds. And you’re right to be skeptical. I myself spent the first year after I found the diary trying to debunk it, with no success. Here’s what I propose: I will turn over my research notes to this Selma of yours. If she can disprove my theory, so be it. If not, then . . .”

“Balkans, here we come,” Remi said.

From his living quarters, Karna retrieved his laptop, an Apple MacBook Pro with a seventeen-inch screen, which he placed on the coffee table before them. He connected one end of an Ethernet cable to the laptop’s port and the other to a wall jack leading up to what Sam and Remi guessed was Karna’s satellite dish.

Soon, Selma’s face appeared in the iChat window. Standing behind her, looking over each shoulder, were Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden, and, behind them, the workspace in the Fargos’ San Diego home. Predictably, Selma was in her uniform of the day: horn-rimmed glasses on a neck chain and a tie-dyed T-shirt.

Accommodating a three-second satellite transmission delay, Remi made the introductions, then brought Selma and the others up to speed. As was her way, Selma asked no questions during Remi’s report, and was silent for a full minute afterward as she mentally collated the information.

“Interesting,” was all she said.

“That’s it?” Sam asked.

“Well, I assume you’ve already told Mr. Karna, in your own diplomatic way, how far-fetched this sounds.”

At this, Jack Karna chuckled. “They did indeed, Ms. Wondrash.”

“Selma.”

“Jack, then.”

“Do you have your research material digitized?”

“Of course.”

Selma gave Karna a link to the office’s server, then said, “Upload it there, and I’ll start working through it. In the meantime, I’ll turn the chest over to Pete and Wendy. The three of you can see about opening it.”

It took twenty minutes to upload all of Karna’s research notes. Once done, and after badgering Sam and Remi into having a nap in his guest room, Karna, Pete, and Wendy went to work on the box. Karna first asked to see enhanced pictures of the chest, including a close-up of the engraved characters.

He peered at them on his laptop screen, tilting his head first one way, then the other, until muttering something under his breath. He stood up suddenly, marched down the hallway, and returned a minute later with a tiny book bound in red-dyed textile. This he flipped through for several more minutes before calling, “Aha! Just as I thought: the characters are a derivation of Lowa and yet another royal dialect. The inscription is meant to be read vertically, from right to left. Roughly translated, it says:

“Through fulfillment, prosperity

“Through resistance, anguish . . .”

Wendy said, “I think I read that in a self-help book once.”

“I have no doubt,” Karna said, “but in this case it’s intended as a warning-a curse. I suspect these characters were inscribed on each of the Sentinels’ boxes.”

Pete said, “In short, ‘Take this to its destination, and you’ll find happiness; interfere with or impede that, and you’re screwed.’”

“Impressive, young man,” said Karna. “Not the words I would use, of course, but you arrested the gist of the message.”

“Would this have been intended for the Sentinels?” Wendy asked.

“No, I don’t think so. It was designed for the enemy or anyone who came into possession through illicit means.”

“But if the dialect is that obscure, who aside from Mustang royalty would have been able to understand the warning?”

“That’s beside the point. The curse stands, ignorance be damned.”

“Harsh,” said Pete.

“Let’s take a closer look at this box, shall we? In one of Remi’s pictures, I noticed the tiniest of seams along a bottom edge of the box.”

“We noticed that too,” Wendy replied. “Hold on, we’ve got a close-up . . .”

A few clicks of the mouse later, the image in question filled Karna’s screen. He studied the photo for several minutes before saying, “Do you see the seam I’m talking about? The one that looks like a series of eight dashes?”

“Yes,” said Pete.

“And the full seam opposite that?”

“Got it.”

“Forget that one. It’s a decoy. Unless I miss my guess, the dashed seam is a combination lock, of sorts.”

“The gaps are almost paper-thin,” said Wendy. “How can-”

“Two millimeters, I would say. You’ll need a shim, of sorts; a thin but strong type of metal or alloy. Inside each of those dashes will be a brass or bronze flange, each with three vertical depression settings: up, middle, and fully down.”

“Hold on,” Wendy said. “I’m doing the math . . . That’s over sixty-five hundred possible combinations.”

