Golden Buddha (21 page)

“Yeah,” Ross said, suddenly understanding.

Pryor reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt. “These can sometimes transmit on the aviation bands.”

Ross grabbed for it and hit Scan. A few seconds later, a burgundy 737 passed overhead and Ross could hear the pilot receiving final clearance. Pressing Talk, she gave the call sign for the helicopter. A few moments before, he had landed and transferred Spenser and Crabtree to a waiting car. He had just returned to remove his headset when the call came in. Another two minutes and he would have been gone.

“Helicopter four-two, X-ray, Alpha,” he said, “go ahead.”

“Six-three, report one Indio,” Ross said over the roar of the boat's engines.

Sixty three was Ross's employee number; Indio was the code for injured party.

On the
Oregon
, Hanley reached for the microphone. “Helicopter four-two, X-ray, Alpha, I've got it, continue to point agreed. Six-three, report Indio.”

“Eight-four.”

“Get me the file on eighty-four,” Hanley shouted to an operator, who pulled up Reinholt's records on the computer screen. His blood type was at the top of the chart.

“Six-three, understand,” Hanley said, “Bravo affirm.”

“Six-three, ETA in five.”

“Terminate communications,” Hanley ordered.

Ross clicked the button three times. “Hit the gas,” she shouted.

“Go down to the clinic and check the blood supply,” Hanley said, staring at the computer, “we need AB positive standing ready.”

“You,” he said to another operator, “go on deck and watch for Linda's approach through the night scope. As soon as you see the boat approaching, flash the deck lights, then help her off-load the injured party.”

“Got it,” the man said, racing away.

At that exact same instant, the helicopter pilot was pulling a white Chevrolet SUV out of a gate at the far end of the runway. Driving down the road, he stopped at a stop sign then merged with the traffic leaving the airport. He was just touching thirty miles an hour when two police cars with flashing lights passed and then slowed to turn down the road where he had come from. Punching the accelerator to pass a bus, he turned to Crabtree.

“That was close,” he said.

Crabtree was checking Spenser's pulse by placing her hand on his jugular.

“True, but we're free and clear,” she said.

 

T
HE
boat slid alongside the
Oregon
and Pryor grabbed a line tossed through the air. Tying the Scarab into the sling that would lift it back onto the deck, he waited until Ross and the operator from the control room had carried off Reinholt. Then he loosened the lines and positioned the Scarab in the slings that were already in the water. Shutting off the engines, he climbed off the boat and walked over to a switch on a nearby bulkhead. Slowly the Scarab rose from the water. Once it was clear of the upper deck, he pushed another button that rotated the davits around so the Scarab was over the deck. The entire operation required only a few minutes, and that was good. In the distance, across the water, he could see the sweep of the searchlight from a police patrol boat.

As soon as the davit stopped in its arc, he pushed another switch. Four of what looked like rusty metal plates rose from the deck of the ship and surrounded the Scarab. Then he pushed another button and a retractable roof slid closed over the vessel. By the time the patrol boat passed alongside in the channel, the man was already inside and making his way to the clinic.

I
N
his disguise, Juan Cabrillo looked like an aging academic or a retired bureaucrat, not the leader of a group of specialized operatives. Walking through downtown Macau, he fiddled with his personal communicator, then waited for Hanley to answer.

At this instant, his team was about one-quarter of the way through the assignment and there was still a host of variables. The first part of the operation had gone well—the team had loaded the Buddha onto the helicopter as planned and made a smooth exit, but he had no way to know the progress of team two. That information would come from the control room on the
Oregon
.

Cabrillo had just passed a goldsmith's shop when his communicator vibrated.

An address was displayed and he made his way toward the location.

 

“Y
ES,
sir,” the Macau police officer said into a cellular telephone, “both he and his wife were bound and left in bed.”

“Were they harmed?” Po asked.

“No, sir,” the policeman said. “In fact, whoever did this left music playing on the stereo to entertain them, and a note of apology.”

“How were they restrained?” Po asked. “Do they have a description of the assailants?”

“No,” the policeman admitted, “they witnessed nothing. Both of them have small punctures on their upper arms, like they were given shots from a hypodermic needle, and they were bound with plastic ties. They only awoke when we arrived.”

Whoever this crew was, they were good—Po had to give them that.

“Take the note to the lab,” he said, “and make sure the technicians carefully search the house for clues.”

“They're doing that now, sir,” the policeman said.

“Good,” Po said, “I'll be in touch.”

