Cabrillo stared at the players, then at the crowd that was still milling about the tent, some seated, more still flitting from table to table. “I’ll put the background music on in a second. That should signal we’re about to begin.”
He walked over to the main console and adjusted a switch. At the sound of the music, the crowd began to make their way to their assigned seats. Stanley Ho was standing just inside one of the tents on the left side of the Y. He was attempting to regale Huxley with stories of his vast wealth and power.
“I love the Buddha,” Huxley said, smiling. “Perhaps you have some other artwork you could show me later.”
“I’d be glad to,” Ho said. “In fact, there are many pieces in my upper office that might interest you. Maybe we could slip away later and take a look.”
“I’d like that,” Huxley said.
Ho nodded greedily. He was already imagining the possibilities the suicide blonde might offer his libido—if he needed to ignore his guests for the opportunity, so be it.
“I need to go to the front and make my introductions now,” Ho said, “but we can meet later.”
Huxley smiled and slinked away. Ho walked through the crowd, stopping at various tables to glad-hand his guests. A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the bandstand.
“I’m Stanley Ho,” he said to Halpert. “Might I use your microphone to make an introduction?”
Halpert handed his microphone to Ho, who tapped the top to be sure it was working.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said.
The crowd quieted down.
“I’d like to welcome you to my Good Friday party.”
The crowd clapped.
“I hope that you are finding the food and drink to your liking.”
Another round of applause.
“I hope each of you has a chance to view my latest acquisition, a good-luck charm. I have displayed the piece at the entrance to the tent. Like another we honor tonight, he signifies enlightenment and spirituality and that is the theme of this evening’s festivities. Now, if we could take a second to remember those that have sacrificed themselves for our freedoms.”
The crowd was silent.
“Thank you,” Ho said a few moments later. “We will have fireworks and light displays tonight, as well as an excellent band straight from California in the United States. Please join me in welcoming the Minutemen.”
He handed the microphone back to Halpert. At the same time, the lights in the tent began to dim until a single spotlight illuminated Halpert’s back, which was turned from the crowd. The band keyed their instruments and the opening notes of the Eagles song “Already Gone” began pulsing through the crowd.
Halpert swung around and began to belt out the lyrics.
MORE than any one thing, the key to a successful robbery is stealth. The pair of men on the motorcycles knew this and they moved quietly through the AMa Temple toward their target. The tourists had gone home for the night and most of the monks were in the dining hall partaking of their simple evening meal. The side room where their target stood was dimly lit, and the men, who were dressed in black clothes and face masks, blended into the air like whispery goblins.
“There he is,” one man whispered.
The man was pushing a heavy-duty dolly stolen from a rental store the previous night. He wheeled it over, examined the artifact, then waited while his partner closed the door on the wooden crate and tilted it so the other man could slide the dolly underneath. After securing it with straps, they began to make their way toward the door.
WINSTON Spenser was past wine and into cognac. He was pleasantly buzzed and beginning to feel that he might just accomplish his goal. He glanced at his watch. He had some time before he needed to slip away and meet the armored-car company at the temple. Then he would make his way to the airport and consummate the sale with the software billionaire.
By first light, he’d be on his way away from here, then he’d take a break from all the drinking.
Finishing the snifter, he motioned to a passing waiter for a refill. Then he turned to one of the guests seated next to him.
“Excellent band.”
“They truly are,” Crabtree replied.
TWO hundred and twenty-seven miles from Macau, in the South China Sea, the burgundy jet was passing over Tungsha Island, inbound for landing. The software billionaire walked forward, fastening a sash around his black silk kimono.
“The ladies are tired,” he said with a barely hidden trace of pride. “Could you prepare pitchers of coffee, orange juice and some pastries and take them to the rear?”
“Immediately,” the blond-haired man said, leaping to his feet.
Continuing forward, the billionaire knocked on the cockpit door.
The copilot opened the door. “Sir?” he asked.
“How far out are we?”
“Less than half an hour,” the copilot said, glancing at his navigational chart.
“Have you arranged for refueling?”
“All taken care of, sir,” the pilot said, turning his head toward the cockpit door.
