Golden Buddha Read online

  “Piece of cake,” Ross said.

  The telephone went dead and Cabrillo turned to Max Hanley.

  “Iselda is making her entrance.”

  “So far so good,” Hanley said.

  Mark Murphy finished with Kasim and patted his back. “There you go,” he said.

  Michael Halpert was playing with a microphone. Murphy turned to him and motioned.

  “Come on, kid,” he said, “let me get you strapped.”

  Halpert walked over and turned his back to Murphy, who raised Halpert’s shirt.

  “This is a featherlight thirty-eight, Mike,” Murphy recited as he taped a holster containing the weapon on Halpert’s lower back. “Now I want you to reach back and yank the smoke wagon.”

  It was a line Murphy had heard from the movie Tombstone—ever since then, he’d used it unmercifully. Halpert reached back and pulled the pistol.

  “Hang on,” Murphy said. “It’s too high, you’re cocking your elbow.”

  He readjusted the holster and waited until Halpert tried it again.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Let me see your boot.”

  Halpert turned and raised his pant leg. Murphy strapped on a knife inside a hard plastic case.

  “Be careful with this, Mike,” Murphy told him, “the blade has been dipped in a paralytic poison. If things turn to shit, you just have to nick someone and they’ll go down. The problem is, the same thing happens to you if your target takes it from you. Be sure he’s close and make sure you are in control of the situation.”

  “Okay, Mark,” Halpert said quietly.

  The knife was in place and Murphy climbed from his knees. “You worried?” he asked quietly.

  “A little,” Halpert said. “I’m usually not on the operational end.”

  Murphy nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’m going to be right next to you. If trouble breaks out, they have to get through me first.”

  Halpert nodded, then walked over to pick his microphone up again.

  “Boss,” he said to Cabrillo, “you’re last.”

  Cabrillo smiled and walked over to Murphy. He was dressed in a costume that would make Elton John blush. Murphy raised one of the sequined pockets on the vest and slid two hypodermic needles in covers inside. In the other pocket, he slid an arced carbon-fiber blade that had holes for fingers.

  “Your blade is dipped in paralytic agent, too,” he said, spinning Cabrillo around and strapping a small automatic weapon to his lower back. “The bullets are wad cutters. There’s not as much horsepower in the rounds as I like, so be close before you pull the trigger.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Cabrillo said.

  Lincoln had already been outfitted, and he stood to one side, playing with his bass guitar.

  Cabrillo smiled, then spoke.

  “Okay, everybody, we’ll be going in soon,” he said. “Remember the order of operations and make sure you’ve memorized the out. If at any time I give the signal to pull out, make your way to the extraction point. Keep in mind this portion today is only one part of the bigger picture—if this goes haywire, we still have ways of salvaging the operation. There are no bold heroes—only old heroes. The weapons are to be used only if everything goes to hell and one of our people is in danger of losing life or limb. What we want, as always, is an orderly operation where we do our job and return here safe and sound. Any questions?”

  The Magic Shop was silent.

  “Okay, people,” Cabrillo said, “then give your letters to Julia.”

  Medical Officer Julia Huxley hated this part of her job. The letters gave instructions for the lengths of medical care each man wanted if critically injured. They also gave detailed instructions as to the dispersal of the operatives’ funds and other bequests. Whatever was in the letters, Huxley was bound to see it through. She walked around the room collecting the sealed envelopes. When she was done, the room was quiet.

  “That always puts a pall over the proceedings,” Murphy said, laughing. “We’re not going in to disable a nuclear warhead. We’re just stealing some gold.”

  The sour mood dissipated and they resumed talking.

  “We have some time before we need to leave,” Hanley said, “so if you need to eat or whatever, the time is now.”

  Everyone filtered out of the room, leaving only Cabrillo and Hanley.

  “Meadows and Jones ready?” Cabrillo asked.

  “Right on schedule,” Hanley said.