“Not overly daunting,” Pete said. “With enough patience, and time, you could eventually pick it.”

Karna said, “True, if not for one fact: you only get one crack at it. Enter the wrong combination, and the internal mechanism locks itself.”

“That does complicate things.”

“We’ve not yet begun to unravel the complications, my boy. Once past the combination, the real challenge begins.”

“How?” Wendy said. “What?”

“Have you ever heard of a Chinese puzzle box?”

“Yes.”

“Think of what you have before you as the mother of all Chinese puzzle boxes. As it so happens, I believe I have the combination to the initial locking mechanism. Shall we get started . . . ?”

Three hours later Sam and Remi, now awake, refreshed, and armed with cups of tea, joined Karna before his laptop just in time to hear Pete exclaim through the iChat window, “Got it!” On-screen, he and Wendy were leaning over the worktable, the Sentinel box between them. It was brightly illuminated by an overhead halogen lamp.

Another iChat screen popped up on the screen, this one displaying Selma’s face: “Got what?”

“It’s a Chinese puzzle box,” replied Wendy. “Once we got past the combination, a narrow panel popped open. Inside were three tiny wooden switches. Following Jack’s directions, we flipped one. Another panel opened, then more switches, and so on . . . How many moves now, Jack?”

“Sixty-four. One more to go. If we’ve done our job, it’ll open. If not, we may lose the contents forever.”

“Explain that,” Sam said.

“Oh, goodness, I didn’t mention the booby trap, did I? So sorry.”

“Mention it now,” Remi said.

“If the box contains a disk, it will be suspended in the middle of the primary compartment. Set into the sides of that compartment will be glass vials filled with corrosive liquid. If your last move is the wrong one or you try to force the compartment open . . .” Karna made a hissing sound. “You get an unidentifiable lump of gold.”

“I hope I’m wrong,” said Selma, “but I don’t think there’s a disk in there.”

“Why?” asked Pete.

“Odds. Sam and Remi stumble upon the only Sentinel box ever found and it just happens to contain the one genuine disk in the bunch?”

Karna said, “But they didn’t ‘stumble’ upon it, did they? They were following in the footsteps of Lewis King-a man who had spent at least eleven years chasing the Theurang. Whatever his motives, I doubt he was on a goose chase that day at Chobar Gorge. It appears he never found the Sentinel’s burial chamber, but I suspect he wasn’t there for an empty box.”

Selma considered this. “Logical,” was all she said.

“One way to find out,” Sam said. “Who’s going to do the honors? Pete . . . Wendy?”

Pete said, “I’m nothing if not chivalrous. Go ahead, Wendy.”

Wendy took a deep breath, reached into the box, and flipped the appropriate switch. An inch-wide rectangular hatch slid open beside her fingers.

Karna said softly, “Now gently slide your pinkie finger up along the inside of the box until you feel a square button.”

Wendy did so. “Okay, got it.”

“Slide that button . . . let me see . . . slide it to the right-no, left! Slide it to the left.”

“Left,” Wendy repeated. “Are you sure?”

Karna hesitated a moment, then nodded firmly. “Yes, left.”

“Here I go.”

Through the laptop’s speaker Sam and Remi heard a wooden snick.

Wendy cried, “The top’s open!”

“Now carefully lift the lid straight upward. If it’s there, the disk will be suspended from the underside.”

Moving with exaggerated slowness, Wendy began lifting the lid an inch at a time. “It’s got some heft to it.”

“Don’t let it swing,” Karna whispered. “A little more . . .”

Pete rasped, “I can see a cord hanging down. Looks like catgut or something similar.”

Wendy kept lifting.

The halogen light reflected off something solid, a curved edge, a glint of gold.

“Be ready, Peter,” said Karna.

Wendy lifted the lid the rest of the way. The remainder of the cord rose from the box. Dangling at its end: the prize, a four-inch-wide golden disk.

With latex-gloved hands, Pete reached out. Wendy lowered the disk into his palms, and he transferred it to a foam-lined tray on the table.

The group let out a collective breath.

“Now comes the hard part,” Karna said.

“What?” Wendy said with exasperation. “That wasn’t the hard part?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. Now we must ascertain whether we do in fact have the genuine article.”