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“That’s right?”
“And your father wanted them for what? Some obscure Nazi occult ritual? Something Himmler dreamed up with Adolf?”
“Shut up, Fargo!”
“Your dad spent his life hunting for this. How can you be sure he didn’t have some ties to a secret postwar Nazi organization?”
“I’m warnin’ you . . . Shut your mouth!”
“Is that why you want the Golden Man, Charlie? Are you trying to finish what your goose-stepping dad couldn’t?”
From the speaker came the sound of something heavy crashing down on wood followed by jumbled static. King’s voice came back on the line: “I ain’t no Nazi!”
“The apple never falls far from the tree, Charlie. Here’s how I think it happened. Your dad learned about the existence of the Theurang during the 1938 expedition, then after the war the family moves to America, where he continues your Nazi indoctrination. In your twisted minds, the Theurang is some kind of Holy Grail. Lewis disappeared trying to find it, but he taught you well. You’re not going to—”
“That bastard! That idiot! He traipses off leaving my mother back in Germany, then does the same damned thing when she gets here! When my mom swallows a bottle of pills, he don’t even bother comin’ back for the funeral. He killed her and he don’t even have the decency to show up!
“Good ol’ eccentric Lewis! He don’t give a damn what they say about him, and he can’t understand why it’d bother me. Every day, every damned day, I had to listen to them whispering behind my back, giving me that damned Heil Hitler! All that, and I still beat ’em. Beat ’em all! I could buy and sell every single one of ’em now.
“You think I’m after the Golden Man ’cause it meant so much to my dad? You think I’m some kind of duty-bound son? What a joke. When I get my hands on that thing, I’m going to crush it into dust! And if there’s a God in heaven, my dad will be watching!” King paused, and let out a forced chuckle. “Besides, you two have been thorns in my paw since day one. I’ll be damned if you’re gonna take what’s rightfully mine.”
Sam didn’t respond immediately. One look at Remi told him they were of like minds: for the child Charlie King they felt absolute pity. But King was no longer a child, and his insane mission to exact revenge on his long-dead father had cost people their lives.
Sam said, “That’s what this is? A tantrum? King, you’ve murdered, kidnapped, and enslaved people. You’re a sociopath.”
“Fargo, you don’t know what you’re—”
“I know what you’ve done. And I know what you’re capable of doing before this is all over. I’m going to make you a promise, King: not only are we going to make sure you don’t get the Golden Man but we’re going to make sure you go to prison for what you’ve done.”
“Fargo, you listen to me! I will kill—”
Sam reached out and hit the Disconnect button.
The line went dead.
There was silence around the worktable.
Then, softly, from Selma: “Well, he sounds a tad peeved.”
Her gross understatement broke the tension. They all broke out in laughter. When it died away, Remi said, “The question is, if we follow through on our promise, will King end up in prison or a rubber room?”
THISULI, NEPAL
Colonel Zhou had agreed to the late-night meeting partially out of curiosity, partially out of necessity. His arrangement with the strange-faced American zázhong—half-breeds—had thus far been lucrative, but now that he knew their true identities, and that of their father, Zhou was anxious to change the terms of their partnership. What Charles King was doing in Nepal didn’t bother Zhou. What annoyed him was how little he had charged them in . . . handling fees, as the Americans say. Getting the fossils to Lhasa and through customs was easy enough, but finding and securing trustworthy distributors for such banned merchandise was far trickier—and, as of tonight, much pricier.
A few minutes before midnight, Zhou heard the growl of an SUV engine outside. The two soldiers behind the colonel rose from their chairs and brought their assault rifles to the low ready position.
“I’ve ordered them searched this time,” he told his men. “Still, do not let your guards down.”
One of the exterior guards stepped across the threshold, gave Zhou a nod, then disappeared. A moment later Marjorie and Russell King stepped out of the darkness into the flickering glow of the kerosene lantern. They were not alone. A third figure, a willowy, grim-faced Chinese woman, stepped into the room. The King children’s body language told Zhou this new woman would be speaking for the trio.
And then he saw it, the similarities in the eyes and nose and cheekbones. Mother and children, Zhou thought. Interesting. He decided to play out the hand. He rose from his seat at the trestle table and nodded respectfully at the woman. “Shall I call you Mrs. King?”
“No. Hsu. Zhilan Hsu.”
“Please, sit down.”
Zhilan took the bench, her hands folded neatly on the table before her. The King children remained standing, mirroring the at-attention posture of Colonel Zhou’s soldiers. Zhou sat down.