“Give me a simulation of how long that paint will take to reach our men,” Cabrillo said quickly.
Stone’s hands danced over the keyboards, and a few seconds later the screen showing the sewer system began slowly to take on a red color. The men stood watching as the color advanced along the arteries of the sewer system. A counter in the corner of the screen timed the movement.
“Seventeen minutes until the paint reaches where we believe the men are now,” Stone said slowly. “Twenty-two until it reaches the water above Taipa.”
At just that instant, a printer off to the side whirled and a sheet was spit into the tray. Hanley walked over and picked it up. “The order just went through to the police boats and the two Chinese navy boats here in Macau. They are supposed to begin patrols immediately to scan for the colored water, then, when they find an outflow, remain there on station.”
“Start a timer,” Cabrillo ordered quickly. “We’re in crunch time now. Make sure everyone is aboard and prepare the Oregon to sail. I want my team out of that storm sewer with the Golden Buddha and safely back aboard—then we need to vacate Macau by first light. With the Chinese navy on patrol, this ship is in jeopardy.”
“Broken Arrow?” Hanley asked.
“Confirm, Broken Arrow,” Cabrillo said.
“Put it out, Mr. Stone,” Hanley said.
Stone sounded the alarm. In a few minutes, the Oregon was a blur of activity.
TINY Gunderson was eating a salami sandwich and sipping on a glass of iced tea as he flew over the South China Sea. The brunette flight attendant, Rhonda Rosselli, was sitting in the flight engineer’s chair. The door to the cockpit was open, and the blonde copilot, Judy Michaels, walked inside and slid back into her seat. She was dressed in a khaki flight suit and her face was freshly scrubbed.
“Tracy is changing and checking the equipment,” she said.
“Did I tell you, you did a great job?” Gunderson asked. “You both are most convincing ho’s.”
“A master’s degree in political science from Georgetown and four years with the National Security Council, and I’m sleeping with the enemy,” Michaels said.
Gunderson popped the last of the sandwich in his mouth, then brushed the crumbs off his hands. Washing the last bite down with a sip of iced tea, he spoke.
“I think you forget I seduced a Romanian countess a few years ago,” Gunderson said. “We do what we have to, to accomplish the objective.”
“I remember, Chuck,” Michaels said. “In fact, I seem to remember you rather enjoyed the assignment.”
Gunderson smiled. “So you didn’t like yours?”
Michaels noted readings from the instrument panel on a clipboard. “The guy was a freak,” she said. “Capital PH, phreak.”
“Then it serves him right,” Gunderson said as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid from the pilot’s seat, “that we swiped his plane.”
“On the controls,” Michaels said.
“I have to use the restroom,” Gunderson said to Rosselli. “Be right back.”
IN the dining room on the Oregon, Winston Spenser was sipping tea and worrying. Off to one side, at a separate table, a guard sat on silent watch. Juan Cabrillo entered the dining room, walked over to Spenser, and handed him a slip of paper.
“That’s the account number of the bank in Paraguay,” Cabrillo said. “The transfer has taken place and the funds are available now. If the account is not accessed within one year of today, the funds will automatically bounce back to one of our banks. The second you make a deposit or withdrawal, however, within the next year the computer erases all traces of where the money came from or would go to.”
“Why one year?” Spenser asked.
“Because,” Cabrillo said, “in the financial shape you’re in, if you don’t touch the money in a year, it’ll be because you’re dead.”
Spenser nodded.
Next, Cabrillo handed Spenser a folder with a plane ticket. “Hong Kong to Dubai, then on to Paraguay, first class. It’s the first available flight tomorrow morning.”
Spenser took the ticket.
“Here is ten thousand dollars in U.S. currency,” Cabrillo said, handing Spenser an envelope. “Any more will arouse suspicions.”
Spenser took the envelope.
“That concludes our agreement, Mr. Spenser,” Cabrillo said. “We have called a cab to take you where you want to go. It will be pulling up at the side of the ship in a few minutes.”
