Golden Buddha of-1

by Clive Cussler

  The two front tires exploded, followed a second later by the rears. The police car careened out of control as the officer fought with the wheel, while at the same time stomping on the brakes. The police car slid hard to the left, slammed into a newspaper rack, then into a telephone pole just beyond the rack. A microsecond later, the air bag deployed and slammed the policeman back against the seat. By the time the cloud of powder from the airbag inflating cleared, the motorcycles were two blocks away.

  After pushing the bag away from his face, the officer reached for the radio. “I’ve crashed and lost them,” he said.

  DETECTIVE Ling Po was monitoring the radio inside his unmarked squad car as the tow truck pulled alongside. Headquarters had just reported the robbery at the mansion and Po knew his immediate superior, Sung Rhee, had been scheduled to attend. Po had no idea why Rhee was not already coordinating the efforts to capture the thieves. A few minutes before, he’d heard the report from the officer chasing the motorcyclists who had robbed the A-Ma Temple, and he was beginning to think the two were related. He jumped out of the car and ran over to the tow truck.

  “Hook this up fast,” he said, “then tow me up to Estrada da Penha.”

  “Right away,” the driver said.

  Po reached into his car and removed a portable radio. He continued listening as the driver hooked his car to the rear. A few moments later they were on their way around the hill, then up to the mansion. Eight minutes later, the tow truck stopped on the street outside the wall around the mansion, and Po raced toward the gate. A guard stood in the dark near his shack and Po flashed his badge.

  “Detective Ling Po,” he said quickly. “Macau Police.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” the guard said. “Mr. Ho is going crazy.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Po said.

  The guard related what had occurred. “I got off a few shots,” he said, “but they kept going.”

  Po made notes on the vehicles’ descriptions and radioed them in to headquarters. “I want a countrywide bulletin issued. If anyone sees the vehicles, he is to follow them but not make a stop unless he has backup.”

  After headquarters had confirmed his request, Po turned to the guard. “Have you seen any other officers here tonight?” he asked. “My boss, a Mr. Rhee, was scheduled to attend.”

  “I saw him when he came,” the guard noted. “He hasn’t left.”

  Po nodded and raced up the driveway. Cutting across the lawn, he made his way to the front door and flung it open. Stanley Ho was sitting in the front living room on the couch, a portable telephone at his ear. Chief Inspector Rhee was in a chair nearby.

  “What happened, sir?” Po asked Rhee.

  Rhee rubbed his face before answering. “I think I was drugged—my head is starting to clear, but I’m still having trouble concentrating.”

  Po nodded, then listened to Ho on the telephone.

  “What do you mean?” he shouted. “We called the emergency number.”

  “We have no record of any call,” the operator said.

  “We’ll get back to you,” Ho said, disconnecting.

  “Who are you?” he asked Po.

  “This is Detective Ling Po,” Rhee answered, “one of my best men.”

  “Here’s the situation,” Ho said. “A priceless piece of artwork I owned was stolen tonight.”

  “What exactly, sir?” Po asked.

  “A six-foot-tall solid-gold Buddha figure,” Ho said.

  “A similar icon was heisted from the A-Ma Temple earlier tonight,” Po said. “I doubt that is a coincidence.”

  “That makes me feel better,” Ho said sarcastically.

  “The telephone call you just completed?” Po asked. “What was that about?”

  “A guest became ill and we called a helicopter ambulance to take her to the hospital,” Ho said. “Only the hospital has no record of our request.”

  “Did you call for the helicopter?”

  “No, it was a security guard,” Ho said, “but I was standing right there.”

  “I’ll question the guard,” Po said.

  “That’s the problem,” Rhee interjected. “The guards are gone.”

  “Did you hire them yourself?” Po asked.

  “The insurance company supplied them,” Ho admitted.

  “Which company?” Po asked.

  Ho retrieved a card from his tuxedo and Po dialed the number. After explaining who he was, he grilled the company operator, left his cell phone number, and then hung up.

