Fear gripped him. The Golden Buddha was laughing at him—of that he was sure. The calm gaze and unmoving solidness made him uneasy. Spenser dreamed of when he would be rid of the curse and collect his money. He could see it in his mind. The armored-car company picking up the icon again and delivering it to the software billionaire’s plane. The crates of money he would receive.
He rose from the bench in the main temple, then walked out the door and down the hillside to his waiting limousine. The parking lot was half empty. Most of the people in Macau were preparing for the parade and tonight’s parties. A pair of motorcycles sat off to one side under a tree. Spenser didn’t notice them—he was wrapped up in his own certain failure. Climbing in the rear of the limousine, he gave the driver directions. A few moments later the limousine rolled out of the lot.
“I’ve seen what I need to see,” one of the motorcyclists said.
“I agree,” said the other.
SIX Chinese valets awaited the first of the guests. After showing their invitations to the guard, they pulled through the gate, drove up the circular drive, then climbed from their cars near the front door of the mansion.
The sun was slowly dipping in the west and the view from the mansion was an expanse of sea lit with the golden hues of a waning sun. Spenser climbed from the rear of his limousine and stared at the scene. He was dressed in a black tuxedo that hid the pools of sweat under his arms. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the foyer.
Juan Cabrillo rolled down the window of the van and handed the guard a slip of paper.
“Park over by the garages,” the guard said, “then unload your equipment and wheel it around back.”
Cabrillo nodded. When the gate opened, he drove around to the garages, then backed the van up near the edge of the lawn.
“Showtime,” he said.
And the band climbed from the van and began shuttling equipment to the rear of the house.
Cabrillo walked around to the rear of the house, seeking Ross. He saw her in the distance talking on a cell phone. Several people were standing nearby.
“We’re The Minutemen,” he said when she had disconnected.
“Good,” Ross said. “The bandstand is over there.”
“We have some large speakers,” Cabrillo said, “that we’ll need some help moving.”
“Let me summon some help.”
“We like to take care of our equipment ourselves,” Cabrillo said. “We just need some carts.”
Ross nodded and turned to one of the caterers.
“This is the leader of the band,” she said. “He needs to borrow a few of the carts you use to move the tables.”
The man nodded and motioned to Cabrillo. “Right this way.”
Mark Murphy stood on the bandstand and surveyed the surroundings. Three large tents were erected, forming a Y with the band at the far end. The bandstand was slightly elevated from the ground, and to the rear the back of the tent had slits that opened to provide access. Electrical cables to power their speakers and lights stretched out under the tent. He sat his guitar down and poked through the slit in the back. Forty feet behind the rear of the tent was part of the wall that formed the boundary of the house. To the right side of the Y portion of the tent, some thirty yards away, was the rear wall of the mansion and the doors leading to the kitchens and inside. He began to walk the perimeter of the tent.
At the front, or top, of the Y were the entrances for the guests. In the opening between the legs of the Y there was a portable fountain and a small wooden platform that was currently empty. Murphy continued around the other side, examining the way the tents were fastened to the ground. There were large metal stakes on the edges with guy wires running farther out onto the lawn, where they were staked into the earth. He stared up. Long metal poles, two per each section of the three separate tents, poked through the tops. He found a slit in the tent and walked over to one of the poles. The bases sat on plastic holders.
Murphy figured it wouldn’t take much to bring it all down.
Ho was making his way back to the mansion when he stopped in his tracks.
Several longhaired men were approaching the tent, but that didn’t concern him. What did concern him was the lady that was following. Ho pivoted on his heel and walked over.
“I’m Stanley Ho,” he said, smiling. “I’m your host.”
“I’m Candace,” Julia Huxley said.
Ho’s eyes were riveted on Huxley’s ample assets. “I find this hard to believe,” Ho said, “but I don’t remember meeting you before.”
“I’m with the band,” Candace said, smiling wickedly. “At least I came with them.”
“Performer?” Ho asked.
“In many ways,” Candace said, smiling.
Ho was beginning to get the feeling that if he played his cards right, he might get lucky.
“I need to go inside and greet my guests,” Ho said quickly as he saw Iselda approaching from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps we could talk later.”
He turned and moved toward the back door of the mansion.
“Mr. Ho,” Ross shouted after him, “I think we have the placement figured out.”
“Just take care of it,” Ho said over his shoulder.
