Dear Readers,

A few years ago, while I was writing Flood Tide, I realized that Dirk

Pitt needed some help on a particular assignment, and so I dreamed up

Juan Cabrillo.

Cabrillo ran a ship called the Oregon, on the outside completely nondescript,

but on the inside packed with state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering

equipment. It was a completely private enterprise, available

for any government agency that could afford it. It went where no warship

could go, transported secret cargo without suspicion, plucked data

out of the air--it was the perfect complement to NUMA.

In fact, I had so much fun writing about the Oregon and its rakish,

one-legged chief that I was sorry to see it sail off when its task was

done. I promised myself I'd find a way to bring them back some day--

and here, I am pleased to say, they are. Golden Buddha is the first in a

new series about Juan Cabrillo's merry men (and women!), and I hope

you get as much of a kick reading about them as I did creating them.

And who knows, maybe some time they'll cross paths with Dirk Pitt

again. . . .

Clive Cussler

DIRK PITT9 ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER

Valhalla. Rising

Atlantis Found

Flood Tide

Shock Wave

Inca Gold

Sahara,

Dragon

Treasure

Cyclops

Deep Six

Pacific Vortex

Night Probe

Vixen 03

Raise the Titanic'.

GOLDEN

BUDDHA

The Mediterranean Caper

FICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS

Fire Ice

Blue Gold

Serpent

FICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND CRAIG DIRGO

Golden Buddha

NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND CRAIG DIRGO

The Sea Hunters II

The Sea Hunters

Dirk Pitt Revealed

BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

i:

A Berkley Book

Published by The Berkley Publishing Group

A division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors'

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Sandecker, RLLLP.

"Foreword" by Clive Cussler copyright © 2003 by Clive Cussler.

Cover art by Edwin Herder.

Cover design by Rich Hasselberger.

Text design by Julie Rogers.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means

without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only

authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of

copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors' rights is appreciated.

BERKLEY and the "B" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First edition: October 2003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cussler, Clive.

Golden Buddha / Clive Cussler and Craig Dirgo.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-425-19172-9

1. International relations--Fiction. 2. Petroleum reserves--Fiction. 3. Tibet (China)--

Fiction. 4. Ship captains--Fiction. I. Dirgo, Craig. II. Title.

For my brothers

Larry, Steve, Cliff and John,

and my sister, Dawn,

who never let a busy day

get in the way of a good nap.

PS3553.U75G65 2003

813'.54--<k21

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 987654321

2003052217

FOREWORD

Just so you know, this is not a Dirk Pitt adventure, nor a NUMA Files-Kurt

Austin story. This book is based on the old tramp cargo ship Oregon that I described in the Pitt tale titled Flood Tide.

Beneath her derelict superstructure and rusty hull, Oregon is a mechanical

marvel of technology and scientific genius. She is crewed by a

group of highly educated and intelligent mercenaries who function under

the myriad umbrellas of a far-flung corporate conglomerate. They

contract with governments, corporations and private interests around

the world to fight corruption and challenge the sinister threats of rogue

villains in the exotic ports of the seven seas.

Craig Dirgo and I worked together to create an entirely new series

of adventures with a cast of characters unlike any ever seen before.

I sincerely hope you will find it an enjoyable departure as well as a

fun read.

Clive Cussler

GOLDEN

BUDDHA

CAST OF CHARACTERS

THE CORPORATION TEAM

juan cabrillo: Chairman of the Corporation

max hanley: President of the Corporation

richard truitt: Vice President of Operations for the Corporation

THE CREW

(in alphabetic order)