  “She’s calling her boss, Mr. Ho,” Po said, “but she has no record of any contact with you in the last month.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Ho said. “They had an underwriter come out here and everything.”

  “Was he your usual agent?” the detective asked.

  Suddenly it all became very clear to Ho. He’d been set up from the start.

  “Those bastards,” Ho screamed. Sweeping his arm across a side table, he spilled the knickknacks on the floor then threw a chair against the wall.

  “Calm down, Mr. Ho,” Detective Po said quietly, “and tell me what has happened from the start.”

  HANLEY watched the blips on the GPS screen showing the progress of the van, limousine and Peugeot. All were progressing according to plan, so he flipped over the page in the playbook.

  “Time to report the kidnappings,” he said to an operator.

  The man dialed the Macau police and gave them Lassiter’s address. Then he did the same with Iselda. Two minutes later, police cars were racing to the separate scenes. It was one more element of confusion and discord in an already confusing situation.

  Below A-Ma Temple near the Maritime Museum, Linda Ross slid the Peugeot to a stop and climbed out. Reinholt, who was sitting in the passenger seat, had been hit by the bullet that had shattered the rearview mirror and was bleeding from his right ear.

  “Help him to the boat,” she said to Pryor.

  Then she raced over to the dock, where a thirty-foot-long high-performance Scarab sat waiting. Climbing aboard, she raced to the helm and started the motors. Once the engines had settled into an idle, she climbed off again and walked toward the Peugeot.

  “Get him aboard and keep his head elevated,” she said as Pryor scurried past.

  Then she took the keys to the Peugeot, opened the trunk and stared inside. Twisting a timer, she waited to make sure that it was counting down, then raced back to the boat.

  “Can you drive this?” she asked Pryor.

  “Damn straight,” he said as he engaged the drives.

  Ross started to administer first aid to Reinholt as the Scarab pulled away from the dock. The boat was one hundred yards from the dock and just climbing up on plane when the Peugeot erupted in a fireball that lit the night sky.

  “WE have an explosion near the Maritime Museum,” the dispatcher reported to Po.

  “Summon fire and rescue,” Po said. “What’s the status on the kidnapping calls?”

  “Units are just now arriving at the first scene,” the dispatcher said. “It’s a home in the northern section. A second group should be at the high-rise location in a few moments.”

  “Keep me posted,” Po said, walking to the window and staring at the column of smoke in the distance.

  ON the front seat of the limousine next to Reyes, Barrett started removing his Redman Security uniform. He was wearing a pair of lightweight slacks and a black T-shirt underneath.

  “So, Rick, do you like the galley or operations better?” Huxley asked.

  Huxley was in the rear compartment with Richard Truitt. She had pulled a sleeveless blue sweater over her leather top and was now fumbling around inside the sweater, unfastening her vest. Once she got it off and slid it out from under the sweater, she rolled down the window and tossed it out. Barrett had been watching the entire affair through the rearview mirror.

  “I can’t say the galley is quite this exciting,” he admitted.

  Truitt flicked on a light in the center console
of the limousine’s rear compartment, then removed a fake mustache from a small clutch and slapped it on his face. Once it was straight, he removed a set of false teeth from the same bag and slapped them over his own. He stared at the results in the mirror. He was rubbing gray liquid from a small bottle in the bag as he spoke.

  “By now they’re on the lookout for this vehicle,” he said.

  Reyes reached to his chest and pulled on his limo driver’s uniform shirt. It ripped cleanly away, revealing another shirt underneath. Tearing at the tabs on his pants, he unleashed the pleats. “Sunglasses,” he said to Truitt, who handed them over the seat. He placed them over his eyes. At the same time, Huxley ripped the Velcro-attached legs off her leather pants and reached into a compartment in the rear of the limousine and removed a conservative skirt, which she slipped under herself and zipped up. Peeling off her false eyelashes, she took a plastic bag from Truitt and removed a wet cloth and scrubbed her face clean of the garish makeup.

