Golden Buddha (22 page)

“Good. We've rented part of a small hangar at the airport,” he said to Adams. “We need to go there now.”

Adams nodded and steered the Chevrolet back toward the bridge.

A
light rain began falling over Macau. Sung Rhee and Ling Po were standing on the front porch of the mansion staring toward the city. Po disconnected his cellular telephone and turned to Rhee. Down the hill, near the Maritime Museum, the lights from the fire trucks that had extinguished the burning Peugeot were still visible. To the right, along the parade route, a column of smoke lit by the city lights was visible from the burning float.

“Whoever's stealing Buddhas tonight, they're well trained and well funded,” Po said to Rhee.

Rhee's mind was back to normal. And he was as mad as a Doberman. It was bad enough that some team of thieves was using his city as a playground—it was worse that he had been made part of the heist.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “they still have to spirit the icons out of the country.”

“I have men at the airport and patrolling the waters,” Po said, “and the border into China has been alerted to be on the lookout. They won't be able to leave Macau, that's for sure.”

“All of the suspects except the British art dealer are American,” Rhee said. “Did you pull up the list of tourist visas?”

“The tourism authority is closed for the night,” Po admitted, “but I'll have someone there first thing in the morning.”

“These guys are professionals,” Rhee said quietly. “They won't hang around. By the time we get the list and begin to question all the Americans, they will be long gone.”

Po's telephone rang and he unfolded it and pushed the button.

“Po.”

“The fire reached part of one of the buildings,” an officer at the parade reported, “but the fire department has got that under control. They are hosing down the float as we speak, but the framework is still hot and it melted in onto itself. There is a pile of twisted metal that is still too hot for inspection.”

“Can you see the motorcycles inside the wreckage?”

“It seems they are inside the frame,” the officer said, “but it's hard to be certain.”

“I'm coming down there,” Po said. “Keep the crowd back and order the rest of the floats to the end of the route. The parade has officially ended.”

“Excellent, sir,” the officer said. “See you shortly.”

Po disconnected and turned to Rhee. “I'm going down to the parade. Would you like to come along, sir?”

Rhee considered this for a moment. “I don't think so, Ling,” he said. “We're going to get some flack over this—I think it's best if I go to headquarters and coordinate efforts there.”

“I understand, sir,” Po said as he started to walk down the driveway.

“You find these men,” Rhee said, “and recover the objects.”

“I'll do my best, sir,” Po said.

Then Rhee opened the door to the mansion and went inside to report to the mayor of Macau.

 

I
NSIDE
the Chevrolet SUV, Juan Cabrillo adjusted his radio and called the
Oregon
.

“Where are we at, Max?”

There was a slight lag as the scrambled signal was rearranged and delivered.

“The Ross team took a casualty,” Hanley said. “He's being worked on in the clinic.”

“Report to me as soon as you know more,” Cabrillo said. “What else?”

“The temple team has made it to the catacombs, as planned.”

“I saw the smoke,” Cabrillo said. “No injuries?”

“None,” Hanley said. “So far so good. They are initiating the extraction.”

“What about the others?”

“Most everyone staying in town has reported in,” Hanley said. “King made it back to the boat and is going to direct offensive actions until Murphy returns.”

“Target three?”

“The 737 landed a few moments ago,” Hanley reported. “They should be going through customs as we speak.”

“Our man is still with them?”

“Awaiting instructions.”

“What else?”

“The second leg of the journey is almost ready to activate,” Hanley said. “The way it looks so far, we can deliver the package on time.”

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “We're almost at the airport.”

Hanley stared at the flashing blip on one of the monitors. “I've got you made, Juan.”

“Now all I have to do is collect on our side deal,” Cabrillo said, “and we can be on our way.”

“Good luck, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said.

“Cabrillo out.”

 

M
EADOWS,
Jones and Hornsby looked like three tourists on an Arizona mine tour.

They were wearing silver hard hats made from pressed metal, with small battery-operated lamps that spewed beams of light from the front. Hornsby was holding a blueprint that showed the underground drainage systems. The map looked like the tentacles of an octopus. Jones stared overhead as the first drops of water from the rain above filtered down through an aged tile drainpipe in the wall.

