Golden Buddha

by Clive Cussler

  American forces could be launched from carriers in the Bay of Bengal and from bases in occupied Afghanistan, while Russian ground forces could sweep in from the republics of Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan, as well as the area of far eastern Russia where it bordered northern Tibet. Then there would be a free-for-all.

  And for what? A small, poor mountain country China had illegally occupied?

  The reward didn’t equal the risk. Jintao needed to find face—and he needed it fast.

  8

  WINSTON Spenser took his pen to paper to tally his ill-gotten gains. The 3 percent commission on the original $200 million sale of the Golden Buddha was $6 million. This was hardly a small sum. In fact, it was just over five times Spenser’s income last year—but it was a drop in the bucket compared to the money he was about to collect for selling it again.

  In the first place, against the $6 million commission check, he had the cost of the decoy. The fabricators in Thailand had charged nearly a million for that. In the second place, the company he’d had hired in Geneva to transport the Golden Buddha to Macau and provide armored-car service to A-Ma had charged too much, a flat fee of $1 million for their services, while Spenser had quoted the billionaire a cost of one-tenth of that so as not to arouse suspicion. Bribes now, and in the next few days, when Spenser was planning to transport the original out of Macau and into the United States, would run him another million or so. As a result, right at this instant, for all practical purposes, Spenser was broke.

  The art dealer had tapped all his available savings and business lines of credit to fund his nefarious operation—if he didn’t have the commission check lying before him on the table, he’d be in trouble. If Spenser had not been completely certain he had a buyer for the Golden Buddha, he might be worried. Tearing the slip of paper from the pad, he tore the note into tiny pieces, tossed the pieces in the toilet and flushed. Then he poured himself half a glass of Scotch to calm his trembling hands. It had taken Spenser a lifetime to build his reputation—and if his crime was known, it would be gone in seconds.

  Money and gold can make men do strange things.

  THREE-QUARTERS of the way across the globe and sixteen time zones distant, it was almost midnight, and the Silicon Valley software billionaire was passing his time making changes to his newest yacht. The blueprints for the massive 350-foot-long vessel had been created on a computer, designed on a computer and refined on a computer. Each individual piece could be highlighted and changed, all the way down to the screws that attached the thirty toilets to the deck. Right now, the billionaire was playing around with the furnishings and upholstery, and his ego was running rampant.

  The computer would generate a full-bodied hologram of him to welcome guests to the main deck salon, and that had been a cool touch, but at this instant he was deciding what font would be best for his initials, which were to be sewn into the fabric on all the couches and chairs. A few years ago, he’d bought himself a minor British title that had come complete with a coat of arms, so he inserted the script he’d selected into the emblem, then overlaid that onto the fabric. A cameo of my face might look better, he thought, as he stared at the royal crest. Then people could sit on my face. The idea brought a smile; he was still smiling when his Philippine houseboy entered the room.

  “Master,” he said slowly, “I’m sorry to bother you, but you have a long-distance telephone call from overseas.”

  “Did they say their name?” he asked.

  “He said he was a friend of the fat golden one,” the man said.

  “Put him through,” the billionaire said, smiling, “at once.”

  THE time was just before four in the afternoon in Macau, and while he waited for the software billionaire to come online, Spenser was fiddling with a voice alteration device that he had placed over his satellite telephone. He had placed a new battery in the device and the tiny light was blinking green, but still he questioned if the scrambler would work as advertised.

  “Yo,” the billionaire said as he came on the line. “What have you got for me?”

  “Are you still interested in owning the Golden Buddha?” a mechanical-sounding voice asked.

  “Sure,” the billionaire said. At the same time, he input commands into the computer hooked to his telephone to counter the effects of the scrambler. “But not at two hundred million.”

  “I was thinking”—the man’s voice was scrambled, but then the computer did its magic and the voice cleared—“a price of one hundred million.”

