Golden Buddha (16 page)

“It will take me twenty minutes or so to make the badges,” Nixon said, “but send the three operatives down right away. I can fit the uniforms while the patches are forming.”

“They will be there shortly,” Hanley said in closing.

Hanley glanced at a clipboard in the control room. Most of the Corporation stockholders were already assigned to functions of operations, extraction or backup. His remaining choices were an assistant chef, Rick Barrett; a propulsion engineer named Sam Pryor; and a middle-aged man who worked in the armory, Gunther Reinholt. None had ever worked on the operations end. But beggars can't be choosers.

“Get me Reinholt, Pryor and Barrett,” Hanley said to one of the communications operators, “and have them meet me in the Magic Shop.”

The operator began paging the men.

 

“D
ON'T
worry,” Murphy said to Halpert, “it just smells like marijuana.”

Murphy was waving what looked like an incense stick near the members of the band when Cabrillo walked into the conference room.

“Smells like a Grateful Dead concert in here,” he said.

Murphy walked closer and let the smoke waft over the chairman.

“It's the little things,” he said with a grin, “that makes the Corporation successful.”

“The real band was sober,” Cabrillo noted.

“But Ho doesn't know that.”

Cabrillo nodded. “Listen up. Dick Truitt has managed to get three more operatives inside. The men will be dressed as security guards. I'll have the company name shortly. Be careful, because there might be other guards Ho already hired. Don't slip up and mistake ours for them.”

Just then, Cabrillo's telephone rang. He listened then disconnected.

“Redman Security is the name on our guys' uniforms,” he said to the group.

A moment later Julia Huxley walked into the room.

“Wow,” Kasim said.

Huxley was dressed in a pair of form-fitting leather pants that laced up the side and showed two panels of leg from foot to hip. Her top was a metal-studded vest that barely covered her ample bosom. Around her neck was a strap of leather with a D-shaped hook, and one of her arms was decorated with a flowing tattoo of barbed wire and flower vines. Her hair was teased and coated with hair spray in a wild fashion and her makeup was bold and thickly applied. Five-inch pumps and a dusting of glitter on her exposed skin completed the picture.

“Slutty enough for you boys?” she asked.

“I didn't know the Magic Shop had such costumes in stock,” Halpert said.

Huxley walked over to Halpert and rubbed herself along his side. As the lead singer, he, of course, was the one who got the girl.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “This is from my own collection.”

Huxley was lying, of course—but then this entire operation was a façade.

“Now, who would argue,” Kasim said, “that America's not the greatest country in the world?”

R
OSS
was checking the smoke machines when Ho walked out onto the lawn.

“Miss Iselda,” he said as he walked over, “I have a new piece of artwork I've decided I want to display out here on the lawn.”

Ross watched Ho carefully. The man was gesturing toward one side of the tent. He looked back at her expectantly. There was no hint he found anything amiss.

“Is it a painting?” Ross asked.

“No, it's a statue,” Ho said.

Two workers were waiting alongside the colored lights near the smoke machine.

“Take a break for a few moments,” Ross said.

The men walked into the shade of the tent.

“Describe it to me,” Ross asked.

“Six foot tall and made of gold,” Ho said.

Ross quickly thought. “Perhaps we could place the object there”—she pointed a few feet away—“at the end of the red carpet leading into the tent. As sort of a sentinel.”

Ho and Ross walked over to the spot.

“I could light it with blue and red spotlights,” she said.

“What else?” Ho asked.

Ross racked her brain. What could help the Corporation with the theft?

“What do you think about some billowing clouds of smoke,” she said slowly, “so the object seems to appear and disappear like a mirage?”

“Excellent,” Ho said eagerly.

Ross smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a trio of men from the
Oregon
; they were dressed in security guards' uniforms. Somehow her team had sent help. Barrett, acting as the leader of the guards, walked over to where she and Ho were standing.

“Are you Mr. Ho?” he said.

“I'm Ho.”

“The insurance company sent us.”

Barrett placed a finger to his eye and winked at Ross when Ho was not looking.

“Good,” Ho said, “I'm glad you arrived so quickly. This is Iselda; she's in charge of planning. We were just now figuring out the best place to place the object you will be guarding.”

