Golden Buddha (12 page)

“T
HE
sample checks out,” the software billionaire said over the telephone.

Spenser had dispensed with the voice-alteration equipment, but his words were tinged with a fear that made his upper-crust accent less polished than perplexed.

“Then you are interested?” he said.

“Sure,” the software billionaire said, “but I've decided that I want to make the transfer myself. I have the feeling you're about as trustworthy as a hooker with a crack habit.”

Spenser frowned. His plan of thievery and deceit was unraveling. The costs he had already incurred made a quick sale his only salvation—there was no time to line up another buyer. He was in the worst possible place. He was a seller who needed to sell—with a buyer who was calling the shots.

“Then you need to come here and take delivery,” Spenser said.

“Where's here?”

“Macau,” Spenser said.

The software billionaire stared at a calendar on his desk. “I'll be there the evening of Good Friday.”

“I'll want cash or bearer bonds then,” Spenser said. “No more bank transfer.”

“Fair enough, but don't try anything, I'm bringing reinforcements.”

“You bring the money,” Spenser said, “and you get the Buddha.”

The billionaire disconnected and Spenser sat quietly for a moment.

He didn't have long to go.

 

“M
ONICA'S
a guest,” Cabrillo said as he glanced at the sheet of notes. “For this operation, she's a minor member of the Danish royal family.”

“It's all so common,” Crabtree said with a Scandinavian accent.

“You'll need to fake a speech impediment with that accent,” Hanley said. “Stop by the Magic Shop and we'll make you a mouth guard that will add a lisp.”

“Great,” Crabtree said, “I get to play a lisping lady-in-waiting.”

“It could be worse,” Cabrillo said. “Linda's replacing the chain-smoking Portuguese party planner, Iselda.”

“Excellent,” Linda Ross said, laughing. “I finally quit smoking a few years ago and now the Corporation is going to get me hooked again.”

“By the way,” Hanley said, “we think Iselda also practices an alternative lifestyle.”

“So I'm a chain-smoking Portuguese lesbian party planner,” Ross said. “At least it's not as bad as when I was a German transsexual dominatrix.”

“I remember that,” Murphy said. “You looked like Madeline Kahn in that Mel Brooks film.”

“I remember you being kind of turned on,” Ross said.

“We were going to use Julia, but we couldn't, for the obvious reason,” Cabrillo noted.

Julia Huxley, the
Oregon
's medical officer, grinned. “I always knew growing up that these big boobs would pay off.”

“You'd just better perfect your Pamela Anderson-Lee-whoever look,” Hanley said.

“I get to play a slut?” Huxley said happily.

“Girlfriend of one of the band members,” Cabrillo noted.

“Same thing,” Huxley said eagerly. “Can Max do me some fake tattoos?”

“Be glad to,” Hanley said. “We might even fake some piercings, if you like.”

“And now to the band,” Cabrillo said. “I'm playing keyboards—a lot of songs don't feature keyboards, so that will give me time to sneak away. Murphy's lead guitar, Kasim is our drummer, and the soul man Franklin is on bass.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lincoln said. “The pulsing beat runs through me.”

“And the singer?” Huxley asked.

“That would be Mr. Halpert,” Cabrillo said.

The entire conference table turned and stared at Michael Halpert. As the head of finance and accounting, he didn't exactly seem to fit the job. Easily the most conservative of the crew, the rumor was that he ironed his handkerchiefs. The idea of him posing as a rock musician seemed as ludicrous as casting Courtney Love as the Virgin Mary.

“Unfortunately, the lead singer of the Minutemen is tall, thin and slim, and the owner has seen a videotape of the band performing. If no one can think of anyone else, Mike's got to be our man.”

“I can do it,” Halpert said quickly.

“Are you sure?” Hanley asked. “There is only so much the Magic Shop can do.”

“For your information, I was raised on a commune in Colorado,” Halpert said. “I've forgotten more about the rock lifestyle than most of you ever knew.”

Cabrillo was the only one who already knew that—he was the sole officer of the Corporation who had access to all employment files.

“Man,” Murphy said, “I thought your baby clothes were a three-piece suit.”

“Now you know,” Halpert said. “My family got around. Jerry Jeff Walker was my godfather, and Commander Cody taught me how to ride a bicycle.”

“Man,” Hali Kasim said, “just when you think you know someone.”

“Let's get back to the project,” Cabrillo said. He knew Halpert's upbringing made him uncomfortable—the day Halpert had enlisted in the marines, his father had quit speaking to him. Ten years had passed before they'd talked again, and even now the relationship was strained.

Halpert waited for Cabrillo to continue.

“Right now we have two of our people posing as a landscaping crew. They will install parabolic microphones in the trees they're trimming. The microphones record the vibrations on the glass of the house and we should be able to hear everything that is happening inside.”

