Golden Buddha (11 page)

E
XITING
the bridge, Truitt steered the van through the cloverleaf. The thousand-room Hotel Lisboa and casino was to the right as they drove west on Avenida Dr. Mario Soares. To the right, the Bank of China soared into the air, a pink granite-and-glass structure whose top levels allowed the occupants a view across the border into China.

“For anticapitalists, they build a nice bank,” Meadows said quietly.

No one replied; they were enamored with the scenery. Central Macau was a strange mishmash of new and old, European and Asian, traditional and modern. Truitt reached Rua da Praia Grande and turned left.

“From what I'm told, this used to be a beautiful drive,” Truitt said, “until construction started on the Nam Van Lakes Reclamation Project.”

The road was clogged with construction trucks, cement mixers and piles of materials.

Driving farther, the road became Avenida da Republica and skirted Nam Van Lake.

“That's the governor's residence,” Truitt said, pointing up the hill. “I'm taking us the long way around the tip of the peninsula so you can see the geography. The hill north of the governor's residence is named Penha. This one on the end is Barra Hill. Our target is between the two, on a street named Estrada da Penha.”

Angling left on the road, they climbed a rise until the van reached Estrada de D. Joao Paulino. Turning a quick right, they drove a few yards and made another sharp right onto Estrada da Penha, which formed a wavy U shape around the top of the hill until it met back up with Joao Paulino.

The van passed the bottom of the U and was halfway up the side when Truitt slowed. “Thar she blows.”

“She” was a mansion, an old elegant structure worthy of a landed family. A tall stone wall encircled the grounds, broken only by a wrought-iron gate and the creeping growth of ivy. Giant, perfectly placed trees, planted generations past, studded the expanse of emerald grass. As the van rolled past, a croquet field was visible off to the side. Farther to the right, down a cobblestone driveway, was a two-story garage building, where a handyman was soaping down a Mercedes-Benz limousine.

The mansion looked like a wealthy nineteenth-century shipowner could live there now; the only compromise for the times was the series of security cameras atop the stone wall fronting the street.

“There are six cameras strategically located around the grounds.”

The van was approaching the junction with Joao Paulino, and Truitt slowed before commenting.

“That
would
complicate things,” Truitt said, as he slowed for the stop sign, “except for one thing I failed to mention.”

“What's that?” Cabrillo asked.

“Our target is throwing a huge party,” Truitt said as he steered the van left, “and we're booked as the entertainment.”

Truitt took the scenic way back, past the temple and along the waterfront.

 

“W
ELL?”
the software billionaire asked pointedly.

One thousand dollars to the Stanford scientist had procured his services; a call to the president of the university reminding him of past donations had opened up the full use of the laboratory.

“The date shows thirteenth century, but for me to give you a more accurate estimate of the area from which it was mined, I'll have to melt half of your sample.”

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“It's going to take me thirty or forty-five minutes,” the scientist said, already growing weary of the billionaire's rude manner. “Why don't you head to the cafeteria and grab something to drink?”

“Do they have Chai tea?” the billionaire said.

“No,” the scientist said wearily, “but there's a Starbucks on the commons that does.”

After giving him directions to the Starbucks, he waited until the man walked out and closed the door to the laboratory.

“Idiot,” the scientist said.

Then he walked over to a small kiln and slid the metal plate holding the shaving of gold inside. After it melted, he placed the sample inside a computer-powered sampler that would give a breakdown of the percentages of the other metals present. By comparing the ratios with known ores already mined, the scientist could determine the general area where the gold had been mined.

As he waited for the machine to perform its magic, the scientist read a skiing magazine. Twenty minutes later, the machine stopped.

 

T
HE
president of the United States was sitting in an Adirondack chair behind the main house at Camp David, Maryland. The president of Russia sat across from him, a wooden table separating the two.

Though not visible, $2 billion in foreign aid was on the table.

“How does it sound, Vlad?” the president asked.

“You know I've never been a big fan of the Chinese,” the Russian president said, “but the foreign aid is only a bandage. My country's factories need orders for our economy to mend itself.”

The president nodded. “The biggest-ticket items in my budget are always the military planes and ships. The Taiwanese have got a shopping list a mile long. What if I could steer some of that business your way?”

The Russian president smiled. “You are a crafty one,” he said. “You've managed to give me what my country needs while at the same time pitting us against the Chinese, who as you well know make an enemy of anyone who befriends Taiwan.”

