Golden Buddha Part 11

"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 pa.s.s muster. The problem was the precious stones. If the inspector was any sort of gemologist, he'd realize the stones were just too perfect. Ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth by a series of runners who breached the mountain pa.s.ses 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 att.i.tudes. 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.

L.

112.

113.

1."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 pa.s.s the time.

The Ecstasy made him loving, but the impotence pills offset that by fueling his s.e.xual appet.i.te, 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 a.s.sistant. 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 champagne," 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 pa.s.senger 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.

117.

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 high-speed 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 s.p.a.ce 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."

n118.

"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.

"A.

RE 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-half-ton truck 119 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.senger running board, he peeked into the c.o.c.kpit. 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 pa.s.senger 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 the120 .

valves, but he placed his hand over the covers just to be sure. Nothing was amiss.

"Rev her up," he shouted.

The owner depressed the gas pedal, then left off. He did this four times.

"Okay," Gannon said, "you can shut her off."

The owner turned off the engine, pocketed the key, and then climbed from the c.o.c.kpit. He was small, a shade over five feet tall, with tanned skin and slightly almond-shaped eyes. Smiling at Gannon, he awaited the verdict.