Golden Buddha of-1

by Clive Cussler

  Prior to reaching each junction, one of the men would climb off the raft and drag the rear rope to slow the raft with the Golden Buddha. Then he would push the side of the raft toward the proper channel and let the current do the rest. The randomly spaced overhead pipes that drained into the main sewer were running full now, and each time the rafts passed under the spray some of the water made it into the floors of the rafts. The men were using their hats to bail out the buildup, but as each mile passed the effort was becoming harder and harder.

  Hornsby stared at the blueprint carefully. “We’ve passed the halfway point,” he said, “but if we make the same rate of progress and the water continues to rise at the current pace, by the time we reach the exit to the Inner Harbor the water will be almost at the top of the pipe.”

  “The Oregon will have sent help by now,” Jones said, “and they will have a copy of the blueprints.”

  Meadows wiped some water from his forehead before speaking. “That doesn’t change the problems we face. It just places more people in harm’s way.”

  Hornsby was standing in water up to his waist, pushing the raft with the Buddha to the left with his hip. Once the raft entered the other stream and started to move, he rolled back inside the following raft. “Not only that,” he said, “if the pace continues when we do reach the Inner Harbor—if we do—it will be at first light and then we risk detection.”

  Hornsby turned his head. He could see Jones grinning in the dim light from his faltering hard-hat lamp. Then he spoke.

  “We’re the Corporation,” Jones said quietly. “We’re always one step ahead.”

  The trio of men nodded as the pair of rafts hurtled faster in the growing current toward a rendezvous with a rescuing force that was fighting problems of their own.

  THE four-stroke outboard on the Zodiac being driven by Mark Murphy was blasting water out of its jet drive. The current was running stronger every few feet, but the powerful engine was propelling the craft forward in spite of the strong stream running against the bow. To the middle of the inflatable, Hali Kasim was unscrewing the tubular metal top that supported a canvas sun awning and the electronics sensors to gain a few feet of needed clearance. Finishing the job, he stacked the last of the pipes inside the Zodiac and turned to Murphy.

  “Maximum headroom,” he said. “Now hit the gas. If we don’t meet up with the other team and tow them out of here soon, we’re all going to be swimming.”

  Murphy advanced the throttle and steered around a bend. For lights he used a handheld spotlight; for navigation, a portable GPS unit held between his knees. “Find the air horn,” Murphy said to Kasim. “I have a feeling we’ll need it soon.”

  SHEETS of rain washed from east to west as Rick Barrett steered the Scarab close to the southernmost strip of man-made land that comprised the Macau airport. Barrett was wearing a bright yellow rain suit that should have made him stand out, but in the dark of night and the pouring rain, he and the Scarab were virtually invisible. He listened for a sound in his earpiece but heard only static.

  Scanning the shoreline with a pair of night-vision binoculars, he began to fear the worst.

  “WHAT do you mean?” Po shouted in anger.

  The head of the Macau Public Works Department was far from happy himself. He’d been awakened from a sound sleep and ordered to make his way to his office to locate the blueprints of the storm sewer system. Once there, he had been unable to find the documents.

  “I mean that they are gone,” the man told Po. “Deleted from the computers, and the hard copies removed from the office.”

  “Are you certain?” Po asked.

  “I have had the entire night shift searching,” the man said. “Nothing is left.”

  “So we have no way to know for certain where the water exits into the bay?” Po asked.

  “We don’t have a map of it,” the man agreed, “but there is one way to tell.”

  “Well,” Po said, “how?”

  “Pour some dye into a drain,” the man said. “Then see where it goes.”

  Po turned to one of the patrolmen nearby. “Find a hardware store,” he said quickly, “and buy me a dozen gallons of paint.”

  Then he stared down the manhole. There was no use entering the maze; the rats would be flushed from the hole by the water, and, when they were, Po would be waiting. He smiled at the thought, but failed to notice a man standing some ten feet distant in the entryway of an all-night café. The man touched his ear to adjust his earpiece, then walked inside the restaurant.

