Golden Buddha (27 page)

Detective Po smiled to himself. If all this was true, it was the greatest game of one-upmanship he had ever seen. Here was a pair of obscenely rich men vying for attention like children trying to be picked for kick-ball.

“Yeah,” Ho began to say, “well, this is my town, and you can—”

“Mr. Ho,” Detective Po said quickly, “why don't you come down to my office so we can sort this out?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Ho said loudly.

“Everyone calm down,” Rhee said.

He motioned to a conference room, pointed for the reporters to remain in the foyer, and then led the rest inside. Once everyone was inside and seated, he picked up the telephone, ordered tea to be delivered, then spoke.

“Okay, everyone,” he said slowly, “who wants to begin?”

Ho stared at the chief inspector. “A Buddha I purchased for two hundred million dollars in Switzerland was stolen tonight while you were at a party at my house. I demand to know if you have recovered it yet.”

“I lost a hundred million dollars in bearer bonds and my 737 to a gang of criminals,” the billionaire said, “and want to know what is going
on
in this godforsaken country.”

Po stood up and paced for a second. “Was your plane valued over a hundred million?” he asked Friday.

The billionaire shook his head.

“Then it looks like two hundred million is the highest bid here tonight,” Po said.

T
HE
storm sewer was fast becoming a watery grave. Less than three feet separated the rising water from the arched dome of air overhead. The drainpipes on the top of the tube were gushing like a downpour. The water was littered with refuse washed from the streets above. Hornsby saw a rat swimming toward them in the current and slapped at the creature with a paddle. Just ahead was another junction.

“We need to make a decision,” he shouted over the roar of the water. “Sink or swim.”

Meadows looked forward. In the dimming light from the miner's hard hat he could just see the torrent ahead, a cascade of white water that would make the rafts uncontrollable.

“Ready with the paddles,” he shouted. “The horse has to lead the cart.”

Digging into the water on the left side of the raft, they swung the stern of their raft to the right. The nose of the lead raft, which was carrying the Golden Buddha, pulled hard left but made the turn into the proper channel. The turn was not as smooth for the raft carrying the trio of men. It slammed amidships into the junction, and the corner struck Jones hard in his right side. He hung there for a minute pressed against a concrete arch until the rope holding them to the lead raft went taut and yanked them down the channel.

“Jonesy's been hurt,” Meadows shouted above the din.

Pete Jones was clutching the side of his chest and wheezing to catch his breath. Turning his head, in the dim light Hornsby could just make out his shredded shirt and anguished expression.

“My ribs,” Jones managed to groan.

“We need to cut the raft loose,” Hornsby shouted. “There's no way we'll make the next turn.”

“Maybe we should slit the side and sink the Buddha,” Meadows shouted. “Then we can return when the water recedes and pull it out of here.”

Jones gritted his teeth and stared at his watch. “The
Oregon
,” he said painfully, “is due to sail this morning. If we don't get this out now, we never will.”

Hornsby thought for a second, then decided. The next junction would be coming up in a few minutes. Taking a pen from his shirt pocket, he stared at the GPS, then drew the rest of their intended course on the back of his hand.

“Bob,” he said, “I'm going onto the lead raft. My weight will place it low in the water, but it should still remain afloat. As soon as I'm on top of the case holding the Buddha, cut me loose.”

He handed Meadows the GPS.

“You sure, Horny?”

Hornsby threw his paddle onto the top of the Buddha, pulled the rope to bring the rear raft closer, then turned.

“Ready your knife,” he said.

Unclipping a folding knife from his belt, Meadows opened the blade and nodded.

Hornsby crouched and hopped the short distance to the lead raft. As soon as he was clear, Meadows sliced through the tether, then dug his paddle into the side to slow down his raft. Hornsby squirted ahead. In the dim light, Meadows could see the Buddha was awash, and only a portion of Hornsby's head and torso were above the waterline.

“Going right,” Hornsby shouted as he pulled ahead, “then left.”

 

A
S
the storm sewer pipes came closer to the water, they increased in diameter so the storm water would not become pressurized and blow apart the tiles. At six places under Macau were large square pondlike storage facilities where the water could pool and lose some speed before spilling out into the last series of pipes and eventually the bay.

Murphy and Kasim were motoring around in circles in one of them.

“Five more minutes,” Murphy shouted. “Then we go in and find them.”

Kasim gave three more blasts on the air horn. “They should be here by now,” he agreed.

At just that instant, Murphy's digital pager beeped and he pushed the button to light the screen. Scrolling through the message, he nodded his head.

“They poured paint into the sewers to follow the flow,” he said as he steered the Zodiac into another tight circle. “If it makes it down our escape channel, we're screwed.”

“What do you mean?” Kasim asked.

“The paint will bring the Chinese to the area, as well as marking the sides of the Zodiac,” Murphy said. “Then they'll grab us and take us in for questioning.”