george adams: Helicopter Pilot/Operative

rick barrett: Assistant Chef/Operative

monica crabtree: Supply and Logistics Coordinator/Operative

carl gannon: General Operations/Operative

chuck "tiny" gunderson: Chief Pilot/Operative

michael halpert: Finance and Accounting/Operative

cliff hornsby: General Operations/Operative

julia huxley: Medical Officer/Operative

pete jones: General Operations/Operative

hali kasim: Communications Expert/Operative

larry king: Sniper/Operative

franklin lincoln: General Operations/Operative

2     CLIVE CUSSLER

bob meadows: General Operations/Operative

mark murphy: Weapons Specialist/Operative

kevin nixon: Magic Shop Specialist/Operative

sam pryor: Propulsion Engineer/Operative

gunther reinholt: Propulsion Engineer/Operative

tom reyes: General Operations/Operative

linda ross: Security and Surveillance/Operative

eddie seng: Director of Shore Operations/Operative

eric stone: Control Room Operations/Operative

PRELUDE

THE OTHERS

the dalai lama: Spiritual Leader of Tibet

hu jintao: President of China

langston ovERHOLT iv: CIA Officer who hires the Corporation to free

Tibet

legchog zhuren: Chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region

sung rhee: Chief Inspector of the Macau Police

ling po: Detective with the Macau Police

stanley ho: Macau billionaire and buyer of the Golden Buddha

marcus friday: U.S. software billionaire who agrees to buy stolen Buddha

winston spenser: Crooked art dealer who attempts to steal the Golden

Buddha

michael talbot: San Francisco art dealer who works for Friday

MARCH 31, 1959

THE FLOWERS SURROUNDING the summer palace of Norbulingka

were closed but ready to bloom. The parklike setting of the complex

was beautiful. High stone walls surrounded it, within the walls

were trees and lush gardens, and in the center was a smaller yellow wall,

through which only the Dalai Lama, his advisors and a few select monks

passed. Here were tranquil pools, the home of the Dalai Lama and a

temple for prayer.

It was a sea of order and substance centered in a country in chaos.

Not far away, perched on the side of a hill, was the imposing winter

palace of Potala. The massive structure seemed to step down the hillside.

Potala contained over one thousand rooms, was populated by hundreds

of monks and dated from centuries before. There was an imposing orderliness

to the building. Stone steps led from the mid levels of the seven

4     CLIVE CUSSLER

story palace in an orderly zigzag downward and then stopped at a

gigantic block stone wall that formed the base of the behemoth. The

precisely laid stones rose nearly eighty feet into the air.

At the base was a flat stretch of land where tens of thousands of

Tibetans were assembled. The people, as well as another large group at

Norbulingka, had come to protect their spiritual leader. Unlike the hated

Chinese who occupied their country, the peasants carried not rifles but

knives and bows. Instead of artillery, they had only flesh, bone and

spirit. They were outgunned, but to protect their leader they would have

gladly laid down their lives.

Their sacrifice would require but one word from the Dalai Lama.

INSIDE THE YELLOW wall, the Dalai Lama was praying at the shrine

to Mahakala, his personal protector. The Chinese had offered to

take him to their headquarters for his protection, but he knew that was

not their true motive. It was the Chinese from whom he needed protection,

and the letter the Dalai Lama had just received from Ngabo Ngawang

Jigme, the governor of Chamdo, held a truer picture. After a

discussion with General Tan, the Chinese military officer in command

of the region, Jigme was certain the Chinese were planning to begin

shelling the crowds to disperse them.

Once that happened, the loss of life would be horrific.

Raising from his knees, the Dalai Lama walked over to a table and

rang a bell. Almost instantly the door opened and the head of the Kusun

Depon, the Dalai Lama's personal bodyguards, appeared. Through the

open door he could see several Sing Gha warriors. The monastic policemen

lent a terrifying presence. Each was over six feet tall, wore a

fearsome mustache, and was dressed in a black padded suit that made

them appear even larger and more invincible.

Several Dogkhyi, the fierce Tibetan mastiff guard dogs, stood on

their haunches at attention.

"Please summon the oracle," the Dalai Lama said quietly.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

FROM HIS HOUSE in Lhasa, Langston Overholt III was monitoring

the deteriorating conditions. He stood alongside the radio operator

as the man adjusted the dial.

"Situation critical, over."

The radio operator turned the dial to reduce the static.

"Believe red rooster will enter the henhouse, over."

The operator watched the gauges carefully.

"Need immediate positive support, over."

Again a lag as the operator adjusted the dial.

"I recommend eagles and camels, over."

The man stood mute as the radio warbled and the green gauges

returned to a series of wavelike motions. The words were out in the

ether now; the rest was out of their control. Overholt wanted airplanes

--and he wanted them now.

THE ORACLE, DORJE Drakden, was deep in a trance. The setting

sun came through the small window high on the wall of the temple

and cast a path of light that ended at an incense holder. The wisps of

smoke danced on the beam of light and a strange, almost cinnamon

smell filled the air. The Dalai Lama sat cross-legged on a pillow against

a wall a few feet from Drakden, who was hunched over, knees down,

with his forehead on the wood floor. Suddenly, in a deep voice, the

oracle spoke.

"Leave tonight! Go."

