Clive Cussler: The Kingdom

Sam and Remi had met in Hermosa Beach at a jazz bar called The Lighthouse. On a whim, Sam had stopped in for a cold beer, and he found Remi and some colleagues letting off steam after spending the past few weeks hunting for a sunken galleon off Abalone Cove.

Neither of them were starry-eyed enough to remember their first meeting as instant love, but the spark was undeniable; talking and laughing over drinks, they closed down The Lighthouse without noticing the hours slipping by. Six months later, they were married there in a small ceremony.

With Remi’s encouragement, Sam had been pursuing an idea he’d been tinkering with, an argon laser scanner designed to detect and identify alloys at a distance, through soil and water alike. Treasure hunters, universities, corporations, mining outfits, and the Department of Defense came begging for licenses, checkbooks open, and within a couple years Fargo Group Ltd was turning a seven-figure profit. Four years later they accepted a buyout offer that left them undeniably wealthy, set for the rest of their lives. Instead of sitting back, however, they took a monthlong vacation, then established the Fargo Foundation, and set out on their first joint treasure hunt. The wealth recovered went to a long list of charities.

Now the Fargos stared in silence at the island before them. Remi murmured. “Still a little hard to fathom, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” Sam agreed.

No amount of education or experience could have prepared them for what they’d found on Pulau Legundi. The chance discovery of a ship’s bell off Zanzibar had mushroomed into discoveries that would occupy the attention of generations of archaeologists, historians, and anthropologists.

Sam was shaken from his reverie by the double whoop of a marine horn. He turned to port; half a mile away, a thirty-six-foot Sumatran Harbor Patrol boat was headed directly for them.

“Sam, did you forget to pay for gas back at the rental place?” Remi asked wryly.

“No. Used the counterfeit rupiah I had lying around.”

“That might be it.”

They watched as the boat closed the gap to a quarter mile, where it turned first to starboard, then to port in a crescent turn that brought it alongside them a hundred feet away. Over a loudspeaker, an Indonesian-accented voice said, in English, “Ahoy. Are you Sam and Remi Fargo?”

Sam raised his arm in the affirmative.

“Stand by, please. We have a passenger for you.”

Sam and Remi exchanged puzzled glances; they were expecting no one.

The Harbor Patrol boat circled them once, closing the distance, until they were three feet off the port beam. The engine slowed to idle, then went silent.

“At least they look friendly,” Sam muttered to his wife.

The last time they’d been approached by a foreign naval vessel had been in Zanzibar. There it had been a patrol boat equipped with 12.7mm cannons and crewed by angry-looking sailors bearing AK-47s.

“So far,” Remi replied.

On the boat’s afterdeck, standing between two blue-uniformed police officers, was a petite Asian woman in her mid-forties with a lean angular face and a hairdo that bordered on being a crew cut.

“Permission to come aboard?” the woman asked. Her English was almost flawless, with only the barest trace of an accent.

Sam shrugged. “Permission granted.”

The two policemen stepped forward as though preparing to help her cross the gap, but she ignored them, taking a single fluid stride that vaulted her off the gunwale and onto the Fargos’ afterdeck. She landed softly, cat-like. She turned to face Sam and Remi, who was now standing at her husband’s side. The woman stared at them a moment with a pair of impassive black eyes, then handed them a business card. It said simply “Zhilan Hsu.”

“What can we do for you, Ms. Hsu?” asked Remi.

“My employer, Charles King, requests the pleasure of your company.”

“Our apologies, but we’re not familiar with Mr. King.”

“He is waiting for you aboard his private aircraft at the private charter terminal outside Palembang. He wishes to speak with you.”

While Zhilan Hsu’s English was technically flawless, there was a disconcerting stiffness to it, as though she were an automaton.

“That part we understand,” Sam said. He handed the card back to her. “Who is Charles King and why does he want to see us?”

“Mr. King has authorized me to tell you it concerns an acquaintance of yours, Mr. Frank Alton.”

This got Sam’s and Remi’s attention. Alton was not just an acquaintance but rather a close, longtime friend, a former San Diego police officer turned private detective who Sam met in judo class. Sam, Remi, Frank, and his wife, Judy, had a standing monthly dinner date.

“What about him?” Sam asked.

“Mr. King wishes to speak to you directly regarding Mr. Alton.”

“You’re being very secretive, Ms. Hsu,” Remi said. “Care to tell us why?”

“Mr. King wishes to-”

“Speak with us directly,” Remi finished.

“Yes, that is right.”

Sam checked his watch. “Please tell Mr. King we will meet him at seven o’clock.”

“That is four hours from now,” said Zhilan. “Mr. King-”

“Is going to have to wait,” Sam finished. “We have business we need to attend to.”

Zhilan Hsu’s stoic expression flashed to anger, but the look was gone almost as soon as it appeared. She simply nodded and said, “Seven o’clock. Please be on time.”

Without another word, she turned and leaped gazelle-like off the deck to the Harbor Patrol boat’s gunwale. She pushed past the policemen and disappeared into the cabin. One of the policemen tipped his cap to them. Ten seconds later the engines growled to life and the boat pulled away.

“Well, that was interesting,” Sam said a few seconds later.

“She’s a real charmer,” Remi said. “Did you catch her choice of words?”

Sam nodded. “‘Mr. King has authorized.’ If she understands the connotation, then we can assume Mr. King is going to be just as genial.”

“Do you believe her? About Frank? Judy would have called us if anything had happened.”

While their adventures often led them into dicey situations, their daily lives were fairly calm. Still, Zhilan Hsu’s unexpected visit and mysterious invitation had both their internal warning alarms going off. As unlikely as it seemed, the possibility of a trap was something they couldn’t ignore.

“Let’s find out.” Sam said.

He knelt down by the driver’s seat, retrieved his backpack from under the dashboard, and pulled out his satellite phone from one of the side pockets. He dialed, and a few seconds later a female voice said, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”

“Thought this was going to be the lucky call,” Sam said. He had a running bet with Remi that someday he’d catch Selma Wondrash off guard, and she’d call either of them by the first name.

“Not today, Mr. Fargo.”

Their chief researcher, logistical guru, and keeper of the inner sanctum, Selma was a former Hungarian citizen who, despite having lived in the United States for decades, still retained a trace of an accent-enough that it gave her voice a slight Zsa Zsa Gabor lilt.

Selma had managed the Library of Congress’s Special Collections Division until Sam and Remi lured her away with the promise of carte blanche and state-of-the-art resources. Aside from her hobby aquarium and a collection of tea that occupied an entire cabinet in the workroom, Selma’s only passion was research. She was at her happiest when the Fargos gave her an ancient riddle to unravel.

“Someday, you’ll call me Sam.”

“Not today.”

“What time is it there?”

“About eleven.” Selma rarely went to bed before midnight and rarely slept past four or five in the morning. Despite this, she never sounded anything less than wide awake. “What have you got for me?”