“What's the
Oregon
recommend?”

Murphy was quiet for a moment before answering. “They want us to blow up the tunnel leading into here and seal off the tainted water.”

“How long do we have?”

“Six minutes and forty-seven seconds,” Murphy said, removing a satchel charge from one of the bags in the bottom of the boat.

“What about the others?” Kasim asked.

“If they aren't out by then,” Murphy said, “the
Oregon
said to assume they took a wrong turn or drowned inside. Then we need to protect our own asses and make a safe retreat.”

Murphy angled the Zodiac over to the pipe leading into the holding pool. Using the power of the outboard motor, he held the boat in place against the strong current until Kasim had attached the charges to the top of the storm sewer. Once the explosives were in place, Kasim activated the digital timer. Four, three, two, one, and the red light blinked.

“Give the signal again,” Murphy said as he backed the Zodiac away.

 

I
T
was like Hornsby was riding a log down a flume. He was almost awash and the distance over his head to the top of the pipe was narrowing as the water continued rising. The last turn had been made by gouging his paddle into the water and bringing the bow slightly to one side. He readied his leg to push against the wall for the next bend. Hornsby had lost sight of the others. The light on his hard hat was nearly out and he had no way to know if Meadows and Jones had taken the correct channel. Anyway, there was nothing he could do if they hadn't. He was more concerned for his own survival. He jammed his leg against the wall and the raft lumbered over into the correct channel.

And then, like the distant chirping of a mother bird calling her young, he heard the faint sound of a horn sounding three times. The raft, with Hornsby atop the Golden Buddha, raced on the current in the direction of the sound.

 

A
S
the Zodiac circled, Kasim attempted to keep a portable spotlight trained at the opening of the pipe. The timer on the satchel charge was ticking down and, quite honestly, he was beginning to lose faith this was all going to work out.

“Two minutes,” he said over the sound of the motor.

Murphy listened intently. A sound was coming from the tunnel that sounded like the bellowing of a wounded animal. And then, riding on a scream and a prayer, Cliff Hornsby shot from the pipe and slid halfway across the pond. Murphy quickly angled the Zodiac alongside and Kasim grabbed the edge of the raft.

“Where are the others?” Murphy shouted.

Hornsby wiped the water from his eyes and glanced at the high-barreled ceiling just barely visible from the spotlight trained on the timer. “They were right behind me.”

“Did you see any colored water?” Kasim asked.

“What do you mean?”

“They poured paint in the manhole to trace the flow of water,” Murphy said. “Did you see anything in the water?”

“No,” Hornsby said.

“One minute, thirty seconds,” Kasim said.

“What's happening?” Hornsby asked.

“We've been ordered to seal off this exit,” Murphy said, “so we have a chance at a clean escape. Sound the horn.”

 

J
ONES
was lying in the bottom of the raft, barely able to move. If they had to go in the water or needed to attempt an escape, Meadows figured he'd have to carry him. They had made the last turn, but just barely. Anything from here on out had a limited chance for success.

“How's it going, pal?” he asked.

Jones listened to the distant sound, then opened his eyes and grimaced. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Meadows asked, thinking Jones was hallucinating.

“They came for us,” Jones said.

Eighteen seconds later, their raft shot out of the pipe and into the holding pond.

“I don't have time to explain,” Murphy yelled, “but take this line and hold tight.”

“Just passed thirty,” Kasim yelled.

Murphy finished tying the leads for the two rafts to the rear of the Zodiac, then slammed the throttle forward. The outboard prop dug into the water and the boat lurched forward across the holding pond, then into the exit tunnel.

“Heads down,” Murphy shouted, staring at his stopwatch.

At just that instant, a roar filled the square holding area and reverberated out the escape tunnel. A second later, the inflow pipe collapsed down on itself and sealed off the holding pond. At the same time, a wave began to build that rolled across the pond and sought the only opening. The top of the wave was higher than the exit pipe and filled the outflow to overflowing. Kasim swung the spotlight around and noticed the approaching tsunami.

“Shock wave approaching,” he shouted as the Zodiac with the rafts in tow entered the pipe leading to the bay.

O
N
board the
Oregon
, preparations for departure were moving at lightning speed.

Juan Cabrillo reached for the telephone and placed a call to the acting harbormaster.

“Don't worry,” he said, after lying that his parent company had ordered him to leave immediately, “we have another ship lined up in Manila to take the load of fireworks to the United States. She'll be here day after tomorrow.”

The harbormaster seemed to accept this as fact. Because it was late and little was happening, he was talkative.

“Singapore,” Cabrillo said in answer to his question, “but they haven't told me the cargo, only that we need to be there seventy-two hours from now.”

