Golden Buddha

by Clive Cussler

“You want him to buy the votes?” Hanley asked.

  “Exactly.”

  39

  THE storm that brought the torrential rains to Macau had turned into spring snow by the time it crossed Russia. Had it not been night, Cabrillo would have seen that Moscow was covered in a wet blanket of white that rounded the edges of buildings and quieted the sounds. Peering from the windows of the Gulfstream as the pilots shut down the engines, he could see a trio of black Zil limousines with police escorts front and rear. Holding a fax that had arrived from Overholt only minutes before, he slid the document into the file and then unbuckled his seat belt and rose. The copilot was unlatching the door as he walked forward.

  “Do you men need anything?” Cabrillo asked.

  “I think we’re okay, boss,” the copilot said. “We’ll just refuel and await your return.”

  Cabrillo nodded and waited as the step was lowered. “Wish me luck,” he said as he stepped down onto the snow-covered tarmac.

  A tall man in a thick, dark blue wool coat was standing a few feet from the Gulfstream. His head was covered by a fur Cossack cap and his breath made puffs of mist as he exhaled. He approached Cabrillo while removing a glove and offered his hand. Cabrillo shook it, then the man motioned to the middle limousine.

  “I’m Sergei Makelikov,” the man said as the driver opened the door, “special assistant to President Putin.”

  Cabrillo followed the man into the rear of the limousine. “Juan Cabrillo, chairman of the Corporation.”

  The door was closed, and a few seconds later the police cars started away from the Gulfstream followed by the trio of limousines. “The president is very interested in hearing what you have to say,” Makelikov noted. “May I offer you a drink, perhaps vodka, or some coffee?”

  “Coffee, please,” Cabrillo said.

  Makelikov reached for a silver-plated thermal carafe and poured the contents into a red mug with the crest of the Russian republic on the side. He handed it to Cabrillo.

  “How was your flight?”

  The streets were deserted at this late hour. The procession roared down the road toward central Moscow, followed by a cloud of snowflakes. Cabrillo sipped the coffee.

  “No problems,” Cabrillo said, smiling.

  “Cuban cigar?” Makelikov asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Cabrillo said as he selected one from the box Makelikov held.

  Trimming the end with a tool from inside the box, Cabrillo leaned over for a light from Makelikov. “We’ll be there shortly,” the Russian noted. “In the meantime, perhaps you would like to hear some music.”

  He motioned to a CD player and a stack of discs. They were all jazz.

  “I see you know my taste in music,” Cabrillo said.

  “We know a lot about you,” Makelikov said easily, “and that is why President Putin is staying up late to see you.”

  Cabrillo nodded and smiled. “Great cigar.”

  Makelikov lit one and puffed. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Cabrillo slid a CD into the player and the men relaxed and listened.

  Fourteen minutes later the procession slid to a stop in front of a row of town houses near Gorky Park. Makelikov waited until the driver opened the door, then he stepped out onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

  “One of the president’s hideaways,” he said as Cabrillo climbed out. “We can talk here in private.”

  The two men headed up the walkway to the steps and climbed up to the door, where Makelikov nodded at a Russian army sergeant. He saluted and swung the door open. Makelikov and Cabrillo walked inside.

  “Mr. President,” Makelikov said loudly, “your visitor has arrived.”

  “I’m in the living room,” a voice said from a room to the right.

  “Let me take your coat,” Makelikov said, helping Cabrillo out of his overcoat. “Go on in—I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Cabrillo walked into the living room. The room was fitted and furnished like the library of an expensive gentleman’s club. Dark wood paneling, the walls were covered with paintings of hunting scenes and birds. Along the right wall was a fireplace containing a roaring wood fire. A pair of high-backed red leather chairs framed the fireplace, with a couch just behind them closer to the door. A thick red carpet atop the inlaid wood floors led almost to the fireplace hearth. Two brass lamps on each side of the couch cast pools of light in the otherwise dark room. President Putin’s back was to Cabrillo as he stoked the fire. Finishing, he stood up and turned.

