There were only four other ships in the world with magnetohydrodynamics engines—three cruise ships and one oil tanker. Those who had installed the engines in the Oregon had been sworn to secrecy.
Hanley took proprietary care of the high-tech engines. They were reliable and rarely caused problems. He labored over them as if they were an extension of his own soul. He kept them finely tuned and in a constant state of readiness for extreme and extended operation. He watched now as they automatically engaged and began pushing the ship into the channel that led to the sea.
Above in the command center, armored panels slid noiselessly apart, revealing a large window on the forward bulkhead. The murmur among the men and women gazing intently at the lights of the city was quiet, as though the men manning the Cuban defense systems could hear their words.
Cabrillo spotted another ship leaving the harbor ahead of them. “What ship is that?” he asked.
One of the team pulled up the list of ship arrivals and departures on his computer monitor. “She’s a Chinese registered cargo vessel carrying sugar to Hangchou,” he reported. “She’s leaving port nearly an hour ahead of her scheduled departure time.”
“Name?” asked Cabrillo.
“In English, the Red Dawn. The shipping line is owned by the Chinese army.”
“Turn out all the outer lights, and increase speed until we are close astern of the vessel ahead,” he commanded the computer. “We’ll use her as a decoy to lead us out.” The outer deck and navigation lights blinked out, leaving the ship in darkness as she narrowed the gap between the two vessels. The lights inside the command center dimmed to a blue-green glow.
By the time the Red Dawn entered the ship’s channel and passed the first of the string of marker buoys, the darkened Oregon was trailing only fifty yards off her stern. Cabrillo kept his ship just far enough back so that the Chinese vessel’s deck lights would not cast their beams on his bow. It was a long shot, but he was betting the silhouette of his ship would be mistaken for the shadow of the Red Dawn.
Cabrillo glanced at a large twenty-four-hour clock on the wall above the window just as the long minute hand clicked onto 11:39. Only twenty-one minutes to go before the Cubans’ defense systems test.
“Following the Red Dawn is slowing us down,” said Linda. “We’re losing precious time.”
Cabrillo nodded. “You’re right, we can’t wait any longer. She’s served her purpose.” He leaned over and spoke into the computer’s voice receiver.
“Go to full speed and pass the ship ahead!”
Like a small powerboat with big engines and a heavy hand on the throttles, the Oregon dug her stern into the forbidding water and lifted her bows clear of the waves as her thrusters erupted in a cloud of froth, creating a vast crater in her wake. She leaped down the channel and swept past the Chinese cargo ship less than twenty feet away, as if she were stopped dead in the water. The Chinese sailors could be seen staring in stunned disbelief. Faster and faster with each passing second she raced through the night. Speed was the Oregon’s crowning achievement, the thoroughbred heart of the vessel. Forty knots, then fifty. By the time she passed Morro Castle at the entrance to Santiago, she was making nearly sixty-two knots. No ship in the world that size could match her speed.
The beacon lights mounted high on the bluffs were soon little more than blinking specks on a black horizon.
THE alarm spread quickly onshore that a ship was making an unauthorized departure—but the radar and fire control operators did not unleash their shore-to-surface missiles. Their officers could not believe that such a large ship was moving at such an incredible rate of speed. They assumed their radar systems were malfunctioning, and they were reluctant to unleash missiles that they did not think could lock on to such an inconceivable target.
Not until the Oregon was twenty miles out to sea did a general in Cuban security put two and two together and deduce that the sudden departure of the ship and the escape of the Santa Ursula prisoners were somehow tied together. He ordered missiles fired at the fleeing ship, but by the time the word filtered down through the sluggish command, the Oregon was out of acceptable range.
He then ordered jets from the Cuban air force to intercept and sink the mystery ship before it reached the protection of a United States Coast Guard cutter. It could not possibly escape, he thought, as he sat back, lit a cigar and contentedly puffed a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. Seventy miles away, two geriatric MiGs were sent aloft and set a course toward the Oregon as directed by Cuban radar.
