“Mustang,” Sam guessed.

“Yes, that’s right. And you pronounced it correctly. Good for you. Most Lowa speakers live in and around Lo Monthang. Did you know that about Mustang or was it a good guess?”

“A guess. The only current lead we have on Lewis King’s whereabouts is a photograph in which he supposedly appears. It was taken a year ago in Lo Monthang. We found that parchment at Lewis’s home.”

“Do you have this picture with you?”

“No,” Remi said, then glanced at Sam. Their shared expression said, Why didn’t we ask for a copy of the picture? Rookie mistake. “I’m sure we can get it, though.”

“If it is not too much trouble. I like to think I would recognize Bully if it were truly him.”

“Has anyone else come to see you recently about King?”

Kaalrami hesitated again, tapping an index finger on her lip. “A year ago, perhaps a bit longer than that, a pair of kids were here. Strange-looking pair-”

“Twins? Blond hair, blue eyes, Asian features?”

“Yes! I did not particularly like them. I know that is not a charitable thing to say, but I must be honest. There was just something about them . . .” Kaalrami shrugged.

“Do you remember what they asked you?”

“Just general questions about Bully-if I had any old letters from him or remember him talking about his work in the region. I could not help them.”

“They didn’t have a copy of this parchment?”

“No.”

Sam asked, “We never found the original translation. Would you mind?”

“I can give you the essence of it, but a written translation will take a while. I could do that tonight, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” said Remi. “We’d be most grateful.”

Professor Kaalrami adjusted her glasses and centered the parchment before her. Slowly she began tracing her finger down the lines of text, her lips moving soundlessly.

After five minutes, she looked up. She cleared her throat.

“It is a royal edict of sorts. The Lowa phrase does not translate well to English, but it is an official order. Of that, I’m certain.”

“Is there a date?”

“No, but if you look here, at the upper left corner, there’s a piece of text missing. Was it on the original parchment?”

“No, I photographed it exactly as it appeared. Do you remember if the date was on the original you saw?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Would you care to venture a guess?”

“Do not hold me to this, but I would estimate between six and seven hundred years old.”

“Go on, please,” Sam prompted.

“Again, you must wait for the written version . . .”

“We understand.”

“It is an order to a group of soldiers . . . special soldiers called Sentinels. They are instructed to carry out a plan of some kind-something detailed in another document, I suspect. The plan is designed to remove something called the Theurang from its place of hiding and transport it to safety.”

“Why?”

“Something to do with an invasion.”

“Does it explain what the Theurang is?”

“I do not think so. I am sorry, most of this is only vaguely familiar to me. This was four decades ago. I remember the word because it is unusual, but I do not think I followed up on it. I am a classics teacher. However, I have no doubt there is someone on staff here who would be of more help with the word. I can check for you.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Sam replied. “Do you remember Lewis’s reaction when you gave him the translation?”

Kaalrami smiled. “He was elated, as I recall. But, then again, Bully never lacked for enthusiasm. He lived life to its fullest, that man.”

“Did he say where he found the parchment?”

“If he did, I don’t remember. Perhaps tonight, while I’m translating this, more will come back to me.”

“One last question,” Remi said. “What do you remember about the time Lewis disappeared?”

“Oh, yes, I remember. We spent the morning together. We had a brunch picnic along a river. The Bagmati, on the southwestern side of the city.”

In unison, Sam and Remi leaned forward. Sam asked, “Chobar Gorge?”

Professor Kaalrami smiled and tilted her head at Sam. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. And after the picnic?”

“Lewis had his backpack with him-that was more common than not 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.”

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?”