“Now, here’s the truly interesting part: as you know, the Nazis were a bit mad for the occult. The expedition Lewis ‘Bully’ King was a part of in 1938 . . . One of its objectives was to find Shangri-La. They felt certain it would be home to an ancient master race, Aryans unspoiled by time and genetic impurities.”

“We didn’t know that,” Remi said.

“Perhaps King Charles isn’t after the Theurang alone but Shangri-La as well,” Karna said.

“Anything’s possible,” Sam replied. “But King doesn’t strike me as a big believer in the fantastic, true or otherwise. If he can’t touch it, see it, or smell it-”

“Or sell it,” Remi added.

“Or sell it, he’s not interested,” Sam finished. “What do you believe, Karna? I assume you believe it’s real? Of all the possibilities you presented, which one fits?”

“None of the above. My research and my instincts tell me that for the people of Mustang, Shangri-La represented a wellspring-both the birthplace and the eternal resting place of the Theurang, a creature they believed was their universal ancestor. I suspect what we today call Shangri-La was where the Theurang was originally discovered. How long ago, I cannot say, but that’s what I believe.”

“And if you had to place money on its location?” Remi asked.

“I think the Tibetan etymology holds the key: shang, which is also tsang, combined with ri, together means mountain, and la, means pass.”

“So, Tsang Mountain Pass,” Remi said.

“Not quite. In the royal dialect of ancient Mustang, la also means gorge or canyon.”

“The Tsangpo Gorge,” Sam replied. “That’s a lot of territory. The river that runs through it-the Yarlung Tsangpo-is how long? A hundred twenty miles?”

“One hundred fifty,” Karna answered. “Bigger than your Grand Canyon, in many ways. And the mountains are thickly forested. Some of the most daunting terrain in the world.”

“If you’re right about the location and the legend,” Remi said, “it’s no wonder Shangri-La’s remained hidden all this time.”

Karna smiled. “As we sit here together, we may be closer to finding it-and the Golden Man-than anyone else in history.”

“Closer, perhaps,” Sam replied, “but not there. You said we need all three disks. Let’s say the chest Selma has contains one of them. We’ll still need the other two.”

“And the map,” said Remi.

“The map is the least of our hurdles,” Karna said. “I’ve located four candidates, one of which I’m certain will serve our purposes. As for the other two disks . . . How do you feel about the Balkans?”

Sam and Remi exchanged glances. Remi said, “We once had some bad lamb in Bulgaria, but, aside from that, we have nothing against it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Karna said with a mischievous smile. “What I’m about to tell you I’ve never shared with anyone. Despite the high regard in which I’m held here, I am not sure how my adopted countrymen would welcome my theory.”

“Again, you have our attention,” Sam said.

“Three years ago, I uncovered some texts I believe were written by the personal secretary to the King in the weeks leading up to the 1421 invasion.”

“What kind of texts?”

“A personal diary of sorts. The King had of course been informed of the strength of the invading army, and he agreed with the prophecy that Mustang’s demise was at hand. Further, he had his doubts that the Sentinels could carry out their duties. He felt the odds against them were overwhelming. He was also convinced someone from within his inner circle had turned traitor and was feeding the enemy information.

“In secret, he assigned the finest of the Sentinels-a man known as Dhakal-the task of transporting the Theurang to Shangri-La. In two of the three chests ostensibly containing the disks, he placed fakes. One was genuine.”

“And the other two disks?” asked Remi.

“Given to a pair of priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

Neither Remi nor Sam spoke immediately. Karna’s non sequitur was so abrupt, they weren’t sure they’d heard him correctly.

“Say that again,” said Sam.

“A year before the invasion, Lo Monthang was visited by a pair of priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

“This was the fifteenth century,” Remi said. “At that time, the nearest outpost of the Church would have been . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.

“In present-day Uzbekistan,” Karna replied. “Fourteen hundred miles from here. And to answer your question, no, I have found no mention in Church histories referring to missionaries traveling that far east. I have something better. I’ll get to that shortly.

“As the King’s diary tells, he welcomed the missionaries into his court, and they soon became friends. A few months after they arrived, an attempt was made on the King’s life. The priests came to his aid, and one of them was wounded. He became convinced these two foreigners were part of the prophecy, sent to ensure the Theurang could one day be returned to Lo Monthang.”

“So he gave each of them a disk for safekeeping and sent them back to their home countries before the invasion,” Remi guessed.

“Exactly so.”

“Please tell me you found references to them somewhere,” Sam asked.

Karna smiled. “I did. Fathers Besim Mala and Arnost Deniv. Both names appear in Church records from the fifteenth century. Both men were dispatched to Samarkand, Uzbekistan, in 1414. With the death of Genghis Khan, the weakening of the Mongol Empire, and the rise of Tamerlane, the Eastern Orthodox Church was keen on spreading Christianity to the heathens, as it were.”

“What became of our intrepid priests?” Remi asked.

“Mala died in 1436 on the Albanian island of Sazani. Deniv died six years after that in Sofia, Bulgaria.”

“The time line fits,” said Sam. “If they left Lo Monthang in 1421, they would have made it back to the Balkans a year or so later.”

Sam and Remi fell silent, each lost in thought.

Karna said, “A bit fantastic, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you said it,” Sam replied. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

“I’m not offended. I know how it sounds. And you’re right to be skeptical. I myself spent the first year after I found the diary trying to debunk it, with no success. Here’s what I propose: I will turn over my research notes to this Selma of yours. If she can disprove my theory, so be it. If not, then . . .”

“Balkans, here we come,” Remi said.

From his living quarters, Karna retrieved his laptop, an Apple MacBook Pro with a seventeen-inch screen, which he placed on the coffee table before them. He connected one end of an Ethernet cable to the laptop’s port and the other to a wall jack leading up to what Sam and Remi guessed was Karna’s satellite dish.

Soon, Selma’s face appeared in the iChat window. Standing behind her, looking over each shoulder, were Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden, and, behind them, the workspace in the Fargos’ San Diego home. Predictably, Selma was in her uniform of the day: horn-rimmed glasses on a neck chain and a tie-dyed T-shirt.

Accommodating a three-second satellite transmission delay, Remi made the introductions, then brought Selma and the others up to speed. As was her way, Selma asked no questions during Remi’s report, and was silent for a full minute afterward as she mentally collated the information.

“Interesting,” was all she said.

“That’s it?” Sam asked.

“Well, I assume you’ve already told Mr. Karna, in your own diplomatic way, how far-fetched this sounds.”

At this, Jack Karna chuckled. “They did indeed, Ms. Wondrash.”

“Selma.”

“Jack, then.”

“Do you have your research material digitized?”

“Of course.”

Selma gave Karna a link to the office’s server, then said, “Upload it there, and I’ll start working through it. In the meantime, I’ll turn the chest over to Pete and Wendy. The three of you can see about opening it.”

It took twenty minutes to upload all of Karna’s research notes. Once done, and after badgering Sam and Remi into having a nap in his guest room, Karna, Pete, and Wendy went to work on the box. Karna first asked to see enhanced pictures of the chest, including a close-up of the engraved characters.