Then, still with his eyes closed, still in a trance, he rose, walked over

to a table and stopped exactly one foot away. Then he reached down,

picked up a quill pen, dipped it in ink and drew a detailed map on a

sheet of paper before collapsing to the ground.

The Dalai Lama rushed to the oracle's side, lifted his head and patted

his cheek. Slowly, the man began to awaken. After sliding a pillow

6     CLIVE CUSSLER

under his head, the Dalai Lama rose and poured a cup of water from

an earthenware pitcher. Carrying the cup back to the oracle, he placed

it under his lips.

"Sip, Dorje," he said quietly.

Slowly, the older man recovered and pulled himself to a seated position.

As soon as the Dalai Lama was sure the oracle was on the mend,

he walked over to the table and stared at the ink drawing.

It was a detailed map showing his escape route from Lhasa to the

Indian border.

OVERHOLT HAD BEEN born into his career. At least one Overholt

had served in every war the United States had fought since the

Revolutionary War. His grandfather had been a spy in the Civil War,

his father during World War I, and Langston the third had served in

the OSS in World War II before switching to the CIA when it'd been

formed in 1947. Overholt was now thirty-three, with a fifteen-year history

of espionage.

In all that time, Overholt had never seen a situation quite this ominous.

This was not a king or a queen in peril, not a pontiff or dictator.

This was the head of a religion. A man who was a God-king, a deity,

a leader that traced his lineage back to a.d. 1351. If something did not

happen quickly, the communist scourge would soon be taking him prisoner.

Then the human chess match would be over.

IN MANDALAY, BURMA, Overholt's message was received and forwarded

to Saigon where it was transferred to Manila, then over a

secure underwater cable to Long Beach, California, then on to Washington,

D.C.

As the situation in Tibet continued to deteriorate, the CIA started

to assemble a force in Burma. The group was not large enough to defeat

GOLDEN BUDDHA     7

the Chinese, just large enough to slow them down until more heavily

armed ground troops could be brought to bear.

Disguised as a front company named Himalayan Air Services, the

armada consisted of fourteen C-47s: ten that could drop supplies and

four that had just been converted to first-generation gunships. This force

was augmented with six F-86 fighters and a lone, fresh-offthe-assembly-line

Boeing B-52 heavy bomber.

ALAN DULLES SAT in the Oval Office, puffing on his pipe and

pointing out the situation to President Eisenhower. Then the CIA

director sat back and let the president think for a moment. Several

minutes passed in silence.

"Mr. President," he said at last, "the CIA took the liberty of arranging

a first-strike force in Burma. If you say the word, they'll be

airborne in an hour."

Since his election in 1952, Eisenhower had faced the McCarthy hearings,

the first advisors into Vietnam and a heart attack. He'd had to

order ten thousand troops to Little Rock, Arkansas, to enforce integration;

witness the Soviets take the lead in space; and have his vice president

stoned by hostile crowds in Latin America. Now Cuba had a

communist leader only ninety miles from U.S. soil. He was weary.

"No, Alan," he said quietly, after a pause. "I learned as a general

that you have to know how to pick your fights. We need to stay clear

of this Tibet situation right now."

Dulles rose and shook Eisenhower's hand. "I'll notify my men," he

said.

In Overholt's command post in Lhasa, the ashtray on the table near

the radio was filled with the stubs of unfiltered cigarettes. Hours passed,

with only the confirmation that the radio transmission had been received.

Every half hour, Tibetan messengers delivered intelligence. Visual

reconnaissance reported that the crowds outside the palaces near

Lhasa were growing minute by minute, but the messengers were unable

8     CLIVECUSSLER

to take an accurate count. Tibetans continued to stream down from the

mountains, armed with sticks, rocks and knives. The milling mass would

be cannon fodder for the well-armed Chinese.

So far the Chinese had taken no action, but the reports mentioned

troop buildups on the roads leading into the fabled city. Overholt had

seen this same scenario unfold five years ago in Guatemala, when a

crowd supporting the anticommunist rebels under Carlos Armas had

suddenly sparked. Chaos had ensued. Forces under President Jacobo

Arbenz had begun to fire into the crowd to restore order, and before

dawn broke, the hospitals and morgues had been filled to capacity.

Overholt had organized the demonstration and the knowledge clouded

his mind like a shroud.

Just then the radio crackled.

"Top Hat negative, over."

Overholt's heart skipped a beat. The planes he sought were not coming.

"Papa Bear will okay sweeping the path if critically necessary during

extraction. Advise on departure and subsequent travel, over."

