Golden Buddha of-1

by Clive Cussler

  “As you know, we have three more men inside,” Cabrillo said, “posing as security, so we don’t need to worry about getting it down to ground level. It should already be there.”

  “That’s a plus,” Franklin noted.

  “So the actual removal from the site has become easier,” Hanley said, “but we have the added problem of more witnesses.”

  “That means we almost certainly need to drug the guests,” Kasim noted.

  “It’s beginning to look that way,” Cabrillo admitted.

  “The playlist features three sets,” Hanley continued. “That gives us two breaks between sets when you, as members of the band, can move freely about. Watch the chairman for the lead and be flexible—this entire caper is still unfolding.”

  “Do we have the plane waiting to receive the icon after the theft?” Halpert asked.

  “Arranged,” Cabrillo said. “A plane is inbound as we speak.”

  “When’s the extraction scheduled?” Monica asked.

  “Ten minutes before midnight, tonight,” Hanley said.

  “The Oregon sails away from here sometime tomorrow,” Cabrillo said, “no matter what the outcome. So let’s just do our jobs and take our leave.”

  “A little richer for the effort,” Murphy said, smiling.

  “That’s the idea,” Cabrillo agreed.

  THIN tendrils of richly scented incense smoke wafted toward the ceiling in the A-Ma Temple.

  A scattering of tourists filed through the public areas and left offerings at the foot of various Buddhas. They walked on the pebbled paths, sat on the carved wooden benches on the grounds and stared at the sea in reflection. It was a place of tranquillity; a port of serenity in a storm of confusion and haste.

  Winston Spenser was not feeling calm.

  Fear gripped him. The Golden Buddha was laughing at him—of that he was sure. The calm gaze and unmoving solidness made him uneasy. Spenser dreamed of when he would be rid of the curse and collect his money. He could see it in his mind. The armored-car company picking up the icon again and delivering it to the software billionaire’s plane. The crates of money he would receive.

  He rose from the bench in the main temple, then walked out the door and down the hillside to his waiting limousine. The parking lot was half empty. Most of the people in Macau were preparing for the parade and tonight’s parties. A pair of motorcycles sat off to one side under a tree. Spenser didn’t notice them—he was wrapped up in his own certain failure. Climbing in the rear of the limousine, he gave the driver directions. A few moments later the limousine rolled out of the lot.

  “I’ve seen what I need to see,” one of the motorcyclists said.

  “I agree,” said the other.

  SIX Chinese valets awaited the first of the guests. After showing their invitations to the guard, they pulled through the gate, drove up the circular drive, then climbed from their cars near the front door of the mansion.

  The sun was slowly dipping in the west and the view from the mansion was an expanse of sea lit with the golden hues of a waning sun. Spenser climbed from the rear of his limousine and stared at the scene. He was dressed in a black tuxedo that hid the pools of sweat under his arms. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the foyer.

  Juan Cabrillo rolled down the window of the van and handed the guard a slip of paper.

  “Park over by the garages,” the guard said, “then unload your equipment and wheel it around back.”

  Cabrillo nodded. When the gate opened, he drove around to the garages, then backed the van up near the edge of the lawn.

  “Showtime,” he said.

  And the band climbed from the van and began shuttling equipment to the rear of the house.

  Cabrillo walked around to the rear of the house, seeking Ross. He saw her in the distance talking on a cell phone. Several people were standing nearby.

  “We’re The Minutemen,” he said when she had disconnected.

  “Good,” Ross said. “The bandstand is over there.”

  “We have some large speakers,” Cabrillo said, “that we’ll need some help moving.”

  “Let me summon some help.”

  “We like to take care of our equipment ourselves,” Cabrillo said. “We just need some carts.”

  Ross nodded and turned to one of the caterers.

  “This is the leader of the band,” she said. “He needs to borrow a few of the carts you use to move the tables.”

  The man nodded and motioned to Cabrillo. “Right this way.”

