The Kingdom fa-3 Read online

  King offered them an aw-shucks smile. “He had a generous and gullible donor. To be fair, though, he never asked for much: five thousand here and there. Workin’ alone, he didn’t have much overhead, and he knew how to live cheap. Most of the places he traveled, you could live for a few bucks a day.”

  “Did he have a home?”

  “A little place in Monterey. I never sold it. Never did anything with it, in fact. It’s still mostly the way it was when he went missin’. And, yeah, I know what you’re gonna ask. Back in ’seventy-three I had some people go through his house lookin’ for clues, but they didn’t find nothin’. You’re welcome to look for yourselves, though. Zee’ll get you the info.”

  “Did Frank go there?”

  “No, he didn’t think it’d be worth it.”

  “Tell us about the latest sighting,” Sam said.

  “About six weeks ago a National Geographic crew was doing some spread on an old city out there-Lo Manta somethin’ or another-”

  “Lo Monthang,” Remi offered.

  “Yeah, that’s the place. Used to be the capital of Mustang.”

  Like most people, King pronounced the name as he would the horse.

  “It’s pronounced Moos-tong,” Remi replied. “It was also known as the Kingdom of Lo, before it was absorbed by Nepal in the eighteenth century.”

  “Whatever you say. Never did like that sort of stuff. Fell kind of far from the tree, I guess. Anyway, in one of the photos they took there’s this guy in the background. A dead ringer for my dad-or at least how I think he’d look after nearly forty years.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Sam said.

  “It’s all I’ve got. Still wanna take a crack at it?”

  “Of course we do.”

  Sam and Remi stood up to leave. They shook hands all around. “Zee’s got my contact info in there. You’ll be giving her updates. Let me know what you find. I’d appreciate regular reports. Good huntin’, Fargos.”

  Charles King stood in the doorway of his Gulfstream and watched the Fargos return through the gate, mount their scooters, then disappear down the road. Zhilan Hsu came walking back through the gate, trotted up the plane’s stairs, and stopped in front of King.

  “I do not like them,” she said.

  “And why is that?”

  “They do not show you enough respect.”

  “I can do without that, darlin’. Just as long as they live up to their reputation. From what I’ve read, those two have a real knack for this kind of thing.”

  “And if they go beyond what we ask of them?”

  “Well, hell, that’s why I’ve got you, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, Mr. King. Shall I go there now?”

  “No, let’s let things unfold natural-like. Get Russ on the horn, will ya?”

  King walked aft and dropped into one of the recliners with a grunt. A minute later Zhilan’s voice came over the intercom. “I have him ready for you, Mr. King. Please stand by.”

  King waited for the warbled squelch that told him the satellite line was open. “Russ, you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “How’s the dig goin’?”

  “On track. Had some problems with a local making a fuss, but we took care of him. Marjorie’s in the pit right now, cracking the whip.”

  “I’ll bet she is! She’s a pistol. Just keep a sharp eye out for them inspectors. They ain’t supposed to show up outta the blue. I’m paying outta my ears as it is. Anything extra I’m takin’ outta your salary.”

  “I’ve got it under control.”

  “Good. Now, tell me somethin’ good. Find anything juicy?”

  “Not yet. But we came across some trace fossils that our expert says are promising.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve heard that before. You forgettin’ about that con man in Perth?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The one who told you he had one of them Malagasy dwarf hippo fossils? He was supposed to be an expert too.”

  “And I handled him, didn’t I?”

  King paused. His scowl faded, and he chuckled. “That, you did. But listen up, son. I want one of them Calico whatchamacallits. A real one.”

  “Chalicotherium,” Russ corrected.

  “I don’t give a damn what it’s called! Latin! God save me. Just get me one! I already told that no-good Don Mayfield I got one comin’, and I got a space all ready for it. We clear?”

  “Yes, sir, we’re clear.”