  THE billionaire slid the Chevrolet into park. There was really no other choice. To his front, three police cars were blocking the road. The officers were standing behind their vehicles with pistols drawn. To the rear were more cars and an armored personnel carrier that was being used as a temporary command post. Inside the APC, Sung Rhee peered through a gun port at the stopped truck. Reaching for a microphone, he spoke over the P.A. system.

  “You are surrounded,” he said. “Step slowly from the vehicle with your hands above your head.”

  Then he turned to one of the officers driving the APC. “Light him with the spotlight.”

  The man flicked a switch and a four-million-candlelight-powered spotlight turned night into day. Rhee watched as the driver’s door slowly opened. Then a man dressed entirely in black stepped onto the wet pavement and took a few steps away from the truck.

  “Stop,” Rhee ordered.

  The man stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Keep your hands in the air,” Rhee ordered. “If you are the only occupant of the vehicle, wave your left arm slowly.”

  The man’s left arm moved back and forth.

  “Take six steps into the direction of the light.”

  The man complied.

  “Now lay down knees-first, then belly-down, on the road.”

  The man eased himself down until his entire body was prone on the wet road.

  “Two officers forward,” Rhee said, “and restrain the suspect.”

  A pair of officers approached from behind the police cars to the front and slowly made their way over to the man. With one covering, the other man bent down and handcuffed the suspect’s hands behind his back. Then he yanked him to his feet.

  “I’m an American,” the billionaire said, “and I demand to see the ambassador.”

  Rhee waited as the rear door of the APC was lowered, then he stepped out into the rain and walked over to the Chevrolet. After first flashing a light inside to verify the other seats were empty, he scanned the rear storage area and caught sight of the Buddha. Flipping open the rear gate, he glanced at the six-foot-tall chunk of gold. Then he reached for his cell phone.

  THE limousine carrying Hanley was just pulling up in front of the Oregon. “Wipe it carefully and get rid of it,” he said to Crabtree. “You come with me.”

  Spenser followed Hanley as he bounded up the gangplank. Once on the deck of the ship, he motioned for Spenser to follow him inside and started in the direction of the control room. Opening the door, he nodded at Eric Stone.

  “Call for a guard for Spenser here.”

  Stone spoke over a microphone.

  “Where’s the chairman?” Hanley said next.

  Stone pointed to a screen that showed a flashing light almost at the end of the airport island and a second separate light a few yards distant. “There,” Stone said, pointing. “The other is Barrett doing extraction.”

  Hanley watched as the first light slowed, then stopped.

  “Signal Barrett that they have arrived.”

  Spenser was staring at the operation in amazement. He was just about to ask Hanley a question when the door to the control room opened and Sam Pryor walked in. “Take this man to the brig,” Hanley ordered, “and secure him.”

  “Level?” Pryor asked.

  “Minimum,” Hanley said, “but you stay with him—he’s not to use any communications devices or talk to anyone. You can feed him and you may allow him to sleep or use the entertainment syst
em for television or movies, but no computer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pryor said.

  Hanley turned to Spenser. “You fulfilled your end of the bargain,” he said. “Don’t try anything stupid now and we’ll do exactly what we promised.”

  Pryor started to lead Spenser away by his arm. “When will I be free to go?” the art dealer asked.

  “We’ll let you know,” Hanley said, “but it will be soon.”

  Pryor led Spenser into the hall. Just before the door closed, he looked back to see Hanley begin to peel the latex mask from his face.

  BARRETT heard a beep in his earpiece and stared at the shoreline with his binoculars. A quick flash of headlights appeared like twin explosions in the green screen of his night-lit viewer, then the white dots faded to black.

  Barrett flashed the docking lights on the Scarab, then steered closer to shore.

  Tom Reyes finished wiping his fingerprints off the steering wheel and controls, then twisted the key to off. Turning around in the seat, he stared at Cabrillo and Nixon.

