Golden Buddha of-1

by Clive Cussler

  “Yes,” Spenser said sheepishly, rising again to his full height. “I need to step inside for a moment. If you will just wait here.”

  The driver nodded and Spenser walked up the path.

  Entering the A-Ma Temple, Spenser walked to a rear room he knew the leader of the monks used as an office, and knocked on the door. The door opened, and a shaven-headed man dressed in a yellow robe stood smiling.

  “Mr. Spenser,” he said, “you’ve come for your crate.”

  “Yes,” Spenser said.

  The monk rang a bell and two more monks appeared from another room.

  “Mr. Spenser is here for the crate I spoke about,” the head monk told them. “He’ll explain what to do.”

  A large donation to the temple had ensured that his decoy would remain here until needed. A well-placed lie would solve the rest.

  “I have a gilded Buddha outside I’d like to display for a time,” Spenser said, smiling at the monk. “Do you have a space to put it?”

  “Certainly,” the monk said. “Bring it inside.”

  Twenty minutes later the switch had taken place. The Golden Buddha was now hiding in plain sight. Thirty minutes and less than a mile away, the armored car made its final delivery of the day. After the guards were dispatched, Spenser stood with the Macau billionaire, staring at the object.

  “It’s more than I could have hoped for,” the billionaire said.

  But less than you think, Spenser thought. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Now we celebrate,” the billionaire said, smiling.

  Silver platters of delicacies littered the long cherrywood table in the palatial dining room of the man’s estate. Spenser had passed on the monkey meat, as well as the sea urchin, and settled on poultry in a peanut sauce. Still, the spicy side dishes were wreaking havoc with his travel-weary stomach, and he just wished the night would end.

  Spenser sat at the far end of the table, the owner at the head. A total of six concubines were seated, three to a side, in the middle. After a dessert of wild berry mousse, cigars and cognac, the man rose from his seat.

  “Shall we take a soak, Winston?” he said, “and allow the ladies to do their job?”

  The man had no idea he would possess the faux Golden Buddha for less than a week.

  And Winston Spenser had no way to know he had less than a fortnight to live.

  5

  LANGSTON Overholt IV sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. His hips rested in a tall leather chair sideways to the desk. In his hand was a black racquetball paddle, its handle wrapped with white cloth tape stained by sweat. Slowly and methodically, he hit a black rubber ball two feet in the air and then back down to the racquet. Every fourth hit, he flipped the racquet over to change sides. The rhythmic action helped him think.

  Overholt was thin without being scrawny, more lean and sinewy than bony. One hundred and sixty-five pounds graced his six-foot-one-inch frame, with skin stretched tight over muscles that were long and squared rather than rounded and plump. His face was handsome in a rugged way, rectangular in shape, with hard edges abounding. His hair was blond, with just a touch of gray starting to appear at the temples, and he had it trimmed every two weeks at the CIA barbershop inside the compound.

  Overholt was a runner.

  He’d started the practice as a senior in high school, when the craze had swept the country, fueled by the Jim Fixx book The Complete Runner. Throughout college and graduate school he’d kept up the practice. Marriage, joining the CIA, divorce and remarriage had not slowed down his obsession. Running was one of the few things that relieved the stress of his job.

  Stress was Overholt’s other constant.

  Since joining the CIA in 1981 fresh out of graduate school, he’d served under six different directors. Now, for the first time in decades, Langston Overholt IV had a chance to make his father’s promise to the Dalai Lama a reality, while at the same time repaying his old friend Juan Cabrillo. He was wasting no time in moving his plans forward. Just then, his telephone buzzed.

  “Sir,” his assistant said, “it’s the DDO, he’d like to meet with you as soon as possible.”

  Overholt reached for the phone.

  THE weather in Washington, D.C., was as hot as Texas asphalt and as steamy as a bowl of green chili. Inside the White House, the air conditioners were set as high as they would go, but they just couldn’t drop the temperature below seventy-five degrees. The president’s home was aging, and there was just so much adaptation you could make to an old building and still retain the historical structure.