The president rose from the chair and stretched. “Now, Vlad,” he said, “isn't that the nucleus of negotiation—to give both sides what they want?”

“I think,” the Russian president said, rising, “we may just have a deal.”

“Good, then,” the president said, motioning toward the dining hall. “What do you say we go see what kind of pie the chef has in the oven?”

 

“T
HE
gold was mined somewhere in the area of Burma,” the scientist said when the billionaire returned, clutching a paper cup of tea.

“Can you be more specific?”

“South of the twenty-degrees latitude line, which means southern Vietnam, Laos, Thailand or Burma. I can try to pin it down more, but it will take time.”

The billionaire sipped the tea, then shook his head back and forth. “Don't bother, you said the magic word.”

The billionaire started toward the door while at the same time removing a cellular telephone from his belt. “Bring the car around,” he said to the driver. Then he disconnected and reached for the door.

“Do you want your gold back?” the scientist shouted across the laboratory.

“Keep it,” the billionaire shouted. “I've got a lot more where that came from.”

“You're most generous,” the scientist muttered as he scraped the sample from the now-cool plate and slid it into the envelope with the other.

Carrying the envelope over to his desk, he tossed it into the top drawer. Then he walked to the door, shut off the lights, and locked the door to the laboratory behind him. A few minutes later, he was tooling across campus on his moped, still shaking his head at the strange encounter.

 

I
NSIDE
a storage hold on the lower level of the
Oregon
, Hanley was standing with Kevin Nixon, staring at a collection of wheeled conveyances.

“For certain, we should have a couple of the motorcycles and at least one of the all-terrain vehicles prepared,” Hanley said.

Nixon nodded, then walked over to one of the motorcycles. Since the last time it had been used, it had been cleaned and oiled. All the tools used by the Corporation were kept in a constant state of readiness—it was one of the easiest ways to ensure success.

“I'll go ahead and test run everything,” Nixon said. “Want me to fabricate Macau license plates for each?”

“Sounds good,” Hanley said. “Just standard tags, nothing diplomatic.”

Nixon stared at the clipboard with the sheet of paper Cabrillo had prepared earlier. “Looks like Ross wants earpiece communications for the ground operators, with a secondary channel to reach the ship.”

“Make sure the batteries are charged, and check everything out,” Hanley said. “I'll break out a repeater we can place on Barra Hill so we're not using local channels.”

“Better place a beacon up there, too,” Nixon said, glancing at the clipboard. “Murphy wants a fixed targeting point if he needs to loose a missile.”

“Murphy,” Hanley said, shaking his head, “he'd drive a thumbtack with a sledgehammer.”

Nixon turned on an exhaust vent, then slid his leg over the motorcycle and poked the kick starter. The machine roared to life and settled into an idle. Shutting it off, he moved toward the second motorcycle and repeated the process. The hours passed as the pair of men checked then double-checked the equipment.

 

A
T
the same instant, closer to the stern, Mark Murphy was in the armory. The room had a bench containing reloading equipment and rows of drawers containing ammunition, charges, timers and fuses. Along the walls were a series of recessed cases that housed automatic weapons, rifles and handguns. The room smelled of gunpowder, metal and oil.

Parts of a U.S. Army M-16 sat atop a piece of cloth on the bench. Murphy pushed the button on a digital timer, then reached for the stock and began to assemble the weapon. A minute later, he pushed the timer again, then raised his hands in the air. One minute and four seconds—he was slow today. Walking over to an ammunition drawer, he began to remove banana clips and load them with different types of ordnance.

“God, I love my job,” he said aloud.

 

T
HE
van was entering the bridge leading from Macau to Taipa.

“The Minutemen,” Cabrillo said. “Where did you come up with that name?”

“It
could
be construed as an homage to Paul Revere and the revolutionary way,” Truitt said, laughing.

“Wouldn't that be Paul Revere and The Raiders?” Jones said.

“But in fact,” Truitt continued, “it's the name of the band that was already hired.”

“Won't it be crowded when two bands show up?” Ross asked.

“It would be, but the real Minutemen, a California cover band doing a tour of the Far East, was detained in Bangkok after a two-week stint in the Phuket bars. Apparently a customs official found a joint in the drummer's shaving kit.”

“Planted?” Cabrillo asked.

