“Great . . . thanks. We’ll look for him.”
Selma hung up the phone and turned to the group gathered around the maple worktable: Sam, Remi, Pete, and Wendy.
Selma said, “That was George. The Theurang disk model is done. He’s sending it over by bike messenger.”
“Can’t wait to see what eight hundred photos look like in three dimensions,” Remi said.
Arriving home after their Sofia-Frankfurt-San Francisco-San Diego flight, Sam and Remi had made their greetings, then promptly went to bed for a blissful ten hours. Refreshed, and their bodies mostly realigned with California time, they’d met the team in the workroom for a get-up-to-speed meeting.
“No matter how good the model is,” Pete said, “it can’t compare to the real thing.”
Resting in their formfitting black foam trays, the two genuine Theurang disks gleamed under the hard glare of the halogen pendant lights.
“In looks, yes,” Sam replied. “But in utility value . . . As long as it helps point us where we need to go, it’s golden to me.”
Selma asked, “Do you believe any of it?”
“Which parts?”
“The prophecy, Jack’s theory about the Theurang being an evolutionary missing link, Shangri-La . . . all of it.”
Remi answered, “Well, Jack admitted it himself: we only have drawings of the Theurang, and there’s no telling how much they’re based on myth and how much on direct observation. I do think his argument is compelling enough that we should see this through to the end.”
Sam nodded his agreement. “As for Shangri-La . . . A lot of legends are based on a kernel of truth. In modern popular culture, Shangri-La is synonymous with paradise. For the people of Mustang, it may have been nothing more than where the Theurang was originally found-and where it should rightfully be laid to rest. Place names are trivial. It’s the meaning we attach to them that counts.”
“Sam, that’s almost poetic,” Remi said.
He smiled. “I have my moments.”
The intercom buzzed. Selma answered it, then walked out. She returned a minute later carrying a cardboard box. She opened the box, examined the contents, then removed them. She placed the modeled Theurang disk on the foam tray.
The disk was nearly indistinguishable from its mates.
“I’m impressed,” Sam said. “Good call, Selma.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fargo. Should we call Jack?”
“In a bit. First, though, I think it’s time we touch base with King Charlie. I’d like to get him riled enough to talk.”
“What do you mean?” asked Wendy.
“Depending on how reliable his sources in Mustang are, he may believe his plan to drown us in the Kali Gandaki succeeded. Let’s see if we can rattle his cage. Selma, can you get me a secure line on the speaker here?”
“Yes, Mr. Fargo. One moment.”
Soon the line clicked open and began ringing. Charlie King answered with a gruff, “King here.”
“Good morning, Mr. King,” said Sam. “Sam and Remi Fargo here.”
Hesitation. Then a boisterous, “Morning to you too! Haven’t heard from you for a while. I was gettin’ a bit worried you two were renegin’ on our deal.”
“Which deal is that?”
“I got your friend released. Now you’re gonna turn over to me what you’ve found.”
“You’re experiencing a case of wishful memory, Charlie. The deal was that we’d meet with Russell and Marjorie and reach an understanding.”
“Well, dammit, son, what’d you think that meant? I give you Alton, and you give me what I want.”
Remi said, “We’ve decided you’re in breach of contract, Charlie.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“We’re talking about the bogus tour guide you hired to kill us in Mustang.”
“I did no such-”
Sam interrupted: “Difference without a distinction. You ordered your children or your wife to get it done.”
“You think so, huh? Well, go ahead and prove it.”
“I think we can do better than that,” Sam replied. Beside him, Remi mouthed,
King said, “Fargo, I been threatened by tougher and richer men than you. I hose their blood off my boots just ’bout everyday. How ’bout you just give me what I want and we’ll part company friends.”
“It’s too late for that-the friends part, that it. As for the prize you’re after-the prize your father spent most of his adult life hunting for-we’ve got it. It’s sitting right in front of us.”
“Bull.”
“Mind your manners, and we might send you a picture. First, though, why don’t you explain your interest in it?”
“How ’bout you tell me what you think you found.”
“A wooden chest, shaped like a cube, in the possession of a soldier who’d been dead for half a millennium or so.”
King didn’t respond immediately, but they could hear him breathing on the line. Finally, in a hushed tone, he said, “You really have it.”
“We do. And unless you start telling us the truth, we’re going to open it and see what’s inside for ourselves.”
“No, hold it right there. Don’t go doin’ that.”
“Tell us what’s inside.”
“Could be one of a couple things: a big coin-shaped thing or a bunch a bones. Either way, they won’t mean much to you.”
“Then why do they mean so much to you?”
“None of your business.”
From across the table, Selma, standing behind her laptop, held up an index finger. Sam said, “Mr. King, can you hold for just a moment?”
Without waiting for a response, Pete reached over to the speakerphone and tapped the Mute button.
Selma said, “Forgot to tell you: I’ve been doing a little more digging into King’s teen years. I came across a blog written by a former reporter at the
Remi asked, “What did she ask him?”
“She asked why in King’s high school yearbook everyone referred to him by the nickname Adolf.”
“That’s it?” said Sam. “That’s all?”
“That’s it.”
Wendy said, “We already know Lewis King was a Nazi in name only, and Charlie had nothing to do with any of it, so why would-”
“Kids being kids,” Remi replied. “Think about it: Lewis King was largely absent from Charlie’s life from an early age. On top of that, everywhere Charlie went he probably got teased mercilessly about his Nazi roots. It doesn’t sound like much from our perspective, but for a kid, for a teenager . . . Sam, this could be King’s hot button. Back then, he was a petulant child with no power. Now he’s a petulant billionaire with more power than many heads of