“Did the operations plans factor in possible rain?” he asked.

“As long as there isn't a prolonged shower,” Hornsby noted, “we should be okay.”

“What if there is?” Jones asked.

“That's not good,” Hornsby admitted.

“So we should get moving,” Meadows said.

“Exactly,” Hornsby said. “But let's not worry too much—the plan states we can have six hours or so of continuous rain before the drains reach chest-high level.”

“We can be out of here by then,” Jones said.

“That's the plan,” Hornsby agreed.

The Golden Buddha was resting on the wooden ramp. When Hornsby had entered the storm drain through a side tunnel earlier that evening, he had brought along a bag that contained four rubber-tired wheels that attached to the ramp. It was a crude arrangement, but it would allow the three men to wheel the heavy object along the tunnels. A pair of olive drab ditty bags was atop the crate containing the Golden Buddha; these contained emergency supplies and weapons. The entire affair stood at nearly chest height.

“Here's where I came in,” Hornsby said. “It's a shame we can't leave the same way—it's only about two hundred yards to the grate. The problem is, when we emerge, we're right in the middle of town and the police should be everywhere by now.”

Meadows looked to where Hornsby's finger was pointing. “So which way did the control room route us?”

Hornsby traced the route with his finger.

“That's a long way,” Jones noted.

“A couple of miles,” Hornsby agreed. “But we come out in a secluded spot alongside the Inner Port, where we can be extracted.”

Meadows wiped the edge of his hard hat to dispel a few drops of water, then walked around behind the Golden Buddha. “You've got the map, Horn Dog,” he said. “Why don't you pull the front strap and navigate. Me and Jonesy will push from the rear.”

Slowly, the three men began trudging along the storm sewer. Outside, the rain grew in intensity. Within the hour, it was a full-fledged monsoon.

 

L
INDA
Ross walked into the
Oregon
's control room. Max Hanley was pouring a cup of coffee from a pot on a side table. His face was lined with tension and Ross could see he was stressed.

“Reinholt's rebounding,” she said quietly. “It looked worse than it was. If we keep any infections at bay, he should pull through.”

“Will there be any lasting damage?” Hanley asked as he motioned to the coffee and Ross walked over and poured a cup.

“The top of his ear is gone,” Ross said. “He'll need plastic surgery to make that right.”

“How's his attitude?”

“He came out of the stupor once and asked where he was,” Ross said. “When I told him he was on the
Oregon
, he seemed happy.”

“Propulsion engineers always seem more comfortable on board ship,” Hanley said.

“How's the rest of the operation going?” Ross asked.

“The actual Golden Buddha is currently in an underground storm sewer,” Hanley said, pointing to a monitor. “That team is making its way to the waterfront.”

“I thought the Buddha was lifted out by helicopter,” Ross said.

“That was the fake,” Hanley said.

“But…,” Ross started to say.

“It was on a need-to-know basis,” Hanley said. “Remember when the chairman arrived by seaplane?”

“Sure,” Ross said. “When we were under way at sea.”

“He had just returned from the art auction where the icon was sold. The Corporation jumped in then—we arranged the shipment to Macau. Gunderson was the pilot. Then a couple of our men met the plane with an armored car—we thought we'd just grab it then. The art dealer had other plans, however. He was planning to screw the owner with a fake, so we just went along with his plan, knowing all the while where the true artifact was hiding.”

“So all the efforts at the party were a façade?”

“It was designed to throw off the authorities and confuse the picture,” Hanley said. “Meanwhile, if all goes well, Cabrillo will complete the art dealer's sale and the Corporation will pocket the proceeds.”

“So Reinholt was shot for no reason,” Ross said.

“There were a hundred million reasons Reinholt was wounded,” Hanley said. “A hundred million and one, if you count the fact that we confused the Macau police and made the art dealer the prime suspect.”

“So the art dealer is the patsy,” Ross said.

“He's our Oswald,” Hanley agreed.

“Diabolical,” said Ross.

