Clive Cussler - The Kingdom

Remi said, “Excuse me, would you be Professor Adala Kaalrami?”

The woman looked up and scrutinized them through a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. “Yes, I am she.” Her English was thickly accented with a lightly musical quality common to many Indian English speakers.

Remi introduced herself and Sam, then asked if they could sit down. Kaalrami nodded to the pair of chairs opposite her. Sam said, “Does the name Lewis King mean anything to you?”

“Bully?” she replied without hesitation.

“Yes.”

She smiled broadly; she had a wide gap between her front teeth. “Oh, yes, I remember Bully. We were . . . friends.” The glimmer in her eyes told the Fargos the relationship had gone beyond mere friendship. “I was affiliated with Princeton but had come to Tribhuvan University on loan. That was long before Kathmandu University was founded. Bully and I met at a social function of some kind. Why do you ask this?”

“We’re looking for Lewis King.”

“Ah . . . Ghost hunters, are you?”

“I take that to mean you believe he’s dead,” Remi said.

“Oh, I do not know. Of course I’ve heard the stories about his periodic manifestations, but I have never seen him, or any genuine pictures of him. At least, not in the last forty years or so. I’d like to think if he were alive, he would have come to see me.”

Sam pulled a manila folder from his valise, pulled out a copy of the Devanagari parchment, and slid it across the table to Kaalrami. “Do you recognize this?”

She studied it for a moment. “I do. That is my signature. I translated this for Bully in . . .” Kaalrami pursed her lips, thinking, “Nineteen seventy-two.”

“What can you tell us about it?” Sam asked. “Did Lewis tell you where he found it?”

“He did not.”

Remi said, “To me, it looks like Devanagari.”

“Very good, my dear. Close, but incorrect. It is written in Lowa. While not quite a dead language, it is fairly rare. At last estimate, there are only four thousand native Lowa speakers alive today. They are mostly found in the north of the country, up near the Chinese border, in what used to be-”

“Mustang,” Sam guessed.

“Yes, that’s right. And you pronounced it correctly. Good for you. Most Lowa speakers live in and around Lo Monthang. Did you know that about Mustang or was it a good guess?”

“A guess. The only current lead we have on Lewis King’s whereabouts is a photograph in which he supposedly appears. It was taken a year ago in Lo Monthang. We found that parchment at Lewis’s home.”

“Do you have this picture with you?”

“No,” Remi said, then glanced at Sam. Their shared expression said, Why didn’t we ask for a copy of the picture? Rookie mistake. “I’m sure we can get it, though.”

“If it is not too much trouble. I like to think I would recognize Bully if it were truly him.”

“Has anyone else come to see you recently about King?”

Kaalrami hesitated again, tapping an index finger on her lip. “A year ago, perhaps a bit longer than that, a pair of kids were here. Strange-looking pair-”

“Twins? Blond hair, blue eyes, Asian features?”

“Yes! I did not particularly like them. I know that is not a charitable thing to say, but I must be honest. There was just something about them . . .” Kaalrami shrugged.

“Do you remember what they asked you?”

“Just general questions about Bully-if I had any old letters from him or remember him talking about his work in the region. I could not help them.”

“They didn’t have a copy of this parchment?”

“No.”

Sam asked, “We never found the original translation. Would you mind?”

“I can give you the essence of it, but a written translation will take a while. I could do that tonight, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” said Remi. “We’d be most grateful.”

Professor Kaalrami adjusted her glasses and centered the parchment before her. Slowly she began tracing her finger down the lines of text, her lips moving soundlessly.

After five minutes, she looked up. She cleared her throat.

“It is a royal edict of sorts. The Lowa phrase does not translate well to English, but it is an official order. Of that, I’m certain.”

“Is there a date?”

“No, but if you look here, at the upper left corner, there’s a piece of text missing. Was it on the original parchment?”

“No, I photographed it exactly as it appeared. Do you remember if the date was on the original you saw?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Would you care to venture a guess?”

“Do not hold me to this, but I would estimate between six and seven hundred years old.”

“Go on, please,” Sam prompted.

“Again, you must wait for the written version . . .”

“We understand.”

“It is an order to a group of soldiers . . . special soldiers called Sentinels. They are instructed to carry out a plan of some kind-something detailed in another document, I suspect. The plan is designed to remove something called the Theurang from its place of hiding and transport it to safety.”

“Why?”

“Something to do with an invasion.”

“Does it explain what the Theurang is?”

“I do not think so. I am sorry, most of this is only vaguely familiar to me. This was four decades ago. I remember the word because it is unusual, but I do not think I followed up on it. I am a classics teacher. However, I have no doubt there is someone on staff here who would be of more help with the word. I can check for you.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Sam replied. “Do you remember Lewis’s reaction when you gave him the translation?”

Kaalrami smiled. “He was elated, as I recall. But, then again, Bully never lacked for enthusiasm. He lived life to its fullest, that man.”

“Did he say where he found the parchment?”

“If he did, I don’t remember. Perhaps tonight, while I’m translating this, more will come back to me.”

“One last question,” Remi said. “What do you remember about the time Lewis disappeared?”

“Oh, yes, I remember. We spent the morning together. We had a brunch picnic along a river. The Bagmati, on the southwestern side of the city.”

In unison, Sam and Remi leaned forward. Sam asked, “Chobar Gorge?”

Professor Kaalrami smiled and tilted her head at Sam. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. And after the picnic?”

“Lewis had his backpack with him-that was more common than not for him. He was always on the move. It was a beautiful day, warm, not a cloud in the sky. As I recall, I took pictures. I had a new camera, one of those first instant Polaroid models, the ones that folded up. Back then, it was a marvel of technology.”

“Please tell us you still have those pictures.”

“I may. It will depend on my son’s technical skills. If you’ll excuse me.” Professor Kaalrami got up, walked to the side table, picked up a phone, and dialed. She spoke in Nepali for a couple minutes, then looked over to Sam and Remi and covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Do you have mobiles with e-mail access?”

Sam gave her his address.

Kaalrami spoke on the phone for another thirty seconds, then returned to the table. She sighed. “My son. He tells me I need to come into the digital age. Last month he started scanning-is that the right word?-all my old photo albums. He finished the ones from the picnic last week. He’s sending them to you.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. “And to your son.”

Remi said, “You were saying, about the picnic . . . ?”

“We ate, enjoyed each other’s company, talked, then-in the early afternoon, I think-we parted company. I got in my car and drove away. The last I saw of him, he was crossing the Chobar Gorge bridge.”