He disconnected and turned to Rhee.

“They drugged the insurance man and his wife,” he said quietly, “and left a note of apology.”

Stanley Ho was becoming increasingly agitated. Not only had he been made a fool of—he had been made a fool of in an open and obvious manner. It was that son-of-a-bitch British art dealer.

“So I was set up from the start,” Ho said loudly. “The countess was fake, her illness a ploy and the air evacuation a ruse.”

Po raised his hand to be quiet as his telephone rang again.

“Po.”

“Sir,” the officer said, “we entered the apartment in the high-rise and found a woman named Iselda tied up in her closet.”

“Was she harmed?”

“Other than severe nicotine deprivation, no,” the officer said. “She's smoked half a pack of cigarettes since we untied her.”

“Did she see her assailants?”

“She said it was like staring into a mirror,” the policeman relayed. “A woman disguised to look like her popped out of the closet and held a rag soaked with something to her mouth. That's all she remembers.”

Po held his hand over the cell phone and spoke to Rhee. “They switched the party planner.”

Ho raised his hands in the air and began cursing.

“Carefully search the apartment for clues,” Po ordered. “Then have the kidnapped woman fill out a report at the station house.”

“Got it, boss,” the officer said as Po hung up.

Rhee's mind was almost back to normal. He paced the living room as he spoke.

“This was a high-budget, carefully orchestrated operation,” he said. “So let's take a minute and look at what happened from the start.”

“The insurance man was a plant,” Ho said. “They replaced my party coordinator and band with others, then put fake guests inside as well.”

“It appears they even provided their own security,” Rhee noted. “The alleged protectors were the thieves.”

Just then, the tow truck driver who had brought Po to the mansion walked into the living room.

“What do you need?” Po asked.

“Your tires have been changed,” the driver said, “but I found a hole inside the inner fender well.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think someone shot out your tire,” the tow truck man said. “There's probably a slug somewhere inside the engine compartment.”

“We'll look into it,” Po said. “If the car's ready, you can take off. Just bill my department.”

The tow truck driver walked from the room.

“This is not some haphazard group of thieves,” Rhee noted. “They have snipers capable of long-range shooting, helicopter pilots and masters of disguise.”

“They sure as hell aren't locals,” Po said quietly.

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” Ho said loudly. “At least I was robbed by professionals. How about you two work on recovering my Buddha first, then you can play all the mind games you want about their modus operandi.”

At this second, there were seventeen Macau police officers and two other detectives searching the grounds and mansion. In addition, a trio of teams had been dispatched to the airport and the two kidnapping sites. The entire force had been mobilized and Ho was complaining.

“We are doing everything in our power, Mr. Ho,” the detective said. “We're going to catch them.”

Ho shook his head with disgust and walked out of the room.

 

T
HE
parade came down the hill just as the fireworks barge in the inner harbor launched the first several rounds of the evening's display. The Macau police had moved quickly and surrounded the edges of the route as soon as the pair of motorcyclists had been spotted. There was no chance of escape except a shoot-out. It was just a matter of time until the police captured the men. The man driving the motorcycle containing the Buddha steered down a side street, then honked his horn for the crowd to part. His partner followed close behind with the sound of sirens growing closer.

A tall float of a dragon was just ahead. At regular intervals, his mouth spewed fire.

 

O
N
the
Oregon
, Max Hanley stared at the screen, then moved the joystick a little to the left. The dragon moved to the center of the road. On another screen, a camera was showing a view from the side. Hanley caught sight of the motorcycles. Another screen displayed a GPS map of Macau, with pulsing dots that showed the location of the police cars. The net was closing in on the motorcyclists. He adjusted the movement of the float again, and then stared at the blueprints stolen from the Macau Public Works Department.

C
LIFF
Hornsby was tired and sweaty. Staring at his watch, he arose from the crate he was sitting on in the storm drain, then inflated a lift bag at the base of a metal ladder. Once that was in place, he climbed the rungs of the ladder. On the way up, he tested the wooden ramp to ensure it was solid. Finding it fine, he touched his hand to the bottom of the manhole cover he had already removed once, earlier in the night, to make sure that it was free.

Now he just had to wait for the signal.

Hanley stared at the control box. Gas jets for the fire from the dragon's mouth, aluminum powder charges for the maelstrom, joystick for control. Just then, a voice came over the radio.

“They have blockaded the route at Avenida Infante D. Henrique,” Halpert said.

“Got it,” Hanley said. “You're done, Michael, get out of there.”