Singapore was fifteen hundred miles as a crow flies, and from what the harbormaster had heard, the
Oregon
would be hard-pressed to make twenty knots an hour. The man had no way to know that if the ship made it into open water by sunrise, it could be in Singapore by lunch the next day. Nor did he know the
Oregon
was not going to Singapore at all.

“Yes,” Cabrillo said, “it's pushing for sure, but orders are orders. Is the pilot on his way here?”

The harbormaster answered in the affirmative, and Cabrillo hurried to get off the telephone.

“We'll keep an eye out for him,” Cabrillo finished, “and thank you.”

Hanging up the telephone, Cabrillo turned to Hanley. The time was 4:41
A.M.

“Sounds like he bought it,” Cabrillo said. “Order the lookout to watch for the approaching pilot boat.”

Hanley nodded. “The helicopter with Adams and Reyes is back, and I've ordered all the hatches battened down. Which means we need to retrieve the Zodiacs in open water.”

“What do you hear from them?” Cabrillo asked.

“Seng and Huxley report they are still waiting outside,” Hanley said, staring at his watch. “Murphy was ordered to blow up an inner cavern any time about now to seal off the flow of paint and at least allow the four rescuers to escape. As of the last communication a few minutes ago, Hornsby, Jones and Meadows had not shown up with the Golden Buddha.”

“I don't like it,” Cabrillo said.

“I had to make a decision when you were dealing with the art dealer,” Hanley said quietly. “If the helicopter salting the water didn't throw off the Chinese, not only would we lose the men in the tunnel, but the rescue crew as well.”

“I know, Max,” Cabrillo said. “You're just following the book.”

The two men stared at one another for a moment. Then Eric Stone spoke.

“Sirs,” Stone said, pointing at a screen, “we just detected a shock wave from an explosion.”

 

M
URPHY
had the throttle on the Zodiac as far forward as she would go. The trio of boats was rocketing down the tunnel leading out to the bay. They were only ten feet ahead of the approaching wave from the explosion, but now that they were at full speed, the margin was remaining constant.

“Try to reach Seng on the radio,” Murphy shouted over the noise, “and tell him what's happening.”

Kasim nodded and reached for the microphone.

“Eddie,” he shouted into the microphone, “we have the target with us. Clear away from the opening—we're coming out hot.”

“Got it,” Seng shouted from just outside the pipe.

A few minutes before, Seng and Huxley had heard the rumble from the explosion and had climbed aboard the second Zodiac. They were just backing away from shore when Kasim radioed. Seng turned the Zodiac and then accelerated away into the bay. Once they reached the edge of the fog and rain band, he turned toward land and pointed a spotlight at the outflow pipe.

“Call the
Oregon
,” he said to Huxley, “and report team two is on their way out.”

 

T
HE
pilot boat pulled alongside the
Oregon
. A single tugboat hovered nearby, awaiting instructions from the pilot. The pilot climbed off his boat at a boarding ladder, made his way on deck, and then stared around. The upper deck was a tangled mess of rusting equipment and cables. He stared above, where the smokestack was polluting the air around the slip with smoky, oily fumes. This was a ship begging to be put out of her misery at a scrapyard.

“What a pile of junk,” the pilot muttered to himself.

A man stepped from behind a pillar. “I'm Captain Smith,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

The captain was dressed in a tattered yellow rain slicker spotted with grease and dirt. His face had a full beard, stained around the mouth by nicotine, and when Smith cracked a smile, he showed a forest of yellow stubs.

“I'm ready to guide you out,” the pilot said, staying a safe distance away from the man's odor.

“This way,” the captain said, turning.

The pilot followed the captain as he wove his way around the tangled mess on the decks to the rusted metal stair leading to the pilothouse. Halfway up the stair, the pilot gripped for a handrail and it came off in his hand.

“Captain,” he said.

Smith turned, then walked a few steps to where the pilot was stopped. Then he took the length of rusted pipe in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder onto the cluttered deck.

“I'll make a note of that,” he said, swiveling around again and climbing the last few steps to the pilothouse.

The pilot shook his head. The sooner he was off the ship, the happier he'd be.

Six minutes later, the
Oregon
was turned and partway out of the port. The pilot ordered the line from the tug removed and the
Oregon
headed away from land under her own power.

To the rear of the
Oregon
, now growing dimmer in the distance, the mountain peak on Macau began to recede in the rain and fog. Only a few lights from the airport remained in sight.

“How long until you can be picked up?” Cabrillo asked the pilot.

The pilot pointed to a channel marker thirty yards ahead. The high-powered light was penetrating the gloom. A few more minutes and he could be off this beast of a ship.

 

“L
IGHT
at the end of the tunnel,” Murphy shouted.

The Zodiac was racing toward the bay just ahead of the shock wave that would fill the pipe to the top. Hornsby was holding tight to his raft and the top of the Golden Buddha, while Meadows gripped the side of the Zodiac and glanced down at Jones, who was clutching his side in the bottom of the raft.