  Mark Murphy stood on the bandstand and surveyed the surroundings. Three large tents were erected, forming a Y with the band at the far end. The bandstand was slightly elevated from the ground, and to the rear the back of the tent had slits that opened to provide access. Electrical cables to power their speakers and lights stretched out under the tent. He sat his guitar down and poked through the slit in the back. Forty feet behind the rear of the tent was part of the wall that formed the boundary of the house. To the right side of the Y portion of the tent, some thirty yards away, was the rear wall of the mansion and the doors leading to the kitchens and inside. He began to walk the perimeter of the tent.

  At the front, or top, of the Y were the entrances for the guests. In the opening between the legs of the Y there was a portable fountain and a small wooden platform that was currently empty. Murphy continued around the other side, examining the way the tents were fastened to the ground. There were large metal stakes on the edges with guy wires running farther out onto the lawn, where they were staked into the earth. He stared up. Long metal poles, two per each section of the three separate tents, poked through the tops. He found a slit in the tent and walked over to one of the poles. The bases sat on plastic holders.

  Murphy figured it wouldn’t take much to bring it all down.

  Ho was making his way back to the mansion when he stopped in his tracks.

  Several longhaired men were approaching the tent, but that didn’t concern him. What did concern him was the lady that was following. Ho pivoted on his heel and walked over.

  “I’m Stanley Ho,” he said, smiling. “I’m your host.”

  “I’m Candace,” Julia Huxley said.

  Ho’s eyes were riveted on Huxley’s ample assets. “I find this hard to believe,” Ho said, “but I don’t remember meeting you before.”

  “I’m with the band,” Candace said, smiling wickedly. “At least I came with them.”

  “Performer?” Ho asked.

  “In many ways,” Candace said, smiling.

  Ho was beginning to get the feeling that if he played his cards right, he might get lucky.

  “I need to go inside and greet my guests,” Ho said quickly as he saw Iselda approaching from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps we could talk later.”

  He turned and moved toward the back door of the mansion.

  “Mr. Ho,” Ross shouted after him, “I think we have the placement figured out.”

  “Just take care of it,” Ho said over his shoulder.

  Ross passed by Huxley. “Slut,” she whispered.

  “Lesbian,” Huxley replied.

  MAX Hanley was sitting in a leather chair in the command center of the Oregon.

  “Okay, people,” he said to the trio of operators that remained, “we’re a go. Display from the tree,” Hanley ordered.

  The image from the tiny camera in the tree filled one of the screens in the control room. Hanley could see Cabrillo rolling a cart containing several long speaker boxes across the lawn. Ross had just passed Huxley and was now turning to go back toward the tent. Murphy popped out from the side of one of the tents. As if on cue, he turned to the tree and smiled.

  “Larry,” Hanley said, “all okay.”

  Larry King was the Corporation member hiding in the tree. He adjusted his sniper rifle and then pushed the tiny microphone over his voice box and answered.

  “How’s the picture, boss?”

  “Looks good,” Hanley said. “You holding up?”


  King had been forced to take his position above the party sometime just after 3 A.M. He’d been in his perch over twelve hours already. There was a good chance he’d need to remain there almost that long again.

  “I did six days once in Indonesia,” King said. “This is a piece of cake.”

  “Have you dialed in your fields of fire?” Hanley asked, already knowing the answer.

  “About a thousand times, boss,” King said, swatting away a fly on his arm.

  King was a U.S. Army–trained sniper. If Hanley gave the order, he could lob a dozen shots onto the grounds in about as long as it took to sneeze. Hanley hoped it wouldn’t come down to that—but if one of the crew was in trouble and there was no other choice, King was the great equalizer.

  “Stand by, Larry,” Hanley said. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

  “Affirmative,” King said as he continued to scan the grounds through his scope.

  “Try the inside of the tent,” Hanley ordered.

  An image filled the screen from a camera that was inserted in the body of Cabrillo’s electric keyboard. The image was slightly off.

  “Juan,” Hanley said.

