Golden Buddha

Stone punched commands into the computer, and a few seconds later a worldwide map filled one of the large monitors. “What’s the fastest way to fly the chairman to his meeting?”

Stone punched in commands and the route filled the screen. “It’s a long flight,” he said, “and I assume you want it nonstop?”

“Absolutely,” Hanley said.

“That pretty much ensures that we’ll need to use the G550, then.”

“Where are they now?” Hanley asked.

Stone punched in commands and flight records over-laid the map.

“The Asian G550 is in route to Hawaii, so that’s out,” Stone noted. “Paris on one—no, hold on—the South American G550 just landed in Dubai. She’s due to leave again tomorrow.”

“How long for her to reach Da Nang?”

“It’s thirty-six hundred miles, so roughly six and a half hours.”

Hanley took a pad of paper and a pencil and began writing numbers. “It’ll be tight,” he said finally. “We’re bucking time zones, refueling and getting fast clearances to land, but it’s doable.”

“Want me to book the jet?” Stone asked.

Hanley handed him a sheet of paper. “This is the flight plan.”

“What else?”

“Make sure our man in the Vietnamese air force is greased so we don’t have any problems getting in and out of Da Nang for a quick refuel,” Hanley said.

“What else?”

“Set up a secure link to Karamozov,” Hanley said. “I need to confirm.”

“Anything else?” Stone said as he made notes on a pad.

“When all that’s done,” Hanley said, “call Truitt to relieve you and go get some sleep.”

“What about you, sir?” Stone asked.

“I’ll catnap here,” Hanley said, “right where I like to be.”

THE Dalai Lama was praying in front of a statue of Buddha when Overholt walked into the room. He stood quietly until he rose.

“I sensed you come into the room,” the Dalai Lama said, “and you seem happy.”

Overholt asked, “Are you ready to return?”

“Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “very much so.”

“Good,” Overholt said, “it will be tomorrow.”

“Did your people recover the Golden Buddha?”

“They did,” Overholt said, nodding.

“And have they found the compartment yet?”

“They’re still working on it, Your Holiness.”

The Dalai Lama nodded and smiled. “They’ll figure it out. And then they’ll know what to do with what they find.” He paused. “Hard to believe,” the Dalai Lama said, “that something my people have owned all along shall be our salvation.”

“We’re not home free yet, Your Holiness,” Overholt said.

The Dalai Lama smiled and considered this for a few moments. “No, Mr. Overholt, we’re not—but we will be. Greed is what brought the Chinese to my country. And greed again will set us free.”

Overholt nodded silently.

“Life is a circle,” the Dalai Lama said, “and someday you will see that.”

Overholt smiled as the Dalai Lama began to walk toward the door.

“Now,” he said kindly, “let my people feed you. You must be hungry from your long journey.”

The two men walked out of the room toward a destiny determined by an obscure ship manned by mercenaries.

AT 11 A.M. local time, the Oregon exited the fog bank. In front of the advancing storm, the weather was perfect, a calm before the storm. The sky was azure blue and the seas were as flat and reflective as a mirror. In the hours since leaving Macau, the Oregon had made good time. The ship was off Hainan Island in international waters. At the current rate of speed, the vessel would pass along Singapore tomorrow at noon local time. After turning and traveling through the Strait of Malacca and heading north, she was due to arrive high in the Bay of Bengal off Bangladesh sometime around 2 P.M. Sunday.

By then, if all went according to plan, the Dalai Lama would be in power again, and the Corporation would make its exit with no one ever the wiser.

Juan Cabrillo woke in his stateroom, then showered and dressed.

Leaving his suite, he walked along the gangways toward the control room, then stopped and opened the door. Max Hanley was asleep in his chair, but he sat upright as soon as Cabrillo entered. Hanley rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured two cups.