Barrett nodded.

“We're thinking there,” Ho said, pointing, “near the entrance to the tent.”

Barrett scanned the grounds as if to determine the security of the spot. He turned back to Ho and spoke.

“My company mentioned it was a statue.”

“Right,” Ho said, “a six-foot-tall Buddha.”

Barrett nodded as if he were weighing his options.

“Is it heavy?” he asked.

“It weighs about six hundred pounds,” Ho said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, sir,” Barrett said, “I thought you might want it to be more of a part of the festivities—you know, have it moved from place to place as the party proceeds. Six hundred pounds is too heavy for my men to move, however.”

Ross was catching on.

“You mean to have the statue become one of the guests,” she said eagerly.

“Something like that,” the guard admitted. “The object would actually be safer the more people that are around.”

“Interesting,” Ho said.

“The party's almost ready to start,” Ross said, “but I could see if I could scrounge up some other Buddha statues and do an entire theme in that direction.”

“What do you mean?” Ho asked.

“Maybe I could find some plaster Buddha statues and have them placed around the grounds,” Ross said.

“That would help with security,” Barrett admitted, “by confusing the real and the fakes.”

“Do you think you can?” Ho asked.

“Don't worry, Mr. Ho,” Ross said, “my company can work miracles.”

 

T
HE
band was assembled in the conference room on the
Oregon
. Hanley and Cabrillo were walking them through their last-minute instructions.

“As you know, we have three more men inside,” Cabrillo said, “posing as security, so we don't need to worry about getting it down to ground level. It should already be there.”

“That's a plus,” Franklin noted.

“So the actual removal from the site has become easier,” Hanley said, “but we have the added problem of more witnesses.”

“That means we almost certainly need to drug the guests,” Kasim noted.

“It's beginning to look that way,” Cabrillo admitted.

“The playlist features three sets,” Hanley continued. “That gives us two breaks between sets when you, as members of the band, can move freely about. Watch the chairman for the lead and be flexible—this entire caper is still unfolding.”

“Do we have the plane waiting to receive the icon after the theft?” Halpert asked.

“Arranged,” Cabrillo said. “A plane is inbound as we speak.”

“When's the extraction scheduled?” Monica asked.

“Ten minutes before midnight, tonight,” Hanley said.

“The
Oregon
sails away from here sometime tomorrow,” Cabrillo said, “no matter what the outcome. So let's just do our jobs and take our leave.”

“A little richer for the effort,” Murphy said, smiling.

“That's the idea,” Cabrillo agreed.

 

T
HIN
tendrils of richly scented incense smoke wafted toward the ceiling in the A-Ma Temple.

A scattering of tourists filed through the public areas and left offerings at the foot of various Buddhas. They walked on the pebbled paths, sat on the carved wooden benches on the grounds and stared at the sea in reflection. It was a place of tranquillity; a port of serenity in a storm of confusion and haste.

Winston Spenser was not feeling calm.

Fear gripped him. The Golden Buddha was laughing at him—of that he was sure. The calm gaze and unmoving solidness made him uneasy. Spenser dreamed of when he would be rid of the curse and collect his money. He could see it in his mind. The armored-car company picking up the icon again and delivering it to the software billionaire's plane. The crates of money he would receive.

He rose from the bench in the main temple, then walked out the door and down the hillside to his waiting limousine. The parking lot was half empty. Most of the people in Macau were preparing for the parade and tonight's parties. A pair of motorcycles sat off to one side under a tree. Spenser didn't notice them—he was wrapped up in his own certain failure. Climbing in the rear of the limousine, he gave the driver directions. A few moments later the limousine rolled out of the lot.

“I've seen what I need to see,” one of the motorcyclists said.

“I agree,” said the other.

 

S
IX
Chinese valets awaited the first of the guests. After showing their invitations to the guard, they pulled through the gate, drove up the circular drive, then climbed from their cars near the front door of the mansion.

The sun was slowly dipping in the west and the view from the mansion was an expanse of sea lit with the golden hues of a waning sun. Spenser climbed from the rear of his limousine and stared at the scene. He was dressed in a black tuxedo that hid the pools of sweat under his arms. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the foyer.

Juan Cabrillo rolled down the window of the van and handed the guard a slip of paper.