  “Has there ever been an official photograph of the president sitting in the Oval Office in a T-shirt?” the president joked.

  “I’ll check, sir,” said the aide who had just led the CIA director inside.

  “Thank you, John,” the president said, dispatching the man.

  The president reached across the desk and shook the director’s hand as the aide closed the door to leave the men alone. The president motioned for him to be seated.

  “These aides I have are sharp as tacks,” the president noted as he sat down, “but short on a sense of humor. The kid’s probably checking with the White House historian as we speak.”

  “If it was anyone,” the director said, smiling, “I’d guess LBJ.”

  When you’re seventeen years old and you know the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, the spy game seems pretty cool. When you later become president, you really have a chance to see what happens. Time had not diminished his enthusiasm—the president still found the intelligence game fascinating.

  “What have you got for me?” the president asked.

  “Tibet,” the director said without preamble.

  The president nodded, then adjusted a fan on his desk so that the breeze swept evenly across both men. “Explain.”

  The CIA director reached into his briefcase and removed some documents.

  Then he laid out the plan.

  IN Beijing, President Hu Jintao was studying documents that showed the true state of the Chinese economy. The picture was grim. The race to modernization had required more and more petroleum, and the Chinese had yet to locate any significant new reserves inside their borders. The situation had not been such a problem a few years earlier, when the price of oil had been at twenty year lows, but with the recent price spike upward, the higher costs were wreaking havoc. Adding to the problem were the Japanese, whose thirst for oil had led to a price competition the Chinese could not hope to win.

  Jintao stared out the window. The air was clearer than usual today—a light wind was blowing the smoke from the factories away from central Beijing—but the wind was not so strong as to blow away the soot that had landed on the windowsill. Jintao watched as a sparrow landed on the sill. The bird’s tiny feet made tracks in the powder. The bird fluttered around for a few seconds, then stopped and peered in the window and looked directly toward Jintao.

  “How would you cut costs?” Jintao said to the bird, “and where do we find oil?”

  6

  THEOregon swept past the Paracel Islands under a pitch-black night sky. The air was liquid with rain that fell in sheets. The wind was blowing in gusts without firm direction or purpose. For several minutes it would rake the Oregon amidships, then quickly change to blow bow on or stern first. The soggy flags on the stern were pivoting on their staffs as fast as a determined Boy Scout trying to light a fire with a stick.

  Inside the control room, Franklin Lincoln stared at the radar screen. The edge of the storm began petering out just before the ship passed the twenty-degree latitude line. Walking over to a computer terminal in the control room, he entered commands and waited while the satellite images of the Chinese coastline loaded.

  A haze of smog could be seen over Hong Kong and Macau.

  He glanced over at Hali Kasim, who was sharing the night shift. Kasim was sound asleep, his feet up on the control panel. His mouth was partially opened.

  Kasim could sleep through a hurricane
, Lincoln thought, or in this part of the ocean, a cyclone.

  AT the same time the Oregon was steaming east, Winston Spenser awoke, startled. Earlier in the evening he had visited the Golden Buddha at A-Ma. The icon was still in the mahogany crate, sitting upright, door opened, in the room where it had been taken. Spenser had gone alone; simple common sense dictated that as few people as possible know the actual location, but he’d found the experience unnerving.

  Spenser knew the icon was nothing more than a mass of precious metal and stones, but for some strange reason the object seemed to have a life force. The chunk of gold appeared to glow in the dim room, as if illuminated by a light from within. The large jade eyes seemed to follow his every move. And while its visage might appear benign to some—only that of a potbellied, smiling prophet—to Spenser the image seemed to be mocking him.

  As if he had not known it before, earlier in the evening Spenser had become certain that what he had done was not a stroke of genius. The Golden Buddha was not some canvas, dabbed with paint—it was the embodiment of reverence, crafted with love and respect.

