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“Have you heard any news from the Altons?”
“No, nothing,” replied Selma.
“Call Judy and see if Frank’s out of the country,” Sam requested. “Look into it discreetly. If there is a problem, we don’t want to alarm Judy.”
“When do you meet King?” Selma asked.
“In four hours.”
“Got it,” Selma said with a laugh in her voice. “By then, I’ll know his shirt size and his favorite flavor of ice cream.”
2
PALEMBANG, SUMATRA
Twenty minutes early for their meeting, Sam and Remi pulled their scooters to a stop beside the hurricane fence bordering Palembang Airport’s private terminal area. As Selma had predicted, they found the tarmac before the hangars crowded with a handful of private planes, all of them either single- or twin-engine prop models. Save one: a Gulfstream G650 jet. At sixty-five million dollars, the G6 was not only the world’s most expensive executive jet but also the fastest, capable of nearly a Mach 1 top speed, with a range of over eight thousand miles and a ceiling of fifty-one thousand feet—ten thousand feet higher than commercial jets.
Given what Selma had discovered about the mysterious Mr. King, the presence of the G6 was of little surprise to Sam and Remi. “King Charlie,” as he was known to his close friends and enemies alike, was currently ranked eleventh on Forbes’s Richest People list, with a net worth of 23.2 billion dollars.
Having started out in 1964 as a sixteen-year-old wildcatter in the oil fields of Texas, King had by the age of twenty-one started his own drilling company, King Oil. By twenty-four, he was a millionaire; by thirty, a billionaire. Through the eighties and nineties, King expanded his empire into mining and banking. According to Forbes, if King spent the rest of his life playing checkers in his penthouse office in Houston, he would still be earning a hundred thousand dollars an hour in interest.
For all that, however, King was in his daily life unostentatious to a fault, often tooling around Houston in his 1968 Chevy pickup and eating at his favorite greasy spoon. And while not quite at the same level as Howard Hughes, he was rumored to be something of a recluse and a stickler for privacy. King was rarely photographed in public, and when he did attend events, whether business or social, he usually did so virtually via webcam.
Remi looked at Sam. “The tail number matches Selma’s research. Unless someone stole King’s jet, it appears the man himself is here.”
“The question is, why?”
In addition to giving them a brief biography of King, Selma had done her best to trace Frank Alton, who, according to his secretary, was out of the country on a job. While she hadn’t heard from him for three days, she was unconcerned; Alton often dropped from communication for a week or two if the job was particularly complex.
They heard a branch snap behind them and turned to find Zhilan Hsu on the other side of the fence only five feet away. Her legs and lower torso were hidden by foliage. She regarded the Fargos with her black eyes for a few seconds, then said, “You are early.” Her tone was slightly less severe than that of a prosecuting attorney.
“And you’re light on your feet,” Remi said.
“I’ve been watching for you.”
Sam said with a half smile, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not nice to sneak up on people?”
Zhilan’s face remained stoic. “I never knew my mother.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Mr. King is ready to see you now; he must depart promptly at seven-fifty. I will meet you at the gate on the eastern side. Please have your passports ready.”
With that, Zhilan turned, stepped into the bushes, and disappeared.
Eyes narrowed, Remi stared after her. “Okay, it’s official: she’s creepy.”
“Seconded,” Sam said. “Let’s go. King Charlie awaits.”
They pulled their scooters into a spot beside the crossbarred gate and walked up to a small outer building where Zhilan was standing beside a uniformed guard. She stepped forward, collected their passports, and handed them to the guard, who glanced at each before handing them back.
“This way, please,” Zhilan said, and led them around the building, through a pedestrian gate, then to the Gulfstream’s lowered stairs. Zhilan stepped aside and gestured for them to continue on. Once aboard, they found themselves in a small but neatly appointed galley. To the right, through an archway, was the main cabin. The bulkheads were covered in lustrous walnut inlaid with silver teacup-sized Texas Lone Star emblems, the floor in thick burgundy carpet. There were two seating areas, one a grouping of four leather recliner-type seats around a coffee table, the second, aft, a trio of overstuffed settees. The air was crisp and air-conditioned. Faintly, through unseen speakers, came Willie Nelson’s “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”
“Oh, boy,” Remi muttered.
Somewhere aft, a voice with a Texas twang said, “I think the fancy word for all this is ‘cliché,’ Mizz Fargo, but, heck, I like what I like.”
From one of the backward-facing leather recliners a man rose and turned to face them. He was six foot four, two hundred pounds—nearly half was muscle—with a tan face and thick, carefully styled silver-blond hair. Though Sam and Remi knew Charles King was sixty-two, he looked fifty. He smiled broadly at them; his teeth were square and startlingly white.