  Cabrillo was pushing the cart around the side of the tent, but he could hear through his tiny earpiece.

  “You’ll need to adjust your keyboard slightly to the right. We’re missing a little of the left side of the tent.”

  Cabrillo made a slight nod to confirm.

  “Go to the van,” Hanley ordered.

  Another picture flicked onto a separate screen that was split in half. The cameras had been attached to the van’s folding mirrors. They were showing a pretty good view of most of the front of the house. Lincoln was removing a box from the back of the van.

  “Frankie,” Hanley said.

  Franklin Lincoln moved out of the back of the van and stared into one of the rearview mirrors as if he were fixing his hair.

  “Try to leave the van where it is,” Hanley said. “You guys got lucky and placed it where we have a good field of view.”

  Lincoln made an okay sign at the mirror.

  “Okay, men,” Hanley said to the operators, “we’re the eyes and ears, so be alert.”

  19

  WINSTON Spenser walked into the mansion, snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and slurped down half of the flute before approaching the receiving line. Stanley Ho was beaming and shaking hands with each guest that passed. Ahead of Spenser were an Australian couple who were just being greeted, and directly in front of him was the local Portuguese consular agent. Spenser waited patiently, finishing the first glass of champagne and summoning the waiter for another, then took his place in front of Ho.

  “Winston,” Ho said, smiling, “it’s good to see you, but you’re a little late—the insurance adjuster was already here.”

  “Sorry,” Spenser said, “I was running late.”

  Spenser tried to keep moving along, but Ho reached out and took him by the arm.

  “That’s all right,” Ho said. “It seems your timing is perfect.”

  Ho pointed to the staircase.

  Spenser’s stomach did a backflip. The Golden Buddha, strapped to a dolly like a patient in a mental ward, was descending the stairs, being helped down by the guards from Redman Security.

  “I’ve decided to display my newest treasure,” Ho said, “so all the guests can share in the glory. Don’t worry, I’ll let everyone who asks know who helped me handle the acquisition.”

  A thousand thoughts raced through Spenser’s mind. None of them were good.

  “Sir…,” Spenser began to say. But the line was moving along and Ho was already preparing to greet the next guest. “I don’t think…”

  “I’ll talk to you when we are outside,” Ho said quietly as he turned to shake a couple’s hands.

  “AT the rear door,” Hanley said, pointing to a screen. He flipped a switch on the communication console, then spoke into a microphone.

  “Juan, the Buddha is being wheeled outside.”

  On one of the screens, Cabrillo could be seen inside the tent checking the connection to his keyboard. He raised his head and made a signal that he understood. Ross walked over to the front of the tents as the Buddha was wheeled up, then supervised the placement near the fountain.

  The target of all the planning and preparation was now in plain sight.

  CHIEF Inspector of the Macau Constabulary Sung Rhee watched the statue from his place on the lawn near the rear door of the mansion. Rhee had known Stanley Ho since before he’d become wealthy. He was an acquaintance, not a friend. The first ship Ho had owned, the start of his shipping fortune, had been a constant thorn in Rhee’s side.

  The chief inspector had been a mere detective at that time, assigned to vice and smuggling, and he had become convinced Ho was moving drugs with the ship. Rhee had just never been able to catch him in the act. Ho’s fortune had grown fast, and the chief inspector knew what that usually denoted—the problem was that as the shipowner’s fortune had swelled, so had his power. Twice in the past decade Rhee had been ordered away from Ho’s activities when he was close to amassing enough evidence to bring charges. Now Rhee was beginning to understand that as Ho legitimized his holdings, he probably never would pay the price for his past shady dealings.

  Rhee had been invited to the party in an unofficial capacity—window dressing for the guests.

  Like the mayor, the ambassadors of various countries, and the minor royalty who were present, Rhee was here today to add to the theme of legitimacy Ho so desperately craved.