  “And the flyboy?”

  “Jetting his way here,” Hanley said, “as we speak.”

  “Then the fun is about ready to happen.”

  A pair of men on motorcycles with sidecars sat on the side of Rua de Lourenco and watched employees from the Macau Public Works Department erecting barricades along the route of the Good Friday parade. The side streets would all be blocked off, but the barricades were wooden sawhorses and would yield to the bumper of a car or the front tire of a motorcycle.

  “Let’s ride over to the staging area,” one of the men said.

  The other man nodded and pushed his starter button, then placed the cycle in gear and drove up the street. A few blocks away, he slid over to the side of the road and shut off the engine. The street leading out of the staging area was festooned with banners and crepe-paper streamers. Paper lanterns holding candles were placed along the route, waiting to be lit at dusk. Various vendors were setting up shop in handcarts to offer food and drink to those watching the parade, while a street sweeper made a last-minute pass to make sure the street at least started out clean.

  “They sure are big on dragons,” said one of the men, pointing to a large line of floats.

  There were at least seventy different floats. Ships, stages where musicians would play, sword swallowers and juggling acts. And dragons. Red crepe-paper monstrosities, a blue-and-yellow dragon with a long tail posed in the air.

  The floats were built on motorized platforms, then outlined in thick wire and covered with cloth, paper or, in one case, what looked like hammered copper. A single driver perched inside each steered down the route by staring through a small slit in the front of the float. The exhaust from the small internal-combustion engines was vented out the side.

  It was quiet now, but by the amount of speakers on the various floats, it was obvious that once the parade got under way there would be a medley of sights and sounds.

  “I’m going to go take a look,” one of the men said as he climbed off the motorcycle and walked over to a nearby float. Lifting the side curtain, he stared at the framework before a policeman walked over and shooed him away.

  “Lot of room under there,” he said to his partner as he returned and climbed back into his seat.

  Several members of a marching band trudged past, followed by an elephant with a handler sitting atop in a basket chair.

  “Hell of a deal,” the second man said quietly, “hell of a deal.”

  RICHARD Truitt stared in the mirror in his hotel room on Avenida de Almeida Ribeiro, then adjusted his tie. Reaching into his shaving kit, he removed a round container and opened it up. Touching his fingertip to the colored contact lens, he placed it over an eye and blinked it into place. After placing the second lens, he stood back and examined the result.

  Truitt was pleased and he smiled.

  Then he reached into another bag and removed a dental appliance and slid it over his top row of teeth. Now he had a slightly bucktoothed look. Removing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from the bag, he placed them over his ears and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. If it was geek he was seeking, he’d hit the mother lode. All that remained was to grease down his hair and sprinkle a little false dandruff on the collar of his tweed jacket. Perfect.

  Walking into the living room of the suite, he removed a document from the out tray in his printer and gave it an examination. It was ornate and pompous in true British fashion. By royal appointment to the queen, said one line. Since 1834, said another. Truitt folded the document an
d slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he turned off the computer and printer and packed it into its case. His bags were already packed and sitting by the door. He returned to the bathroom to gather up his things there, then walked back into the living room and slid them into a side pocket of one of the bags. Then he walked over to the telephone and dialed a number.

  “On my way,” he said quietly.

  “Good luck,” Cabrillo replied.

  Now he just needed to make his way out of the room without being seen.

  FOR the most part, Linda Ross was a good-natured and positive person.

  That’s what made playing Iselda so much fun. Most people have a bitchy side—they just keep it suppressed. Since the report on Iselda claimed she suppressed the best and not the worst, Ross was playing the opportunity to the hilt. Riding down the elevator to the parking garage, she stepped over to the attendant’s window and frowned. The man raced from the enclosure to bring her car. As Ross waited, she tried to decide what Iselda would tip and decided it was probably nothing.