  “Mr. Cabrillo,” he said, smiling, “come in and have a seat.”

  Cabrillo slid into the red leather chair to the left of the fireplace, while Putin took the right.

  “Back when I was with the KGB, I had quite a file on you,” Putin said.

  “And me you,” Cabrillo said in Russian.

  Putin nodded, then looked directly into Cabrillo’s eyes. “Your Russian is much better than my English.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cabrillo said.

  Putin nodded. “I assume you have done a recent psychological profile on me,” he said. “Did it hazard a guess as to how I would respond?”

  “It doesn’t take a team of psychologists,” Cabrillo said, “to know you’ll say yes.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me what I’m agreeing to,” Putin said, smiling.

  Cabrillo nodded, then opened the file he had brought. “Sir,” he said, “we’ve been commissioned to put the Dalai Lama back in power. We think we’ve worked out a solution that can benefit everyone. We just need some Russian muscle.”

  “Explain,” Putin said.

  Cabrillo handed over the document Overholt had faxed to the Gulfstream. “This is a classified satellite image of potential oil reserves inside Tibet. We recently recovered ancient documents that list thousands of oil seeps in the northern region.”

  “From the Golden Buddha that your company stole in Macau?” Putin asked.

  “Your intelligence is good,” Cabrillo said.

  Putin studied the image and nodded. “Yes, it is,” he said.

  “The preliminary estimates place the reserves in the neighborhood of fifty billion barrels.”

  “That’s an expensive neighborhood,” Putin said. “About half of the reserves in Kuwait, or around five percent of the world’s known reserves.”

  “It’s potentially an elephant field,” Cabrillo agreed. “Even if it is less, we believe it is definitely larger than the field on the north slope of Alaska.”

  “That would put it in the top twenty of all known fields,” Putin noted.

  “Exactly, sir,” Cabrillo said.

  “However, right now, the Chinese have control of the field and they don’t even know of its existence,” Putin said, “so you want us to remove them from Tibet.”

  “Not exactly, sir,” Cabrillo said. “What we are proposing is that Russia join in a consortium to develop the field. Fifty percent to Tibet, forty percent to your country.”

  “And the other ten percent?”

  “The other ten percent will be owned by my company,” Cabrillo said, “for putting it all together.”

  “Nice tip,” Putin said, smiling, “but you are asking me to commit my forces for a profit. As soon as the casualties start pouring in, my citizens will smell a rat.”

  Cabrillo nodded slowly. Then he set the hook.

  “Then we make a deal with China,” he said easily. “Jintao wants out anyway—his economy is tanking and his increasing oil imports are accelerating his problems. You make a diplomatic mission to China and offer him half of the production at a cost of fifteen dollars a barrel for the next ten years, and I think he’ll take it and back down.”

  Putin laughed. “Brilliant.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Cabrillo said slowly.

  “Yes?”

  “We need your UN vote in the Security Council meeting Monday,” Cabrillo said.

  “You’re going to legitimize the coup?” Putin asked.

  “We think we can pull the
votes,” Cabrillo agreed.

  “A lot could go wrong,” Putin said, “but it could work. What exactly would Russia need to do to participate?”

  “First we need your troops to enter Mongolia,” Cabrillo said. “I understand the Mongolian government would okay the incursion. That draws the Chinese farther from Tibet. Second, I would need as many crack paratroops as you can field to enter the country as soon as the Dalai Lama returns and we stabilize the situation. The Dalai Lama has agreed to invite Russia to provide security until the situation stabilizes. The invitation will be announced to the world community, so the fallout other than from China should be small. Third, we need you to make the diplomatic approach to China with the oil offer—it has been made clear to me the United States wants no direct involvement in the liberation of Tibet.”

  “I have spoken to your president,” Putin said. “He mentioned the need for secrecy.”

  “Good,” Cabrillo said. “Next, I need that vote in the UN. If we can hold off the Chinese until the vote comes in and the peacekeepers arrive, then the Russian troops will be relieved.”

  Putin rose from the chair and stoked the fire. “So Russia invests no money, only muscle.”

