Golden Buddha

“Right, boss,” Po said.

“THE authorities have decided to trace the flow of water in the storm sewers with paint,” Hanley said to Cabrillo.

Cabrillo was wiping his wet face and hair with a hand towel. Once he was finished, he tossed it onto a table and ran a comb quickly through his hair.

“If they did realize our men had escaped through the sewers, I was hoping that removing all the blueprints would slow down the pursuit long enough for our men to be extracted,” he said. “Looks like we need to implement one of the backup plans.”

Hanley pointed to a computer screen. “As you know, the outflow pipe we picked for the exit into the bay is the only one on the southwest point of the Southern Peninsula. The outflow runs between the Nam Van Lakes and enters the water just north of the island of Taipa.”

Cabrillo stared at the computer screen. The image of the storm sewers looked like a crooked tree with sagging limbs. The sewer his team would use to exit was the trunk at the roots.

“Have we been able to establish contact with them?” Cabrillo asked.

“No luck with Hornsby, Meadows and Jones,” Hanley admitted. “The portable radios they carry just don’t seem to have enough power to penetrate the layers of soil overhead.”

“What about Murph and Kasim?”

“We’ve been trying,” Hanley said, “but the voice transmission is spotty. Data seems to be passing through, however—we are in contact by alphanumeric signals.”

“So we can type orders to the Zodiacs and they can respond?” Cabrillo asked.

“So far,” Hanley said.

Eric Stone interrupted the conversation. “Sirs,” he said, pointing to a screen, “the portable camera Halpert left near the manhole is showing something you might want to watch.”

Cabrillo and Hanley watched as the officer poured paint into the hole.

“Give me a simulation of how long that paint will take to reach our men,” Cabrillo said quickly.

Stone’s hands danced over the keyboards, and a few seconds later the screen showing the sewer system began slowly to take on a red color. The men stood watching as the color advanced along the arteries of the sewer system. A counter in the corner of the screen timed the movement.

“Seventeen minutes until the paint reaches where we believe the men are now,” Stone said slowly. “Twenty- two until it reaches the water above Taipa.”

At just that instant, a printer off to the side whirled and a sheet was spit into the tray. Hanley walked over and picked it up. “The order just went through to the police boats and the two Chinese navy boats here in Macau. They are supposed to begin patrols immediately to scan for the colored water, then, when they find an outflow, remain there on station.”

“Start a timer,” Cabrillo ordered quickly. “We’re in crunch time now. Make sure everyone is aboard and prepare the Oregon to sail. I want my team out of that storm sewer with the Golden Buddha and safely back aboard—then we need to vacate Macau by first light. With the Chinese navy on patrol, this ship is in jeopardy.”

“Broken Arrow?” Hanley asked.

“Confirm, Broken Arrow,” Cabrillo said.

“Put it out, Mr. Stone,” Hanley said.

Stone sounded the alarm. In a few minutes, the Oregon was a blur of activity.

TINY Gunderson was eating a salami sandwich and sipping on a glass of iced tea as he flew over the South China Sea. The brunette flight attendant, Rhonda Rosselli, was sitting in the flight engineer’s chair. The door to the cockpit was open, and the blonde copilot, Judy Michaels, walked inside and slid back into her seat. She was dressed in a khaki flight suit and her face was freshly scrubbed.

“Tracy is changing and checking the equipment,” she said.

“Did I tell you, you did a great job?” Gunderson asked. “You both are most convincing ho’s.”

“A master’s degree in political science from Georgetown and four years with the National Security Council, and I’m sleeping with the enemy,” Michaels said.

Gunderson popped the last of the sandwich in his mouth, then brushed the crumbs off his hands. Washing the last bite down with a sip of iced tea, he spoke.

“I think you forget I seduced a Romanian countess a few years ago,” Gunderson said. “We do what we have to, to accomplish the objective.”

“I remember, Chuck,” Michaels said. “In fact, I seem to remember you rather enjoyed the assignment.”

Gunderson smiled. “So you didn’t like yours?”

Michaels noted readings from the instrument panel on a clipboard. “The guy was a freak,” she said. “Capital PH, phreak.”

“Then it serves him right,” Gunderson said as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid from the pilot’s seat, “that we swiped his plane.”

“On the controls,” Michaels said.

“I have to use the restroom,” Gunderson said to Rosselli. “Be right back.”

IN the dining room on the Oregon, Winston Spenser was sipping tea and worrying. Off to one side, at a separate table, a guard sat on silent watch. Juan Cabrillo entered the dining room, walked over to Spenser, and handed him a slip of paper.

“That’s the account number of the bank in Paraguay,” Cabrillo said. “The transfer has taken place and the funds