CABRILLO didn’t need to study a chart to see that sailing around the tip of Cuba from Santiago through the Windward Passage and then northwest to Miami was little more than a suicide run. For nearly six hundred miles, the Oregon would be less than fifty miles from the Cuban coast, a voyage in a shooting gallery. His safest option was to set a course southwest around the southern tip of Haiti and then almost due west to Puerto Rico, which was a territory under the U.S. flag. There he could unload his passengers, where they would be safe and cared for at proper medical facilities before being flown to Florida.
“Two unidentified aircraft closing,” announced Linda.
“I have them,” Murphy announced, hunched over a console with enhanced radar screens and an array of knobs and switches.
“Can you identify?” asked Linda.
“Computer reads them as a pair of MiG-27s.”
“How far out?” Cabrillo probed.
“Sixty miles and closing,” Murphy answered. “Poor beggars don’t know what they’re in for.”
Cabrillo turned to his communications expert, Hali Kasim. “Try and raise them in Spanish. Warn them we have surface-to-air missiles on board and will knock them out of the sky if they show any sign of hostility.”
Kasim didn’t have to speak Spanish to deliver the warning. He merely ordered the computer to translate his message over his radio, which was tuned to twenty different frequencies.
After a couple of minutes he shook his head. “They are receiving, but not responding.”
“They think we’re bluffing,” said Linda.
“Keep trying.” Then to Murphy: “What’s the range of their missiles?”
“According to specs, they’re carrying short-range rockets with a range of ten miles.”
Cabrillo looked solemn. “If they don’t break off within thirty miles, take them out. Better yet, launch one of ours. Then manually guide it for a close flyby.”
Murphy made the necessary calculations and pressed a red button. “Missile on its way.”
An audible swoosh swept the command center as a rocket lifted from an opening in the foredeck and swept into the sky. They all watched on the monitors as it raced to the northwest and soon disappeared.
“Four minutes to flyby,” said Murphy.
Every eye turned to the big clock above the window. No one spoke, all waiting in anticipation. Time dragged as the second hand on the clock seemed to take forever to make a sweep. Finally, Murphy spoke mechanically. “Missile passed two hundred yards over and between the hostiles.”
“Did they get the message?” asked Cabrillo, a slight tone of apprehension in his voice.
There was a long pause, and then, “They’re turning for home,” Murphy reported happily. “Two Cubans who are very lucky men indeed.”
“Also smart enough to recognize a no-win situation.”
“Indeed,” Linda said with a broad smile.
“No blood on our hands this day,” Cabrillo said with an obvious sigh of relief. He leaned over in his chair and spoke to the computer. “Slow to cruise speed.”
The clandestine operation was almost complete, the contract fulfilled. The Oregon and her crew of executives did not consider themselves lucky. Their achievement had come from a combination of special skills, expertise, intelligence and precise planning. Now, except for a technician to watch over the command center and the navigation systems, everyone could relax; some headed for their state-rooms for well-deserved sleep,
while others congregated in the ship’s dining room to snack and wind down.
Cabrillo retired to his teak-paneled cabin and removed a packet from a safe under the carpet mounted in the deck. It was their next contract. He pulled out the contents, studied them for nearly an hour, and then began planning the initial levels of tactics and strategy.
Two and a half days later, the Oregon sailed into the port of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and discharged the Cuban exiles. Before the sun set, the remarkable ship and its strange crew of corporate officials were once again at sea on a course toward their next assignment. Before it was through, they would steal a priceless artifact, return a divine leader to power and free a nation. But when the Oregon left port, Cabrillo was not on board. He was winging his way east against a rising sun.
2
THE burgundy Falcon 2000EX left Heathrow at just after six in the morning, arriving in Geneva around half past nine Swiss time. The jet aircraft cruised at Mach.80 with a 4,650-mile range; it cost $24 million. Winston Spenser was its sole occupant.