  “Looks like we’re good to go,” Truitt said.

  Reyes pulled to the side of the road and the four climbed out. Walking through an alley, they made their way toward the Main Market and split into groups of two. Back on the street, the limousine sat running with the door open. A police officer would find it there in less than ten minutes. But the vehicle had been cleaned of clues and there would not be much to report.

  CABRILLO touched the garage door opener halfway down the block and the door began to rise.

  Once the van was inside and the door had shut again, everyone piled out. “They have descriptions of everyone by now,” he said quickly as he popped the top off a fifty-five-gallon drum containing their change of clothes and disguises, “so change fast and make an exit.”

  Removing a folder from the top of the clothes, he set it aside and quickly dressed. Once he was changed, and the others were doing the same, he opened the packet and began to remove documents.

  “A couple of you are staying in town tonight,” he said, removing passports and hotel reservation forms. “We don’t want too much traffic heading back to the Oregon. As always, the rule is no boozing, and stay where we can reach you so if there’s a change we can alert you.”

  He handed out the various assignments, then stared at the group.

  “So far so good,” he said, just as a siren approached.

  Cabrillo ran over to a window, but the car continued past the building. “Fire truck,” he said. “Ross must be safely away.”

  He walked back to the group. “Okay, men,” he said, “make like an egg and scramble.”

  Filing out through a side door, the men went their separate ways.

  PRYOR steered the Scarab around the end of the Southern Peninsula, then set a course for where the Oregon was anchored. Ross stepped into the opening between the seats next to the helm.

  “How’s he doing?” Pryor asked over the noise of the racing boat.

  “Not too good,” Ross said. “He’s lost some blood and the top of his ear as well.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  “Damn right, it hurts,” Reinholt said.

  “We should contact the Oregon,” Pryor said, “so they can have the clinic ready.”

  “We’re on radio silence,” Ross said. “The authorities might hear.”

  Pryor turned and looked back at his fallen friend. Reinholt smiled gamely. “The Oregon’s monitoring all the frequencies, right?” he asked.

  “Ground, sea and air,” Ross agreed.

  “And we need to maintain silence on the marine bands.”

  “Right.”

  “But the helicopter can talk, because if it goes silent, air traffic control will know something’s up, right?”

  “Yeah,” Ross said, suddenly understanding.

  Pryor reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt. “These can sometimes transmit on the aviation bands.”

  Ross grabbed for it and hit Scan. A few seconds later, a burgundy 737 passed overhead and Ross could hear the pilot receiving final clearance. Pressing Talk, she gave the call sign for the helicopter. A few moments before, he had landed and transferred Spenser and Crabtree to a waiting car. He had just returned to remove his headset when the call came in. Another two minutes and he would have been gone.

  “Helicopter four-two, X-ray, Alpha,” he said, “go ahead.”

  “Six-three, report one Indio,” Ross said over the roar of the boat’s engines.

  Sixty three was Ross’s employee number; Indio was the code for injured party.

  On the Oregon, Hanley reached for the microphone. “Helicopter four-two, X-ray, Alpha, I’ve got it, continue to point agreed. Six-three, report Indio.”

  “Eight-four.”

  “Get me the file on eighty-four,” Hanley shouted to an operator, who pulled up Reinholt’s records on the computer screen. His blood type was at the top of the chart.

  “Six-three, understand,” Hanley said, “Bravo affirm.”

  “Six-three, ETA in five.”

  “Terminate communications,” Hanley ordered.

  Ross clicked the button three times. “Hit the gas,” she shouted.

  “Go down to the clinic and check the blood supply,” Hanley said, staring at the computer, “we need AB positive standing ready.”

  “You,” he said to another operator, “go on deck and watch for Linda’s approach through the night scope. As soon as you see the boat approaching, flash the deck lights, then help her off-load the injured party.”

