Golden Buddha

Po was enraged. His control was slipping and he needed it back now.

On the Oregon, Hanley was still listening to the open line.

“Against the wall,” Po said, dragging Cabrillo against a stone wall, then stepping back.

Cabrillo stood there, the realization of what was happening slowly dawning.

“What do you think, Po” he spat. “That you’re judge, jury and executioner?”

“Men,” Po said, “line up.”

The Tibetans formed a firing line, their rifles at their shoulders.

On the Oregon, Eric Stone was next to Hanley, listening in. “Sir,” he said, “what can we do?”

Hanley raised his hand to quiet him.

“On behalf of the Macau authorities,” Po said, “I have heard your admission of guilt and find you guilty of murder. Your sentence is death by firing squad, at this time and place.”

Stone looked in horror at Hanley, whose face remained impassive.

“Do you have any last words or pleas?” Po asked.

“Yes,” Cabrillo said. “I ask that you stop this nonsense immediately—there is a deadly gas somewhere in this palace, and if I don’t find it soon, we all will die.”

“Enough of your lies,” Po thundered. “Men, prepare to fire.”

Cabrillo brushed his hand along his crew-cut hair, then smiled and winked.

“Fire,” Po shouted.

A volley of shots rang out and the prayer room was filled with the scent of gunpowder.

“THERE they are,” the leader of the Dungkar detail said.

Three stainless-steel canisters were marked with Chinese symbols. The Dungkar erected the apparatus to burn off the gas, then started to dress in gas masks and rubber gloves. The gas had been right where Zhuren had said.

“Has anyone seen the American?” the Dungkar leader asked.

The answer came back negative.

“Slowly and carefully start to destroy the gas,” the leader said. “I’m going downstairs to report.”

THE smoke cleared and Cabrillo was still standing. One of the Public Security Bureau officers reached over and took Po’s handgun from his holster. Then he did a quick pat-down search to look for other weapons.

“You missed,” Cabrillo said, wiping a fleck of blood off his cheek from where a chip of stone had struck.

Stone looked over at Hanley, who smiled. “The Tibetans are with us,” he explained. “They have been all along.”

Stone raised his arms in the air in exasperation. “No one tells me anything,” he said.

Cabrillo was walking over to pick up his telephone when the Dungkar leader burst into the room. He stared at the scene in shock. Against the far wall was a large outline of a man that had been made by the bullets striking the stone. Five PSB officers were standing with rifles, while a lone PSB officer was placing another man in handcuffs.

“We found the gas,” the Dungkar blurted out. “We’re burning it off now.”

Cabrillo bent down and retrieved the telephone. “Max,” he said, “did you hear that?”

“I did, Juan,” Hanley said. “Now get the hell out of there.”

Cabrillo folded the telephone in half and slid it in his pocket. “Norquay, I assume?” he asked the leader of the PSB officers.

“Yes, sir,” the officer answered.

“Assist the Dungkar with the destruction of the gas,” Cabrillo said. “Then secure Potala. General Rimpoche will be in contact with you soon—thanks for your help.”

Norquay nodded.

“To a Free Tibet,” Cabrillo shouted.

“To a Free Tibet,” the men answered.

Cabrillo began walking toward the door.

“Sir?” Norquay said, “there’s just one more thing.”

Cabrillo paused.

“What do you want us to do with him?” Norquay said, motioning to Po.

Cabrillo smiled. “Let him go.”

Cabrillo reached for the door handle. “But take his uniform and papers. He’s just too emotional to be a policeman.”

Then Cabrillo walked out the door, climbed down the steps and boarded the helicopter. Five minutes later he was back at Gonggar Airport. Ten minutes later he and his team were airborne in the C-130. They passed the fleet of leased helicopters in the air, headed for Bhutan, and the pilot of the C-130 wagged his wings. The helicopters