The guard stood up and waited for Spenser to rise. Cabrillo started for the door.
“Can I ask you a question?” Spenser said.
Cabrillo had just opened the door. He stopped, turned and nodded.
“This all seems a little too perfect,” Spenser said. “What’s the catch?”
“You still have to make it to Hong Kong,” Cabrillo said as he walked through the door.
ON the Oregon’s rear deck, George Adams waited as a landing pad on the fantail rose up to deck level. A hard rain was raking the deck and the winds were a steady twenty knots from east to west. He turned to Tom Reyes.
“Once the deckhand locks the lift in place, we need to rotate the whirlybird into the wind,” he said. “Then I’m going to need to make a hot takeoff into the wind.”
Reyes nodded and watched as another deckhand rolled a metal cart containing several boxes near the lift. The elevator operator signaled that the lift was locked, and Adams and Reyes walked over.
The Robinson R-44 helicopter was a medium-sized piston-engine craft with a top speed of just over 130 miles an hour. The weight was 1,420 pounds, the horsepower of the power plant 260, and the cost was about $300,000.
The two men attached ground-handling wheels, spun the ship around, then removed the wheels and handed them to the deckhand.
“We distributed the dye into plastic baggies like you ordered,” the deckhand noted.
Adams nodded and turned to Reyes. “Keep the box at your feet, but away from the foot pedals. I’ll take us down as low as we can safely go, but the ride will be touchy because of the wind.”
“I understand,” Reyes said.
Adams did a quick walk around the helicopter, checking fuel oil and general condition, then motioned to Reyes. “Hop in,” he said, “and we’ll get this show on the road.”
Once both men were in the seats, Adams reached down and ran through the preflight checklist. Once he was done, he screamed “Clear” out the window and engaged the starter. Once the engine had fired and the clutch was engaged, the rotor blades started slowly spinning, then gathered speed until the helicopter was shaking and vibrating. Adams watched the gauges closely, and when the engine was warmed and everything had settled down, he spoke through the headset microphone to Reyes.
“Hold on, Tom,” Adams said, “this will be like a giant jump.”
Neutralizing the cyclic, Adams quickly lifted the collective and the tiny bird left the pad. A second later, Adams eased the cyclic forward and the helicopter nosed over into the wind, rising and moving forward at the same time.
Clear of the Oregon, Adams flew directly into the wind. Heading offshore a distance, he then started to angle back toward Macau. Around the knee of his flight suit was a strap with a metal clip, and in the clip was a folded slip of paper showing the locations of the storm sewer outflows.
“There we go,” Adams said, spotting the dirty water where a pipe spilled into the bay.
Reyes reached down in the box, removed a baggie, slid the top open partway, and then tossed it out the small window opening in the passenger door. It tumbled through the ten feet from the helicopter to the water and began to spread out like blood from a rare steak.
In the distance, a police boat heard the noise from the helicopter but it could not make it out in the rain. Adams moved the helicopter up the line, salting the water on the east side of Macau. Then he steered around the end of the peninsula between Macau and Taipa to repeat the exercise.
DETECTIVE Po parked in front of the headquarters of
the Macau Police Department, then walked through the rain toward the front doors. In the east, the sky was lightening some, but the rain continued on unabated.
Entering the building, he rode the elevator up to Rhee’s floor, then exited the elevator and walked down the hallway. Upon reaching the reception area, he instantly knew that there was trouble afoot. The U.S. consular agent, the mayor of Macau, a Chinese general and four reporters were clustered around a man dressed entirely in black.
“This isn’t a case of shoplifting,” the man in black said loudly. “They’ve stolen a Boeing 737, for God’s sake.”
It had been a case of blind luck for the software billionaire. Still refused a telephone call, he had been brought to headquarters to be questioned by Rhee in his office. As soon as they had entered the office, however, the billionaire had noticed a copy of Fortune magazine on Rhee’s side table. His face was gracing the cover. Once he’d pointed that out to Rhee, things had begun happening fast.
