Golden Buddha of-1

by Clive Cussler

  Bending down, Po tried to lift the cover, but he had no luck. Another fireman removed a tool from the truck and slid it into the small opening on the manhole cover, then pried it open. He slid the cover a few feet away. Po removed a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it down into the hole.

  “Bingo,” he said.

  Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed the number for headquarters.

  “Sir,” he said, “I think I know where the A-Ma Temple Buddha went.”

  THERE are a total of sixteen places in Macau where the storm runoff exits into the bay. Seng and his team were pulling up to the only one that mattered. After securing the Zodiacs to some rocks alongside the grate, Seng walked over and examined the metal shield. The square screen was made of tubular stock, with the openings measuring some two feet by two feet, or large enough to allow any trash to pass through. It was connected to the angled concrete slab that attached to the storm sewer by a series of large bolts. Seng walked back to the Zodiac and removed a toolbox. Finding the proper size socket, he attached it to a battery-operated wrench, then walked back over to the grate and began to remove the bolts. Once the bolts were all free, Seng, Huxley, Murphy and Kasim positioned themselves on all four corners of the grate and lifted it free. The water was racing out of the outflow, and on the far side Murphy and Kasim had some trouble pulling the grate onto the rocks. Once it was out of the way, everyone stared into the opening.

  “It’s becoming a river in there,” Huxley said finally.

  Seng threw a strip of bright yellow plastic in the stream and then timed the movement. He stared at the second hand of his watch intently. Once the piece of plastic was fifty yards out in the Inner Harbour, he calculated the speed.

  “The water’s flowing about ten miles an hour,” he said, “but you know that’s going to increase.”

  “Piece of cake for the Zodiacs,” Murphy said.

  Seng nodded.

  “As long as we don’t run out of headroom,” Kasim said, “we should be able to collect our boys and be back on the Oregon in an hour or so.”

  Seng started walking back to the Zodiac. “Okay, you two,” Seng said, “drive on in and collect the team. Julia and I will be providing security, just like we planned.”

  “Be back shortly,” Kasim said as he climbed behind the wheel.

  If only it’d be so easy.

  27

  CABRILLO took an erasable marker and drew on a board placed on one of the benches.

  “I just checked again and the 737 is parked here,” Cabrillo said, making an X on the board. “They won’t be moving until they taxi out to leave. Adams will drive Spenser in the SUV to the ramp, then park.”

  Adams nodded in agreement.

  “Once you’ve stopped, climb out and erect the portable awning over the rear of the truck,” Cabrillo said. “Then you can open the crate displaying the Buddha.”

  “What if the buyer wants us to bring the Buddha aboard?” Spenser asked.

  “Tell him no,” Cabrillo said. “He needs to do his inspection on the ground and take ownership on Macau soil.”

  Spenser nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

  “Max,” Cabrillo continued, “you are going to leave in a few minutes and make your way around to the front terminal, where a cab will bring you back to the 737.”

  “Got it,” Hanley said.

  Cabrillo paused and stared at the team. “This should go nice and easy,” he said quietly. “Hanley will verify the authenticity, the payment will be made, and then the billionaire can haul the Buddha aboard. Any questions?”

  No one spoke.

  “All right then,” Cabrillo said. “Good luck, Max.”

  Hanley nodded and walked toward a rear door to the hangar.

  “George,” Cabrillo said, “you and Spenser can climb in the SUV. We’ll want to give Hanley a few minutes to make contact and some small talk, then we need to make the approach.”

  Adams nodded and motioned to Spenser to climb in the passenger seat of the Chevrolet.

  THE software billionaire was drinking tea with coconut milk and smoking a thin cheroot. The intrigue of the event had caught up to him and, a few minutes before, he had retired to the rear compartment of the 737 to change into all black clothing. His success in the software industry, a condition of luck and timing more than skill and ability, had over the years allowed his ego to swell into dangerous proportions. He was beginning to believe his own hype. At this instant, with the drugs and sex wearing off and the nicotine and caffeine increasing, he was beginning to think he was a secret agent. The heist, followed by the payoff, and then absconding with the goods. He was already thinking about the fun he would have relaying the story to his friends.

