running board. With his free hand he grabbed the canvas side cover and jerked, ripping free the snap enclosures. He grabbed the vertical brace, hooked his left leg over the side, then pulled himself into the bed. He crawled to the cab’s rear wall and slid back the slot window.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, yourself. Hold tight, I’m closing your door.”
Remi jerked the truck to the right, then to the left. Sam’s open door banged shut. She asked, “What’s your plan?”
“Sabotage. How close are they?”
“Fifty yards. We hit the bridge in ten seconds.”
“Got it.”
Sam crawled to the tailgate. In the dim light, he groped along the truck bed until his hand found one of the other rifles. He picked it up and dropped his own, then hurriedly collected the other magazines.
“Bridge!” Remi shouted. “Slowing down!”
Sam waited until he heard the overlapping thud of the truck’s tires bumping over the planking, then stuck his upper torso through the rear flap, aimed the rifle at the bridge deck, and opened fire. The bullets thudded into the wood, punching through the gaps and sending up plumes of wood chips. He ducked back through the flap, changed magazines, then opened fire again, this time alternating between the bridge deck and the oncoming truck, which had just crossed onto the bridge. Their truck swerved left, bumped into the side rail, then straightened out. Sam saw an orange muzzle flash from the window. A trio of bullets slammed into the tailgate below him. He threw himself backward onto the bed. Another salvo of gunfire shredded the rear flap and peppered the cab wall.
“Sam?” Remi called.
“It didn’t work!”
“So I gathered!”
“How do you feel about the wanton destruction of fossil artifacts?”
“Generally against it, but this a special occasion!”
“Buy me some time!”
Remi began braking, then speeding up, in hopes of spoiling the shooter’s accuracy. Sam flipped over onto his belly, groped until he found the first ratchet strap securing the crates, and hit the Release button. In short order he had the remainder of the straps free. He crawled to the tailgate and flipped the release; it crashed down.
“Bombs away,” Sam called, and shoved the first crate out. It bounced off the bridge deck, slammed squarely into the truck’s bumper, and burst open. Wood shards and packing hay went flying.
“No effect,” Remi called.
Sam waddled backward, put his shoulder to the entire stack of crates, then braced his feet against the cab wall and began pushing. With a groan, the stack began sliding along the bed. Sam paused, coiled his legs, and shoved hard, like a linebacker going after a blocking sled.
The line of crates slid off the tailgate and began tumbling toward the pursuing truck. Sam didn’t wait to see the results but instead sidestepped to the other stack of crates and repeated the process.
From behind came the squeal of brakes. Shattering glass. The crunch of metal impacting wood.
“That did the trick!” Remi called. “They’re stopped dead in their tracks!”
Sam rose to his knees and looked through the slot at Remi. “But for how long?”
She glanced at him, offered a quick smile. “However long it takes them to dislodge a half dozen crates from under their chassis.”
15
Sam stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and rubbing his hair with another. “You hungry for a nice breakfast?”
“Famished,” replied Remi. She was sitting at a table in front of a mirror, tying her hair into a ponytail. She wore the standard white towel of the hotel.
“Room service or go down to the dining room?”
“The weather is perfect. Let’s dine out on the balcony.”
“Sounds good.” Sam walked over to an end table, picked up the phone, and dialed room service. “I’d like one salmon and a bagel, one eggs Benedict, a bowl of fruit, and sourdough toast and coffee.” He waited until the voice in the kitchen repeated the order correctly. Then he rang off and called the bar.
When the bartender answered, Sam asked, “I’d like two Ramos Fizzes. Yes, a Ramos Fizz.”
“You know how to treat a lady,” said Remi.
“Don’t get your hopes up. He doesn’t know how to make one.” Sam tried again.
“How about a Harvey Wallbanger. Wallbanger. It’s made with vodka, Galliano, and orange juice. I see, no Galliano.” Sam shook his head and tried once more. “All right, send up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.”
Remi laughed. “You really know how to treat a lady.”
“That’s the best you can do?” said Sam into the phone. “Okay, send it up well chilled.
He set the receiver back in its cradle. “No champagne. The only thing left after a political convention is a sparkling white from China.”
“I didn’t know the Chinese made anything sparkling.” She looked at him with a sarcastic smile. “Is that the best you can do?”
Sam shrugged. “Any port in the storm.”
The phone rang. Sam picked it up. “One moment.” He switched on the speaker.
“Morning, Rube,” Sam said into the speakerphone.
“For you, maybe,” Rube replied. “It’s dinner time here. I hear you and your lovely bride are enjoying yet another relaxing vacation.”
“Everything is relative, Rube,” Remi replied. “How’re Kathy and the girls?”
“Great. They’re at Chuck E. Cheese’s right now. Your call saved me from going.”
“Don’t let us keep you,” Sam said with a half smile. “We can talk later.”
“Oh, no, my friend. There’s nothing more important than this. Trust me. Okay, brief me. Are you in jail? How many local laws have you broken?”
“No. And none that we’re aware of,” Remi replied. “I’ll let Sam explain.”
Though aware Rube had already received some information from Selma, Sam started at the beginning, with Zhilan Hsu boarding their boat near Pulau Legundi and ending with their escape from King’s covert archaeological site.
The night before, after leaving their pursuers stalled on the bridge, Sam had driven through the darkness, looking for signs or landmarks that Remi could match to her map. After several hours of fruitless turns and dead ends, they finally crossed a recognizable mountain pass-the Laurebina-and not long after pulled into the outskirts of Pheda, some twenty miles due east of the camp. Predictably, they’d found the village dark and lifeless save a cinder-block and tin-roofed building that turned out to be the local pub. After breaking through the considerable language barrier, they managed to make a trade with the owner: their truck for his car-a thirty-year-old orange- and-primer gray Peugeot-and directions back to Kathmandu. Just before dawn, they pulled into the Hyatt Regency’s parking lot.
Rube listened to Sam’s story without speaking. Finally he asked, “Let me make sure I understand this: you snuck into King’s camp, witnessed a murder, wreaked havoc with what were probably a guard contingent of Chinese soldiers, then stole one of their trucks that happened to be loaded with black market fossils, which you then used as depth charges to stop your pursuers. Does that about cover it?”
“More or less,” Sam said.
Remi added, “And the thirty or so gigabytes of intelligence we collected.”