  The attendant pulled up in a dirty Peugeot and opened the door. Ross slid into the driver’s seat and muttered “I’ll get you next time” to the attendant and slammed the door. The inside of the car smelled like a Wisconsin roadhouse at closing time. The carpet was littered with ashes and the ashtray was overflowing. The inside of the windows were covered with a film of nicotine.

  “Here we go,” she whispered as she reached into the glove box and removed a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Then she placed the Peugeot into drive and rolled out to the street. Ten minutes later she pulled in front of the mansion and passed her first test.

  “Open the gate,” she shouted at the guard, who stared inside and, seeing it was her, pushed a button. “I’m late.”

  Parking over to one side of the driveway, she climbed from the car and lit another cigarette.

  “Dump my ashtray when you get a chance,” she said to a gardener who walked past.

  The man ignored her and continued on. Walking to the front door, she rang the bell, then waited until the butler opened the door.

  “Out of my way,” she said as she swept past and headed for where she remembered the kitchen to be from the blueprints she’d memorized. Bursting into the kitchen, she stared at the stove, then turned to one of the chefs Iselda had hired.

  “Is that the bisque?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Chinese chef answered.

  Strutting over to the stove, she removed the lid and smelled. “Spoon, please.”

  The chef handed her a spoon and she tasted the soup.

  “Seems light on the lobster,” she said.

  “I’ll add more,” the chef said.

  “Good, good,” Ross said. “If Mr. Ho needs me, I’ll be out back. Let me know when you bake the first shrimp puffs—I want to sample them.”

  “Very good,” the chef said as Ross headed through the rear door leading to the grounds.

  As soon as she was spotted leaving the house, the caterer in charge of the libations walked toward her. He paused and stared.

  “You look particularly lovely today, Miss Iselda,” he said.

  “Flattery will get you zilch,” Ross said. “Do you have everything ready?”

  “Except for that one thing we spoke about yesterday,” the caterer said.

  Damn, Ross thought.

  “What thing?” Ross said. “I can’t be expected to remember everything.”

  “The glacier ice,” the caterer said. “It will be here in another hour or so.”

  “Good, good,” Ross said. “Now make sure all the glassware is polished.”

  She hurried away to where a chef with an electric chain saw was cutting an ice sculpture.

  The caterer shook his head at the exchange. Her demeanor was the same, but the caterer could swear that the mole on Iselda’s cheek was a few inches lower. He banished the thought and went to check the glasses.

  Ross crushed her cigarette out under her high heel. Her head was spinning from all the smoking, and she paused and took a few deep breaths. “More detail on the wings,” she said to the chef, who nodded and continued working. A tall man walked past carrying several stacked chairs. He smiled and winked.

  High in a hickory tree on the property, a Corporation employee dressed in a ghillie suit that blended into the leaves keyed a microphone and spoke.

  “Linda’s in and working,” he said quietly.

  STANLEY Ho was standing in his top-floor office staring down at the party preparations. He had seen Iselda walk onto the yard, but the last thing he wanted to do was talk to her. The butch Portuguese woman annoyed Ho—she was good at what she did, but she took herself much too seriously. This was a party, after all, not a Broadway musical. From past experience, Ho realized that a few hours from now most of the guests he had invited would be so inebriated that if he served rat as an entrée, most wouldn’t even notice.

  Ho was more concerned by the insurance adjuster who was due to arrive.

  That and the fact that on the history of the Golden Buddha he had commissioned, the historian had noted that the icon supposedly had a secret storage compartment Ho had yet to find. It was a minor detail, but it bugged him nonetheless. The insurance adjuster was apparently an expert in ancient Asian art. Ho figured he’d question him when he arrived and see if he could supply the answer.

  If not, Spenser would be here soon and Ho could ask him about it.

  RICHARD Truitt drove the rental car carefully up Praia Grande to the gate of the mansion, then stopped. Rolling down the window, he handed the guard his invitation.

  “Let me call the house,” the guard said.

  Dialing Ho’s extension, the guard waited.

