Golden Buddha

“Helicopter four-two, X-ray, Alpha,” he said, “go ahead.”

“Six-three, report one Indio,” Ross said over the roar of the boat’s engines.

Sixty three was Ross’s employee number; Indio was the code for injured party.

On the Oregon, Hanley reached for the microphone. “Helicopter four-two, X-ray, Alpha, I’ve got it, continue to point agreed. Six-three, report Indio.”

“Eight-four.”

“Get me the file on eighty-four,” Hanley shouted to an operator, who pulled up Reinholt’s records on the computer screen. His blood type was at the top of the chart.

“Six-three, understand,” Hanley said, “Bravo affirm.”

“Six-three, ETA in five.”

“Terminate communications,” Hanley ordered.

Ross clicked the button three times. “Hit the gas,” she shouted.

“Go down to the clinic and check the blood supply,” Hanley said, staring at the computer, “we need AB positive standing ready.”

“You,” he said to another operator, “go on deck and watch for Linda’s approach through the night scope. As soon as you see the boat approaching, flash the deck lights, then help her off-load the injured party.”

“Got it,” the man said, racing away.

At that exact same instant, the helicopter pilot was pulling a white Chevrolet SUV out of a gate at the far end of the runway. Driving down the road, he stopped at a stop sign then merged with the traffic leaving the airport. He was just touching thirty miles an hour when two police cars with flashing lights passed and then slowed to turn down the road where he had come from. Punching the accelerator to pass a bus, he turned to Crabtree.

“That was close,” he said.

Crabtree was checking Spenser’s pulse by placing her hand on his jugular.

“True, but we’re free and clear,” she said.

THE boat slid alongside the Oregon and Pryor grabbed a line tossed through the air. Tying the Scarab into the sling that would lift it back onto the deck, he waited until Ross and the operator from the control room had carried off Reinholt. Then he loosened the lines and positioned the Scarab in the slings that were already in the water. Shutting off the engines, he climbed off the boat and walked over to a switch on a nearby bulkhead. Slowly the Scarab rose from the water. Once it was clear of the upper deck, he pushed another button that rotated the davits around so the Scarab was over the deck. The entire operation required only a few minutes, and that was good. In the distance, across the water, he could see the sweep of the searchlight from a police patrol boat.

As soon as the davit stopped in its arc, he pushed another switch. Four of what looked like rusty metal plates rose from the deck of the ship and surrounded the Scarab. Then he pushed another button and a retractable roof slid closed over the vessel. By the time the patrol boat passed alongside in the channel, the man was already inside and making his way to the clinic.

22

IN his disguise, Juan Cabrillo looked like an aging academic or a retired bureaucrat, not the leader of a group of specialized operatives. Walking through downtown Macau, he fiddled with his personal communicator, then waited for Hanley to answer.

At this instant, his team was about one-quarter of the way through the assignment and there was still a host of variables. The first part of the operation had gone well—the team had loaded the Buddha onto the helicopter as planned and made a smooth exit, but he had no way to know the progress of team two. That information would come from the control room on the Oregon.

Cabrillo had just passed a goldsmith’s shop when his communicator vibrated.

An address was displayed and he made his way toward the location.

“YES, sir,” the Macau police officer said into a cellular telephone, “both he and his wife were bound and left in bed.”

“Were they harmed?” Po asked.

“No, sir,” the policeman said. “In fact, whoever did this left music playing on the stereo to entertain them, and a note of apology.”

“How were they restrained?” Po asked. “Do they have a description of the assailants?”

“No,” the policeman admitted, “they witnessed nothing. Both of them have small punctures on their upper arms, like they were given shots from a hypodermic needle, and they were bound with plastic ties. They only awoke when we arrived.”

Whoever this crew was, they were good—Po had to give them that.

“Take the note to the lab,” he said, “and make sure the technicians carefully search the house for clues.”

“They’re doing that now, sir,” the policeman said.

“Good,” Po said, “I’ll be in touch.”

He disconnected and turned to Rhee.

“They drugged the insurance man and his wife,” he said quietly, “and left a note of apology.”

Stanley Ho was becoming increasingly agitated. Not only had he been made a fool of—he had been made a fool of in an open and obvious manner. It was that son-of-a-bitch British art dealer.

“So I was set up from the start,” Ho said loudly. “The countess was fake, her illness a ploy and the air