Golden Buddha

“Excellent,” Ho said eagerly.

Ross smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a trio of men from the Oregon; they were dressed in security guards’ uniforms. Somehow her team had sent help. Barrett, acting as the leader of the guards, walked over to where she and Ho were standing.

“Are you Mr. Ho?” he said.

“I’m Ho.”

“The insurance company sent us.”

Barrett placed a finger to his eye and winked at Ross when Ho was not looking.

“Good,” Ho said, “I’m glad you arrived so quickly. This is Iselda; she’s in charge of planning. We were just now figuring out the best place to place the object you will be guarding.”

Barrett nodded.

“We’re thinking there,” Ho said, pointing, “near the entrance to the tent.”

Barrett scanned the grounds as if to determine the security of the spot. He turned back to Ho and spoke.

“My company mentioned it was a statue.”

“Right,” Ho said, “a six-foot-tall Buddha.”

Barrett nodded as if he were weighing his options.

“Is it heavy?” he asked.

“It weighs about six hundred pounds,” Ho said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, sir,” Barrett said, “I thought you might want it to be more of a part of the festivities—you know, have it moved from place to place as the party proceeds. Six hundred pounds is too heavy for my men to move, however.”

Ross was catching on.

“You mean to have the statue become one of the guests,” she said eagerly.

“Something like that,” the guard admitted. “The object would actually be safer the more people that are around.”

“Interesting,” Ho said.

“The party’s almost ready to start,” Ross said, “but I could see if I could scrounge up some other Buddha statues and do an entire theme in that direction.”

“What do you mean?” Ho asked.

“Maybe I could find some plaster Buddha statues and have them placed around the grounds,” Ross said.

“That would help with security,” Barrett admitted, “by confusing the real and the fakes.”

“Do you think you can?” Ho asked.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ho,” Ross said, “my company can work miracles.”

THE band was assembled in the conference room on the Oregon. Hanley and Cabrillo were walking them through their last-minute instructions.

“As you know, we have three more men inside,” Cabrillo said, “posing as security, so we don’t need to worry about getting it down to ground level. It should already be there.”

“That’s a plus,” Franklin noted.

“So the actual removal from the site has become easier,” Hanley said, “but we have the added problem of more witnesses.”

“That means we almost certainly need to drug the guests,” Kasim noted.

“It’s beginning to look that way,” Cabrillo admitted.

“The playlist features three sets,” Hanley continued. “That gives us two breaks between sets when you, as members of the band, can move freely about. Watch the chairman for the lead and be flexible—this entire caper is still unfolding.”

“Do we have the plane waiting to receive the icon after the theft?” Halpert asked.

“Arranged,” Cabrillo said. “A plane is inbound as we speak.”

“When’s the extraction scheduled?” Monica asked.

“Ten minutes before midnight, tonight,” Hanley said.

“The Oregon sails away from here sometime tomorrow,” Cabrillo said, “no matter what the outcome. So let’s just do our jobs and take our leave.”

“A little richer for the effort,” Murphy said, smiling.

“That’s the idea,” Cabrillo agreed.

THIN tendrils of richly scented incense smoke wafted toward the ceiling in the A-Ma Temple.

A scattering of tourists filed through the public areas and left offerings at the foot of various Buddhas. They walked on the pebbled paths, sat on the carved wooden benches on the grounds and stared at the sea in reflection. It was a place of tranquillity; a port of serenity in a storm of confusion and haste.

Winston Spenser was not feeling calm.