“It's not over yet,” Hanley said quietly. “We still need the payoff. And to get out of here.”

 

I
N
Beijing, the foreign secretary, the head of the Chinese army and President Hu Jintao were staring at satellite photographs.

“As of yesterday,” the foreign secretary said, “Novosibirsk in Siberia is the busiest airport in the world. The Russians are ferrying in military supplies at an alarming rate. Cargo planes are landing at the rate of one every few minutes.”

Hu Jintao was examining a photograph with a magnifying glass. “Tanks, personnel carriers, attack helicopters are already on the ground.”

The head of the Chinese army handed Jintao a photograph. “The amount of supplies already on the ground can support nearly forty thousand ground troops, and more is arriving every minute.”

“I've already contacted Legchog Zhuren in Tibet,” Jintao said. “He's mobilized his forces and they are starting toward the northern border.”

“How many men are under his control?” the foreign secretary asked.

“He has twenty thousand combat and support troops in Tibet,” the head of the Chinese army answered.

“Then it's already two to one,” the foreign secretary noted.

Jintao pushed the photographs aside. “To maintain control inside Tibet, we have sponsored mass immigration from the other regions of China over the years. Zhuren has mobilized the Chinese citizens in Tibet and drafted them into the army. That gives us nearly twenty thousand more that are of the right age to serve. Some have already left Lhasa for the march north—we are trying to train them as they travel.”

“The Russians have crack troops,” the head of the Chinese army said. “Our recently recruited farmers and shopkeepers will be wiped out.”

“That's if the Russians cross the border,” the foreign secretary noted. “They are still claiming through diplomatic channels that this is just an exercise.”

“That's a damn big exercise,” Jintao said quietly.

He sat back in his chair to think. The last thing he wanted was to face off with the Russians—but he could not back down from the threat, either.

T
HE
Boeing 737 was still undergoing customs inspection when Cabrillo and the others arrived at their rented hangar. Spenser had started to come out of his stupor a few minutes before. Adams opened the rear door of the white SUV, then waved smelling salts under his nose. Spenser shook his head several times, then cracked open his eyes. Adams helped him to his feet just outside the door of the Chevrolet. Spenser stood on the floor of the hangar on wobbly legs and tried to remember what had happened.

“Come here,” Adams said, leading him over to a chair alongside a workbench and seating him.

With the help of Kevin Nixon, Cabrillo was erecting the folding ramp to unload the fake speaker case holding the faux Buddha. Nixon had arrived at the hangar several hours earlier and had been busy ever since.

“Is everything ready?” Cabrillo asked.

“Yes, sir,” Nixon said as he grabbed one side of the speaker case.

The two men rolled the case onto the wheeled metal conveyor. When it reached the end, they tilted the case upright, folded the legs of the ramp under, then bent it in half on the hinges and slid it back into the SUV.

“We have the clothes?” Cabrillo inquired.

“I stopped at his hotel room on the way over. His bags were already packed,” Nixon said.

“The best-laid plans,” Cabrillo said, “of mice and men.”

Cabrillo, followed by Nixon, walked over to where Spenser was sitting.

The art dealer stared up at Cabrillo. “You look familiar,” he said slowly.

“We've never met,” Cabrillo said coldly, “but I know a lot about you.”

“Who are you people?” Spenser said, shaking his head to clear the fog, “and what do you want from me?”

Adams was standing a few feet from Spenser. While his rugged good looks did not make him appear menacing, Spenser was sure that if he tried to stand, he wouldn't get far. Cabrillo walked right in front of the art dealer and invaded his space. He stared into Spenser's eyes and spoke quietly.

“Right about now,” Cabrillo said, “you're not in a good position, so shut up and listen. A few miles from here, you have one infuriated Asian billionaire who is convinced you bilked him out of a couple of hundred million dollars. And contrary to what you might think, he is not a nice man—he launched his fortune by running drugs for an Asian triad, and though he's legitimized his actions, he's still connected. I would guess he's already made a call, and the entire criminal element of this country is searching for you as we speak.”

“What are you—” Spenser began to say.