  A British accent, the software billionaire thought. Talbot had told him a British dealer had made the successful bid for the Buddha, and maybe he had acquired it for a British collector—but that made no sense. No one would buy something for $200 million, only to offer it a few days later for half that. The dealer must have pulled the old switcheroo—or he was offering a fake.

  “How do I know what you are offering is real?” the software billionaire asked.

  “Do you have someone who can date gold?” Spenser asked.

  “I can find someone,” the billionaire said.

  “Then I’ll send you a sliver of metal along with a videotape of me removing it from the bottom of the artifact. The gold used in the Buddha was mined in—”

  “I know the history,” the billionaire said, cutting him off. “How are you going to send the sample?”

  “I’ll FedEx it this evening,” Spenser said.

  The billionaire reeled off an address, then asked, “If it checks out, in what form will you want payment?”

  “I’ll accept a wire transfer of American dollars to an account I’ll specify at the time of the transfer,” Spenser said.

  “Sounds reasonable,” the billionaire said. “I’ll set it up tonight. One more thing, though,” the billionaire added. “I just hope you’re better at stealing than you are at picking electronics. Your choice in voice-alteration equipment is second-rate—your accent is as British as beans on toast, and that gives me a pretty good idea of who you are.”

  Spenser stared at the flashing green light in disgust, but said nothing.

  “So just remember,” the billionaire finished, “if you try and screw me—I can be real unpleasant.”

  “FULL stop,” Hanley ordered.

  The Oregon had crossed the outer edge of the harbor just after 11 A.M. and picked up the pilot. Several containerized ships leaving port had slowed their progress, and the trip to a mooring buoy in the water just off the main portion of the port had required most of the next hour. The time was just before noon when the vessel was finally secured.

  Cabrillo stood next to Hanley at the helm and stared at the city, which encircled the harbor. The pilot had just left, and he watched the stern of the boat retreating.

  “You don’t think he noticed anything unusual?” Cabrillo asked.

  “I think we’re okay,” Hanley answered.

  The Corporation’s previous ship, the Oregon I, had been involved in a sea battle off Hong Kong a few years before, which had resulted in them sinking the Chinese navy vessel Chengdo. If the Chinese officials figured out this was the same crew that had sunk their multimillion-dollar destroyer, they’d all be hung as spies.

  “Truitt arranged for us to receive our cover cargo the day after tomorrow,” Cabrillo said, scanning the sheet of paper on a clipboard that listed the operational plans. “You’re going to love this—it’s a load of fireworks bound for Cabo San Lucas.”

  “The Oregon delivering fireworks,” Hanley said quietly. “It seems so fitting.”

  THE executive jet terminal in Honolulu was plush without being ostentatious. It was cool inside, the air conditioning maintaining an even seventy degrees. The smoked-glass windows gave the lobby a clear view of the runways, and Langston Overholt IV passed the time watching a series of private jets appear in the night sky and then touch down and taxi over to the refueling area near private hangars. Overholt never saw the passengers of the jets; they were either met by limousines or large black SUV’s on the tarmac then
transferred to their locations, or they stayed aboard while the jets were refueled and continued on their journies. Pilots or copilots came and went—stopping for weather briefings, to use the restrooms, to grab a cup of coffee or a pastry from a pantry to the side of the lobby—but for the most part it was quiet in a mid-evening lull. Overholt rose from the couch, walked over to the pantry and poured a cup of coffee, then was removing a banana from a fruit basket on the table when his telephone vibrated.

  “Overholt,” he said quietly.

  “Sir,” a voice a few thousand miles away said steadily, “tracking reports the target on final approach.”

  “Thank you,” Overholt said as he disconnected.

  Then he peeled the banana, ate it and walked over to the flight desk. Taking a leather badge cover from the breast pocket of his suit, he flipped it open and handed it to the clerk. The man quickly scanned the golden eagle, then perused the ID card showing Overholt’s picture and title.