  “Mr. Ho,” the guard said, “there’s a Mr. Samuelson from the insurance company here.”

  That wasn’t who he’d been dealing with, Ho thought.

  “Go ahead and let him in,” Ho said, “and have him wait downstairs.”

  Then he hung up and dialed another number.

  “Go on in,” the guard said. “Park by the garage and wait downstairs.”

  Ho tapped his finger on the desk while the telephone rang.

  “Lassiter residence,” a voice with a Cantonese accent answered.

  “This is Stanley Ho. Is Mr. Lassiter available?”

  “Mr. Lassiter sick,” the voice said. “Doctor coming soon.”

  “Did he leave any message if I called?” Ho asked.

  “Hold on,” the voice said.

  Ho waited a few minutes, then a croaking voice came on the line.

  “Sorry, old bean,” the voice sputtered, “I’ve taken ill. A Mr. Samuelson from our main office was in town. He’ll keep the appointment as scheduled.”

  Lassiter didn’t sound anything like himself, Ho thought. Whatever he’d caught sounded serious. “He’s here now,” Ho said.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Ho,” the voice said, hacking, “he’s very knowledgeable, an expert on ancient Asian art.”

  “I hope you feel better soon,” Ho said.

  The sound of a phlegmy coughing fit erupted that lasted for almost a minute.

  “Me, too,” the voice said, “and I hope I can view the Golden Buddha very soon.”

  Ho hung up the telephone and rose to walk downstairs.

  On the Oregon, the operator disconnected the line and turned to the man who had portrayed Lassiter.

  “For a chef,” he said quietly, “you make a hell of a spy.”

  17

  WINSTON Spenser was not wired for a life of crime and deceit. At this instant, he was vomiting into the toilet in his hotel room. Someone might argue it was all the booze from the night before, but in fact it was the tension that was ripping his guts apart. The tension that comes from living a lie, from being wrapped in deceit, from doing what one knows is wrong. By now there was nothing but bile rising—any food he had ingested was long gone, any liquor left was in his pores.

  Spenser reached up, grabbed a
hand towel, then wiped the corners of his mouth.

  Rising from the floor, he stared at his image in the mirror. His eyes were red and bloodshot and his skin pallor a ghastly gray. The tension he was feeling was revealed by the muscles in his face. They twitched and popped like a kernel of popcorn in a sizzling pan. He reached up to dab a tear from the corner of his left eye, but his hand was shaking. He supported one hand with the other and finished the task. Then he climbed into the shower to try and sweat out the fear.

  RICHARD Truitt stood in the living room, waiting. He stared around the room and tried to form a picture of his target. If Truitt was to guess, he figured the man who resided here was self-made and had only recently become affluent. He based this judgment on the furnishings and general décor. The pieces in the room were expensive enough, they just had no soul. And they were arranged in a fashion favoring flash over comfort. The possessions of old money always contained a story—the story Truitt was seeing was of objects bought in bulk to fill a space and give a picture of the occupant that was neither real nor imaginative.

  There was a stuffed lion, but Truitt doubted the owner had stalked and shot the animal himself. A few paintings from contemporary artists like Picasso, but the paintings were far from the artists’ best works. Truitt imagined they had been bought for image value. Guests without foundation or substance would be rightly impressed. An ancient coat of armor that to Truitt’s eye appeared to be a reproduction…a French Louis XVI–style couch that looked about as comfortable to sit on as a bed of nails.

  “Mr. Samuelson,” a voice said from the staircase.

  Truitt turned to see who was speaking.

  The man was small. Five and a half feet tall and slight of build. His hair was jet black and styled like a 1970s California hustler. The mouth was small, with teeth that held a certain feral rage. Although Truitt imagined the man was smiling to be friendly, the effect from his grin made Truitt want to reach for his wallet to see if it was safe.

  “I’m Stanley Ho,” the man said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and extending his hand.