But the guard just smiled slightly and walked forward to climb into the passenger seat.
“A-Ma Temple?” the driver said out the window.
“Yes,” Spenser said.
The guard pointed to a dark green Mercedes-Benz limousine parked nearby.
“You’re supposed to follow us in that.”
Rolling up the window, the driver placed the armored car in gear and started driving.
Spenser climbed into the limousine and set off in pursuit.
THE armored car and the limousine carrying Spenser crossed the Macau-Taipa Bridge, went around the cloverleaf, passed the Hotel Lisboa and headed up Infante D. Henrique until the name changed and the road became San Mo La, or the New Road. On the west end of the island, they reached the intersection of Rua das Lorchas and headed south along the waterfront.
The waterfront was like a scene from an adventure movie. Junks and sampans floated on the water, while the street along the water was crammed with shops displaying everything from plucked chickens to silver opium pipes. Tourists stood snapping pictures while buyers and sellers negotiated prices in the singsong staccato of Cantonese.
At the fork with Rua do Almirante Sergio, the caravan veered slightly left, drove past the bus terminal, then entered the grounds of the A-Ma Temple. The temple was the oldest in Macau, dating from the fourteenth century, and it sat on a densely wooded hill with a view of the water. The complex held a total of five shrines linked by winding pebbled paths. The smell of incense was in the air as Spenser climbed from the limousine and walked to the armored car. At just that instant, someone lit a coil firecracker to chase away the evil spirits. He instinctively ducked, staring up at the driver’s open window.
“You okay, sir?” the driver asked.
“Yes,” Spenser said sheepishly, rising again to his full height. “I need to step inside for a moment. If you will just wait here.”
The driver nodded and Spenser walked up the path.
Entering the A-Ma Temple, Spenser walked to a rear room he knew the leader of the monks used as an office, and knocked on the door. The door opened, and a shaven-headed man dressed in a yellow robe stood smiling.
“Mr. Spenser,” he said, “you’ve come for your crate.”
“Yes,” Spenser said.
The monk rang a bell and two more monks appeared from another room.
“Mr. Spenser is here for the crate I spoke about,” the head monk told them. “He’ll explain what to do.”
A large donation to the temple had ensured that his decoy would remain here until needed. A well-placed lie would solve the rest.
“I have a gilded Buddha outside I’d like to display for a time,” Spenser said, smiling at the monk. “Do you have a space to put it?”
“Certainly,” the monk said. “Bring it inside.”
Twenty minutes later the switch had taken place. The Golden Buddha was now hiding in plain sight. Thirty minutes and less than a mile away, the armored car made its final delivery of the day. After the guards were dispatched, Spenser stood with the Macau billionaire, staring at the object.
“It’s more than I could have hoped for,” the billionaire said.
But less than you think, Spenser thought. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Now we celebrate,” the billionaire said, smiling.
Silver platters of delicacies littered the long cherrywood table in the palatial dining room of the man’s estate. Spenser had passed on the monkey meat, as well as the sea urchin, and settled on poultry in a peanut sauce. Still, the spicy side dishes were wreaking havoc with his travel-weary stomach, and he just wished the night would end.
Spenser sat at the far end of the table, the owner at the head. A total of six concubines were seated, three to a side, in the middle. After a dessert of wild berry mousse, cigars and cognac, the man rose from his seat.
“Shall we take a soak, Winston?” he said, “and allow the ladies to do their job?”
The man had no idea he would possess the faux Golden Buddha for less than a week.
And Winston Spenser had no way to know he had less than a fortnight to live.
5
LANGSTON Overholt IV sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. His hips rested in a tall leather chair sideways to the desk. In his hand was a black racquetball paddle, its handle wrapped with white cloth tape stained by sweat. Slowly and methodically, he hit a black rubber ball two feet in the air and then back down to the racquet. Every fourth hit, he flipped the racquet over to change sides. The rhythmic action helped him think.
Overholt was thin without being scrawny, more lean and sinewy than bony. One hundred and sixty-five pounds graced his six-foot-one-inch frame, with skin stretched tight over muscles that were long and squared rather than rounded and plump. His face was handsome in a rugged way, rectangular in shape, with hard edges abounding. His hair was blond, with just a touch of gray starting to appear at the temples, and he had it trimmed every two weeks at the CIA barbershop inside the compound.
Overholt was a runner.
He’d started the practice as a senior in high school, when the craze had swept the country, fueled by the Jim Fixx book
