door to retrieve an envelope that had just been slid under it, Sam said, “Ah, confirmation of our dinner reservations.”
“Really?”
“Well, only if you can be ready to leave in thirty minutes,” replied Sam.
“Love to, and where are we going?”
“Bhanchka and Ghan,” responded Sam.
“How did you remember?”
“How can you forget such memorable food, the ambience, and Nepalese cuisine in Nepal!”
Twenty-five minutes later Remi had changed into Akris slacks and a top, with a matching jacket thrown over her arm. And Sam, freshly shaved, wearing a blue Robert Graham shirt and dark gray slacks, ushered her out the door.
Remi was only marginally surprised to awaken at four a.m. to find her husband not in bed but rather in an armchair in the suite’s sitting area. When something was badgering Sam Fargo’s subconscious, he rarely could sleep. She found him under the soft glow of a lamp reading the dossier Zhilan had given them. Using her hip, Remi gently shoved aside the manila folder. Then she settled into his lap and wrapped her long La Perla silk robe tightly around her.
“I think I found the culprit,” he said.
“Show me.”
He flipped through a series of paper-clipped pages. “The daily e-mail reports that Frank was sending King. They start the day he arrived here and end the morning he disappeared. Do you notice anything different about the last three e-mails?”
Remi scanned them. “No.”
“He signed each one ‘Frank.’ Look at the ones prior.”
Remi did so. She pursed her lips. “Simply signed ‘FA.’”
“That’s how he signed e-mails to me too.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Just speculating. I’d say either Frank didn’t send the last three e-mails or he did and was trying to embed a distress signal.”
“I think that’s unlikely. Frank would have found a more clever code.”
“So that leaves us with the other option. He disappeared earlier than King believes.”
“And someone was posing as him,” Remi concluded.
THIRTY MILES NORTH OF
KATHMANDU, NEPAL
In the predawn gloom, the Range Rover pulled off the main road. Its headlights swept over green terraced fields as it followed the winding road to the bottom of the valley, where it intersected another road, this one narrower and rutted with mud. The Rover bumped along the track for several hundred yards before crossing a bridge. Below, a river churned, its dark waters lapping at the bridge’s lowermost girders. On the opposite bank the Rover’s headlights briefly illuminated a sign. In Nepali, it read “Trisuli.” Another quarter mile brought the Rover to a squat gray-brick building with a patchwork tin roof. Beside a wooden front door, a square window glowed yellow. The Rover coasted to a stop before the building, and the engine shut off.
Russell and Marjorie King climbed out and headed for the door. A pair of shadowed figures emerged from behind each corner of the building and intercepted them. Each man carried an automatic weapon diagonally across his body. Flashlights clicked on, panned over the King children’s faces, then clicked off. With a jerk of the head, one of the guards gestured for the pair to enter.
Through the door, a single man was sitting at a wooden trestle table. Aside from this and a flickering kerosene lantern, the room was barren.
“Colonel Zhou,” Russell King grunted.
“Welcome, my nameless American friends. Please sit.”
They did so, taking the bench across from Zhou. Marjorie said, “You’re not in uniform. Please don’t tell us you’re afraid of Nepalese Army patrols.”
Zhou chuckled. “Hardly. While I’m sure my men would enjoy the target practice, I doubt my superiors would look kindly on my crossing the border without going through proper channels.”
“This is your meeting,” Russell said. “Why did you ask us here?”
“We need to discuss the permits you have requested.”
“The permits we’ve already paid for, you mean?” replied
“Really?”
“Well, only if you can be ready to leave in thirty minutes,” replied Sam.
“Love to, and where are we going?”
“Bhanchka and Ghan,” responded Sam.
“How did you remember?”
“How can you forget such memorable food, the ambience, and Nepalese cuisine in Nepal!”
Twenty-five minutes later Remi had changed into Akris slacks and a top, with a matching jacket thrown over her arm. And Sam, freshly shaved, wearing a blue Robert Graham shirt and dark gray slacks, ushered her out the door.
Remi was only marginally surprised to awaken at four a.m. to find her husband not in bed but rather in an armchair in the suite’s sitting area. When something was badgering Sam Fargo’s subconscious, he rarely could sleep. She found him under the soft glow of a lamp reading the dossier Zhilan had given them. Using her hip, Remi gently shoved aside the manila folder. Then she settled into his lap and wrapped her long La Perla silk robe tightly around her.
“I think I found the culprit,” he said.
“Show me.”
He flipped through a series of paper-clipped pages. “The daily e-mail reports that Frank was sending King. They start the day he arrived here and end the morning he disappeared. Do you notice anything different about the last three e-mails?”
Remi scanned them. “No.”
“He signed each one ‘Frank.’ Look at the ones prior.”
Remi did so. She pursed her lips. “Simply signed ‘FA.’”
“That’s how he signed e-mails to me too.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Just speculating. I’d say either Frank didn’t send the last three e-mails or he did and was trying to embed a distress signal.”
“I think that’s unlikely. Frank would have found a more clever code.”
“So that leaves us with the other option. He disappeared earlier than King believes.”
“And someone was posing as him,” Remi concluded.
THIRTY MILES NORTH OF
KATHMANDU, NEPAL
In the predawn gloom, the Range Rover pulled off the main road. Its headlights swept over green terraced fields as it followed the winding road to the bottom of the valley, where it intersected another road, this one narrower and rutted with mud. The Rover bumped along the track for several hundred yards before crossing a bridge. Below, a river churned, its dark waters lapping at the bridge’s lowermost girders. On the opposite bank the Rover’s headlights briefly illuminated a sign. In Nepali, it read “Trisuli.” Another quarter mile brought the Rover to a squat gray-brick building with a patchwork tin roof. Beside a wooden front door, a square window glowed yellow. The Rover coasted to a stop before the building, and the engine shut off.
Russell and Marjorie King climbed out and headed for the door. A pair of shadowed figures emerged from behind each corner of the building and intercepted them. Each man carried an automatic weapon diagonally across his body. Flashlights clicked on, panned over the King children’s faces, then clicked off. With a jerk of the head, one of the guards gestured for the pair to enter.
Through the door, a single man was sitting at a wooden trestle table. Aside from this and a flickering kerosene lantern, the room was barren.
“Colonel Zhou,” Russell King grunted.
“Welcome, my nameless American friends. Please sit.”
They did so, taking the bench across from Zhou. Marjorie said, “You’re not in uniform. Please don’t tell us you’re afraid of Nepalese Army patrols.”
Zhou chuckled. “Hardly. While I’m sure my men would enjoy the target practice, I doubt my superiors would look kindly on my crossing the border without going through proper channels.”
“This is your meeting,” Russell said. “Why did you ask us here?”
“We need to discuss the permits you have requested.”
“The permits we’ve already paid for, you mean?” replied
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