  HANLEY walked over to the Macau taxi and climbed into the backseat. The taxi rolled around the edge of the main terminal, then back down toward the 737. Once it was close to the ramp, Hanley ordered the driver to slow, then sound the horn.

  The billionaire heard the sound and glanced out a window of the jet. Seeing Talbot in the rear of the taxi, he walked forward toward the open cabin door, then stood at the top of the ramp. Hanley climbed from the rear of the taxi. The billionaire motioned for him to climb the ramp.

  Hanley started up the steps.

  At that exact instant, Juan Cabrillo picked up a portable radio and pushed Talk.

  “Flyswatter,” he said, “how you holding up?”

  Larry King was perched inside the scooped intake of the hangar’s air-conditioning system. The rain was occasionally blowing inside the shaft, but at least he had something over his head. “I stopped by the Oregon after the party,” King said, “and picked up a thermos of tomato soup, a waterproof cover for the nightscope and some depleted uranium rounds. I’m in tall cotton.”

  Cabrillo was always appreciative of King’s professionalism. The Corporation could parachute him into a barren wasteland with a few packaged meals and his rifle, and within hours he would have found a nest and lined up his shots. Then he would patiently wait until his special services were needed or not, without complaint. Since Cabrillo had access to the operatives’ personal records, he knew that King was also the owner of a piano bar in Sedona, Arizona. It had been odd the single time Cabrillo had traveled through the area and caught King at work—not only had the sniper been dressed in a black tuxedo instead of camouflaged sniper clothes, but he’d sung mainly love songs and ballads in a sweet melodious voice.

  “How’s the reception, Larry?” Cabrillo asked.

  “The parabolic is distorted some by the droplets on the glass,” King admitted. “But I can make out some of what’s being said.”

  “You know to call if something big happens.”

  “Yes, sir,” King said, staring through the nightscope and touching the earpiece to the microphone. “Hanley just made his greetings.”

  Monica Crabtree was on the far end of the hangar, staring out a crack in the door. “Mr. Hanley just walked inside,” she said across the space of the hangar.

  “Come on in out of the rain, Michael,” King heard the billionaire say.

  Hanley passed Gunderson in the aisle as he followed the billionaire. He touched the middle finger of his left hand to his eyebrow, as if to wipe away a droplet. Gunderson brushed his chin in reply.

  “Have a seat,” the billionaire said as they reached a conference table in a compartment in the front section of the 737.

  Hanley slid into a seat and stared at the man.

  “I couldn’t tell you what was happening over the telephone,” the billionaire said. “But the Buddha that you bid on for me has come up for sale once again.”

  “That’s quick,” Hanley said.

  The billionaire nodded but offered nothing more. “Your voice sounds rough. Can I offer you something?”

  “The rain and the air on the commercial flights I’ve been taking,” Hanley said. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  The billionaire pushed a button and Gunderson appeared.
>
  “Could you bring Mr. Talbot some tea with lemon and honey?”

  “And for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have a snifter of warmed Ouzo, please.”

  “Right away, sir,” Gunderson said.

  On the roof of the hangar, King heard the exchange. “They are ordering drinks, sir.”

  “Open the door, Monica,” Cabrillo ordered.

  Crabtree hit a button and raised the hangar door far enough for the SUV to exit.

  “Time to go, men,” Cabrillo shouted to Adams and Spenser.

  Adams placed the Chevrolet in gear and drove slowly to the door. Then he exited the hangar into the pouring rain.

  Gunderson returned with the drinks to find the billionaire staring silently at Hanley. “The pilot asked me to tell you that a truck is approaching,” said Gunderson.

  The billionaire turned from Hanley and stared out the window. A white Chevrolet SUV pulled near the ramp, and a man he didn’t recognize climbed from the driver’s seat and walked to the rear. Once there, he removed a folded, portable, aluminum-legged awning from the rear and erected it. Then the billionaire watched as Spenser climbed from the passenger seat.