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said.

  “I need to talk to the party on the Falcon you have inbound for landing.”

  The man nodded and reached for a portable radio on his belt. “I’ll notify the ramp and call for a golf cart. Is there anything else you need?”

  Overholt turned and stared out the window. The light mist was turning to rain.

  “Do you have an umbrella I can borrow?”

  The clerk was on the radio calling out to the ramp attendants and nodded at Overholt’s request. “You can use mine,” the clerk said, reaching under the counter and handing it across the desk.

  Overholt slipped his hand in his trouser pocket and removed a money clip, then peeled off a fifty. “The CIA would like to buy you dinner tonight,” he said, smiling.

  “Is this when you say you were never here?” the clerk said, smiling in turn.

  “Something like that.” Overholt nodded.

  The man pointed to the doors. “Your golf cart is here.”

  Outside the window, the landing lights on the Falcon jet reflected off the light rain and the wet surface as it lowered onto the runway with a chirp from the tires. A truck with a flashing light bar mounted on the roof raced down an access road in hot pursuit. The truck would lead the jet to the spot for refueling.

  Then Overholt could board and ask the Dalai Lama if he was ready for the journey.

  9

  MACAU is a tiny country consisting of three small islands connected by causeways. The farthest north is Macau, which houses the government buildings; the middle island, Taipa, has a man-made extension for the airport and runways, and is connected to the main body of the island with a pair of roads; and the farthest south island is Coloane. To the north and east of the country is the Chinese mainland, and to the west, across the body of water known as Zhujiang Kou, is Hong Kong.

  Formerly a Portuguese colony, the country had reverted to China in 1999 and was administered as a special region similar to Hong Kong. The landmass of Macau is a mere 9.1 square miles, or just under a sixth of the size of Washington, D.C. The population is estimated at around 430,000 people.

  The Oregon was moored off Coloane, and nearest to international waters.

  “Dick,” Cabrillo said as he reached the top of the ladder leading from the shore boat to the pier, “how goes it?”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Truitt said, “I think all is in order.”

  Bob Meadows and Pete Jones, former Navy SEALs and operational specialists, along with security and surveillance expert Linda Ross, followed. Once they were all on the pier, Truitt motioned to the van.

  “Let me show you the layout,” Truitt said quietly as they all entered the van.

  Truitt steered the van onto the 1.3-mile-long bridge that would take them to Taipa. It was quiet inside the van, the only sound coming from the tires as they periodically crossed over the expansion joints.

  “This is Taipa,” Truitt said as the van reached the island. “Two bridges lead to Macau. We’ll take the shorter, which is about a mile and a half long.”

  As Truitt steered the van onto the second bridge, Cabrillo stared to the west across the water toward the other bridge and Hong Kong. The road was crowded with trucks carrying cargo from the seaports and air terminal, but the traffic was moving fast.

  “Can the authorities seal off the bridges?” he asked.

  “There are no gates per se,” Truitt said, “but they could easily station large trucks on the approaches and we’d be in trouble.”

  The high-rises on Macau were becoming more visible through the windshield.

  “We’re not going to luck out and have the building located along the waterfront?” Linda Ross asked.

  “Sorry, Linda,” Truitt said, glancing in the rearview mirror, “his home is on the hillside.”

  Cabrillo was staring ahead at the mass of humanity and buildings as the van covered the final hundred yards over the bridge. “So if we’re caught making a run for it…” His voice trailed off.

  Truitt slowed the van and turned onto a crowded side street. “That’s the score, boss,” he said quietly.

  “How come we never steal things that are hidden in the middle of nowhere?” Meadows asked.

  “Because the stuff we’re paid to do never happens in an isolated area,” Jones said, smiling.

