pour the punch from crystal pitchers into small glass cups at each setting. Most of the guests had returned to their seats by the time Ho walked through the center of the tent toward the stage. Snagging a cup of punch from a passing waiter, he continued toward the stage.
Mark Murphy was setting the last of the charges around the perimeter of the grounds and tent. He pocketed a small remote trigger, then walked around to the rear of the stage. Juan Cabrillo was standing off to one side of the stage, staring at the crowd. Crabtree had her large purse on the floor next to her and she moved her foot to make sure it was at her feet. Kasim, Lincoln and Halpert stood off to one side, awaiting their cues. At the front of the tent, the trio from Redman Security paced nervously.
Ho walked over to Cabrillo. “Is the P.A. system on?”
“Just a second,” Cabrillo said as he flicked a switch. “Okay, sir.”
Ho tapped the microphone to see that it was working.
THE monk walked out from the dining room, then stopped in his tracks. There was a banner with Arabic writing stretched across the alcove where the Golden Buddha had been placed—but the massive golden icon was nowhere to be seen. He raced back to the dining room to alert the others. A dozen monks in yellow robes entered the main temple. After appraising the situation, the head of the monks walked into the office and lifted up the telephone.
“Why don’t they make dollies with brakes?” one of the motorcyclists said as he dug in his heels to slow the descent down the hill outside the temple.
The other man was in front of the dolly, trying to slow Buddha down, but the loose soil was not allowing him much purchase and he was sliding downhill fast.
“Drop it down and dig in the rear,” he whispered.
With more of a slide than a controlled descent, they reached the bottom of the hill. Once they had regained control of the dolly, they quickly wheeled it over to the motorcycle sidecar and cut the straps. The man at the front lowered the door on the sidecar.
“Let’s get him in,” he said.
At just that instant, a gong on the grounds of the temple started sounding.
“Damn,” the first man said as the two wrestled the chunk of metal into the sidecar, “I figured we’d at least be out of the parking lot before someone caught on.”
“I’ll strap him down,” the second man said. “You start your engine.”
The man climbed aboard the motorcycle and pushed the starter. The engine roared to life. The second man finished with securing the Buddha and walked over to his motorcycle and started the engine. Looking up the hill, he caught a glimpse of several monks starting down, and he beeped his horn. The first man turned his head and, upon seeing the monks stumbling down the hill, reached for the clutch, then toed the motorcycle into gear. He twisted the throttle and began driving out of the parking lot.
“AGAIN,” Ho said, “thank you all for coming. Before I make a toast, let’s give a round of applause to the Minutemen.”
The crowd clapped.
“Now,” Ho said, “if you will all raise your glasses.”
He paused.
“To peace and prosperity on this holy day,” he said.
“Let us all remember the sacrifices the few have made so that the many may find peace.”
Ho tipped the glass cup to his lips and took a drink. The crowd followed suit.
“The dinner will be served now,” Ho said, “and in a second the band will begin again.”
“THE potion is in,” Hanley said to everyone listening, “we move in five minutes.”
Sometimes, if you know where to look, a person can realize that life is a well-orchestrated ballet. If one is in tune, seemingly unrelated events begin to reveal themselves. If there were someone high above the party, what he would see right now would be two distinctly different groups. The people from the Corporation began to move like pieces on a chessboard, while those who were part of the party seemed to act as a single unit.
Sung Rhee tried to focus his eyes, but the view of the inside of the tent was ebbing and flowing. Specks of blue dotted the far edges of his peripheral vision. Then he saw what he thought was a yellow-and-red weasel out of the corner of his eye, but when he moved his head, it was gone. At just that instant, his cellular telephone rang.
“Rhee.”
“I can barely hear you, sir,” one of his detectives said.
Rhee stared at the tiny telephone. He was holding it a foot from his mouth, as if unable to gauge distances. He tried to move it to the proper place, but he slammed it into his temple.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Better. Sir, we just received a call from the head abbot at the A-Ma Temple. They report that a pair of men has just stolen a large golden Buddha they had on display.”
Rhee thought for a second. The Buddha was right outside the tent.
“That’s all right,” Rhee said, “I saw our friend earlier.”
“What are you talking about, sir?”
Rhee stared at the floral arrangement in the center of the table. The head of a tiny horse appeared and spoke in a British accent.
“Listen, you,” Rhee said, “my horse is here.”
“Sir,” the detective said, “I’m coming over there right away.”
Rhee dropped the telephone and turned to the person next to him.