“You're not listening,” Cabrillo said acidly. “We know you switched Buddhas and were just about to resell the icon. If you cooperate, we will give you a chance to run. Otherwise, we'll do the switch anyway, then phone Ho and tell him where you can be found. As they say, you are out of options.”

Spenser thought wildly for a moment. Without the sale of the Buddha, he was financially ruined. But as soon as word got around about what he had tried here in Macau, his life as an art dealer was finished. His only hope was to change his identity and disappear. Escape to some faraway place and start his life anew. He truly was out of options.

“I can't run without papers,” he said. “Can you help me there?”

Cabrillo had him and he knew it—now he just needed to reel him into the boat.

“Kevin,” Cabrillo said, “are you linked to the ship?”

“Yes, sir,” Nixon answered.

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Then shoot Mr. Spenser for me.”

“My pleasure,” Nixon said.

 

T
HE
last ferry from Hong Kong slowed near the dock and the captain began manipulating the thrusters to line the ship up with the dock. On the bow, a man wearing highly polished Cole Haan loafers, a pair of lightweight wool pleated slacks and a silk-and-cotton-blend shirt waited to depart. His hair was longer than usual and wavy, and tucked into his shirt was a cravat of fine silk. If you knew what to look for, the signs of a face-lift were barely visible. But one would need to look close, as it had been an expensive and painstaking operation. Save for the fact that the man was exhausted from the flight from Indonesia to Hong Kong, and the long day he had already faced, you might not have noticed anything odd about him at all.

The man was forty-five but appeared a decade younger.

He watched the deckhands secure the lines. The men were young and fit and he liked that. He liked the ethnic look and enjoyed young men's passions. In the country where he resided, he tended to seek out companions of Latin descent; there were many where he was from, and luckily they seemed attracted to him as well. Quite honestly, he wished he was home right now, cruising the hilly streets of his city in a quest for love or lust. But he was not. He was thousands of miles from home and he had a job to do. He smiled at one of the deckhands as he walked past, but the man did not return the greeting. Slowly, the ramp on the front of the ferry lowered.

Along with the few other passengers at this late hour, he made his way up the slight rise, then into a door marked Visitor. Handing over his passport, he waited as his entry into Macau was approved. Ten minutes later, he walked from the building and hailed a cab. Then he flipped open a satellite telephone and checked his e-mail.

 

B
ACK
on the
Oregon
, Max Hanley was catching a catnap. His feet were propped up on a desk in the control room and his head slumped to one side in his chair. One of the operators touched his shoulder and he was instantly awake.

“Sir,” the operator said, “I think we have a problem.”

Hanley rubbed his face, then rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Someone flagged just passed through Macau immigration.”

The Corporation maintained a large database on their computers. Over the years, the names of many people had been entered. Whenever any of them cropped up on any of the numerous systems the Corporation hacked into, the information was examined and analyzed. Hanley took a sip of coffee and then read the sheet of paper the operator handed to him.

“We considered that possibility,” Hanley said quietly, “and now he's here.”

 

N
IXON
walked over to Spenser, aimed at his head and pushed the button.

Then he stared at the image in the digital camera.

“Can you grow facial hair?” Cabrillo asked.

“It's sparse,” Spenser admitted.

“What have we got,” Cabrillo asked Nixon, “to make him look different?”

Nixon walked over to the bench and rustled through a box of disguises. “We've got hair, makeup and prosthetic mouthpieces. How far do you want to go?”

“It's the new you,” Cabrillo said. “Where are you planning to hide?”

Spenser considered the question. On the one hand, he was not interested in having anyone know his ultimate destination—on the other hand, from what he had seen so far, these people would probably find out anyway.

“I was thinking South America,” Spenser said.

Cabrillo nodded. “Go with a light tan, medium matching mustache, nothing big, and slightly longer hair,” he said to Nixon, who nodded and began removing items from the box.

“I know from your file you don't speak Spanish or Portuguese, so if I were you I'd try Uruguay or Paraguay, where your British accent won't stand out as much.”

Crabtree walked over. “Why don't you have Kevin make him a Canadian?”

