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“I flunked out of Boy Scouts,” said Sam.
Remi chimed in. “I only sold cookies in the Girl Scouts.”
“This is not a laughing matter, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Do you find this funny?”
Sam put on his best chastised expression. “Apologies. We’re exhausted and a little embarrassed. We’re grateful you found us. Who alerted you we might be in trouble?”
The officer translated the question. His sergeant grunted something, then spoke again. “My sergeant asks that you restrict yourselves to answering his questions. You said you planned to go on a daylong hike. Where were your backpacks?”
“We didn’t expect to be gone that long,” Remi said. “We’re not the best planners, either.”
Sam nodded sadly to emphasize his wife’s point.
The officer asked, “You expect us to believe you went on a hike with no equipment whatsoever?”
“I had my Swiss Army knife,” Sam said drily.
At this translation, the sergeant glanced up and glared at Sam, then Remi, then stood up and stalked from the room. “Please wait here,” the officer said, and left the room.
Not surprisingly, the sergeant walked straight through the squad-room door to the hallway. Sam and Remi could see only his back; Russell and Marjorie were out of view. Sam stood up, walked to the far-right side of the window, and pressed his face against it.
“Can you see them?” Remi asked.
“Yep.”
“And?”
“The twins look unhappy. Not a smarmy smile in sight. Russell’s gesturing . . . Well, this is interesting.”
“What?”
“He’s mimicking the shape of a box—a box that looks remarkably like the same size as the chest.”
“That’s good. I imagine they’ve searched the area in which they found us. Russell wouldn’t be asking for what’s already been found.”
Sam stepped back from the window and hurried back to his seat.
The sergeant and his officer stepped back into the room and sat down. The questioning resumed, this time with a bit more intensity, and in a roundabout fashion designed to trip up Sam and Remi. The gist of the queries remained the same, however: we know you had to have had belongings, where are they? Sam and Remi took their time and stuck to their story, watching as the sergeant’s frustration grew.
At last the sergeant resorted to threats: “We know who you are and what you do for a living. We suspect you have come to Nepal in search of black market antiquities.”
“On what do you base your suspicions?” Sam asked.
“Sources.”
“You’ve been misinformed,” said Remi.
“There are several statutes under which you can be charged, all of which carry serious penalties.”
Sam leaned forward in his chair and fixed the sergeant’s gaze. “Charge away. Right after we’re booked we’ll want to talk to the legal attaché at the U.S. embassy.”
The sergeant held Sam’s eyes for a long ten seconds, then leaned back and sighed. He said something to his underling, then stood up and left the room, banging the open door against the wall as he left.
The underling translated, “You are free to go.”
Ten minutes later, back in their own clothes, Sam and Remi were out the front door of the police station and walking down the steps. Dusk was falling. The sky was clear, and a scattering of diamond-speck stars began to shine. Streetlights illuminated the cobblestoned street below.
“Sam! Remi!”