“A few more seconds, Jonesy,” he shouted, “and we'll be in the clear.”

Jones nodded but did not speak.

The exit from the pipe was like riding over a waterfall on a class IV rapid. The water was spewing out of the pipe with tremendous force. The plume cascaded through the air twenty feet, then dropped seven feet down to the water of the bay. Murphy held to the wheel as the Zodiac was propelled through the air. As soon as he felt the boat leave the water, he pulled back on the throttle so he wouldn't over-rev the engine, then braced himself for the splashdown.

“Let go,” he screamed to Hornsby and Meadows.

The lines on the two towed rafts were released and they separated a few feet from the Zodiac at the same instant the wall of water filled the pipe, then burst through the air with tremendous force.

“Wow,” Seng shouted at the sight of the rafts squirting through the air.

“Hold on,” Meadows shouted to Jones as the raft flew through the air, then slapped on the surface of the water before slowing almost to a stop.

“Are you okay?” Meadows said a few seconds later. “Do you need anything?”

Jones wiped the water from his face, then shifted his body to ease the pain of his cracked ribs as the raft stopped in the water and bobbed.

“I've been better,” Jones said. “I think it would help if you would hum a few bars of ‘Suwannee River.'”

 

P
O
was inside the conference room with Rhee, Ho and Marcus Friday. A police sergeant entered and whispered in his ear.

“What the hell do you mean?” he asked.

“A few of our people heard what sounded like a helicopter,” the sergeant said. “Now all the waters around Macau are a bright pink color.”

“Those bastards,” Po said. “They're covering their tracks.”

“Who?” the sergeant asked.

“I don't know who,” Po said, “but I intend to find out.”

Po waved the sergeant away, then walked over to Rhee and motioned for him to move a few feet away so they could talk in private. Once he explained what the sergeant had told him, Rhee had only one thing to say.

“Seal the port,” Rhee said. “No one in or out.”

 

A
S
soon as Kasim helped Meadows and Jones aboard the Zodiac, Murphy slit the rubber raft with a knife. The raft drifted away and began to sink. At the same time, Seng and Huxley helped Hornsby aboard and the three of them wrestled the Golden Buddha aboard their Zodiac. Murphy idled his boat close just as they had finished stowing the golden icon amidships.

“I just spoke to Hanley,” he said to Seng. “The
Oregon
is almost to the outer buoy. We are supposed to rendezvous with them in open water.”

Kasim raised his hand for quiet as the radio barked. He listened intently over his earpiece.

“Got it,” he said.

“That was the
Oregon
again,” he said. “They just intercepted a transmission from the police to the port authorities. They have ordered the port sealed—no one in or out. The police and port authority boats have been given orders to fire on any craft that refuses to comply.”

“Shh…,” Seng said.

The sound of a ship under power came across the water.

“They're coming,” Seng said.

 

C
APTAIN
Smith walked the pilot to the ladder leading down and bid him farewell. The pilot climbed down the ladder, then stepped across to the pilot boat, which quickly backed away from the
Oregon
. Smith watched the pilot boat accelerate away into the rain.

The pilot boat was still visible when it began to slow and turn.

Cabrillo reached for a tiny radio at his belt and flicked it on. “Max,” he said quickly, “what's happening?”

“The authorities have ordered the port sealed,” Hanley said. “The pilot's been ordered to bring us back to port.”

Cabrillo sprinted across the deck as he spoke. “Full steam ahead,” he shouted. “I'll be in the control room in a few minutes.”

 

R
HEE
was in his office. The port's night manager was on the other end of the phone line.

“They won't stop?” he asked.

“The pilot boat can't reach them,” the port manager noted. “The pilot that guided them out mentioned that the vessel was in terrible shape—maybe their radios are faulty.”

“Have the pilot boat outrun them and deliver the message in person.”

“I already ordered that,” the manager said in exasperation. “But the ship keeps gaining speed—the pilot boat can't seem to catch up with her.”

“I thought you said the ship was a rust bucket,” Rhee said.

“She's a fast rust bucket,” the manager noted. “Our pilot boats can do over thirty knots.”

“Damn,” Rhee said. “How long until the ship reaches international waters?”

“Not long,” the manager admitted.

“Get me the navy,” Rhee shouted to Po, who reached for another telephone.

“What do you want us to do?” the port manager asked.

“Nothing,” Rhee said. “You've already done enough.”

He slammed down the telephone and took the one in Po's hand. The second in command of the Chinese navy detachment in Macau was on the line.

“This is the chief of the Macau police. We need you to stop a ship heading out into the South China Sea,” he said quickly.

“We have a hydrofoil that can run at sixty-five knots,” the Chinese navy officer told him, “but it isn't very heavily armed.”