Eisenhower said not to attack Lhasa, Overholt thought, but Dulles

has agreed to cover the escape out of Tibet on his own, if it came to

that. If he worked things right, Overholt thought, he wouldn't need to

put his boss's ass on the line.

"Sir?" the radio operator asked.

Overholt was jarred from his thoughts.

"They're expecting a reply," the operator said quietly.

Overholt reached for the microphone. "Acknowledged and agreed,"

Overholt said, "and thank Papa Bear for the gesture. We'll call from

the road. Closing office, over."

The radio operator stared up at Overholt. "Guess that's that."

"Break it all down," Overholt said quietly, "we'll be leaving soon."

GOLDEN BUDDHA     9

INSIDE THE YELLOW wall, preparations for the Dalai Lama's escape

into exile were moving at a blistering pace. Overholt was cleared

past the guards and waited to be seen. Five minutes later, the Dalai

Lama, wearing his black-framed prescription glasses and yellow robes,

entered the office in the administration room. The spiritual leader of

Tibet looked weary but resigned.

"I can tell by your face," he said quietly, "no help is coming."

"I'm sorry, Your Holiness," Overholt replied. "I did all that I

could."

"Yes, Langston, I am certain you did. However, the situation is as

it is," the Dalai Lama noted, "so I have decided to go into exile. I cannot

risk the chance of my people being slaughtered."

Overholt had arrived expecting to use all his powers of persuasion

to convince the Dalai Lama to flee--instead he found the decision had

already been made. He should have expected as much--over the years

he had grown to know the Dalai Lama, and he had never seen anything

that made him doubt the leader's commitment to his people.

"My men and I would like to accompany you," Overholt offered.

"We have detailed maps, radios and some supplies."

"We'd be glad to have you come along," the Dalai Lama said. "We

leave shortly."

The Dalai Lama turned to leave.

"I wish I could have done more," Overholt said.

"Things are as they are," the Dalai Lama said at the door. "For

now, however, you should assemble your men and meet us at the river."

HIGH ABOVE NORBULINGKA, the sky was dotted with a trillion

stars. The moon, only days away from being full, lit the ground

with a yellow diffused glow. A stillness, a quiet. The night birds that

normally warbled their haunting songs were silent. The domesticated

animals inside the compound--musk deer, mountain goats, camels, a

single aged tiger and the peacocks that ran loose--barely stirred. A light

12

CLIVE CUSSLER

TWO DAYS INTO the journey, across the sixteen-thousand-foot Che-La

Pass and over the Tsangpo River, the group stopped for the

night at the monastery at Ra-Me. Messengers racing on horseback

caught up with the party and brought news that the Chinese had shelled

Norbulingka and machine-gunned the helpless crowd. Thousands had

been killed. The news cast a pall over the Dalai Lama.

Overholt had reported their progress by radio and felt relieved there

had been no need to call for help. The route had been expertly chosen

to avoid any conflict with the Chinese. He and his men were exhausted,

but the hardy Nepalese pushed on without pause. The town of Lhuntse

Dzong was behind them, as was the village of Jhora.

Karpo Pass, the border with India, was less than a day's ride.

And then it began to snow. A blizzard with howling winds and low

clouds hunkered down over Mangmang, the last Tibetan town before

the Indian border. The Dalai Lama, already exhausted by the journey

and stressed by the knowledge that many of his countrymen lay dead

and dying, took ill. His last night in his country was torment.

To ease his journey, he was placed on the back of an animal called

a dzomo, which was a cross between a yak and a horse. As the dzomo

climbed the side of Karpo Pass, the Dalai Lama paused to glance at his

beloved Tibetan soil one last time.

Overholt pulled closer on his horse. He waited until the Dalai Lama

glanced his way. "My country never forgets," he said, "and someday

we will bring you back home."

The Dalai Lama nodded, then patted the dzomo's neck and steered

it into exile. To the rear of the column, the monk pulling the cart containing

the priceless artifact braced his legs as he crested the pass and

started down the grade. The six-hundred-pound weight, so heavy on the

climb up the pass, now wanted to run free. He dug in his heels.

[E

THE PRESENT DAY

EIGHT IN THE evening. From out of the south, like a dark insect

crawling over a wrinkled blue tablecloth, a tired old cargo ship

pushed her way through the Caribbean swells toward the entrance of

Santiago Harbor on the isle of Cuba. The exhaust from her single funnel

drifted in a blue haze under an easterly breeze as the sun settled below

the western horizon and became a ponderous orange ball magnified by

the earth's atmosphere.