  “The company that will develop the oilfield has already been formed,” Cabrillo said. “All I need is your signature on this document that has already been signed by the Dalai Lama, and your word you will do what we have discussed, and we can proceed.”

  Makelikov entered the room just as Putin placed the stoker back in the rack. He stepped over to Cabrillo, took the document and read it quickly.

  “Sergei,” he said, “bring me a pen.”

  “I’LL swap you,” Gurt said to one of the other mercenary pilots, “if you don’t mind.”

  “What did you draw?” the other pilot asked.

  “Medevac,” Gurt said.

  “I’ll gladly switch,” the pilot said. “Mine looks to be the most dangerous mission.”

  “I’ve worked with Murphy before,” Gurt said. “Plus I have more high-altitude flying time than you. I don’t mind.”

  “Be my guest,” the pilot said. “Flying a load of explosives north is not my idea of a good time.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s okay with Seng,” Gurt said, walking off.

  “THE fastest way to get you there,” Hanley said, “is to drop you in Singapore, then have you flown by jet to Vanuatu. From there we’ll switch you to a turboprop STOL that can land at the smaller airfields on Kiribati and Tuvalu.”

  Truitt nodded.

  “We need those votes,” Hanley said quietly. “Do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

  “Not to worry,” Truitt said. “Even if it takes a river of grease, by Monday vote time they will be ours.”

  Later that night, the Oregon passed the breakwater and entered the port, and Truitt boarded the waiting jet for the nine-hour flight to the South Pacific. He would arrive on Easter morning.

  40

  THE Zil limousine slid to a stop in front of the Gulfstream G550. Cabrillo climbed out, clutching a folder containing the documents, and made his way up the ramp without hesitating. The copilot immediately retracted the ramp and fastened the door. Then he shouted toward the cockpit.

  “We’re good to go.”

  Instantly, the pilot engaged the igniters, and a few seconds later the jet engines began to spool up. Cabrillo made his way to a seat and fastened the belt as the copilot started for the cockpit.

  “We received your telephone call, sir,” the copilot said over his shoulder as he slid into his seat. “The course is all plotted and we’ve received preliminary clearance.”

  “What’s the distance?” Cabrillo asked.

  “Straight through, it’s about thirty-four hundred miles,” the copilot said. “The winds are favorable, so we estimate six hours’ flight time.”

  The Gulfstream started taxiing toward the runway.

  “Easter morning, seven A.M.,” Cabrillo said.

  “That’s the plan, sir,” the copilot said.

  SOMETIMES it all comes down to a few. A few minutes, a few strokes of luck, a few people.

  At this instant, it was two. Murphy and Gurt. Two men, one helicopter with extra fuel pods and a load of explosives would form the advance team for the liberation of Tibet.

  They lifted off just after 4 A.M. under the waning light of a quarter moon.

  Once Gurt had the Bell 212 at an altitude of one thousand feet above ground level and in a steady forward flight, he spoke into the headset.

  “Our mission,” he said, “seems fairly impossible.”

  “Is it the altitude of the pass?” Murphy asked. “Or the lack of fuel for the return flight that concerns you the most?”

  “Neither,” Gurt said. “It’s missing Sunday service and the chicken dinner afterward.”

  Murphy reached behind his seat and retrieved a small pack. Unzipping it, he removed a single can and a small blue-covered book. “Spam and a Bible,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Gurt noted. “I can proceed, then.”

  “Will there be anything else?” Murphy asked.

  “Only one more thing,” Gurt said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” Gurt said. “I don’t want to get lost.”

  “Not to worry,” Murphy said. “The Oregon is running the command and control. This operation will run like a well-oiled sewing machine.”

  “I would have felt better,” Gurt said, pointing out a herd of deer underneath that were lit by the moon, “had you said like a computer.”

  Murphy was staring at the instruments. “We’re a little hot,” he said. “Take it down a notch.”

  Gurt made the adjustment. They continued north.

