Golden Buddha

Spenser thought wildly for a moment. Without the sale of the Buddha, he was financially ruined. But as soon as word got around about what he had tried here in Macau, his life as an art dealer was finished. His only hope was to change his identity and disappear. Escape to some faraway place and start his life anew. He truly was out of options.

“I can’t run without papers,” he said. “Can you help me there?”

Cabrillo had him and he knew it—now he just needed to reel him into the boat.

“Kevin,” Cabrillo said, “are you linked to the ship?”

“Yes, sir,” Nixon answered.

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Then shoot Mr. Spenser for me.”

“My pleasure,” Nixon said.

THE last ferry from Hong Kong slowed near the dock and the captain began manipulating the thrusters to line the ship up with the dock. On the bow, a man wearing highly polished Cole Haan loafers, a pair of lightweight wool pleated slacks and a silk-and-cotton-blend shirt waited to depart. His hair was longer than usual and wavy, and tucked into his shirt was a cravat of fine silk. If you knew what to look for, the signs of a face-lift were barely visible. But one would need to look close, as it had been an expensive and painstaking operation. Save for the fact that the man was exhausted from the flight from Indonesia to Hong Kong, and the long day he had already faced, you might not have noticed anything odd about him at all.

The man was forty-five but appeared a decade younger.

He watched the deckhands secure the lines. The men were young and fit and he liked that. He liked the ethnic look and enjoyed young men’s passions. In the country where he resided, he tended to seek out companions of Latin descent; there were many where he was from, and luckily they seemed attracted to him as well. Quite honestly, he wished he was home right now, cruising the hilly streets of his city in a quest for love or lust. But he was not. He was thousands of miles from home and he had a job to do. He smiled at one of the deckhands as he walked past, but the man did not return the greeting. Slowly, the ramp on the front of the ferry lowered.

Along with the few other passengers at this late hour, he made his way up the slight rise, then into a door marked Visitor. Handing over his passport, he waited as his entry into Macau was approved. Ten minutes later, he walked from the building and hailed a cab. Then he flipped open a satellite telephone and checked his e- mail.

BACK on the Oregon, Max Hanley was catching a catnap. His feet were propped up on a desk in the control room and his head slumped to one side in his chair. One of the operators touched his shoulder and he was instantly awake.

“Sir,” the operator said, “I think we have a problem.”

Hanley rubbed his face, then rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Someone flagged just passed through Macau immigration.”

The Corporation maintained a large database on their computers. Over the years, the names of many people had been entered. Whenever any of them cropped up on any of the numerous systems the Corporation hacked into, the information was examined and analyzed. Hanley took a sip of coffee and then read the sheet of paper the operator handed to him.

“We considered that possibility,” Hanley said quietly, “and now he’s here.”

NIXON walked over to Spenser, aimed at his head and pushed the button.

Then he stared at the image in the digital camera.

“Can you grow facial hair?” Cabrillo asked.

“It’s sparse,” Spenser admitted.

“What have we got,” Cabrillo asked Nixon, “to make him look different?”

Nixon walked over to the bench and rustled through a box of disguises. “We’ve got hair, makeup and prosthetic mouthpieces. How far do you want to go?”

“It’s the new you,” Cabrillo said. “Where are you planning to hide?”

Spenser considered the question. On the one hand, he was not interested in having anyone know his ultimate destination—on the other hand, from what he had seen so far, these people would probably find out anyway.

“I was thinking South America,” Spenser said.

Cabrillo nodded. “Go with a light tan, medium matching mustache, nothing big, and slightly longer hair,” he said to Nixon, who nodded and began removing items from the box.

“I know from your file you don’t speak Spanish or Portuguese, so if I were you I’d try Uruguay or Paraguay, where your British accent won’t stand out as much.”

Crabtree walked over. “Why don’t you have Kevin make him a Canadian?”

Cabrillo nodded. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “You do the switch for us and we will build you a new identity. You become a Canadian who immigrated to Paraguay a few years ago and hold citizenship. We’ll give you a flat one million U.S. dollars to start over and a plane ticket from Hong Kong to Asuncion. What you do then is up to you and luck.”

“The authorities will stop me if I try to leave Hong Kong with a million cash,” Spenser said, feeling hope.

“We’ll take care of that,” Cabrillo said. “Now pick a name.”

Nixon walked over and began to apply the disguise.

“Norman McDonald,” Spenser said.

“Norm McDonald it is,” Cabrillo agreed.

TINY Gunderson was watching the customs officials walk through the 737 when his digital communicator vibrated. He removed it from his pocket and stared at the readout. Memorizing the message, he erased it and slid the device back in his pocket. The customs agents walked to where Gunderson was standing, then signed a sheet of paper and handed it to the