“We need to come up with a plan,” Cabrillo said, “posthaste.”
WINSTON Spenser was juggling chain saws.
Only his long stint as a customer of the bank had earned him an increase on his business line of credit, but the manager had made it clear he wanted the balance paid down in no less than seventy-two hours. His credit cards were at their limits, and calls had already come into his office in London, inquiring about the situation. For all intents and purposes, Spenser was, at this instant, in dire financial straits. As soon as the deal with the billionaire went down, he would be as flush as he had ever dreamed—right now, however, he could not afford an airplane ticket home.
All he had to do tomorrow was remove the Buddha, transfer it to the airport and receive his ill-gotten gain. Then he’d charter a jet and fly off into the sunset with his fortune. By the time his customer in Macau realized he’d been duped, he’d be long gone.
14
JUAN Cabrillo sat at the table in his stateroom and studied the folder for the third time.
In nine minutes, the hands of the clock would pass twelve and it would officially be Good Friday. Game day. There was always a fair amount of luck combined with flexibility when the Corporation launched an operation. The key was to minimize surprises through rigorous planning, and always have a backup plan in place.
At this, the Corporation excelled.
The only problem was the object itself. The Golden Buddha was not a microchip that could be slipped into a pocket or sewn into clothing. It was a heavy object the size of a man that required effort to move and stealth to conceal. Any way you cut the cake, the movement of the icon would require men and machines to transport it to a safe place.
The mere size and weight of the Golden Buddha made that a condition.
Then there were the players themselves. The art dealer, Ho; the people at the party; the Chinese authorities; and now the insurance appraiser. Any one of them could throw a wrench into the works, and the stakes and timing were such that retreating and regrouping was not an option.
Cabrillo hated operations where a clear path of retreat was not available.
People could be captured, injured or killed when the plan was to execute the operation at all costs. The last time the Corporation had sustained losses was the operation in Hong Kong, where Cabrillo had lost his leg and others had been killed. Since then, he had consciously avoided ultra-high-risk assignments. The Golden Buddha assignment had started out fitting the lower-risk profile, but it was becoming more and more dangerous as time passed.
Just pregame jitters, Cabrillo thought as he closed the folder. Sometime tonight, they would have the Buddha and begin the process of transferring it back to the Dalai Lama. A few more days and the Corporation would be cashiered, out of the loop and sailing away to another part of the globe.
WINSTON Spenser gulped Glenmorangie whiskey like it was ginger ale.
Spenser’s brilliant plan of deceit had hit a speed bump that had ripped off the oil pan, and now it was leaking its fluid onto the ground. Ho had called earlier in the evening and his words had been an ice pick to the brain.
“Please come to the party early,” Ho had said. “I’d like you to be here when the insurance man examines the Buddha.”
One day more and Spenser would have been long gone.
Uruguay, Paraguay, one of the South Pacific islands, anywhere but here. The fake Buddha was good—he’d paid a princely ransom to ensure it could withstand scrutiny—but if the insurance inspector was top-notch, he’d see through the ruse. The gold itself would probably pass muster. The problem was the precious stones. If the inspector was any sort of gemologist, he’d realize the stones were just too perfect. Massive rocks of the size that adorned the Golden Buddha were extremely rare. The existing stones that large almost always had flaws.
Only stones produced in a laboratory were lacking inclusions.
He drained the scotch and walked over to the bed and lay down.
But the bed was spinning and sleep was hard to come by.
SINCE his exile from Tibet, it would be easy to imagine that the Dalai Lama had lived in a vacuum concerning events inside his country. Nothing could be further from the truth. Almost from the time he’d stepped across the border, an ad hoc system of local intelligence had begun filtering south to his headquarters in Little Lhasa.
Messages were passed from mouth to mouth by a series of runners who breached the mountain passes far from Chinese scrutiny, then delivered their messages either in person or through intermediaries. With hundreds of thousands of Tibetans loyal to the Dalai Lama, the tentacles of the operation reached into every part of the country. Chinese troop movements were reported, intercepted cables sent south, overheard telephone conversations disclosed.
Snow tables and water flow from the rivers and other environmental concerns were memorized and transmitted. Tourists were monitored and casually engaged in conversation to glean more facts about the Chinese and their attitudes. Merchants that sold to the Chinese soldiers reported on sales and the troops’ general demeanor. Times of alert were noted and sent south, as were times when controls over the population were loosened. Briefings were held for the Dalai Lama and his advisors, and most of the time the exiles in India had a better picture of the conditions in Tibet than the hated Chinese overlords.
“The troops seem to be buying more trinkets?” the Dalai Lama asked.
“Yes,” one of his advisors noted, “things that are uniquely Tibetan.”
“When has this ever happened before?” the Dalai Lama asked.
“Never,” the advisor admitted.
“And we have reports that the fuel stocks at the bases are low?”
“That’s what the Tibetan workers at the bases report,” the advisor said. “Excursions by trucks into the countryside are being curtailed, and we have not had a report of a tank on exercises in nearly a month. It’s as if the occupation is moving into a stagnant time.”
