Kingdom of the Golden Dragon by Isabel Allende Read Free Book Online Page B

go by yourself. . . .”
    “Watch what you’re saying, pipsqueak!”
    “I meant, well . . . I can carry your luggage, for example. And I can take photos.”
    “You think that International Geographic would publish your snapshots? Timothy Bruce and Joel González will be coming, the same photographers who went with us to the Amazon.”
    “Is González all right?”
    “His broken ribs healed, but he’s jumpy about everything and anything. Timothy looks after him like a mother.”
    “And I’ll look after you like a mother, Kate. You might get trampled by a herd of yaks in the Himalayas. And the air’s very thin, you could have a heart attack,” her grandson pleaded.
    “I do not intend to give Leblanc the pleasure of seeing me die before he does.” Kate gritted her teeth, and added, “But I see that you know a little about the region.”
    “You can’t imagine how much I’ve been reading about it. Can I go with you? Please!”
    “All right, but I’m not going to sit and wait for you. We’ll meet at John F. Kennedy Airport next Thursday, where we’ll take a night flight to London and fly from there to New Delhi. Do you have that?”
    “I’ll be there, I promise!”
    “Bring warm clothing. The higher we climb, the colder it will get. I’m sure you’ll have occasion to do a little mountaineering, so you can also bring your climbing gear.”
    “Thanks, thank you, Grandmother!” Alex exclaimed, jubilant.
    “If you call me Grandmother one more time,I’m not going to take you anywhere!” Kate replied. She hung up the phone and brayed with laughter like a hyena.

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Collector
    T HIRTY BLOCKS AWAY FROM Kate Cold’s tiny apartment, on the top floor of a skyscraper in the heart of Manhattan, the second wealthiest man in the world, who had made his fortune by stealing the ideas of his employees and his partners in the field of computers, was talking by telephone with someone in Hong Kong. The two had never seen one another, nor would they ever.
    The multibillionaire called himself the Collector, and the person in Hong Kong was simply the Specialist. The former did not know the identity of the latter. Among other security precautions, both had filters on their telephones to disguise their voices, and a device to prevent having their telephone numbers traced. That conversation would not be heard anywhere else. Not even the FBI, with the most sophisticated espionage systems in the world, would be able to learn what the secret transaction between those two parties consisted of.
    The Specialist accomplished things—for a price. The Specialist could assassinate the president of Colombia, put a bomb on an airplane, make off with the royal crown of England, kidnap the pope, or replace the Mona Lisa in the Louvre with a fake. The Specialist didn’t have to advertise, because there was never a lack of work; on the contrary, clients often hadto wait months on a list before their turn came. The mode of operation was always the same: the client deposited a certain six-figure fee—nonrefundable—and waited patiently as his personal data were being painstakingly verified by the criminal organization.
    After a brief time, the client received a visit from an agent, usually someone with an innocent appearance, perhaps a student seeking information for a thesis, or a priest representing a charitable institution. The agent would interview the client regarding the details of the mission, and would then disappear. On the first visit, the price was never mentioned; it was understood that if the client needed to ask what the service would cost, he would never be able to pay. Later the deal would be sealed with a personal telephone call from the Specialist. The call could originate from any place in the world.
    The Collector was forty-two. He was a man of medium stature and ordinary appearance; he wore thick eyeglasses, his shoulders were bowed, and he was balding prematurely, all of which made him seem much