“We're having trouble monitoring the telephone lines, however,” Linda Ross noted. “Normally, we can tap into the mainframe, but since the Chinese took over the telephone system, they moved the major systems across the water into Hong Kong. We'll try and install something at the junction box leading into the house, but we're not sure how well it will receive.”

“So there's a chance we will only be able to hear one side of the telephone calls?” Hanley asked.

“Right,” Ross said. “Anyone talking inside will cause vibrations on the glass we can read.”

“I'm not so concerned about that,” Cabrillo said, “but we do need to be able to cut the lines leading into the house—the burglar alarms work through the telephone lines.”

“That we can do,” Ross said, “but people will still be able to use cell phones.”

The hours passed as the planning continued. The party was less than thirty hours away.

 

L
IKE
a whirling dervish, the oracle began to shake and parade about.

The Palace of Exile in India was much smaller than Potala, but it served the same purpose. Home to the Dalai Lama and his advisors, it featured a temple, sleeping rooms and a large stone-floored meeting room, where the Dalai Lama was sitting on a throne chair now, watching.

The oracle was dressed in his ceremonial robes, topped by one of golden silk, its interwoven designs of yellow, green, blue and red encircling a mirror on the chest surrounded by amethyst and turquoise stones. A harness held small flags and banners, and the entire outfit weighed nearly eighty pounds. As soon as the oracle had been dressed and entered a trance, his assistants had placed a heavy metal-and-leather helmet upon his head and cinched it tight.

Had the aging oracle not been possessed by a spirit outside his own, the weight of the helmet and robes would have been too much for him to bear. Instead, once the oracle reached his deep state, the weight seemed to be lifted and he hopped about like an astronaut walking on the surface of the moon. He exploded in motion. Arms akimbo, he danced like a praying mantis from one side of the room to the other. Strange guttural sounds radiated from somewhere deep inside his body, while his left hand flashed a heavy silver-plated sword in a figure-eight pattern.

Then he stopped in front of the throne chair and shook his entire body like a dog after a swim.

Once the oracle became motionless, the Dalai Lama spoke.

“Is it time to go home?” he asked.

The oracle spoke in a voice unlike his own. “The Dalai Lama returns, but to a smaller Tibet.”

“The oracle explains,” the Dalai Lama said.

A backflip, a flapping of arms, a stillness again.

“The north holds the key,” the oracle said loudly. “We give the aggressors the land that once held Mongols, then they will go.”

“Can we trust the Westerners?” the Dalai Lama asked.

The oracle bent his knees and strutted around in a circle. When facing the Dalai Lama again, he spoke. “We will soon have something they want; our gift of this will help strengthen the friendship. Our power is returning—our home is near.”

Then all at once, as if a gust of wind had blown the skeleton from his body, the oracle collapsed on the ground in a heap. His assistants ran over and untied the helmet, then began to remove the sweat-soaked robes. They began to bathe the oracle with cool water, but it was almost an hour before he opened his eyes again.

“O
NLINE,”
the corporation technician whispered.

On board the
Oregon
, a radio operator adjusted his receiver. The sound of a maid came through his headset. He flipped a switch to a recorder, then keyed his microphone.

“Okay,” he said, “we're recording.”

Climbing down from the tree, the technician gathered up the limbs he had trimmed, then spent the next few hours working on the bushes. When he had finished the job and loaded the rented truck with the debris, it was just past lunchtime. Walking around to the service entrance, he handed a bill to the manager of the mansion. Then he walked back to the truck and drove away.

Back on the
Oregon
, the radio operator monitored the conversation in the mansion and made notes on a yellow pad. Nothing much was happening, but that might change at any moment.

 

B
ELOWDECKS
in the Magic Shop, the band was rehearsing. Kevin Nixon motioned for them to stop, then adjusted the control panel.

“All right,” he said, “from the top again.”

Murphy started strumming his guitar, and the opening bars of the Creedence Clearwater Revival song “Fortunate Son” filled the shop. The rest of the band added their parts. Halpert's voice was surprisingly good. After being washed through the computer, it was hard to tell his rendition from the original. His moves were good as well—unlike those of most of the band.

Cabrillo on the keyboards came off as Liberace on methamphetamines. Kasim moved like Buddy Rich in a neck brace. Lincoln was slightly better—he kept his eyes closed and strummed the bass guitar and managed to tap his foot in time; the problem was that his hands were so large it looked like he was not moving his fingers. Nixon waited until the song was finished.

“It's not bad,” he admitted, “but I have some videotapes of live bands and I suggest you men watch them so you can work on your choreography.”

Three hours later, the band was as ready as they would ever be.

 

T
HIS
was the part of her job Iselda loved best—the last-minute nagging details.