After arriving at Geneva International Airport in Cointrin, Spenser was met by a chauffeured Rolls-Royce that delivered him to the hotel. There, he was immediately taken to a suite without having to register. Once in his room, Spenser took a few minutes to freshen up. Standing in front of the beveled-edge mirror, he stared at his image. Spenser’s nose was long and patrician, his eyes pale blue and distant and his skin in need of a tan. Neither his cheeks nor his chin were very defined. Truth be told, his image always appeared to be slightly out of focus, as if lacking character. His was not the face of a man others would follow. It was the face of a high-priced minion.
When he finished his examination, he placed his expensive cologne back in a Burberry toiletry bag, then left the room to get a mid-morning meal. The art auction he was in Geneva for was due to start soon.
“WILL Mr. Spenser require anything else?” the waiter asked.
Spenser stared for a moment at the remains of his meal and said, “No, I think that will be all.”
The waiter nodded, removed the plates, then took a brush from his apron and whisked up the few crumbs on the table. Then he silently retreated. No bill was presented, no money changed hands. The cost of the breakfast and the gratuity would appear on the room charge, which Spenser would never see.
In the far corner of the dining room, Michael Talbot stared toward Spenser. Talbot, an art dealer from San Francisco, had crossed paths with Spenser before. Three times in the last year the stodgy Britisher had outbid Talbot’s clients, for Spenser’s own clients seemed to have unlimited resources.
Talbot could only hope today would be different.
Spenser was dressed in a gray suit over a sweater vest, a blue polka-dot bow tie around his neck. His black laceup leather shoes were highly polished, as were his fingernails, and his neatly styled short hair was flecked with gray, as befitted his age, which Talbot estimated at close to sixty years.
Once, when Talbot had been in London on business, he’d tried to visit Spenser’s shop. There was no telephone number available, the small stone building had had no name outside, and aside from an unobtrusive video camera above the buzzer, it could have been suspended in time from a hundred years before. Talbot had pushed the buzzer twice, but no one had answered.
Spenser sensed Talbot staring his way but only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of the other seven men Spenser had determined had an interest in the artifact he’d come to purchase, the American would probably bid the highest. Talbot’s buyer was a Silicon Valley software billionaire with a penchant for Asian art and argumentation. The billionaire’s belligerency could only help Spenser. The man’s ego might take him beyond his set price, but as the competition stiffened, he traditionally became angry and dropped out. The new rich are so predictable, Spenser thought. He rose to return to his room. The auction was not until 1 P.M.
“LOT thirty-seven,” the auctioneer said with reverence, “the Golden Buddha.”
A large mahogany crate was wheeled onto the podium and the auctioneer reached for the clasp holding the door closed.
The audience of bidders was small. This was a highly secret auction and the invitations had only gone out to the select few who could afford to pay for art masterworks with somewhat shady histories.
Spenser had yet to bid on anything. Lot twenty-one, a Degas bronze that he knew had been stolen out of a museum twelve years ago, had appealed to him, but the bidding had gone higher than his South American client had authorized him to pay. More and more, Spenser was weaning himself away from clients on a budget, even if the stop price ran into the millions. The auction today was the first step in his plan for retirement. The auctioneer opened the door to the crate at the same time that Spenser pushed a button on the miniaturized satellite telephone in his vest pocket. He spoke into the tiny microphone clasped to his lapel.
“Please tell your employer they have the object on display,” he said to an aide thousands of miles away.
“He asks if it is everything you’d hoped,” the aide asked.
Spenser stared at the massive gold statue as a hush fell over the crowd.
“Everything and more,” Spenser said quietly.
A few seconds passed as the aide relayed the information. He said, “At all costs.”
“It will be an honor,” Spenser said as he thought back on the history.