  “Come on,” the billionaire said to Hanley. “Our prize has arrived.”

  At the same time Hanley and the billionaire were walking toward the ramp, Adams pulled the crate containing the Buddha forward and opened the top. Then he walked back to the driver’s seat and climbed inside out of the rain.

  The billionaire appeared at the top of the stairs and Spenser, under the awning, motioned for him to descend. The two men walked down the ramp.

  “Let’s do this out of the rain,” the billionaire said when he reached the tarmac. “Inside my plane.”

  Spenser shook his head in the negative. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me,” he said, “so until I receive payment and you take delivery, the Golden Buddha remains on the ground.”

  The billionaire turned to Hanley. “Is this the dealer that made the winning bid?”

  “Yes,” Hanley said.

  “You’re Mike Talbot,” Spenser said.

  “Michael,” Hanley corrected.

  “Did you bring cash like we agreed?” Spenser asked.

  “Bearer bonds,” the billionaire answered. “If everything checks out.”

  Hanley stood quietly, with the gusts of wind blowing sprinkles of rain onto his mask.

  “Check it out,” the billionaire said to Hanley.

  Hanley walked over and examined the Buddha in detail, then reached down and shaved a small sample of gold from the foot. “Did you bring the other sample?” he asked the billionaire, who reached into his pocket and removed an envelope.

  Hanley removed an eyepiece from his pocket and pretended to study the sample for a few minutes. “They match,” he said at last.

  “I’ll retrieve the payment,” the billionaire said.

  At exactly the same time, Chuck Gunderson was placing the last strip of duct tape over the mouth of the copilot. Binding the men’s wrists with plastic ties, he laid the pilot and copilot together on the floor of the cockpit.

  “Target’s heading up the stairs,” King radioed Cabrillo.

  “Make the call,” Cabrillo said to Nixon.

  Inside the 737, Gunderson turned to the brunette flight attendant. “Do me a favor,” he said, “close that cabin door.”

  As the billionaire climbed the stairs in the rain, he could not hear the footsteps as Adams, Spenser and Hanley sprinted through the puddles to the rear of the hangar. His mind was on the Golden Buddha and retrieving the briefcase that held the key to owning the icon. He was halfway up the ramp when the door to his jet started to close. Just as he reached the top step, the hatch was locked in place. Banging on the door, the billionaire began screaming at the top of his lungs.

  ACROSS town, Ling Po was just about to enter the manhole when his cell phone rang.

  “Things have gotten too hot for us,” an unknown voice said to Po. “You win, Detective. There is a white Chevrolet Tahoe on the runway at Macau airport. It has the Buddha that was stolen from the party. Good-bye.”

  The telephone went dead in Po’s ear. For a moment, he stared at it in amazement—then he quickly dialed Sung Rhee.

  “I just had a call from the thieves,” Po said rapidly. “They claim the Buddha is in a white Chevrolet truck on the runway at Macau airport.”

  HANLEY, Spenser, and Adams ran to the rear of the hangar to where a limousine was sitting with the engine running. Monica Crabtree was behind the wheel. Once the trio of men was safely in the rear compartment, she placed the limousine in gear and raced toward the gate.

  “Okay, Kevin,” Cabrillo said.

  Using a remotely operated device he had installed a few hours earlier, Nixon began to back the ramp away from the 737. As soon as the ramp lurched backward, the billionaire knew he had been had—he swiveled around at the top of the ramp and glanced down. The truck was there, but no one was visible.

  Larry King watched the 737 through the nightscope. Less than a minute later, he watched as Gunderson slid into the pilot seat, then motioned he was ready. King flashed a red laser on his rifle sight at the pilot’s window of the 737, and, at the signal, Gunderson fired the engines on the jet. The ramp was retracting faster and faster, and Nixon steered it to the side. Once it was safely clear of the jet, he let his joystick go neutral and the ramp began to roll to a stop. Tossing the controller into a box, he did a final visual sweep of the hangar with Cabrillo. He and Crabtree had packed everything else into the trunk of the limousine in the half hour before Spenser had made his approach. All that remained was for Nixon and Cabrillo to hightail it off airport property.