  “Okay, then. New business: just met with our newest recruits. Sharp operators, the both of ’em. I imagine they ain’t gonna waste much time. With any luck, they’ll probably have a poke around the Monterey place, then head your way. I’ll let you know when they’re in the air.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure you keep a tight leash on ’em, you hear me? If they get away from you, I’ll have your hide.”

  3

  GOLDFISH POINT, LA JOLLA,

  NEAR SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  After parting company with King, Sam and Remi had returned to Pulau Legundi, where, as expected, they found Professor Stan Dydell surveying the site. Remi’s former teacher at Boston College had taken a sabbatical to participate in the multiple excavations. After hearing their news about Alton, Dydell agreed to oversee the dig until they returned or found a permanent replacement.

  Thirty-six hours and three connections later they landed in San Diego at noon local time. Sam and Remi had driven straight to the Alton home to break the news to Frank’s wife. Now, with their luggage deposited in their own home’s foyer, they’d made their way downstairs to Selma’s domain, the workroom.

  Measuring two thousand square feet, the high-ceilinged space was dominated by a twenty-foot-long maple-topped worktable lit from above by halogen pendant lamps and surrounded by high-backed stools. Along one wall was a trio of half cubicles-each equipped with a brand-new 12-core Mac Pro workstation and a thirty-inch Cinema HD Display-a pair of glassed-in offices, one each for Sam and Remi, an environmentally controlled archive vault, a small screening room, and a research library. The opposite wall was dedicated to Selma’s only hobby: a fourteen-foot, five-hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium filled with a rainbow-hued assortment of fish. Its soft gurgling lent the workroom a mellow ambience.

  Above the first-floor work space, the Fargos’ home was a three-story, twelve-thousand-square-foot Spanish-style house with an open floor plan, vaulted ceilings, and enough windows and skylights that they rarely had their lights on for more than a couple hours a day. What electricity they did draw was primarily supplied by a robust array of newly installed solar panels on the roof.

  The top floor contained Sam and Remi’s master suite. Directly below this were four guest suites, a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen/great room that jutted over the cliff and overlooked the ocean. On the second floor was a gymnasium containing both aerobic and circuit training exercise equipment, a steam room, a Hydro-Worx endless lap pool, a climbing wall, and a thousand square feet of hardwood floor space for Remi to practice her fencing and Sam his judo.

  Sam and Remi took a pair of stools at one corner of the worktable. Selma joined them. She wore her traditional work attire: khaki pants, sneakers, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses complete with a neck chain. Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden wandered over to listen. Tan, fit, blond, and easygoing, Selma’s assistants were quintessential Californians but far from beach bums. Jeff had a degree in archaeology, Wendy in social sciences.

  “She’s worried,” Remi now said. “But did a good job of hiding it, for the kids. We told her we’d keep her updated. Selma, if you could touch base with her every day while we’re gone . . . ?”

  “Of course. How was your audience with His Highness?”

  Sam recounted their meeting with Charlie King. “Remi and I discussed this on the plane. He says all the right things and has the ol’ country boy routine down pat, but something doesn’t sit right about him.”

  “His girl Friday, for one
thing,” Remi said, then described Zhilan Hsu. While outside King’s presence, the woman had a thoroughly unnerving demeanor, her behavior aboard the Gulfstream had told a different story. King’s displeasure over the number of ice cubes in his Jack Daniel’s and her mortified reaction told them not only that she was frightened of her employer but that he was a domineering control freak.

  “Remi’s also got an interesting hunch about Ms. Hsu,” Sam said.

  Remi said, “She’s his mistress. Sam’s not so sure, but I’m positive. And King’s grip on her is iron-fisted.”

  “I’m still preparing a biography of the King family,” Selma said, “but, so far, still no luck on Zhilan. I’ll keep working. With your permission, I may call Rube.”

  Rube Haywood, another friend of Sam’s, worked at the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. They’d met, of all places, at the CIA’s infamous Camp Peary covert operations training facility when Sam was with DARPA (the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) and Rube was an up-and-coming case officer. While “The Farm” was a prerequisite course for someone like Rube, Sam was there as part of a cooperative experiment: the better engineers understood how case officers worked in the field, DARPA and the CIA proposed, the better they would be able to equip America’s spies.