  “We’re clean and green, boss,” Reyes said as he slid the keys into his pocket.

  “Let’s go get wet,” Cabrillo said as he opened the rear door of the cab.

  Nixon climbed from the cab, clutching the last box of props and tools, and followed Reyes and Cabrillo to the water. Staring to the east, he could just make out the sky beginning to lighten. To the west, the wind was diminishing. In a few hours it would be morning and the storm would have passed over Macau, but for now the sheets of rain continued to rake the islands.

  Barrett angled as close to shore as he dared, then tilted the drive up to avoid rocks. Cabrillo waded into the water and grabbed the bow and held it in place. Reyes climbed into the Scarab, then took the box Nixon held in his arms. Placing it on the deck, he reached over again and helped Nixon over the gunwale. Once Nixon was on the deck, Cabrillo gave the Scarab a push backward and reached for Reyes’s hand. As the boat drifted backward he climbed over the side and Barrett lowered the drive and slid the control into reverse.

  Slowly, he backed away from the southernmost edge of the airport island.

  Once free from obstructions, Barrett slid the control forward and steered toward the Oregon.

  “WHAT do you mean?” Hanley asked.

  “The lead detective sent for buckets of paint,” Michael Halpert said quietly. “They are planning to pour them down the storm sewer to trace the flow of the water.”

  “I understand,” Hanley said. “Good job. You can return to the Oregon now.”

  Stone was studying the returns on the radar scope and he turned to Hanley. “Barrett is headed back across the water. He should reach us in a few minutes.”

  Hanley was watching the storm scope.

  “Make sure there are a couple of deckhands standing by,” Hanley ordered. “We need the Scarab back in the hangar and out of sight.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stone said as he reached for the microphone.

  SUNG Rhee walked over to the suspect, who had been moved under the overhang just outside the departure terminal at the airport. In the bright lights spilling from inside the terminal, the man looked vaguely familiar.

  “One of your partners turned on you,” Rhee said, “and phoned in your location.”

  The man stared at Rhee with a look that contained equal parts pity and contempt. “I’ve got no idea what you are talking about.”

  “There is no reason to try to be coy with us,” Rhee said. “We caught you red-handed.”

  “You caught nothing,” the man said. “I was buying a piece of art, and a team of thieves scammed me. They’re the ones you should be harassing, not me.”

  “When did you arrive in Macau?” Rhee asked.

  “A couple of hours ago,” the man replied.

  “The last ferryboat was three hours ago,” Rhee said, “and the next does not leave for two more. In addition, there are no commercial airline flights from the hours of one a.m. until five a.m. Your story is obvious nonsense.”

  “I have my own jet,” the man noted.

  “Indeed. Where is it now?” Rhee asked.

  “I have no idea,” the man said. “The thieves stole it.”

  “How convenient,” Rhee said. “You understand: If you refuse to answer our questions, we can make this very uncomfortable.”

  The billionaire’s ire was rising fast. Any dealings with bureaucrats were usually limited to him telling them what he wanted to do. He was tired, slightly hungover and missing his hundred million dollars.

  He looked right into Rhee’s eyes.

  “Listen, you asshole,” the man said. “My 737 was stolen from your airport, and inside was a briefcase containing one hundred million dollars in bearer bonds. I don’t know what the hell has been happening tonight in this little pisspot of a country, but if you just unhook me from these handcuffs and let me use a telephone, I can clear this up in about ten minutes.”

  Had Rhee listened to the billionaire, the 737 might have been tracked. Instead, the man’s belligerent attitude doomed him. Rhee motioned to one of the officers holding the man’s arms. “Take him to headquarters,” he said.

  BARRETT steered the Scarab into the sling, then Barrett, Cabrillo, Reyes and Nixon climbed up the boarding ladder while the deckhands secured the boat.