  And Spenser had swiped it like a candy in a drugstore.

  THE Dalai Lama listened to the slow flow of water over the smooth stones while he meditated. On the far reaches of his mind was static, and he willed the disturbance to clear. He could see the ball of light in the center of his skull, but the edges were rough and pulsating. Slowly he smoothed the signals, and the ball began to collapse in on itself until only a pinpoint of white light remained. Then he began to scan his physical shell.

  There was a disturbance, and it was growing.

  Eighteen minutes later, he came back into his shell and rose to his feet.

  Eight yards away, sitting under a green canvas awning alongside the kidney-shaped pool on the estate in Beverly Hills, was his Chikyah Kenpo. The Dalai Lama walked over. The Hollywood actor who was his host smiled and rose to his feet.

  “It is time for me to go home,” the Dalai Lama said.

  There was no pleading or disagreement from the actor.

  “Your Holiness,” he said, “let me call for my jet.”

  IN the north of Tibet, on the border between U-Tsang and Amdo province, the Basatongwula Shan mountains towered over the plains. The peak was a snowcapped sentinel watching over an area where few men trod. To the untrained eye, the lands around Basatongwula Shan looked barren and desolate, a wasteland best left alone and deserted. On the surface, this may have been true.

  But underneath, hidden for centuries, was a secret known only by a few.

  A yak walked slowly along a rocky path. On his back was a black mynah bird that remained silent as he hitched a ride. Slowly at first, but growing in intensity, a light tremor rippled across the land. The yak began to shake in fear, causing the bird to take to the air. Digging his cloven hooves into the soil, he stood firm as the land trembled. Then slowly the disruption passed and the earth stilled. The yak resumed his journey.

  Within minutes, the fur on his legs and lower body was covered with a haze from a mineral that over countless generations had made some men rich and others go mad.

  VICE President of Operations Richard Truitt was still awake. His body clock had yet to adjust and his night was still Macau’s day. Logging on to his computer, he checked for messages. One had been sent by Cabrillo a few hours before. Like every e-mail he received from the chairman, this one was short.

  Confirmation received from the home of George. All systems go. ETA 33 hours.

  The CIA was still in and the Oregon would arrive in less than two days’ time. Truitt had a lot of work to complete in a short span. Calling down to the hotel’s twenty four-hour room service, he ordered a meal of bacon and eggs. Then he walked into the bathroom to shave, shower and pick his disguise.

  7

  JUAN Cabrillo finished the last bite of an omelet filled with apple-smoked bacon and Gorgonzola cheese, then pushed the plate away.

  “It’s a wonder we all don’t weigh three hundred pounds,” he said.

  “The jalapeño cheese grits alone were worth waking up for,” Hanley noted. “I just wish the chef would have consulted with my ex-wife. I might still be married.”

  “How’s the divorce going?” Cabrillo asked.

  “Pretty good,” Hanley admitted, “considering my reported income last year was only thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Just be fair,” Cabrillo cautioned. “I don’t want any lawyers snooping around.”

  “You know I will,” Hanley said as he refilled their coffee cups from a silver thermal carafe on the table. “I’m just waiting for Jeanie to calm down.”

  Cabrillo lifted his cup of coffee and then stood up. “We’re less than twenty-four hours from port. How are things going in the Magic Shop?”

  “Most of the props are constructed and I’m starting on the disguises.”

  “Excellent,” Cabrillo said.

  “Do you have any preferences for your look?” Hanley asked.

  “Try to keep the facial hair to a minimum,” Cabrillo said. “It can be muggy in Macau.”

  Hanley rose from the table. “Sahib, your wish is my command.”

  WHEN the Oregon had been refitted by the Corporation in the shipyard in Odessa, two decks had been installed inside the hull, giving the interior a total of three levels, not including the raised pilothouse. The lowest level housed the engines and physical plants, along with the moon pool, machine shops, armory and storage rooms. One level above, reached by metal stairs or the single heavy-lift elevator amidships, was the deck containing communications, weapon systems, a variety of shops and offices, a large library, a computer room and a map room. The third level housed the dining room, recreation rooms, a full gym, plus crew cabins and meeting and boardrooms. Level three was surrounded by a two lane running track for exercise. The Oregon was a city unto itself.