  “If you need to, go ahead. Another thing,” Sam added. “King claims he has no idea what his father’s area of interest was. King claims he’s been searching for him for almost forty years and yet he knows nothing about what drove the man. I don’t buy it.”

  Remi added, “He also asserts that he hasn’t bothered contacting either the Nepalese government or the U.S. embassy. Somebody as powerful as King would get action with just a few phone calls.”

  “King also claimed Frank wasn’t interested in his father’s Monterey house. But Frank’s too thorough to have ignored that. If King had told Frank about it, he would have gone.”

  “Why would King lie about that?” Pete said.

  “No idea,” replied Remi.

  “What does all that add up to?” Wendy asked.

  “Somebody who’s got something to hide,” replied Selma.

  “Our thoughts exactly,” Sam said. “The question is, what? King also has a tinge of paranoia. And, to be fair, as wealthy as he is, he’s probably got scammers coming at him in droves.”

  “In the end, none of that matters,” Remi said. “Frank Alton is missing. That’s where we need to focus our attention.”

  “Starting where?” asked Selma.

  “Monterey.”

  MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA

  Sam took the corners slowly as the car’s headlights probed the fog that swirled over the ground and through the foliage that lined the winding gravel road. Below them, the lights of the cliff-side houses twinkled in the gloom, while farther out the navigation beacons of fishing boats floated in the blackness. Remi’s window was open, and through it they could hear the occasional mournful gong of a buoy in the distance.

  Tired though they were, Sam and Remi were anxious to get started on Frank’s disappearance, so they’d caught the evening shuttle flight from San Diego to Monterey’s dual-runway Peninsula Airport, where they’d rented a car.

  Even without seeing the structure itself, it was clear Lewis “Bully” King’s home was worth millions. More accurately, the property on which it sat was worth millions. A view of Monterey Bay did not come cheap. According to Charlie King, his father had purchased the home in the early fifties. Since then, appreciation would have worked its magic, turning even a tarpaper shack into a real estate gold mine.

  The car’s dashboard navigation screen chimed at Sam, signaling another turn. As they rounded the corner, the headlights swept over a lone mailbox sitting atop a listing post.

  “That’s it,” Remi said, reading the numbers.

  Sam pulled into a driveway lined with scrub pine and a rickety no-longer-white picket fence that seemed to be held erect only by the vines entangling it. Sam let the car coast to a stop. Ahead, the headlights illuminated a thousand-square-foot saltbox-style house. Two small boarded-up windows flanked a front door, below which was a set of crumbling concrete steps. The facade was painted in what had likely once been a deep green. Now what hadn’t peeled away had faded to a sickly olive color.

  At the end of the driveway, partially tucked behind the house, stood a single-car garage with drooping eaves troughs.

  “That’s a nineteen-fifties house, all right,” said Remi. “Talk about no frills.”

  “The lot must be at least two acres. It’s a wonder it’s stayed out of the hands of developers.”

  “Not considering who owns it.”

  “Good point,” Sam said. “I have to admit, this is a little spooky.”

  “I was going to say a lot spooky. Shall we?”

  Sam doused the headlights, then shut off the engine, leaving the house illuminated only by what little pale moonlight filtered through the mist. Sam grabbed a leather valise from the backseat, then they climbed out and shut the car’s doors. In the silence, the double thunk seemed abnormally loud. Sam dug his micro LED flashlight from his pants pocket and clicked it on.

  They followed the walkway to the front door. Probing with his foot, Sam checked the stability of the stairs. He nodded to Remi, then mounted the steps, slipped the key Zhilan had provided them into the lock, and turned. With a snick, the mechanism opened. He gave the door a gentle shove; the hinges let out a predictable squelch. Sam stepped across the threshold, followed by Remi.

  “Give me a little light,” Remi said.

