“Be glad to,” Hanley said. “We might even fake some piercings, if you like.”
“And now to the band,” Cabrillo said. “I’m playing keyboards—a lot of songs don’t feature keyboards, so that will give me time to sneak away. Murphy’s lead guitar, Kasim is our drummer, and the soul man Franklin is on bass.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lincoln said. “The pulsing beat runs through me.”
“And the singer?” Huxley asked.
“That would be Mr. Halpert,” Cabrillo said.
The entire conference table turned and stared at Michael Halpert. As the head of finance and accounting, he didn’t exactly seem to fit the job. Easily the most conservative of the crew, the rumor was that he ironed his handkerchiefs. The idea of him posing as a rock musician seemed as ludicrous as casting Courtney Love as the Virgin Mary.
“Unfortunately, the lead singer of the Minutemen is tall, thin and slim, and the owner has seen a videotape of the band performing. If no one can think of anyone else, Mike’s got to be our man.”
“I can do it,” Halpert said quickly.
“Are you sure?” Hanley asked. “There is only so much the Magic Shop can do.”
“For your information, I was raised on a commune in Colorado,” Halpert said. “I’ve forgotten more about the rock lifestyle than most of you ever knew.”
Cabrillo was the only one who already knew that—he was the sole officer of the Corporation who had access to all employment files.
“Man,” Murphy said, “I thought your baby clothes were a three-piece suit.”
“Now you know,” Halpert said. “My family got around. Jerry Jeff Walker was my godfather, and Commander Cody taught me how to ride a bicycle.”
“Man,” Hali Kasim said, “just when you think you know someone.”
“Let’s get back to the project,” Cabrillo said. He knew Halpert’s upbringing made him uncomfortable—the day Halpert had enlisted in the marines, his father had quit speaking to him. Ten years had passed before they’d talked again, and even now the relationship was strained.
Halpert waited for Cabrillo to continue.
“Right now we have two of our people posing as a landscaping crew. They will install parabolic microphones in the trees they’re trimming. The microphones record the vibrations on the glass of the house and we should be able to hear everything that is happening inside.”
“We’re having trouble monitoring the telephone lines, however,” Linda Ross noted. “Normally, we can tap into the mainframe, but since the Chinese took over the telephone system, they moved the major systems across the water into Hong Kong. We’ll try and install something at the junction box leading into the house, but we’re not sure how well it will receive.”
“So there’s a chance we will only be able to hear one side of the telephone calls?” Hanley asked.
“Right,” Ross said. “Anyone talking inside will cause vibrations on the glass we can read.”
“I’m not so concerned about that,” Cabrillo said, “but we do need to be able to cut the lines leading into the house—the burglar alarms work through the telephone lines.”
“That we can do,” Ross said, “but people will still be able to use cell phones.”
The hours passed as the planning continued. The party was less than thirty hours away.
LIKE a whirling dervish, the oracle began to shake and parade about.
The Palace of Exile in India was much smaller than Potala, but it served the same purpose. Home to the Dalai Lama and his advisors, it featured a temple, sleeping rooms and a large stone-floored meeting room, where the Dalai Lama was sitting on a throne chair now, watching.
The oracle was dressed in his ceremonial robes, topped by one of golden silk, its interwoven designs of yellow, green, blue and red encircling a mirror on the chest surrounded by amethyst and turquoise stones. A harness held small flags and banners, and the entire outfit weighed nearly eighty pounds. As soon as the oracle had been dressed and entered a trance, his assistants had placed a heavy metal-and-leather helmet upon his head and cinched it tight.
Had the aging oracle not been possessed by a spirit outside his own, the weight of the helmet and robes would have been too much for him to bear. Instead, once the oracle reached his deep state, the weight seemed to be lifted and he hopped about like an astronaut walking on the surface of the moon. He exploded in motion. Arms akimbo, he danced like a praying mantis from one side of the room to the other. Strange guttural sounds radiated from somewhere deep inside his body, while his left hand flashed a heavy silver-plated sword in a figure-eight pattern.
Then he stopped in front of the throne chair and shook his entire body like a dog after a swim.
Once the oracle became motionless, the Dalai Lama spoke.
“Is it time to go home?” he asked.
The oracle spoke in a voice unlike his own. “The Dalai Lama returns, but to a smaller Tibet.”
“The oracle explains,” the Dalai Lama said.
A backflip, a flapping of arms, a stillness again.
“The north holds the key,” the oracle said loudly. “We give the aggressors the land that once held Mongols, then they will go.”
“Can we trust the Westerners?” the Dalai Lama asked.
The oracle bent his knees and strutted around in a circle. When facing the Dalai Lama again, he spoke. “We will
