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“Mr. King wishes to speak to you directly regarding Mr. Alton.”
“You’re being very secretive, Ms. Hsu,” Remi said. “Care to tell us why?”
“Mr. King wishes to—”
“Speak with us directly,” Remi finished.
“Yes, that is right.”
Sam checked his watch. “Please tell Mr. King we will meet him at seven o’clock.”
“That is four hours from now,” said Zhilan. “Mr. King—”
“Is going to have to wait,” Sam finished. “We have business we need to attend to.”
Zhilan Hsu’s stoic expression flashed to anger, but the look was gone almost as soon as it appeared. She simply nodded and said, “Seven o’clock. Please be on time.”
Without another word, she turned and leaped gazelle-like off the deck to the Harbor Patrol boat’s gunwale. She pushed past the police
men and disappeared into the cabin. One of the policemen tipped his cap to them. Ten seconds later the engines growled to life and the boat pulled away.
“Well, that was interesting,” Sam said a few seconds later.
“She’s a real charmer,” Remi said. “Did you catch her choice of words?”
Sam nodded. “‘Mr. King has authorized.’ If she understands the connotation, then we can assume Mr. King is going to be just as genial.”
“Do you believe her? About Frank? Judy would have called us if anything had happened.”
While their adventures often led them into dicey situations, their daily lives were fairly calm. Still, Zhilan Hsu’s unexpected visit and mysterious invitation had both their internal warning alarms going off. As unlikely as it seemed, the possibility of a trap was something they couldn’t ignore.
“Let’s find out.” Sam said.
He knelt down by the driver’s seat, retrieved his backpack from under the dashboard, and pulled out his satellite phone from one of the side pockets. He dialed, and a few seconds later a female voice said, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”
“Thought this was going to be the lucky call,” Sam said. He had a running bet with Remi that someday he’d catch Selma Wondrash off guard, and she’d call either of them by the first name.
“Not today, Mr. Fargo.”
Their chief researcher, logistical guru, and keeper of the inner sanctum, Selma was a former Hungarian citizen who, despite having lived in the United States for decades, still retained a trace of an accent—enough that it gave her voice a slight Zsa Zsa Gabor lilt.
Selma had managed the Library of Congress’s Special Collections Division until Sam and Remi lured her away with the promise of carte blanche and state-of-the-art resources. Aside from her hobby aquarium and a collection of tea that occupied an entire cabinet in the workroom, Selma’s only passion was research. She was at her happiest when the Fargos gave her an ancient riddle to unravel.
“Someday, you’ll call me Sam.”
“Not today.”
“What time is it there?”
“About eleven.” Selma rarely went to bed before midnight and rarely slept past four or five in the morning. Despite this, she never sounded anything less than wide awake. “What have you got for me?”
“A dead end, we’re hoping,” Sam replied, then recounted their visit from Zhilan Hsu. “Charles King comes off like the anointed one.”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s rich with a capital R.”
“See if you can dig up any dirt about his personal life.”
“Anything else?”