“Had to,” Truitt noted. “The Minutemen are probably the only band in these parts that are clean—they met one another in a twelve-step group.”

“The boys sound all right,” Meadows said. “You can't fault someone who's turned his life around—we shouldn't let them rot in a Thailand prison.”

“Not to worry, the customs official is on our payroll,” Truitt said. “There's no record of the stop. One of our people in California made contact with their management company and explained the situation, and we upgraded them to first class for the flight home since the Macau gig was the last one on the tour. Right now, the Minutemen are convinced they were critically helpful in the war on terrorism—as per our standard cover story.”

The van rolled onto Taipa and started across the island.

“I just have one question,” Cabrillo said. “Which one of us is the lead singer?”

T
HE
Dalai Lama walked down the steps of the jet in Jalandhar, in the Punjab province of India, into an unusually hot day. Despite his forty-five years in exile in India, he had never learned to adjust to the weather. His Holiness was a man from the mountains and he missed snow and cold temperatures. He sniffed the air for the slightest smell from the glaciers far to the north. Instead of snow and pine trees, his nose was assaulted by fumes from the trucks passing by the airport on the traffic-packed highway.

He smiled anyway and gave thanks.

“Looks like my transportation is here,” he said to Overholt, who had joined him on the tarmac.

A large, single-engine Cessna Caravan was nearby, with a pilot doing a walk-around.

“Very good, Your Holiness,” Overholt said.

“As soon as I return, I will meet with my advisors and the oracle,” the Dalai Lama said, staring directly into Overholt's eyes. “If they agree and you can ensure me no bloodshed, then I will agree to the plan we have designed.”

“Thank you, Your Holiness.”

The Dalai Lama began to walk toward the Cessna, then stopped and turned around. “I will pray for your father and for you,” he said quietly, “and pray this all works out.”

Overholt simply smiled as the Dalai Lama turned and walked over to the steps, then climbed into the Cessna for the rest of his journey. As soon as he was seated, the Dalai Lama turned to one of his assistants.

“As soon as we arrive in Little Lhasa, I will need the trunk containing the Golden Buddha documents brought to my office.”

The assistant scribbled notes on a small pad.

“Then I will need to see my doctor,” he said quietly. “There is something wrong with my physical shell.”

“As ordered, Your Holiness,” the aide said, “I shall do.”

The pilot started the engine on the Cessna and ran through his checks. Four minutes later he was rolling toward a runway, and a few minutes after that he was airborne. Overholt stood on the tarmac and watched as the Cessna lifted off the ground and made a climbing turn to the right. The Caravan was just a speck against the backdrop of the white cloud cover before he turned to the pilot of the Falcon.

“Mind if I catch a ride back to Santa Monica with you?” he asked.

“We're going that way anyway, sir,” the pilot said. “Might as well tag along.”

 

O
VERHOLT
had a quality that was often overlooked in successful spies. He could sleep anywhere. By the time the jet stopped for fuel in Taiwan, the several hours of sleep had renewed his vigor. As the plane was being fueled, he walked a distance away and unfolded his portable telephone, then dialed a number from memory.

Bouncing off a satellite, the signal arrived in the Marshall Islands in the Pacific, then was redirected toward the ultimate destination. The signal was scrambled and untraceable and there was no way to determine where the receiving party was actually located. The voice answered with an extension number.

“2524.”

“Juan,” he said quietly, “this is Langston.”

“Qué pasa, amigo,”
Cabrillo said.

“Everything still looks good,” Overholt said. “How is your crew coming?”

“We're ten by ten,” Cabrillo said.

“Good,” Overholt said.

“Looks like there's a little side deal here for us to grab,” Cabrillo said. “I trust there's no problem with that?”

“As long as there's no blowback,” Overholt said. “Your company's dealings are none of my concern.”

“Excellent,” Cabrillo said. “If it works out as planned, there will be no need to bill you for travel expenses.”

“Money's not a problem, old friend; this is coming from the top,” Overholt said, “but time is—make this happen for me before Easter.”

“That's why we get the big money, Lang”—Cabrillo laughed—“because we're so damn prompt. You'll have what you need, you have my word.”

“That's what I love about you,” Overholt said, “your complete lack of ego.”

“I'll call you when it's done,” Cabrillo said.

“Just don't let me read about it.”