THE Golden Buddha dated from 1288, when the rulers of what would later become Vietnam commissioned the work to celebrate their victory over the forces of Kublai Khan. Five hundred and ninety-six pounds of solid gold mined in Laos had been formed into a six-foot likeness of the Enlightened One. Chunks of jade from Siam had formed the eyes, while a ring of Burmese rubies wound around the neck. Buddha’s potbelly had been outlined in sapphires from Thailand and his belly button was a large rounded opal that glowed iridescently. The icon had been given as a gift to the first Dalai Lama in the year 1372.
For 587 years, the Golden Buddha had remained in a monastery in Tibet and then accompanied the Dalai Lama into exile. While being transported with the Dalai Lama on a trip to the United States for display, however, it had disappeared from the airport in Manila.
President Ferdinand Marcos had always been the prime suspect. Since then, the ownership had always remained cloudy, until suddenly it had mysteriously reappeared for the auction. The seller’s identity would remain an enigma.
While it was almost impossible to place a value on such a rare artifact, that was exactly what was about to happen. The preauction estimates had conservatively placed the value at between $100 million and $120 million.
“WE will start the bidding at fifty million U.S. dollars,” the auctioneer said.
A low starting point, Spenser thought. The gold alone was worth twice that. It was the history, not the beauty, that made it a priceless piece of art. Must be the weak world economic climate, Spenser concluded.
“We have fifty million,” the auctioneer said, “now sixty.”
Talbot raised his paddle as the bid hit eighty.
“Eighty, now ninety,” the auctioneer said in a monotone.
Spenser glanced across the room at Talbot. Typical American, ear on a satellite telephone, paddle in his hand, as if he were worried the auctioneer would miss his signal.
“Ninety, now a hundred,” the auctioneer droned.
The hundred bid was from a South African dealer Spenser knew. The dealer’s patron had made his fortune in diamonds. Spenser admired the woman—they’d shared a glass of sherry more than once—but he also knew her patron’s habits. When the value exceeded what he felt he could sell it for later, he’d drop out. The man loved art, but he only bought at his price and if he could someday make a profit.
One hundred ten million came from the rear of the room. Spenser turned to stare at the bidder. The man’s age was hard to determine, but if Spenser had to hazard a guess, he’d pick the low side of sixty, based primarily on the bidder’s flowing gray hair and beard. Two thi
ngs were odd, though. Spenser knew practically everyone in the room at least by sight or reputation, but this man was an unknown. And he seemed totally unconcerned, as if he were bidding on a weekend trip to a spa at a local charity auction instead of tendering a bid in the amount of a small country’s yearly budget. The man was obviously qualified—the auction company would have made sure of that—but who was he?
One hundred twenty from a German pharmaceutical magnate.
“One twenty, now one thirty.”
Talbot again, waving his paddle like a landing semaphore.
The bidding began to stall at $140 million, bid again by the gray-haired man. Spenser turned again and felt a touch of apprehension. The man was staring directly into his eyes. Then the man winked. A chill ran down Spenser’s spine.
He turned to the side, where he could see Talbot talking animatedly into his telephone. He could sense then that the Silicon Valley billionaire was flagging.
“Tell him,” Spenser whispered in his phone, “it’s slowed at one fifty, with maybe one more bid still forthcoming.”
“He wants to know if you’ve bid yet.”
“No,” Spenser said, “but they know I’m here.”
Spenser had bought from the auctioneer many times; the man had been watching him like a hawk. Any smile, flinch or gesture of his would be taken as a bid.
“He asks that you bid two hundred,” the aide relayed, “and blow them out.”
“Acknowledged,” Spenser said.
Then in almost slow motion, he placed two spread apart fingers to his lips.
“The bid is two hundred million,” the auctioneer said emotionlessly.
A raise of fifty million when the auctioneer was begging for ten.
“I have two hundred million in the room,” the auctioneer said quietly, “anyone in for two hundred ten?”
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