  AT about the same instant that the Bell 212 carrying Murphy and Gurt crossed into Tibetan airspace, Briktin Gampo was steering the two-and-a-half-ton truck along a rutted dirt road. Locating the spot his Dungkar cell leader had marked, he slowed and pulled to a stop.

  Gampo was on the flats just below Basatongwula Shan in an open meadow ringed by stunted trees. Climbing from the truck, he walked around to the rear and removed several metal tubes and felt them. They were cold to the touch. Remembering what he had been told, Gampo pulled a small fuel oil stove from the rear, moved a distance away, then erected the legs. Once the stove was assembled, he removed some tent poles and slid them inside an off-white canvas tent and hoisted the apparatus into the air. Once the tent was secure, he lit the stove, brought the tubes inside to keep them warm, then went back to the rear of the truck and removed a radio, a folding chair and a fur to cover himself while he waited.

  Then he switched on the radio and began to listen.

  Outside the tent, thousands of stars flickered against the black sea of deep space. A cold wind blew down from the mountain. Gampo pulled the fur closer around his neck until the tent warmed. Then he patiently waited for the hours to pass.

  ON the Oregon, Hanley was staring at the wall of flat-screen monitors. Suddenly, the satellite feed of the Russian troop concentration near Novosibirsk began to display a thermal image of tanks being started. At the same instant, the secure telephone began to ring.

  “We’re a go,” Cabrillo said.

  “I have confirmation over the satellite,” Hanley told him. “The Russian tanks are warming.”

  “Link my computer to the Oregon’s data banks,” Cabrillo ordered. “I want to monitor the situation from here until I arrive.”

  Hanley nodded to Stone, who typed in commands on his computer keyboard.

  “Signal’s going out,” Stone said a minute later.

  In the Gulfstream G550, Cabrillo stared at his laptop. Suddenly the screen erupted with a burst of light, then went dark, then slowly began to glow again. The screen split into six separate blocks, each duplicating what Hanley was seeing.

  “I’ve got it,” Cabrillo said.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said, “call the ball.”

  “Proceed as planned
,” Cabrillo said, “and link me up with Seng.”

  “You got it,” Hanley said.

  EDDIE Seng was pacing back and forth inside the hangar in Thimbu, Bhutan. Occasionally he would return to the table where the computer screen showed the pulsing red dot that marked the progress of the helicopter carrying Murphy and Gurt. Then he would walk around the hangar again like a caged lion.

  He answered his telephone before the second ring.

  “Eddie,” Cabrillo said, “we’re a go.”

  “Yes, sir,” Seng said. “We have a team already flying north—I took the liberty, knowing we could call them back if necessary.”

  “Good job,” Cabrillo said. “Max?”

  “I’m on the three-way,” Hanley said from the Oregon.

  “Send Seng the latest data showing the airport near Lhasa.”

  “It’s being transmitted now.”

  Seng walked over to the printer. A few seconds later, it began to spit out documents.

  “It’s coming across now,” Seng noted.

  “Okay,” Cabrillo said, “you have your playbook and the latest intelligence.”

  “Yes, sir,” Seng said.

  “Now go take Gonggar Airport,” Cabrillo said.

  “You got it, boss,” Seng said eagerly.

  FIVE A.M. the early-morning hours when drunks sweat and nightmares grow ugly.

  A cold wind was blowing across the runway at Gonggar Airport, located fifty-nine miles from Lhasa. A pair of Chinese transport planes sat on the far end of the runway along with three helicopters. The other Chinese aircraft inside Tibet had been called north in support of the tank column.

  Gonggar Airport was as deserted as a cemetery on a weekday.

  A single janitor swept the chipped concrete floor in the crude main terminal. Taking a break to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette, he stepped outside and stood where a wall shielded him from the wind. The limited troops on duty at the airport were sleeping. They were not due to rise for another hour.

  A sound came up the valley. It was a whoosh, like a well-thrown football. Then a stark white-colored craft raced past at thirty feet above the tarmac. The strange object sped to the end of the airport, then made an arcing turn and lined up for a pass. Suddenly, twin streams of fire erupted from the sides and a pair of missiles streaked toward the parked transport planes.