Golden Buddha (17 page)

“About a thousand times, boss,” King said, swatting away a fly on his arm.

King was a U.S. Army–trained sniper. If Hanley gave the order, he could lob a dozen shots onto the grounds in about as long as it took to sneeze. Hanley hoped it wouldn't come down to that—but if one of the crew was in trouble and there was no other choice, King was the great equalizer.

“Stand by, Larry,” Hanley said. “We'll call you if we need you.”

“Affirmative,” King said as he continued to scan the grounds through his scope.

“Try the inside of the tent,” Hanley ordered.

An image filled the screen from a camera that was inserted in the body of Cabrillo's electric keyboard. The image was slightly off.

“Juan,” Hanley said.

Cabrillo was pushing the cart around the side of the tent, but he could hear through his tiny earpiece.

“You'll need to adjust your keyboard slightly to the right. We're missing a little of the left side of the tent.”

Cabrillo made a slight nod to confirm.

“Go to the van,” Hanley ordered.

Another picture flicked onto a separate screen that was split in half. The cameras had been attached to the van's folding mirrors. They were showing a pretty good view of most of the front of the house. Lincoln was removing a box from the back of the van.

“Frankie,” Hanley said.

Franklin Lincoln moved out of the back of the van and stared into one of the rearview mirrors as if he were fixing his hair.

“Try to leave the van where it is,” Hanley said. “You guys got lucky and placed it where we have a good field of view.”

Lincoln made an okay sign at the mirror.

“Okay, men,” Hanley said to the operators, “we're the eyes and ears, so be alert.”

W
INSTON
Spenser walked into the mansion, snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and slurped down half of the flute before approaching the receiving line. Stanley Ho was beaming and shaking hands with each guest that passed. Ahead of Spenser were an Australian couple who were just being greeted, and directly in front of him was the local Portuguese consular agent. Spenser waited patiently, finishing the first glass of champagne and summoning the waiter for another, then took his place in front of Ho.

“Winston,” Ho said, smiling, “it's good to see you, but you're a little late—the insurance adjuster was already here.”

“Sorry,” Spenser said, “I was running late.”

Spenser tried to keep moving along, but Ho reached out and took him by the arm.

“That's all right,” Ho said. “It seems your timing is perfect.”

Ho pointed to the staircase.

Spenser's stomach did a backflip. The Golden Buddha, strapped to a dolly like a patient in a mental ward, was descending the stairs, being helped down by the guards from Redman Security.

“I've decided to display my newest treasure,” Ho said, “so all the guests can share in the glory. Don't worry, I'll let everyone who asks know who helped me handle the acquisition.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Spenser's mind. None of them were good.

“Sir…,” Spenser began to say. But the line was moving along and Ho was already preparing to greet the next guest. “I don't think…”

“I'll talk to you when we are outside,” Ho said quietly as he turned to shake a couple's hands.

 

“A
T
the rear door,” Hanley said, pointing to a screen. He flipped a switch on the communication console, then spoke into a microphone.

“Juan, the Buddha is being wheeled outside.”

On one of the screens, Cabrillo could be seen inside the tent checking the connection to his keyboard. He raised his head and made a signal that he understood. Ross walked over to the front of the tents as the Buddha was wheeled up, then supervised the placement near the fountain.

The target of all the planning and preparation was now in plain sight.

 

C
HIEF
Inspector of the Macau Constabulary Sung Rhee watched the statue from his place on the lawn near the rear door of the mansion. Rhee had known Stanley Ho since before he'd become wealthy. He was an acquaintance, not a friend. The first ship Ho had owned, the start of his shipping fortune, had been a constant thorn in Rhee's side.