  Sam turned and shone the beam on the wall beside the doorjamb, where Remi was hunting for a switch. She found one and flipped it. Zhilan had assured them that the home’s power would be on, and she’d been true to her word. In three corners of the room, floor lamps glowed to life, casting dull yellow cones on the walls.

  “Not as abandoned as King made it sound,” Sam observed. Not only did the bulbs in the lamps work but there wasn’t a trace of dust to be seen. “He must have the place cleaned regularly.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?” Remi asked. “Not only does he keep the house for almost forty years after his father disappeared, he doesn’t change a thing, and he has it cleaned while the yard goes to seed?”

  “Charlie King himself strikes me as strange, so, no, this doesn’t surprise me. Give the guy germ phobia and hide his fingernail clippers, and he’s halfway to Howard Hughes territory.”

  Remi laughed. “Well, the good news is, there’s not much ground to cover.”

  She was right. They could see most of Bully’s house from where they stood: a twenty-foot-square main room that appeared to be a den/study, the east and west walls dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books, knickknacks, framed photos, and display cases containing what looked to be fossils and artifacts.

  In the center of the room was a butcher-block kitchen table that Lewis had been using as a desk; on it, an old portable typewriter, pens, pencils, steno pads, and stacks of books. On the south wall were three doorways, one leading to a kitchenette, the second a bathroom, and the third a bedroom. Beneath the tang of Pine-Sol and mothballs, the house smelled of mildew and old wallpaper paste.

  “I think the ball’s in your court, Remi. You and Bully were-or are-kindred spirits. I’ll check the other rooms. Holler if you see a bat.”

  “Not funny, Fargo.”

  Remi was a trooper through and through, never afraid to get her hands dirty or to jump into danger, but she loathed bats. Their leathery wings, tiny claw hands, and pinched pig faces struck a primal chord in her. Halloween was a tense time in the Fargo household, and vintage vampire movies were banned.

  Sam stepped back to her, lifted her chin with his index finger, and kissed her. “Sorry.”

  “Accepted.”

  As Sam stepped into the kitchenette, Remi scanned the bookcases. Predictably, all of the books appeared to have been written prior to the 1970s. Lewis King was an eclectic reader, she saw. While mos
t of the books were directly related to archaeology and its associate disciplines-anthropology, paleontology, geology, etcetera-there were also volumes on philosophy, cosmology, sociology, classic literature, and history.

  Sam returned to the den. “Nothing of interest in the other rooms. How about here?”

  “I suspect he was a-” She paused, turned around. “I guess we should decide on a tense for him. Do we think he’s dead or alive?”

  “Let’s assume the latter. Frank did.”

  Remi nodded. “I suspect Lewis is a fascinating man. If I had to wager, I’d say he’d read most of these books, if not all of them.”

  “If he was in the field as much as King said, when would he have had the time?”

  “Speed-reader?” Remi suggested.

  “Possible. What’s in the display cases?”

  Sam shone his flashlight on the one nearest Remi’s shoulder. She peered into it. “Clovis points,” she said, referring to the now universal name for spear and arrow tips constructed from stone, ivory, or bone. “Nice collection too.”

  In turn, they began checking the rest of the display cases. Lewis’s collection was as eclectic as his library. While there were plenty of archaeological artifacts-pot shards, carved antlers, stone tools, petrified wood splinters-there were pieces that belonged in the historical sciences: fossils, rocks, illustrations of extinct plants and insects, scraps of ancient manuscripts.

  Remi tapped the glass of a case containing a parchment written in what looked like Devanagari, the parent alphabet of Nepali. “This is interesting. It’s a reproduction, I think. There’s what looks like a translator’s notation: ‘A. Kaalrami, Princeton University.’ But there’s no translation.”

  “Checking,” Sam said, pulling his iPhone from his pocket. He called up the Safari web browser and waited for the 4G network icon to appear in the phone’s menu bar. Instead, a message box appeared on the screen:

  Select a Wi-Fi Network

  651FPR

  Frowning, Sam studied the message for a moment, then closed the web browser and brought up a note-taking application. He said to Remi, “I can’t get a connection. Take a look.”