“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
“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
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