The chief inspector had been a mere detective at that time, assigned to vice and smuggling, and he had become convinced Ho was moving drugs with the ship. Rhee had just never been able to catch him in the act. Ho's fortune had grown fast, and the chief inspector knew what that usually denoted—the problem was that as the shipowner's fortune had swelled, so had his power. Twice in the past decade Rhee had been ordered away from Ho's activities when he was close to amassing enough evidence to bring charges. Now Rhee was beginning to understand that as Ho legitimized his holdings, he probably never would pay the price for his past shady dealings.

Rhee had been invited to the party in an unofficial capacity—window dressing for the guests.

Like the mayor, the ambassadors of various countries, and the minor royalty who were present, Rhee was here today to add to the theme of legitimacy Ho so desperately craved.

He was a prop—but that didn't make the police officer inside him take leave. He stared at the chunk of gold and tried to decide how, if it was up to him, he would steal it. Rhee stared around the grounds, trying to imagine an escape route. The wall surrounding the grounds almost insisted on a departure through the main gate. The fact that the object was being placed out in the open actually helped the security. It would almost certainly always be in view of someone. He glanced around again, then shook his head slightly.

Rhee concluded theft was not a problem and went inside for some shrimp puffs.

 

A
dark green Mercedes-Benz limousine pulled up to the gate and the driver was waved through. Tom Reyes, the driver, swung around on the circular driveway and positioned the passenger door near the front door of the mansion. He then climbed out and opened the door to the rear compartment and helped the occupant out.

Once Crabtree was standing alongside the limousine, Reyes raced to the front door and said to the butler, “This is Princess Aalborg of Denmark.”

The butler stood aside as she swept into the foyer in a rustle of satin and lace, then walked toward Ho, who was now standing alone.

“Princess Aalborg,” Reyes announced from two steps behind.

Ho bent over and lightly kissed the proffered hand, then raised his head and smiled. “I'm honored to have you visit my humble home.”

“Charmed,” Monica Crabtree said in a bizarre accent.

Ho snapped his fingers and a waiter instantly appeared. “May I offer you a libation?”

“Champagne with a strawberry would be nice,” Crabtree said.

Ho motioned to the waiter, who scurried off.

“Jeeves,” Crabtree said to the driver, “I'll be fine now—you may take your leave.”

Reyes backed away a distance, then turned and walked toward the front door. Moving the limousine away from the front of the mansion, Reyes parked in a spot near the garage and climbed out. Then he walked around to the front of the limousine, tilted back his cap and lit a cigarette.

“Monica is safely inside,” Hanley reported to Cabrillo.

 

T
WILIGHT
fell over the grounds with a light breeze that brought the smell of the sea. A few miles away, at the staging area for the parade, the engines of the lead floats came to life. The marching band that was the first group to walk the route began to assemble in orderly rows, awaiting the signal to begin. Macau began to settle in for the night, and in the high-rises in the city center and along the waterfront, lights began to flicker on. Out to sea, the navigation lights of the ships approaching port began to be visible, and the scattering of airplanes both inbound and outbound appeared as light specks in the distant sky.

All of the guests had arrived and the front lawn of the mansion looked like a luxury car dealership. There were Jaguars and BMWs, a single Lamborghini, a pair of Ferraris. Twelve limousines, a lone armored Humvee and an old Rolls-Royce crowded the lawn. On the wall along the road, the security cameras swept back and forth, but no more cars approached and the guard tired of watching the monitor.

So no one noticed when a pair of motorcycles drove slowly past.

If someone had, and they were knowledgeable, they might have noticed that one of the motorcycle's sidecars had been enlarged and reinforced. The modifications were barely perceptible, but if you looked closely, you could see that there was a heavy-duty training wheel underneath, and that the passenger seat had been removed and made into a cargo compartment. The motorcycles continued north to the stop sign, then turned left and headed in the direction of the Inner Port. The bikers had an appointment to keep in a place not too far distant.

 

T
HE
band was performing a sound check. The wall of speakers behind the bandstand lent an air of full-on rock concert, but the actual sound coming out of them was less than one would have thought. Unless someone was standing directly in front of the speaker wall, he'd have no way to tell that many of the speakers were not functioning. Some were hollow shells, others held items that would be needed for the operation.