Halpert began walking in the direction of his hotel for the night.

“Go now,” Hanley said to the motorcyclists.

Steering the float with the dragon over the top of the manhole cover, Hanley stopped it in its tracks. From the side camera, he could see the motorcycles approaching from the side street.

“Pop the top, Hornsby,” he said over the radio.

Hornsby pushed against the manhole cover and lifted it in the air. Then he slid it to the side and stared up into the bowels of the beast that had stopped over his lair. Unclipping a flashlight from his belt, he scanned the inside. There was a metal frame constructed of welded tubes with a fabric outer layer. A round gas canister with tubing was attached to one side, another tube with a small explosive charge on the other. The explosive charge was flashing with a tiny green light. At just that instant, Hornsby heard the sound of motorcycles approaching and he ducked down.

The first motorcycle drove under the fabric side wall and slid to a stop inside. It was as if he were inside a tent. The interior of the dragon float was fifteen feet long and more than eight feet wide, and the peaked top reached nearly seven feet above. The motorcyclist felt like a kid in a secret fort as he climbed off the seat. The second motorcycle steered under the fabric side curtain and stopped. Hornsby climbed from the hole.

Bob Meadows was unfastening his helmet; he got it off and tossed it to the side.

“I could see the cops,” he said quickly. “They're right at the end of the street.”

Pete Jones tossed his helmet aside. “So be it,” he said to Meadows.

“Hey, Horny,” Meadows said as he began to unfasten the Golden Buddha from the sidecar.

Jones walked over and dropped the hinged metal sides of the sidecar. “This is heavy, Cliff.”

“I've got a ramp,” Hornsby said. “If we walk it to the ground and over to the ramp, we can just let go—it'll slide down to a lift bag at the bottom.”

“Slick,” Meadows said as he started to wrestle with the Buddha.

Hanley stared at the image from the forward camera. The Macau police had organized, and with weapons drawn, they were walking carefully through the parted crowd. He hit the button for flames and the dragon's mouth roared.

The Golden Buddha was lined up above the ramp, then released. It plunged down the wooden ramp onto the lift bag, then tumbled over on its side. Hornsby wrestled the ramp over to one side, then motioned to Meadows and Jones.

“You two first,” he said. “Pull the ramp aside when you hit bottom. I'll close the cover.”

Meadows and Jones started climbing down the ladder. Hornsby walked over to the charge on the metal tube and armed the device. The light flicked red. He was walking back to the hole when Hanley came over the radio.

“The police are less than a hundred feet away,” he said quickly. “Where are you at?”

Hornsby climbed down the ladder a few feet, then reached up and slid the manhole cover back in place. He flicked a tiny switch on the lapel of his thin jacket and spoke.

“We're armed and the door closed,” he said. “Give me ten seconds to reach the bottom.”

“Got it,” Hanley said.

Hornsby reached the bottom of the ladder and stared at the crate containing the Golden Buddha. “So what have you guys been up to?” he asked.

Hanley pushed a button and increased the flow of gas to the dragon's mouth. A flame shot forty feet forward and the crowd backed away. Then he pushed the button to ignite the charge. A small explosion ripped into the side of the metal tank containing the aluminum powder. It began to burn with a hot white light. Almost instantly the fabric covering of the float ignited and began to burn. In a few seconds, the float was a maelstrom, with flames reaching twenty feet into the air.

“We need fire and rescue,” one of the officers said, giving the address.

Then he stared at the firestorm, waiting for a pair of men to run screaming forth.

But no one emerged from the glowing pile.

 

T
HE
white Chevrolet SUV pulled to the side of the road and Cabrillo climbed into the front seat. The helicopter pilot, George Adams, pulled away from the curb.

“Gorgeous George,” he said, “any problems?”

Adams looked like a poster child for the American way. He had a chiseled jaw, short brown hair parted to one side, and a smile that could sell toothpaste. Strangely enough, in spite of his looks, he was almost without ego. Married to his high school sweetheart, he had been an army warrant officer before joining the Corporation.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Monica?” Cabrillo said, turning to the rear seat.

“No, boss,” she said. “Our guest is still out of it, however.”

Cabrillo stared at Spenser slumped against the window. Then back to the rear compartment, where the speaker frame holding the fake Buddha was sitting.

“Did the folding ramp work?” he asked Adams.

“Like a dream,” Adams said. “We just adjusted the legs to the same height as the helicopter floor, then pushed the package across on the wheels.”