  Hanley walked from the dining room and across the running track, then eschewed the elevators for the stairs. Opening the door, he started down. The stairway was paneled with mahogany and lit by sconces. At the bottom Hanley stepped onto a thick carpet in a room with insets in the walls that held plaques and medals awarded by grateful customers and nations to the men and women of the Oregon.

  He made his way forward toward the bow until the walls in the hallway turned to glass on the port side. Behind the glass was what could have passed for a Hollywood costume and set shop. Kevin Nixon raised his head and waved.

  Hanley opened the door to the shop and entered. It was cool inside and the air was scented with the smells of grease, vinyl and wax. A Willie Nelson CD was seeping from hidden speakers.

  “How long have you been here?” Hanley asked.

  Nixon was sitting on a three-legged stool in front of a metal-framed, wood-topped workbench that had a ring of hand tools around the perimeter. In his hands he held an ornamental headdress with silken gold fabric that flowed down his right side to the floor.

  “Two hours,” he said. “I woke up early, checked my e-mail and got the preliminary specs.”

  “Did you eat breakfast?” Hanley asked.

  “I just grabbed some fruit,” Nixon said. “I need to drop ten pounds or so.”

  Nixon was a big man, but he carried his weight well. If you saw him on the street, you would think him stocky but not fat. But he was in a constant battle, his weight running from 240 pounds to 210, depending on his vigilance. Last summer, when he’d taken a few weeks off and hiked the Appalachian Trail, he’d gotten down to 200, but his sedentary life aboard ship and the charms of the chef’s cooking had caught up to him.

  Hanley walked over to the bench and stared at Nixon’s work. “That’s religious garb?”

  “For a Macanese in a Good Friday parade, it is.”

  “We’ll need a total of six sets,” Hanley said.

  Nixon nodded. “I figured two shaman and four penitents.”

  Hanley walked over to the wall, where several more benches were abutting the bulkhead. “I’m going to start on
the masks.”

  Nixon nodded and reached for a remote control for the CD player. He punched a button and Willie stopped. Johnny Rivers’s “Secret Agent Man” began to play.

  “Kevin,” Hanley said easily, “you just love to do that, don’t you?”

  “There’s a man who lives a life of danger,” Nixon sang in a baritone.

  “TRUITT sent a map showing the parade route for Good Friday,” Cabrillo said. “We lucked out—traffic in the downtown area will be at a standstill.”

  Eddie Seng reached across the table for one of the folders. “It’s surprising that the Chinese would have such a large celebration for something that concerns Christianity.”

  “Macau was a Portuguese possession from 1537 until 1999,” Linda Ross noted. “Roughly thirty thousand of the population is Catholic.”

  “Plus the Chinese love festivals,” Mark Murphy said. “They’ll form a parade at the drop of a hat.”

  “Truitt said they are going to do the same as last year and put on a massive fireworks display over the city,” Cabrillo said, “fired from a series of barges in the bay.”

  “So the cover of night and a waning moon no longer apply,” Franklin Lincoln noted.

  Lincoln’s friend Hali Kasim couldn’t resist. “A real shame, Frankie—you blend in so well when the sky is dark.”

  Lincoln turned toward Kasim and brushed his nose with his middle finger. “That’s okay, Kaz, the fireworks also make it harder for you lily-white Hugh Grant types.”

  “There’s still the question of weight,” Cabrillo said, ignoring the exchange. “The Golden Buddha weighs six hundred pounds.”

  “Four men on each side could lift that weight without too much strain on their backs,” Julia Huxley said.

  “I think I’ll have Hanley and Nixon fabricate something,” Cabrillo said. “Any suggestions?”