  “Got it,” the man said, racing away.

  At that exact same instant, the helicopter pilot was pulling a white Chevrolet SUV out of a gate at the far end of the runway. Driving down the road, he stopped at a stop sign then merged with the traffic leaving the airport. He was just touching thirty miles an hour when two police cars with flashing lights passed and then slowed to turn down the road where he had come from. Punching the accelerator to pass a bus, he turned to Crabtree.

  “That was close,” he said.

  Crabtree was checking Spenser’s pulse by placing her hand on his jugular.

  “True, but we’re free and clear,” she said.

  THE boat slid alongside the Oregon and Pryor grabbed a line tossed through the air. Tying the Scarab into the sling that would lift it back onto the deck, he waited until Ross and the operator from the control room had carried off Reinholt. Then he loosened the lines and positioned the Scarab in the slings that were already in the water. Shutting off the engines, he climbed off the boat and walked over to a switch on a nearby bulkhead. Slowly the Scarab rose from the water. Once it was clear of the upper deck, he pushed another button that rotated the davits around so the Scarab was over the deck. The entire operation required only a few minutes, and that was good. In the distance, across the water, he could see the sweep of the searchlight from a police patrol boat.

  As soon as the davit stopped in its arc, he pushed another switch. Four of what looked like rusty metal plates rose from the deck of the ship and surrounded the Scarab. Then he pushed another button and a retractable roof slid closed over the vessel. By the time the patrol boat passed alongside in the channel, the man was already inside and making his way to the clinic.

  22

  IN his disguise, Juan Cabrillo looked like an aging academic or a retired bureaucrat, not the leader of a group of specialized operatives. Walking through downtown Macau, he fiddled with his personal communicator, then waited for Hanley to answer.

  At this instant, his team was about one-quarter of the way through the assignment and there was still a host of variables. The first part of the operation had gone well—the team had loaded the Buddha onto the helicopter as planned and made a smooth exit, but he had no way to know the progress of team two. That information would come from the control room on the Oregon.

  Cabrillo had just passed a goldsmith’s shop when his communicator vibrated.

  An address was displayed and he made his way toward the location.

  “YES, sir,” the Macau police officer said
into a cellular telephone, “both he and his wife were bound and left in bed.”

  “Were they harmed?” Po asked.

  “No, sir,” the policeman said. “In fact, whoever did this left music playing on the stereo to entertain them, and a note of apology.”

  “How were they restrained?” Po asked. “Do they have a description of the assailants?”

  “No,” the policeman admitted, “they witnessed nothing. Both of them have small punctures on their upper arms, like they were given shots from a hypodermic needle, and they were bound with plastic ties. They only awoke when we arrived.”

  Whoever this crew was, they were good—Po had to give them that.

  “Take the note to the lab,” he said, “and make sure the technicians carefully search the house for clues.”

  “They’re doing that now, sir,” the policeman said.

  “Good,” Po said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  He disconnected and turned to Rhee.

  “They drugged the insurance man and his wife,” he said quietly, “and left a note of apology.”

  Stanley Ho was becoming increasingly agitated. Not only had he been made a fool of—he had been made a fool of in an open and obvious manner. It was that son-of-a-bitch British art dealer.

  “So I was set up from the start,” Ho said loudly. “The countess was fake, her illness a ploy and the air evacuation a ruse.”

  Po raised his hand to be quiet as his telephone rang again.

  “Po.”

  “Sir,” the officer said, “we entered the apartment in the high-rise and found a woman named Iselda tied up in her closet.”

  “Was she harmed?”

  “Other than severe nicotine deprivation, no,” the officer said. “She’s smoked half a pack of cigarettes since we untied her.”

  “Did she see her assailants?”

  “She said it was like staring into a mirror,” the policeman relayed. “A woman disguised to look like her popped out of the closet and held a rag soaked with something to her mouth. That’s all she remembers.”