The Dalai Lama opened an unmarked folder and scanned the contents. “This coincides with the reports from the Virginia consulting group we have under contract. Their latest report shows the Chinese economy in dire straits. The Chinese have the largest increase of any country in oil imports, while at the same time the value of their investments overseas are decreasing. If President Jintao doesn’t make some much-needed adjustments, his country could be plunged into a full-scale depression.”
“We can only hope,” one of the advisors noted.
“That brings me to our main topic of discussion,” the Dalai Lama said quietly. “If we could take a moment to meditate to clear our minds, I will explain.”
THE burgundy 737 was a flying sybaritic palace in the sky.
The software billionaire was dosing himself with a carefully calculated mixture of Ecstasy and male impotence pills to pass the time. The Ecstasy made him loving, but the impotence pills offset that by fueling his sexual appetite, which was a little aggressive.
At this instant, in a forward part of the jet, a flight attendant was making notes on the pad of a personal digital assistant. Once he was finished, he plugged it into the air phone and hit send. Now all he had to do was wait for a reply.
The other flight attendant seemed more concerned. This was her first flight on the billionaire’s 737, and she found the debauchery unnerving. Turning her head away from the rear section of the plane, she addressed the blond-haired man.
“You ever worked this gig before?”
“First time,” the man admitted.
“If I didn’t need the money,” the brunette said, “I’d make this trip one-way.”
The blond-haired man nodded. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, the blond-haired man smiled. She’d fudged what he knew as the truth—but not by much.
“There’s an opportunity you might be interested in,” he said easily.
Just then, the buzzer from the rear rang and a voice was heard.
“Bring us another two magnums of ch
ampagne,” the billionaire ordered.
“You keep that thought,” the brunette said. “I’ll go water the horses.”
IN Macau the streets were filled with late-night revelers. Two men drove slowly along Avenue Conselheiro Ferriera de Almeida through the throngs. The man in the passenger seat stared at a portable GPS mapping unit and gave directions. Turning at Avenida do Coronel Mesquita, they headed northwest along the road until they were at a side street that led to a residential area within a half mile of mainland China.
“Find a place to park,” the navigator ordered.
Pulling to the side of the road under a tree, the driver placed the van in park, then shut off the engine. The navigator pointed to a house set back from the road up the street.
“That’s the house.”
“Shall we?” the driver asked.
The navigator climbed out of the van and walked around to the front and waited while the driver reached under the seat, removed a leather bag, then met him in front of the van.
“You notice almost no one here has a dog?” the driver said.
“Sometimes,” the navigator said, “you just get lucky.”
Both men were dressed in dark clothing that blended into the night. Their shoes were rubber soled and their hands covered by dark vinyl surgical gloves. They moved with the certain sense of unhurried purpose that comes with competence, not arrogance. Slipping unseen to the front wall surrounding the home, they paused for a second at the gate. The driver reached into his pocket, removed a pick, and a second later sprung the lock. He opened the gate, allowed the navigator to pass inside, then closed the gate behind them.
There was little need to talk. Both men had memorized the plan.
Walking around to the rear of the house, where it was dark, they disabled the security system, jimmied the lock, and then crept silently into the house. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, the driver flipped open a small black plastic box and slipped an earpiece into place. Pointing the device at the floor above, he listened for a moment.
Then he smiled and nodded at his partner.
Placing his hands together, he tilted his head and placed his hands alongside his cheek, using the universal hand signal for sleep. With one finger, he pointed to the far end of the floor in the left corner. With the other, he pointed a distance away to where another bedroom was located on the second floor. Then he pointed a fist toward the spot on the left side. Primary target there, secondary target there.
Doing a kind of curtsy, he spread his hands apart.
Then he unsnapped a pouch clipped to his belt and handed an eight-inch leather case to the navigator and smiled. Taking the case the navigator slowly began to climb the stairs. Several minutes passed as the driver stood silently on the landing.
Then he heard the voice of his partner.
“I don’t know about you,” the navigator said as he began to walk down the steps, “but I’m hungry.”
The driver removed his earpiece, stuffed the cord inside, then folded the case back together.
“Then let’s eat,” the driver said.
The navigator reached the landing and flicked on a tiny flashlight. “We can’t ask our hosts what’s good,” he said. “They’re in sleepyville.”
“And by the time they wake up,” the driver said, “we’ll be long gone.”
The two men made their way to the kitchen, but nothing looked good. So they walked back to the van, drove through town to the casino and ordered a meal of ham and eggs.
15
SUNRISE on Good Friday, March 25, 2005, was at 6:11 A.M.
On the decks of the sampans in the inner harbor, the Chinese traders began to stir. Along Avenida da Amizade in front of the Hotel Lisboa, a dozen women dressed in cotton shifts with conical hats lashed around their necks began washing the sidewalk with soapy water splashed from tin buckets. Dipping straw brooms into the buckets, they erased the debris from both the winners and the losers from the night before. A few diehards stumbled from inside and squinted at the light from a sun just beginning her day.
