Karna’s SUV rolled to a stop, and he climbed out. Remi gave him a hug, Sam shook his hand. “Glad you’re on board, Jack.”

“As am I.”

Standing behind Karna, Ajay nodded and smiled at them.

Karna said, “You two look better than when I last saw your faces. Remi, how’s the foot? And the ribs?”

“Healed enough that I can get around without gritting my teeth. I’ve got ACE bandages, a good pair of hiking boots, and a bottle of ibuprofen.”

“Outstanding.”

“She’ll outmarch all of us,” Sam said.

“Any trouble getting here? Any tails? Suspicious people?”

Remi answered. “None of the above.”

Since their last conversation with Charles King, they had neither seen nor heard from him, his children, or Zhilan Hsu. It was a development they found at once pleasing and unnerving.

“Jack, how did you conquer your fear of flying?” said Sam.

“I didn’t, actually,” Karna replied. “I was utterly terrified from the moment we lifted off from Kathmandu to the moment I stepped off the plane in Bangladesh. My excitement for our expedition temporarily overpowered my fear, and, voila, here I am.”

“Here” was the end of a five-hundred-mile overland journey Sam and Remi had finished just a few hours earlier. Situated on the banks of the Siang River, the quiet town of Yingkiong, population nine hundred, was the last outpost of any significant population in northern India. From there, the next city, Nyingchi, Tibet, was a hundred miles northeast, through some of the world’s most forbidding jungles.

Ten days had passed since their iChat conversation. It had taken that long to make all the necessary travel arrangements. True to his word, Karna had contacted them the next day, having worked nonstop in hopes of deciphering the map from “The Great Dragon.”

De Terzi’s land navigation skills must have rivaled those of the Sentinels, Karna had explained. Both the bearings and distances on De Terzi’s map were remarkably accurate, missing the real-world measurements by less than a mile and one compass degree. Once finished with his calculations, Karna was certain he had triangulated the location of Shangri-La down to a two-mile diameter. As he had suspected all along, the coordinates were in the heart of the Tsangpo River Gorge.

Sam and Remi had studied the area on Google Earth but had seen nothing but towering peaks, raging rivers, and thick forests. Nothing that looked like a mushroom.

Karna said, “What say we retire to a bar for a drink and a bit of chalk talk? It’s best you understand the nastiness we’re in for before we set out in the morning.”

The tavern was a two-story building with a corrugated tin lean-to roof and clapboard walls. Inside, the lower level was devoted to a reception area and a restaurant that looked as if it had been stolen from a 1950s Hollywood western: wooden floors, a long J-shaped bar, and vertical posts supporting exposed ceiling joists. Their rooms for the night, Karna told them, were on the second floor.

The tavern was surprisingly crowded. They found a trestle table against the wall beneath a flickering neon Schlitz sign and ordered four beers. They were ice-cold.

“Most of what I’m going to tell you I got from Ajay, but since he’s not the loquacious type you’ll have to rely on my memory. As I told you, these are Ajay’s old stomping grounds, so we’re in good hands. By the way, Ajay, what’s the status of our transportation?”

“All arranged, Mr. Karna.”

“Fantastic. Correct me if I get offtrack while I’m talking, Ajay.”

“Yes, Mr. Karna.”

Karna sighed. “Can’t get him to call me Jack. Been trying for years.”

“He and Selma play by the same handbook,” Sam replied.

“Right. Here’s the quick and dirty about Arunachal Pradesh: depending on who you ask, we’re in China right now.”

“Whoa! Say that again,” Sam said.

“China officially claims most of this region as part of southern Tibet. Of course, to the people and the government here, Arunachal Pradesh is an Indian state. The northern border between Arunachal Pradesh and China is called the McMahon Line, drawn up as part of a treaty between Tibet and the United Kingdom. The Chinese never bought into it, and India never enforced the border until 1950. Bottom line, China and India both claim it but neither does much about it.”

“What does that mean for a military presence?” asked Sam.

“Nothing. There are some Indian troops in the region, but the Chinese stay north of the McMahon Line. It’s all fairly amicable, really.”

“That’s good for our team,” Remi said.

“Yes, well . . . What isn’t so wonderful is the ANLF-the Arunachal Naga Liberation Force. They’re the latest and greatest terrorist group in the area. They’ve been keen on kidnapping as of late. That said, Ajay says we probably won’t have any trouble with them; the Army has been cracking down.”

Sam said, “According to the maps, our destination is twenty-five miles into China. Based on the landscape, I’m assuming there aren’t any border checkpoints.”

“You’re correct. As I mentioned back in Mustang, the border is fairly open. Several hundred trekkers jaunt across it every year. Actually, the Chinese government doesn’t seem to care. There’s nothing of any strategic importance in the area.”

“More good news,” Remi said. “Now tell us the downside.”

“You mean aside from the ridiculously rugged terrain?”

“Yes.”

“The downside is that we will be, for all intents and purposes, invading China. If we’re unlucky enough to get caught, we’ll probably end up in prison.”

“We’ve already faced the possibility once,” Sam replied. “Let’s do our best to avoid that, shall we?”

“Right. Okay, let’s move on to snakes and venomous insects . . .”

After a quick supper that consisted of tandoori chicken, Sam and Remi retired for the evening. They found their rooms in keeping with the hostel’s motif: Hollywood western chic sans the chic. Though the outside temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees, the humidity was stifling. The room’s creaking ceiling fan slowly churned the air, but after sunset the temperature began dropping, and soon the room was comfortable.

They were asleep by eight.

They awoke the next morning to the sound of Ajay knocking softly on their door and whispering their names. Bleary-eyed, Sam crawled out of bed in the darkness and shuffled to the door.

Ajay said, “Coffee, Mr. Fargo.”

“No tea? This is a pleasant surprise. It’s Sam, by the way.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“What time is it?”

“Five a.m.”

“Uh-oh,” Sam murmured, and glanced over at Remi’s sleeping form. Mrs. Fargo was not exactly a morning person. “Ajay, would you mind bringing us two more cups of coffee right away?”

“Of course. In fact, I will bring the carafe.”

The group assembled in the tavern thirty minutes later for breakfast. Once they were done, Karna said, “We’d best pack. Our death trap should be here anytime now.”

“Did you say ‘death trap’?” Remi asked.

“You might know it by its common name: helicopter.”

Sam chuckled. “After what we’ve been through, we almost prefer your description. Are you sure you can handle it?”

Karna held up a softball-sized Nerf ball. It was riddled with finger holes. “Stress toy. I’ll survive. The ride will be short.”

With their gear assembled and packed, they soon regrouped at the northern edge of Yingkiong near a dirt clearing.

“Here he comes,” Ajay said, pointing to the south where an olive green helicopter was skimming over the surface of the Siang.

“It looks positively ancient,” Karna observed.

As it drew even with the clearing and slowed to a hover, Sam spotted a faded Indian Air Force roundel on the side door. Someone had tried and failed to paint over the orange, white, and green insignia. The group turned away from the rotor downwash and waited until the dust settled.