The Kingdom by Clive Cussler

for him. He was always on the move. It was a beautiful day, warm, not a cloud in the sky. As I recall, I took pictures. I had a new camera, one of those first instant Polaroid models, the ones that folded up. Back then, it was a marvel of technology.”
    “Please tell us you still have those pictures.”
    “I may. It will depend on my son’s technical skills. If you’ll excuse me.” Professor Kaalrami got up, walked to the side table, picked up a phone, and dialed. She spoke in Nepali for a couple minutes, then looked over to Sam and Remi and covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Do you have mobiles with e-mail access?”
    Sam gave her his address.
    Kaalrami spoke on the phone for another thirty seconds, then returned to the table. She sighed. “My son. He tells me I need to come into the digital age. Last month he started scanning—is that the right word?—all my old photo albums. He finished the ones from the picnic last week. He’s sending them to you.”
    “Thank you,” Sam said. “And to your son.”
    Remi said, “You were saying, about the picnic . . . ?”
    “We ate, enjoyed each other’s company, talked, then—in the early afternoon, I think—we parted company. I got in my car and drove away. The last I saw of him, he was crossing the Chobar Gorge bridge.”

6

KATHMANDU, NEPAL
    The drive to Chobar Gorge went quickly as they first headed west, back toward the city on Arniko Highway. On the outskirts they turned south on the Ring Road and followed it along Kathmandu’s southern edge to the Chobar region. From there it was a simple matter of following two signs. An hour after leaving Professor Kaalrami, they pulled into Manjushree Park, overlooking the gorge’s northern cliff, at five p.m.
    They got out and stretched their legs. As he had been for the past hour, Sam checked his iPhone for incoming mail. He shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
    Hands on hips, Remi surveyed the surroundings. “What are we looking for?” she asked.
    “A giant neon marquee with ‘Bully Was Here’ flashing on it would be nice, but I’m not holding my breath.”
    The truth was, neither of them knew if there was anything to find. They’d come here based on what might be little more than a coincidence: both Frank Alton and Lewis King had spent their final hours here before disappearing. However, knowing Alton as they did, it was doubtful he’d come here without a good reason.
    Aside from a pair of men eating an early dinner on a nearby bench, the park—itself little more than a low hill covered in brush and bamboo and a spiral hiking trail—was deserted. Sam and Remi walked down the gravel entrance drive and followed the winding track to the head of the Chobar Gorge. While the main bridge was built of concrete and wide enough to accommodate cars, the gorge’s lower reaches and opposite bank were accessible only via three plank-and-wire suspension bridges, all set at different heights and all reached by hiking trails. On both sides of the gorge, small temples were set into the hillside, partially hidden by thick trees. Fifty feet below, the Bagmati frothed and crashed over clusters of boulders.
    Remi walked to an information placard attached to the bridge’s facade. She read aloud the English version:
    “‘Chovar Guchchi is a narrow valley formed by the Bagmati River, the only outlet of the entire Kathmandu Valley. It is believed that Kathmandu Valley once held a giant lake. When Manjusri first came upon the valley, he saw a lotus on the surface. He sliced open this hillside to drain the water from the lake and make way for the city of Kathmandu.’”
    Sam asked, “Who is Manjusri?”
    “I’m not sure exactly, but, if I had to guess, I would say he was a bodhisattva—an enlightened person.”
    Sam was nodding as he checked his e-mail. “Got it. Professor Kaalrami’s son came through.”
    He and Remi walked to a nearby tree to get out of the setting sun. Sam called up the pictures, five in all, and scrolled