Po nodded and raced up the driveway. Cutting across the lawn, he made his way to the front door and flung it open. Stanley Ho was sitting in the front living room on the couch, a portable telephone at his ear. Chief Inspector Rhee was in a chair nearby.
“What happened, sir?” Po asked Rhee.
Rhee rubbed his face before answering. “I think I was drugged—my head is starting to clear, but I’m still having trouble concentrating.”
Po nodded, then listened to Ho on the telephone.
“What do you mean?” he shouted. “We called the emergency number.”
“We have no record of any call,” the operator said.
“We’ll get back to you,” Ho said, disconnecting.
“Who are you?” he asked Po.
“This is Detective Ling Po,” Rhee answered, “one of my best men.”
“Here’s the situation,” Ho said. “A priceless piece of artwork I owned was stolen tonight.”
“What exactly, sir?” Po asked.
“A six-foot-tall solid-gold Buddha figure,” Ho said.
“A similar icon was heisted from the A-Ma Temple earlier tonight,” Po said. “I doubt that is a coincidence.”
“That makes me feel better,” Ho said sarcastically.
“The telephone call you just completed?” Po asked. “What was that about?”
“A guest became ill and we called a helicopter ambulance to take her to the hospital,” Ho said. “Only the hospital has no record of our request.”
“Did you call for the helicopter?”
“No, it was a security guard,” Ho said, “but I was standing right there.”
“I’ll question the guard,” Po said.
“That’s the problem,” Rhee interjected. “The guards are gone.”
“Did you hire them yourself?” Po asked.
“The insurance company supplied them,” Ho admitted.
“Which company?” Po asked.
Ho retrieved a card from his tuxedo and Po dialed the number. After explaining who he was, he grilled the company operator, left his cell phone number, and then hung up.
“She’s calling her boss, Mr. Ho,” Po said, “but she has no record of any contact with you in the last month.”
“That’s nonsense,” Ho said. “They had an underwriter come out here and everything.”
“Was he your usual agent?” the detective asked.
Suddenly it all became very clear to Ho. He’d been set up from the start.
“Those bastards,” Ho screamed. Sweeping his arm across a side table, he spilled the knickknacks on the floor then threw a chair against the wall.
“Calm down, Mr. Ho,” Detective Po said quietly, “and tell me what has happened from the start.”
HANLEY watched the blips on the GPS screen showing the progress of the van, limousine and Peugeot. All were progressing according to plan, so he flipped over the page in the playbook.
“Time to report the kidnappings,” he said to an operator.
The man dialed the Macau police and gave them Lassiter’s address. Then he did the same with Iselda. Two minutes later, police cars were racing to the separate scenes. It was one more element of confusion and discord in an already confusing situation.
Below A-Ma Temple near the Maritime Museum, Linda Ross slid the Peugeot to a stop and climbed out. Reinholt, who was sitting in the passenger seat, had been hit by the bullet that had shattered the rearview mirror and was bleeding from his right ear.
“Help him to the boat,” she said to Pryor.
Then she raced over to the dock, where a thirty-foot-long high-performance Scarab sat waiting. Climbing aboard, she raced to the helm and started the motors. Once the engines had settled into an idle, she climbed off again and walked toward the Peugeot.
“Get him aboard and keep his head elevated,” she said as Pryor scurried past.
Then she took the keys to the Peugeot, opened the trunk and stared inside. Twisting a timer, she waited to make sure that it was counting down, then raced back to the boat.
“Can you drive this?” she asked Pryor.
“Damn straight,” he said as he engaged the drives.
Ross started to administer first aid to Reinholt as the Scarab pulled away from the dock. The boat was one hundred yards from the dock and just climbing up on plane when the Peugeot erupted in a fireball that lit the night sky.
“WE have an explosion near the Maritime Museum,” the dispatcher