“Park over by the garages,” the guard said, “then unload your equipment and wheel it around back.”

Cabrillo nodded. When the gate opened, he drove around to the garages, then backed the van up near the edge of the lawn.

“Showtime,” he said.

And the band climbed from the van and began shuttling equipment to the rear of the house.

Cabrillo walked around to the rear of the house, seeking Ross. He saw her in the distance talking on a cell phone. Several people were standing nearby.

“We're The Minutemen,” he said when she had disconnected.

“Good,” Ross said. “The bandstand is over there.”

“We have some large speakers,” Cabrillo said, “that we'll need some help moving.”

“Let me summon some help.”

“We like to take care of our equipment ourselves,” Cabrillo said. “We just need some carts.”

Ross nodded and turned to one of the caterers.

“This is the leader of the band,” she said. “He needs to borrow a few of the carts you use to move the tables.”

The man nodded and motioned to Cabrillo. “Right this way.”

Mark Murphy stood on the bandstand and surveyed the surroundings. Three large tents were erected, forming a Y with the band at the far end. The bandstand was slightly elevated from the ground, and to the rear the back of the tent had slits that opened to provide access. Electrical cables to power their speakers and lights stretched out under the tent. He sat his guitar down and poked through the slit in the back. Forty feet behind the rear of the tent was part of the wall that formed the boundary of the house. To the right side of the Y portion of the tent, some thirty yards away, was the rear wall of the mansion and the doors leading to the kitchens and inside. He began to walk the perimeter of the tent.

At the front, or top, of the Y were the entrances for the guests. In the opening between the legs of the Y there was a portable fountain and a small wooden platform that was currently empty. Murphy continued around the other side, examining the way the tents were fastened to the ground. There were large metal stakes on the edges with guy wires running farther out onto the lawn, where they were staked into the earth. He stared up. Long metal poles, two per each section of the three separate tents, poked through the tops. He found a slit in the tent and walked over to one of the poles. The bases sat on plastic holders.

Murphy figured it wouldn't take much to bring it all down.

Ho was making his way back to the mansion when he stopped in his tracks.

Several longhaired men were approaching the tent, but that didn't concern him. What did concern him was the lady that was following. Ho pivoted on his heel and walked over.

“I'm Stanley Ho,” he said, smiling. “I'm your host.”

“I'm Candace,” Julia Huxley said.

Ho's eyes were riveted on Huxley's ample assets. “I find this hard to believe,” Ho said, “but I don't remember meeting you before.”

“I'm with the band,” Candace said, smiling wickedly. “At least I came with them.”

“Performer?” Ho asked.

“In many ways,” Candace said, smiling.

Ho was beginning to get the feeling that if he played his cards right, he might get lucky.

“I need to go inside and greet my guests,” Ho said quickly as he saw Iselda approaching from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps we could talk later.”

He turned and moved toward the back door of the mansion.

“Mr. Ho,” Ross shouted after him, “I think we have the placement figured out.”

“Just take care of it,” Ho said over his shoulder.

Ross passed by Huxley. “Slut,” she whispered.

“Lesbian,” Huxley replied.

 

M
AX
Hanley was sitting in a leather chair in the command center of the
Oregon
.

“Okay, people,” he said to the trio of operators that remained, “we're a go. Display from the tree,” Hanley ordered.

The image from the tiny camera in the tree filled one of the screens in the control room. Hanley could see Cabrillo rolling a cart containing several long speaker boxes across the lawn. Ross had just passed Huxley and was now turning to go back toward the tent. Murphy popped out from the side of one of the tents. As if on cue, he turned to the tree and smiled.

“Larry,” Hanley said, “all okay.”

Larry King was the Corporation member hiding in the tree. He adjusted his sniper rifle and then pushed the tiny microphone over his voice box and answered.

“How's the picture, boss?”

“Looks good,” Hanley said. “You holding up?”

King had been forced to take his position above the party sometime just after 3
A.M.
He'd been in his perch over twelve hours already. There was a good chance he'd need to remain there almost that long again.

“I did six days once in Indonesia,” King said. “This is a piece of cake.”

“Have you dialed in your fields of fire?” Hanley asked, already knowing the answer.