  LANGSTON Overholt had needed more time with the Dalai Lama to explain his proposal, so he’d made a quick call to Washington, then boarded the Falcon. Flying against the sun had made the night last a long time—it was still dark when they stopped in Manila to refuel. Lifting from the tarmac at Manila International Airport, the pilot set a course skirting Vietnam then over the southernmost strip of Thailand above Hat Yai. Once he passed over Thailand, he’d make a sweeping turn north over the Andaman Sea, stop at Rangoon for more fuel, and then he could make it to Punjab, where the Dalai Lama would take a small plane the rest of the way to Little Lhasa, his exile home in northern India.

  Once the jet reached cruising altitude, Overholt continued the conversation.

  “Your father was a friend of mine,” the Dalai Lama said quietly, “so I’ve listened carefully to your proposal. But you have yet to explain how we make the Chinese simply hand back my country. You know I cannot agree to this if there will be bloodshed.”

  “The president feels if we enlist the Russians’ help, the threat of war might make the Chinese back down. Their economy is in a pinch right now—the cost to occupy your country is starting to mount.”

  “So you believe the financial motive is sufficient?” the Dalai Lama asked.

  “It might help if you offered them the Golden Buddha,” Overholt said, saving his silver bullet for the last.

  The Dalai Lama smiled. “Like your father, you are a fine man, Langston, but in this case your information is faulty. The Golden Buddha was stolen when I went into exile. The government-in-exile no longer has it to offer.”

  The sun was finally appearing over the horizon and it illuminated the wings on the Falcon jet in a golden glow. To the rear of the plane a steward was preparing a light breakfast of juice and muffins. The time had come for Overholt to show his hand.

  “The United States has a plan to liberate the Golden Buddha,” he said. “We should have it in a few days.”

  The Dalai Lama’s smile became a grin. “I must say that is very unexpected news. Now I can see why you have flown halfway around the world with me.”

  Overholt smiled and nodded. “So you think the Chinese will accept the icon as payment when combined with the threat of war?”

  The Dalai Lama shook his head. “No, my CIA friend, I do not. The true secret of the Golden Buddha is inside…a secret the Chinese would pay dearly for.”

  10

  EXITING the bridge, Truitt steered the van through the cloverleaf. The thousand-room Hotel Lisboa and casino was to the right as they drove west on Avenida Dr. Mario Soares. To the right, the Bank of China soared into the air, a pink granite-and-glass structure whose top levels allowed the occupants a view across the border in
to China.

  “For anticapitalists, they build a nice bank,” Meadows said quietly.

  No one replied; they were enamored with the scenery. Central Macau was a strange mishmash of new and old, European and Asian, traditional and modern. Truitt reached Rua da Praia Grande and turned left.

  “From what I’m told, this used to be a beautiful drive,” Truitt said, “until construction started on the Nam Van Lakes Reclamation Project.”

  The road was clogged with construction trucks, cement mixers and piles of materials.

  Driving farther, the road became Avenida da Republica and skirted Nam Van Lake.

  “That’s the governor’s residence,” Truitt said, pointing up the hill. “I’m taking us the long way around the tip of the peninsula so you can see the geography. The hill north of the governor’s residence is named Penha. This one on the end is Barra Hill. Our target is between the two, on a street named Estrada da Penha.”

  Angling left on the road, they climbed a rise until the van reached Estrada de D. Joao Paulino. Turning a quick right, they drove a few yards and made another sharp right onto Estrada da Penha, which formed a wavy U shape around the top of the hill until it met back up with Joao Paulino.

  The van passed the bottom of the U and was halfway up the side when Truitt slowed. “Thar she blows.”

  “She” was a mansion, an old elegant structure worthy of a landed family. A tall stone wall encircled the grounds, broken only by a wrought-iron gate and the creeping growth of ivy. Giant, perfectly placed trees, planted generations past, studded the expanse of emerald grass. As the van rolled past, a croquet field was visible off to the side. Farther to the right, down a cobblestone driveway, was a two-story garage building, where a handyman was soaping down a Mercedes-Benz limousine.