Overholt disconnected, slid the telephone into his pocket, then did a series of stretching exercises before climbing back aboard the jet. Twenty-four hours later, he boarded a military transport plane from Southern California to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. There he was met by the CIA car service and transported to headquarters.

 

A
T
the mansion on Estrada da Penha, preparations for the party were moving at a blistering pace. One truck after another rolled through the gates, then parked and unloaded their contents. Three large yellow-and-white-striped canvas tents were quickly erected on the grounds, with portable air-conditioning units to make the tents more comfortable. They were followed by a pair of large portable fountains with spotlights that would shoot colored streams of water twenty feet into the air; red carpets for the guests to walk across; sound equipment; a baby grand piano for the musician who would play during the cocktail hour; parrots, doves and peacocks; and tables, chairs and linens.

The party planner was a middle-aged Portuguese woman named Iselda, whose black hair was kept in a tight bun on the back of her head. She was chain-smoking thin brown cigarettes with blue satin tips while she screamed orders to the staff.

“These are not the goblets I ordered,” she said as a worker carried a case into the tent and began to unpack them. “I ordered the ones with the gold lip—take these back.”

“Sorry, Miss Iselda,” the Chinese worker said, scanning a sheet. “These are what are on the list.”

“Take them back, take them back,” she said as she furiously puffed away.

A peacock wandered into the tent and made a mess on the floor. Iselda grabbed a straw broom and chased it out onto the grounds.

“Where are the laser lights?” she shouted to no one in particular.

 

A
T
exactly that same instant, Stanley Ho, host of the party, was standing in one of his three home offices, this one on the top floor of his house. This was his private sanctuary. None of the staff or assistants were allowed to enter this most private of spaces. The attic room was decorated to Ho's tastes, which ran to early eclectic. His desk was from an early sailing ship, his television a brand-new plasma screen.

Bookcases lined one wall, but they were not filled with the classy tomes Ho displayed in areas where guests visited; these shelves were filled with pulp spy novels, soft porn featuring damsels in distress, and cheap paperback westerns.

A giant wool rug with a stick-shaped phoenix design that had been woven by a Navajo in Arizona graced the wood floor, while the walls were dotted with framed posters from past and current popular movies. The top of the captain's desk was a study in disorderliness. Stacks of papers, a metal car model, a cup from Disney World holding pens, and a dusty brass lamp shared the crowded space.

Ho walked over to a small refrigerator shaped like a bank vault and removed a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he took a sip, then stared at the Golden Buddha sitting upright on the floor, the door of its case open.

Ho was trying to decide if he should display his latest prize at the party.

Right then, his private telephone rang. It was the insurance underwriter, who wanted to schedule an appointment. Ho set a time, then went back to staring at his treasure.

 

“A
S
long as we don't lose power,” Kevin Nixon said, “no one should be the wiser.”

“Did you receive their song list?” Cabrillo asked.

“We got it,” Hanley said, handing him the list, “and programmed the songs into the computer.”

“Heavy on the sixties and seventies,” Cabrillo noted, “with a fair amount of guitar riffs.”

“Unfortunately, we can't change the playlist without arousing suspicion,” Hanley said.

“I'm just worried—if any of the guests happen to be guitar players, they'll know we're faking it,” Cabrillo said.

“I rigged the guitar with tiny LED lights that are only visible with special glasses,” Nixon said, smiling. “They're color-coded for the player's fingers. All he has to do is place his fingers where the light shows and he should be okay.”

Nixon handed Cabrillo the guitar and a pair of blackframed sunglasses. He slid the strap over his neck and Nixon plugged the guitar into the power source.

“It goes thumb purple, index finger red, then down the fingers, yellow, blue and green,” Nixon said. “Same on the frets. Hold a second and I'll start the computer.”

Cabrillo slipped on the glasses and waited. Once the lights lit up, he pushed his fingers on the illuminated strings. A crude rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” filled the Magic Shop.

“We won't win any Grammys,” Cabrillo said when the lights went dark, “but it should get us past any casual scrutiny.”

Hanley walked over to a bench and removed a clear glass bottle containing a pale blue liquid. “There's one other thing to consider,” he said, smiling. “This stuff came straight from the labs at Fort Dietrich, Maryland. Once we slip some of this into the punch bowl, this party will be kicking.”

“There's no long-term effects, right?” Cabrillo asked.

“No,” Hanley said, “only short-term. It seems that after a few drops of this elixir, you'll have the time of your life.”