She reached in her handbag and found a pack of thin brown cheroots. Unlike most smokers who stuck to a single brand, Iselda stocked her bag with three or four different kinds. She selected her poison depending on many factors. The aching in her lungs, the rawness of her throat, the amount of nicotine needed for the job. Menthols for that minty fresh buzz; thin cigars when she needed a boost; long, thin, brightly tipped tools when she needed to punctuate a conversation by using the burning sticks like a maestro's baton. She fired up the cheroot and took a drag.

“I specifically requested glacier ice for the cocktails,” she screamed at the caterer, “not the round highball cubes.”

“You asked for both,” the caterer said, “but the glacier ice has yet to arrive.”

“You'll have it here?” she asked.

“It's in the warehouse, Iselda,” the man said patiently. “We didn't want it to melt.”

Iselda stared across the tent to where a worker was adjusting the devices that made clouds of smoke from dry ice.

“We need more smoke than that,” she shouted, then quickly walked across to the row of machines and began to berate the worker.

After a few minutes of adjustment, the man flipped the machine on again. Clouds of dense, cold gas billowed from the machine, then began to settle on the floor.

“Good, good,” Iselda said. “Now make sure we have plenty of dry ice.”

A technician was adjusting the light display and she raced in that direction.

 

O
N
board the
Oregon
, the technician monitoring conversations in the mansion made a note on the yellow pad, then reached for the shipboard communication microphone.

“Chairman Cabrillo,” he said, “I think you need to come up here.”

 

T
HE
limousine slowed outside the gate leading to the runway at the San Jose, California, airport. A guard with a holstered weapon stood blocking the way. The driver rolled down his window.

“New security regulations,” he said. “There's no more driving onto the tarmac.”

The software billionaire had rolled down his window as well. This was an unwelcome inconvenience. Intolerable, in fact.

“Wait a minute, now,” he shouted from the rear. “We've driven out to my plane for years.”

“Not anymore,” the guard noted.

“Do you know who I am?” the billionaire said pompously.

“No idea,” the guard admitted, “but I do know who I am—I'm the guy that's ordering you to turn away from the gate now.”

With nothing else to say, the limousine driver backed up and steered toward the terminal, then parked in front and waited for his employer to climb out. The encounter put his boss in a foul mood and he could hear him muttering as he carried the bags a safe distance behind.

“Good God,” the billionaire said, “for what I pay for hangar space, you'd think I'd get some service.”

As they approached the door leading out to the taxiway, a smattering of expensive jets sat awaiting their owners. There were a trio of Gulfstreams, a Citation or two, a half dozen King Airs, and a single burgundy behemoth that looked like it belonged to a regional airline.

The software billionaire was big on appearances.

If the rich had private jets—he wanted a large one. An airplane that screamed success and excess like a dog collar made from diamonds. The billionaire's choice was a Boeing 737. The aircraft was fitted with a single-lane bowling alley, a hot tub and a bedroom bigger than many homes. It was fitted with a large-screen television, advance communications equipment, and a chef trained at the Cordon Bleu. The pair of dancers he had ordered from the service were already aboard. The entertainment for his flight was a California blonde and a redhead who bore a striking resemblance to a young Ann-Margret.

The billionaire wanted some way to pass the time on the long flight.

He burst through the door leading outside without waiting for his driver with the luggage, then made his way over to the 737. Then he walked up the ramp and inside.

“Ladies,” he shouted, “front and center.”

Thirteen minutes later, they were airborne.

 

I
NSIDE
the
Oregon
, the technician was entering commands in the computer when Cabrillo opened the door and walked inside.

“What have you got?” he said without preamble.

“Ho just had a telephone conversation with an insurance adjuster who is coming out to the mansion to inspect the Buddha.”

“Damn,” Cabrillo said, reaching for the microphone. “Max, you better get up to communications, we've got a problem.”

While the technician continued to trace the source of the call, Cabrillo paced the control room.

Hanley arrived a few minutes later. “What is it, Juan?”

“Ho has an insurance adjuster coming out to inspect the Golden Buddha.”

“When?” Hanley asked.

“Four p.m.”

The technician hit a button and a printer spit out a sheet.

“Here's the location of the call, boss,” he said. “I have it overlaid on a map of Macau.”

“We need to come up with a plan,” Cabrillo said, “posthaste.”

 

W
INSTON
Spenser was juggling chain saws.

Only his long stint as a customer of the bank had earned him an increase on his business line of credit, but the manager had made it clear he wanted the balance paid down in no less than seventy-two hours. His credit cards were at their limits, and calls had already come into his office in London, inquiring about the situation. For all intents and purposes, Spenser was, at this instant, in dire financial straits. As soon as the deal with the billionaire went down, he would be as flush as he had ever dreamed—right now, however, he could not afford an airplane ticket home.

All he had to do tomorrow was remove the Buddha, transfer it to the airport and receive his ill-gotten gain. Then he'd charter a jet and fly off into the sunset with his fortune. By the time his customer in Macau realized he'd been duped, he'd be long gone.