Remi gave Sam a sideways glance that he immediately and correctly interpreted: her hunch about Zhilan Hsu had been at least partially right. However, unless the Fargos were assuming too much, her relationship went far beyond that of a common mistress.

“We would be,” Sam replied.

The man, who also shared his father’s height but not his corpulence, stuck out his hand and gave each of them a vigorous handshake. “I’m Russell. This is my sister Marjorie.”

“Sam . . . Remi. We weren’t expecting a reception.”

“We decided to take the initiative,” Marjorie said. “We’re here on some business for Daddy, so it’s no trouble.”

Russell said, “If you’ve never visited Kathmandu before, it can be a bit disconcerting. We’ve got a car. We’ll be happy to take you to your hotel.”

The Hyatt Regency was two miles northwest of the airport. The ride went smoothly, if not quickly, inside the King children’s Mercedes-Benz sedan. Inside its sound-controlled interior and tinted windows, Sam and Remi found the trip a tad surreal. At the wheel, Russell navigated the confusing narrow streets easily while Marjorie, in the front passenger’s seat, gave them a running travelogue over her shoulder with all the charm of a canned tour guide script.

At last they pulled up to the Hyatt’s covered lobby turnaround. Russell and Marjorie were out of the car and holding open the backseat doors before Sam and Remi had touched the handles.

Like the airport terminal’s, the Hyatt Regency’s architecture was a blend of old and new: a sprawling six-story facade in terra-cotta and cream topped by a pagoda-style roof. The lush manicured grounds occupied twenty acres.

A bellman approached the car, and Russell barked something in Nepali. The man nodded vigorously and forced a smile, then retrieved the luggage from the trunk and disappeared into the lobby.

“We’ll let you get settled in,” said Russell, then handed them each a business card. “Give me a call later, and we can discuss how you’d like to proceed.”

“Proceed?” Sam repeated.

Marjorie smiled. “Sorry, Daddy probably forgot to tell you. He asked us to be your guides while you look for Mr. Alton. See you tomorrow!”

With almost synchronized smiles and waves, the King children climbed back into the Mercedes and pulled away.

Sam and Remi watched the receding car for a few seconds. Then Remi murmured, “Is anyone in the King family normal?”

Forty-five minutes later they were settled into their suite and enjoying their coffee.

After spending the afternoon lying around the pool relaxing, they returned to their suite for cocktails. Sam ordered a Sapphire Bombay Gin Gibson, and Remi asked for a Ketel One Cosmopolitan. They finished reading the dossier Zhilan had given them at the Palembang Airport. While on the surface it seemed thorough, they found little of substance on which they could start their hunt.

“I have to admit,” Remi said, “the combination of Zhilan Hsu’s and Charlie King’s genes produced . . . interesting results.”

“That’s very diplomatic of you, Remi, but let’s be honest: Russell and Marjorie are scary. Combine their appearance with their over-the-top friendliness and you’ve got a pair of Hollywood-born serial killers. Did you see specific traces of Zhilan in them?”

“No, and I’m half hoping there aren’t. If she’s their mother, that means she was probably eighteen or nineteen when she had them.”

“Which would’ve put King in his mid-forties at the time.”

“Did you notice the lack of Texas accents? I think I caught a trace of Ivy League in some of their vowels.”

“So Daddy shipped them out of Texas and off to college. What I want to know is, how did they know what flight we were on?”

“Charlie King flexing his muscles? Showing us he’s well connected?”

“Probably. That might also explain why he didn’t tell us to expect the Wonder Twins. As powerful as King is, he probably fancies himself a master at keeping people off guard.”

“I’m not fond of having them shadow us everywhere.”

“Neither am I, but let’s play along tomorrow and see what they know about Frank’s activities. I have a sneaking suspicion the King family knows a lot more than they’re letting on.”

“Agreed,” Remi replied. “It all adds up to one thing, Sam: King is trying to play the puppet master. The question is, why? Because he’s a control freak or because he’s hiding something?”

The door chimes rang. As he moved to the 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.”