Ross walked over and spoke to Cabrillo.

“The first set starts at seven,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Cabrillo stared at the players, then at the crowd that was still milling about the tent, some seated, more still flitting from table to table. “I'll put the background music on in a second. That should signal we're about to begin.”

He walked over to the main console and adjusted a switch. At the sound of the music, the crowd began to make their way to their assigned seats. Stanley Ho was standing just inside one of the tents on the left side of the Y. He was attempting to regale Huxley with stories of his vast wealth and power.

“I love the Buddha,” Huxley said, smiling. “Perhaps you have some other artwork you could show me later.”

“I'd be glad to,” Ho said. “In fact, there are many pieces in my upper office that might interest you. Maybe we could slip away later and take a look.”

“I'd like that,” Huxley said.

Ho nodded greedily. He was already imagining the possibilities the suicide blonde might offer his libido—if he needed to ignore his guests for the opportunity, so be it.

“I need to go to the front and make my introductions now,” Ho said, “but we can meet later.”

Huxley smiled and slinked away. Ho walked through the crowd, stopping at various tables to glad-hand his guests. A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the bandstand.

“I'm Stanley Ho,” he said to Halpert. “Might I use your microphone to make an introduction?”

Halpert handed his microphone to Ho, who tapped the top to be sure it was working.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

The crowd quieted down.

“I'd like to welcome you to my Good Friday party.”

The crowd clapped.

“I hope that you are finding the food and drink to your liking.”

Another round of applause.

“I hope each of you has a chance to view my latest acquisition, a good-luck charm. I have displayed the piece at the entrance to the tent. Like another we honor tonight, he signifies enlightenment and spirituality and that is the theme of this evening's festivities. Now, if we could take a second to remember those that have sacrificed themselves for our freedoms.”

The crowd was silent.

“Thank you,” Ho said a few moments later. “We will have fireworks and light displays tonight, as well as an excellent band straight from California in the United States. Please join me in welcoming the Minutemen.”

He handed the microphone back to Halpert. At the same time, the lights in the tent began to dim until a single spotlight illuminated Halpert's back, which was turned from the crowd. The band keyed their instruments and the opening notes of the Eagles song “Already Gone” began pulsing through the crowd.

Halpert swung around and began to belt out the lyrics.

 

M
ORE
than any one thing, the key to a successful robbery is stealth. The pair of men on the motorcycles knew this and they moved quietly through the AMa Temple toward their target. The tourists had gone home for the night and most of the monks were in the dining hall partaking of their simple evening meal. The side room where their target stood was dimly lit, and the men, who were dressed in black clothes and face masks, blended into the air like whispery goblins.

“There he is,” one man whispered.

The man was pushing a heavy-duty dolly stolen from a rental store the previous night. He wheeled it over, examined the artifact, then waited while his partner closed the door on the wooden crate and tilted it so the other man could slide the dolly underneath. After securing it with straps, they began to make their way toward the door.

 

W
INSTON
Spenser was past wine and into cognac. He was pleasantly buzzed and beginning to feel that he might just accomplish his goal. He glanced at his watch. He had some time before he needed to slip away and meet the armored-car company at the temple. Then he would make his way to the airport and consummate the sale with the software billionaire.

By first light, he'd be on his way away from here, then he'd take a break from all the drinking.

Finishing the snifter, he motioned to a passing waiter for a refill. Then he turned to one of the guests seated next to him.

“Excellent band.”

“They truly are,” Crabtree replied.

 

T
WO
hundred and twenty-seven miles from Macau, in the South China Sea, the burgundy jet was passing over Tungsha Island, inbound for landing. The software billionaire walked forward, fastening a sash around his black silk kimono.

“The ladies are tired,” he said with a barely hidden trace of pride. “Could you prepare pitchers of coffee, orange juice and some pastries and take them to the rear?”