A few small three-wheeled motorized rickshaws plied the avenue, their drivers stopping for strong black coffee served in small cups, then continuing on to deliver packages or people to their destinations. At a small restaurant two hundred yards northwest of the casino, the owner finished a cigarette then walked inside. On the stove in the rear was a pot of caldo verde, the Portuguese stew of potatoes, sausage and locally grown greens. He stirred the mixture, then set the long wooden spoon onto a counter and started to prepare chickens marinated in coconut milk, garlic, peppercorns and chilies by rubbing them with rock salt. Later, the poultry would be slid onto skewers and slow-cooked on a rotisserie.
Across the water, Hong Kong was hidden by a haze of humidity and smog, but the sound of the first highspeed ferry leaving port could be heard. The first few jets of the day, mainly cargo planes, streaked across the blue sky and made ready for landing at the airport. A Chinese naval vessel left its moorage below A-Ma Temple and started out for a patrol, while a large luxury yacht with a helicopter perched on her fantail called on the radio for the location of her slip.
A lone cargo ship, decades past her prime, started into port to deliver a cargo of bicycles from Taiwan. On another cargo ship, this one appearing old and decrepit, a man with a blond crew cut was sitting at the table in his stateroom reading.
Juan Cabrillo had been awake for hours.
He was running every possible scenario through his head.
A light knock came at the door, and Cabrillo stood up and walked over and opened the hatch.
“Somehow I knew you’d be awake,” Hanley said.
Hanley held a tray of plates covered by metal lids, steam escaping from under them.
“Breakfast,” he said as he walked inside.
Cabrillo cleared a space on the table and Hanley off loaded the contents. Next he pulled the lid off a dinner sized plate and smiled.
Cabrillo nodded and pointed to a seat.
Hanley slid into the seat and poured two cups of coffee from a thermal carafe, then removed the lid from another plate.
“Anything unusual happen overnight?” Cabrillo asked.
“No,” Hanley said easily, “everything is still according to plan.”
Cabrillo sipped his coffee.
“There’s a lot here that could go wrong,” he said.
“There always is.”
“That’s why we get the big money.”
“That’s why we get the big money,” Hanley agreed.
“SO, do you know when I lost my virginity?” the brunette flight attendant asked. “You seem to know everything else.”
“That’s too personal.” The blond-haired man laughed.
“But my failed relationships and credit card bills aren’t?” The attendant grinned.
“Sorry about the intrusion into your privacy. The group I work with has a thing for detail.”
“Sounds like you’re a spy,” the attendant noted.
“Oh, heck no,” the blond-haired man said, “we just work for them.”
“Tax-free income enough so I can retire?”
“Everyone’s dream,” the blond-haired man admitted.
The brunette attendant glanced around the forward cabin. She was really nothing more than a glorified waitress on a restaurant in the sky.
“How can I say no?” she said finally.
“Good,” the blond-haired man said, rising.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I have to go kill the pilot,” the blond-haired man said lightly.
The look on the brunette flight attendant’s face was priceless.
“Just kidding,” the blond-haired man said. “I have to pee. I’m qualified in 737s, but I think Mr. Fabulous would think it odd if I disappeared.”
“Who are you people?” the attendant muttered as the blond-haired man slipped into the lavatory.
“ARE you sure this beast will make it to the border and back?�
� Carl Gannon asked.
Gannon was staring at a decrepit old two-and-a-halfton truck parked under a tree alongside a stone building on a side street in Thimbu, Bhutan. Sometime in the past the truck had been painted an olive drab color, but most of the paint was gone and now it showed mostly a light dusting of hairy rust. The two-part windshield was cracked on the passenger side, and all six of the tires were worn past any margin of safety. The hood, which had a strip down the center so the sides could be flipped open to work on the engine, was bent and had been welded more than once. The running boards were wooden slats. The exhaust pipe hung down from the undercarriage and was held in place with rusted wire.
Gannon walked to the rear and stared into the bed. Some of the planks that formed the floor were cracked and some were missing, and the canvas flaps that covered the sides were in roughly the same condition as a World War II pup tent.
“Oh, yes, sir,” the Bhutanese owner said easily. “She has a strong heart.”
Gannon continued his walk around. Climbing onto the passenger running board, he peeked into the cockpit. The long bench seat was worn, with portions of the springs underneath visible, but the few gauges on the dash were not cracked and appeared functional. He climbed down, then walked over to the hood and lifted the passenger side, which he folded up and over. The engine was surprisingly clean. It smelled strongly of thick grease and fresh oil. The belts and hoses, while not new, were serviceable, and the electrical wires and battery looked good. Gannon climbed down.
“Can you start her up?”
The man walked around, opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.
After pulling out the choke, he pumped the gas pedal, then twisted the key. After turning over a few times, the engine roared to life. Smoke drifted out of a rusted hole in the exhaust pipe, but the engine settled into an idle. Gannon listened carefully. There was no tapping from the valves, but he placed his hand over the covers just to be sure. Nothing was amiss.
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