The billionaire had turned from suspect to victim in seconds.
Po walked over and stood next to Rhee.
Po heard him whisper “Damn” as the elevator door opened again and Stanley Ho started down the hall.
“Have you found my Buddha?” Ho said as soon as he was within range.
“Who the hell is this?” the billionaire asked.
“I’m Stanley Ho,” Ho said in aggravation. “Who the hell are you?”
“Marcus Friday,” the billionaire said loudly. “You might have heard of me?”
“And you of me,” Ho said, affronted. “I’m one of Forbes’s richest people.”
“I know all the people ahead of me on the list—you aren’t one of them,” Friday retorted.
Detective Po smiled to himself. If all this was true, it was the greatest game of one-upmanship he had ever seen. Here was a pair of obscenely rich men vying for attention like children trying to be picked for kick-ball.
“Yeah,” Ho began to say, “well, this is my town, and you can—”
“Mr. Ho,” Detective Po said quickly, “why don’t you come down to my office so we can sort this out?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ho said loudly.
“Everyone calm down,” Rhee said.
He motioned to a conference room, pointed for the reporters to remain in the foyer, and then led the rest inside. Once everyone was inside and seated, he picked up the telephone, ordered tea to be delivered, then spoke.
“Okay, everyone,” he said slowly, “who wants to begin?”
Ho stared at the chief inspector. “A Buddha I purchased for two hundred million dollars in Switzerland was stolen tonight while you were at a party at my house. I demand to know if you have recovered it yet.”
“I lost a hundred million dollars in bearer bonds and my 737 to a gang of criminals,” the billionaire said, “and want to know what is going on in this godforsaken country.”
Po stood up and paced for a second. “Was your plane valued over a hundred million?” he asked Friday.
The billionaire shook his head.
“Then it looks like two hundred million is the highest bid here tonight,” Po said.
30
THE storm sewer was fast becoming a watery grave. Less than three feet separated the rising water from the arched dome of air overhead. The drainpipes on the top of the tube were gushing like a downpour. The water was littered with refuse washed from the streets above. Hornsby saw a rat swimming toward them in the current and slapped at the creature with a paddle. Just ahead was another junction.
“We need to make a decision,” he shouted over the roar of the water. “Sink or swim.”
Meadows looked forward. In the dimming light from the miner’s hard hat he could just see the torrent ahead, a cascade of white water that would make the rafts uncontrollable.
“Ready with the paddles,” he shouted. “The horse has to lead the cart.”
Digging into the water on the left side of the raft, they swung the stern of their raft to the right. The nose of the lead raft, which was carrying the Golden Buddha, pulled hard left but made the turn into the proper channel. The turn was not as smooth for the raft carrying the trio of men. It slammed amidships into the junction, and the corner struck Jones hard in his right side. He hung there for a minute pressed against a concrete arch until the rope holding them to the lead raft went taut and yanked them down the channel.
“Jonesy’s been hurt,” Meadows shouted above the din.
Pete Jones was clutching the side of his chest and wheezing to catch his breath. Turning his head, in the dim light Hornsby could just make out his shredded shirt and anguished expression.
“My ribs,” Jones managed to groan.
“We need to cut the raft loose,” Hornsby shouted. “There’s no way we’ll make the next turn.”
“Maybe we should slit the side and sink the Buddha,” Meadows shouted. “Then we can return when the water recedes and pull it out of here.”
Jones gritted his teeth and stared at his watch. “The Oregon,” he said painfully, “is due to sail this morning. If we don’t get this out now, we never will.”
Hornsby thought for a second, then decided. The next junction would be coming up in a few minutes. Taking a pen from his shirt pocket, he stared at the GPS, then drew the rest of their intended course on the back of his hand.
“Bob,” he said, “I’m going onto the lead raft. My weight will place it low in the water, but it should still remain afloat. As soon as I’m on top of the case holding the Buddha, cut me loose.”