  “Doing some operation time tonight,” Cabrillo said to Barrett. “Do you like it?”

  “Not as easy as frosting a cake,” Barrett admitted, “but a lot more exciting.”

  The four men walked through a hatch into the interior of the Oregon. Cabrillo motioned down the hallway. “You men go and clean up. I’ve still got some work to do.”

  The men started down the hallway to their cabins.

  “Hey,” Cabrillo said to the retreating men, “good job.”

  Then he walked down to the control room and opened the door. Stepping inside, he began to unbutton his wet shirt, then turned to Hanley.

  “Where are we at, Max?”

  FOUR feet of space remained between the surface of the rising water and the top of the storm sewer. The batteries on the hard-hat lights were growing dim, the water was rising fast, and the men could no longer safely climb from the raft to steer the Golden Buddha along.

  Meadows had lashed the rafts together, and he and Jones were on each side where the two rafts met, standing in a half crouch. As the rafts careened along, they attempted to alter their direction by pushing against the hard sides of the pipe with their legs.

  “Junction coming up,” Hornsby shouted. “We need the left channel.”

  At the V in the pipes just ahead, the fast-flowing water was being parted like the bow wake on a nuclear submarine. Chunks of debris littered the water, the roof of the pipe was dripping so hard they might as well have been outside, and the pair of rafts was accelerating almost beyond control.

  Jones watched ahead and timed his action. As the rafts reached a spot twenty feet in advance of the V, he reached over with his leg and shoved against the wall. The rafts lumbered to the left side, and then were carried in the current past the junction.

  “We made that one,” Jones shouted, “but if we get much more water in this pipe, we’re going to have trouble on the next one.”

  “If we don’t get some help soon,” Meadows said, “we’re going to need to cut the Buddha loose and try to save our own skin.”

  29

  “ONE at a time,” Detective Po said to the officer.

  Using a screwdriver on his key chain, the officer opened the first can of paint and poured the contents through the open manhole into the racing water below. From the light of his flashlight, Po could see the purple paint mix with the water, then spread out. Placing the empty can to the side, the officer pried open a second and repeated the process. At just that instant, Po’s cell phone rang and he stepped a few feet away and answered.

  “Ling,” Sung Rhee said. “I want you to come to headquarters. We’ve captured a suspect.”

  “Right, boss,” Po said. />
  “THE authorities have decided to trace the flow of water in the storm sewers with paint,” Hanley said to Cabrillo.

  Cabrillo was wiping his wet face and hair with a hand towel. Once he was finished, he tossed it onto a table and ran a comb quickly through his hair.

  “If they did realize our men had escaped through the sewers, I was hoping that removing all the blueprints would slow down the pursuit long enough for our men to be extracted,” he said. “Looks like we need to implement one of the backup plans.”

  Hanley pointed to a computer screen. “As you know, the outflow pipe we picked for the exit into the bay is the only one on the southwest point of the Southern Peninsula. The outflow runs between the Nam Van Lakes and enters the water just north of the island of Taipa.”

  Cabrillo stared at the computer screen. The image of the storm sewers looked like a crooked tree with sagging limbs. The sewer his team would use to exit was the trunk at the roots.

  “Have we been able to establish contact with them?” Cabrillo asked.

  “No luck with Hornsby, Meadows and Jones,” Hanley admitted. “The portable radios they carry just don’t seem to have enough power to penetrate the layers of soil overhead.”

  “What about Murph and Kasim?”

  “We’ve been trying,” Hanley said, “but the voice transmission is spotty. Data seems to be passing through, however—we are in contact by alphanumeric signals.”

  “So we can type orders to the Zodiacs and they can respond?” Cabrillo asked.

  “So far,” Hanley said.

  Eric Stone interrupted the conversation. “Sirs,” he said, pointing to a screen, “the portable camera Halpert left near the manhole is showing something you might want to watch.”

  Cabrillo and Hanley watched as the officer poured paint into the hole.