  He was a prop—but that didn’t make the police officer inside him take leave. He stared at the chunk of gold and tried to decide how, if it was up to him, he would steal it. Rhee stared around the grounds, trying to imagine an escape route. The wall surrounding the grounds almost insisted on a departure through the main gate. The fact that the object was being placed out in the open actually helped the security. It would almost certainly always be in view of someone. He glanced around again, then shook his head slightly.

  Rhee concluded theft was not a problem and went inside for some shrimp puffs.

  A dark green Mercedes-Benz limousine pulled up to the gate and the driver was waved through. Tom Reyes, the driver, swung around on the circular driveway and positioned the passenger door near the front door of the mansion. He then climbed out and opened the door to the rear compartment and helped the occupant out.

  Once Crabtree was standing alongside the limousine, Reyes raced to the front door and said to the butler, “This is Princess Aalborg of Denmark.”

  The butler stood aside as she swept into the foyer in a rustle of satin and lace, then walked toward Ho, who was now standing alone.

  “Princess Aalborg,” Reyes announced from two steps behind.

  Ho bent over and lightly kissed the proffered hand, then raised his head and smiled. “I’m honored to have you visit my humble home.”

  “Charmed,” Monica Crabtree said in a bizarre accent.

  Ho snapped his fingers and a waiter instantly appeared. “May I offer you a libation?”

  “Champagne with a strawberry would be nice,” Crabtree said.

  Ho motioned to the waiter, who scurried off.

  “Jeeves,” Crabtree said to the driver, “I’ll be fine now—you may take your leave.”

  Reyes backed away a distance, then turned and walked toward the front door. Moving the limousine away from the front of the mansion, Reyes parked in a spot near the garage and climbed out. Then he walked around to the front of the limousine, tilted back his cap and lit a cigarette.

  “Monica is safely inside,” Hanley reported to Cabrillo.

  TWILIGHT fell over the grounds with a light breeze that brought the smell of the sea. A few miles away, at the staging area for the parade, the engines of the lead floats came to life. The marching band that was the first group to walk the route began to assemble in orderly rows, awaiting the signal to begin. Macau began to settle in for the night, and
in the high-rises in the city center and along the waterfront, lights began to flicker on. Out to sea, the navigation lights of the ships approaching port began to be visible, and the scattering of airplanes both inbound and outbound appeared as light specks in the distant sky.

  All of the guests had arrived and the front lawn of the mansion looked like a luxury car dealership. There were Jaguars and BMWs, a single Lamborghini, a pair of Ferraris. Twelve limousines, a lone armored Humvee and an old Rolls-Royce crowded the lawn. On the wall along the road, the security cameras swept back and forth, but no more cars approached and the guard tired of watching the monitor.

  So no one noticed when a pair of motorcycles drove slowly past.

  If someone had, and they were knowledgeable, they might have noticed that one of the motorcycle’s sidecars had been enlarged and reinforced. The modifications were barely perceptible, but if you looked closely, you could see that there was a heavy-duty training wheel underneath, and that the passenger seat had been removed and made into a cargo compartment. The motorcycles continued north to the stop sign, then turned left and headed in the direction of the Inner Port. The bikers had an appointment to keep in a place not too far distant.

  THE band was performing a sound check. The wall of speakers behind the bandstand lent an air of full-on rock concert, but the actual sound coming out of them was less than one would have thought. Unless someone was standing directly in front of the speaker wall, he’d have no way to tell that many of the speakers were not functioning. Some were hollow shells, others held items that would be needed for the operation.

  Ross walked over and spoke to Cabrillo.

  “The first set starts at seven,” she said. “Are you ready?”

  Cabrillo stared at the players, then at the crowd that was still milling about the tent, some seated, more still flitting from table to table. “I’ll put the background music on in a second. That should signal we’re about to begin.”

  He walked over to the main console and adjusted a switch. At the sound of the music, the crowd began to make their way to their assigned seats. Stanley Ho was standing just inside one of the tents on the left side of the Y. He was attempting to regale Huxley with stories of his vast wealth and power.