Cabrillo nodded. “Here's the deal,” he said. “You do the switch for us and we will build you a new identity. You become a Canadian who immigrated to Paraguay a few years ago and hold citizenship. We'll give you a flat one million U.S. dollars to start over and a plane ticket from Hong Kong to Asuncion. What you do then is up to you and luck.”

“The authorities will stop me if I try to leave Hong Kong with a million cash,” Spenser said, feeling hope.

“We'll take care of that,” Cabrillo said. “Now pick a name.”

Nixon walked over and began to apply the disguise.

“Norman McDonald,” Spenser said.

“Norm McDonald it is,” Cabrillo agreed.

 

T
INY
Gunderson was watching the customs officials walk through the 737 when his digital communicator vibrated. He removed it from his pocket and stared at the readout. Memorizing the message, he erased it and slid the device back in his pocket. The customs agents walked to where Gunderson was standing, then signed a sheet of paper and handed it to the pilot.

“We'll move to the fuel ramp now,” the pilot said to the officials, who nodded and walked out the door and down the ramp. The ramp was retracted and the operator drove it away.

“Close the door,” the pilot said to Gunderson. Then he steered down the wet runway.

Thirty minutes later, the 737 was refueled and parked in a large hangar only yards from where Cabrillo and his team were waiting. The software billionaire dialed his satellite telephone.

 

H
ORNSBY,
Meadows and Jones stopped to catch their breath. All along the walls of the storm sewer, metal and tile pipes were funneling water into the main line. There were eight inches of water on the floor of the main sewer and it was dotted with cigarette butts, scraps of paper and the refuse from the world above their heads.

“We're gaining an inch every few minutes,” Meadows said.

Hornsby was staring at the blueprint under the light of his miner's helmet. He traced the route and stared at his compass. “I don't think the water is rising that fast,” he said, “but it is cause for concern.”

Jones stared around the crowded space. He didn't like being in confined spaces and he wanted out as soon as possible. “Which way do we go, Horny?”

“We take the left passage,” Hornsby said.

 

I
NSIDE
the control room on the
Oregon
, Max Hanley was staring at a weather radar image. A cell of clouds, the center an angry red color, was situated in the water between Hong Kong and Macau. “Show the movement,” he said to an operator.

The man entered commands into the computer and the image moved in a slow, sweeping wave to the west. At the present speed, the storm center would pass over Macau around four
A.M.
Sometime during breakfast, the trailing edge would reach the Chinese mainland and the weather would clear. Between now and then, there would be only rain.

“Eddie,” Hanley said, “I'm going to need you to take a team into the tunnel.”

Eddie Seng was the Corporation go-to guy. He had served in marine RECON, had spearheaded more than a few Corporation projects and had an innate knack for making good out of bad. So far, Cabrillo and Hanley had kept him on the sidelines in this operation. He was their reserve man in case of unforeseen circumstances, and he was itching to get in the game.

“I'll need a couple of Zodiac boats, and a method of locating the men if the water keeps rising,” Seng said.

“Murphy, Kasim and Huxley,” Hanley said quickly. “I'll have the boats prepped and the equipment arranged. You assemble the team and meet me back here.”

Seng walked quickly from the control room.

 

“N
O
comment,” Sung Rhee said, slamming down the telephone.

The reporters for the local newspapers had gotten wind something was happening—they just did not know what. The hospital was filled with guests from Ho's party, but as the drug wore off they were leaving one by one. Food poisoning was mentioned as the source of the guests' discomfort, but the cover story was flimsy and someone would soon pierce through that lie. The kidnappings were being investigated; reporters with police scanners had ensured that. The theft at the A-Ma Temple, the burning Peugeot, the fire at the parade—all were being investigated by reporters. Only Stanley Ho's house was sealed from them. Once he had cleared the house, he had locked the doors to outsiders. Once morning came, Rhee would be compelled to comment.

Just then his telephone rang again.

“The wreckage of the float is cooling, but we have yet to get close enough to inspect for remains,” Detective Po said. “But my guess is they burned up in the conflagration.”

“Was the float being observed the entire time?” Rhee asked.