Golden Buddha

by Clive Cussler

  “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.

  THE 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.

  ON 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.

  CLIFF 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.

  THE 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.”

  “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.

  23

  A light rain began falling over Macau. Sung Rhee and Ling Po were standing on the fr
ont 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.

  INSIDE 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.”

  MEADOWS, 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.

  LINDA 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.”

  IN 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.”