He handed Meadows the GPS.
“You sure, Horny?”
Hornsby threw his paddle onto the top of the Buddha, pulled the rope to bring the rear raft closer, then turned.
“Ready your knife,” he said.
Unclipping a folding knife from his belt, Meadows opened the blade and nodded.
Hornsby crouched and hopped the short distance to the lead raft. As soon as he was clear, Meadows sliced through the tether, then dug his paddle into the side to slow down his raft. Hornsby squirted ahead. In the dim light, Meadows could see the Buddha was awash, and only a portion of Hornsby’s head and torso were above the waterline.
“Going right,” Hornsby shouted as he pulled ahead, “then left.”
AS the storm sewer pipes came closer to the water, they increased in diameter so the storm water would not become pressurized and blow apart the tiles. At six places under Macau were large square pondlike storage facilities where the water could pool and lose some speed before spilling out into the last series of pipes and eventually the bay.
Murphy and Kasim were motoring around in circles in one of them.
“Five more minutes,” Murphy shouted. “Then we go in and find them.”
Kasim gave three more blasts on the air horn. “They should be here by now,” he agreed.
At just that instant, Murphy’s digital pager beeped and he pushed the button to light the screen. Scrolling through the message, he nodded his head.
“They poured paint into the sewers to follow the flow,” he said as he steered the Zodiac into another tight circle. “If it makes it down our escape channel, we’re screwed.”
“What do you mean?” Kasim asked.
“The paint will bring the Chinese to the area, as well as marking the sides of the Zodiac,” Murphy said. “Then they’ll grab us and take us in for questioning.”
“What’s the Oregon recommend?”
Murphy was quiet for a moment before answering. “They want us to blow up the tunnel leading into here and seal off the tainted water.”
“How long do we have?”
“Six minutes and forty-seven seconds,” Murphy said, removing a satchel charge from one of the bags in the bottom of the boat.
“What about the others?” Kasim asked.
“If they aren’t out by then,” Murphy said, “the Oregon said to assume they took a wrong turn or drowned inside. Then we need to protect our own asses and make a safe retreat.�
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Murphy angled the Zodiac over to the pipe leading into the holding pool. Using the power of the outboard motor, he held the boat in place against the strong current until Kasim had attached the charges to the top of the storm sewer. Once the explosives were in place, Kasim activated the digital timer. Four, three, two, one, and the red light blinked.
“Give the signal again,” Murphy said as he backed the Zodiac away.
IT was like Hornsby was riding a log down a flume. He was almost awash and the distance over his head to the top of the pipe was narrowing as the water continued rising. The last turn had been made by gouging his paddle into the water and bringing the bow slightly to one side. He readied his leg to push against the wall for the next bend. Hornsby had lost sight of the others. The light on his hard hat was nearly out and he had no way to know if Meadows and Jones had taken the correct channel. Anyway, there was nothing he could do if they hadn’t. He was more concerned for his own survival. He jammed his leg against the wall and the raft lumbered over into the correct channel.
And then, like the distant chirping of a mother bird calling her young, he heard the faint sound of a horn sounding three times. The raft, with Hornsby atop the Golden Buddha, raced on the current in the direction of the sound.
AS the Zodiac circled, Kasim attempted to keep a portable spotlight trained at the opening of the pipe. The timer on the satchel charge was ticking down and, quite honestly, he was beginning to lose faith this was all going to work out.
“Two minutes,” he said over the sound of the motor.
Murphy listened intently. A sound was coming from the tunnel that sounded like the bellowing of a wounded animal. And then, riding on a scream and a prayer, Cliff Hornsby shot from the pipe and slid halfway across the pond. Murphy quickly angled the Zodiac alongside and Kasim grabbed the edge of the raft.
“Where are the others?” Murphy shouted.
Hornsby wiped the water from his eyes and glanced at the high-barreled ceiling just barely visible from the spotlight trained on the timer. “They were right behind me.”
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