  Once the ramp was free of the 737 and a safe distance away, King signaled again with the laser and Gunderson began to advance the throttles.

  Cabrillo and Nixon were walking quickly for the rear door when King radioed.

  “Chuck’s started his taxi,” King said.

  The ramp had finally slowed enough for the billionaire to leap off. He ran down the tarmac after his retreating737. A few seconds of that and he knew the situation was hopeless, so he raced toward the Chevrolet. Once he reached the vehicle, he was surprised to find the Buddha still aboard. Pushing over the aluminum awning, he slammed the rear door closed, then climbed into the driver’s seat. Another break, the keys were still in the ignition. His $100 million in bonds were lost—but the Buddha was worth twice that. Now his plan was to escape with the Golden Buddha and worry later about who had stolen his jet. He started the truck and placed it in gear.

  On board the 737, the brunette flight attendant was guarding the cockpit door. No one had told her to do this, she had just thought it prudent. One of the bimbos walked forward and started for the cockpit door.

  “Get back,” the brunette said.

  “I need to talk to the pilot,” the blonde said.

  She started for the door again, and the brunette threw a punch that never landed. The blonde deflected the blow, then struck the brunette in the breadbasket with a chop.

  “Chucky,” the blonde shouted over the noise of the engines, “will you tell this bitch you need me up there?”

  The brunette was bent over, trying to catch her breath, when the cockpit door was flung open. Through the open door, the brunette could see the 737 taxiing faster toward the runway for takeoff. Gunderson was sitting in the pilot’s seat. He turned and smiled.

  “That’s okay, honey,” Gunderson said quickly. “She’s my copilot.”

  The Macau taxi was sitting to the rear of the hangar, the purring engine making puffs of smoke in the rainsoaked air. Cabrillo and Nixon climbed into the rear just as King radioed again. “Okay, boss,” he said easily, “he went for the truck.”

  “Come out of the nest,” Cabrillo said, “and we’ll meet you around front.”

  King began to extract himself from inside the air intake at the same time the billionaire had the Chevrolet up to speed on the road leading from the ha
ngars to the main terminal.

  INSIDE the burgundy 737, Gunderson scanned the storm scope and answered a call from the control tower. Then he hit the switch to allow him to talk over the cabin speakers. “Ladies, if you could take a seat, I’d appreciate it—we’ll be taking off in a second. Also, after we get in the air, if one of you could bring a pot of coffee and some sandwiches to the cockpit, you’d be our hero.”

  Then he turned to the blonde sitting next to him. “Hi, Judy, long time no see.”

  ALONG the bridge leading from Macau proper to the island where the airport was situated, twelve police cars with sirens screaming and lights flashing formed a rolling barricade as they raced to the main terminal.

  “There they go,” Crabtree said as she drove in the opposite direction.

  She watched in the rearview mirror as several cars left the bridge, then crossed the median and sealed off both lanes of traffic. “Just made it,” Adams noted.

  The driver steered the cab slowly around the front of the building, then waited as King slid down the drainpipe and climbed into the front seat. Then he turned his head and stared at Cabrillo.

  “Take us to the far south end of the airport across from Coloane,” Cabrillo said. “We have a boat to catch.”

  ON board the 737, the final clearance was approved at the same time as the Chevrolet SUV passed in front of the main airport terminal. In the distance, the billionaire could see a line of police cars blocking the road. Turning his head, he could see through the rain the flashing lights on the wings and fuselage of his burgundy 737 as it lifted from the runway and headed out over the bay.

  “Destination?” Judy asked.

  “Singapore,” Gunderson answered. “Now tell me—how was it for you and Tracy?”

  “We took a couple for the team,” Judy said. “Then he got tired.”

  28

  THE full fury of the storm descended on Macau only a few minutes after Gunderson and the 737 cut a wide arc out over the South China Sea to head south. Inside the storm sewer, the waters were rising faster now, and the rafts holding the Golden Buddha and his three liberators hurtled faster toward salvation or destruction.