She was one of the last tramp steamers, a cargo ship that traveled

the sea anonymously to the exotic and far-flung ports of the world.

There were few left in operation. They did not follow a regular shipping

route. Their schedules depended on the demands of their cargo and its

owners, so their destinations changed from port to port. They coasted

in, unloaded their freight and sailed away like wraiths in the night.

14

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

15

Two miles from shore, a small boat slapped over the rolling sea,

approached the ship and swung around on a parallel course. The pilot

closed on the rust-streaked hull as a boarding ladder was thrown down

from an open hatch.

The pilot, a man in his fifties with brown skin and thick gray hair,

stared up at the ancient ship. Her black paint was faded and badly

needed to be chipped away and repainted. Streams of rust flowed from

every opening in the hull. The huge anchor, pulled tightly in its hawse-hole,

was completely covered by corrosion. The pilot read the letters,

barely discernible on the upper bow. The weary old freighter was named Oregon.

Jesus Morales shook his head in amazement. It was a miracle the

ship hadn't been scrapped twenty years ago, he mused. She looked more

like a derelict than a cargo carrier still in service. He wondered if the

party bureaucrats in the Ministry of Transportation had any idea of the

condition of the ship they had contracted to bring in a cargo of chemical

fertilizer for the sugar and tobacco fields. He could not believe the ship

had passed maritime insurance inspection.

As the ship slowed almost to a dead stop, Morales stood at the

railing and the pilot boat's bumpers squeezed against the freighter's hull.

Timing the crest of a wave as it lifted the boat, Morales leaped agilely

from the wet deck onto the boarding ladder and climbed to the hatch.

It was a function he performed as often as ten times a day. A pair of

crewmen were waiting beside the hatch and helped him up on the deck.

The two were both burly-looking individuals, and they did not bother

to smile in greeting. One simply pointed toward the ladder leading to

the bridge. Then they turned and left Morales standing alone on the

deck. Watching them walk away, Morales hoped that he'd never have

to meet them in a dark alley.

He paused before climbing the ladder and took a few moments to

study the upper works of the ship.

>From his long experience and knowledge of ships, he judged her

length at 560 feet, with a 75-foot beam. Probably a gross tonnage

around 11,000. Five derricks, two behind the funnel and superstructure

and three on the forward deck, stood waiting to unload her cargo. He

counted six holds with twelve hatches. In her prime, she would have

been classed as an express cargo liner. He guessed that she had been

built and launched in the early 1960s. The flag on her stern was Iranian.

Not a registry Morales had seen very often.

If the Oregon looked shabby from the waterline, she looked downright

squalid from her main deck. Rust covered every piece of deck

machinery from winches to chains, but the hardware at least appeared

to be in usable condition. By comparison, the derricks looked as if they

hadn't been operated in years.

To add further insult, battered drums, tools and what could only be

described as junked equipment were scattered around the decks. In all

his years as a harbor pilot, Morales had never seen a ship in such filthy

condition.

He climbed the ladder steps leading to the bridge, past bulkheads

with flaking paint and portholes whose lenses were cracked and yellowed.

Then he paused before finally swinging the door open. The interior

of the vessel was as bad, if not worse. The wheelhouse was dirty,

with the scars of cigarette burns on the counters and on what had once

been a polished teak deck. Dead flies littered the windowsills, the smell

assaulted his nose. And then there was the captain.

Morales was greeted by a great slob of a man with an immense

stomach that sagged over his belt line. The face was scarred, and the

nose so badly broken it slanted toward the left cheek. The thick black

hair was plastered back with some kind of greasy cream and his beard

was scruffy and stringy. The captain was a cacophony of colors. His

eyes were red and his teeth yellow-brown, while his arms were covered

with blue tattoos. A grimy yachtsman's cap sat perched on the back of

his head and he wore dingy coveralls. The tropical heat and the humidity

on the non-air-conditioned bridge made it obvious to Morales that the

man had not bathed for at least a month. Any dog worth his salt would

have tried to bury the man.

16

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

17

He extended a sweaty hand to Morales and spoke in English. "Glad

to see you. I'm Captain Jed Smith."

"Jesus Morales. Pilot for the Harbor Office of Santiago." Morales

felt uncomfortable. Smith spoke English with an American accent--not

what he'd expected on a ship of Iranian registry.

Smith handed him a packet of papers. "Here's our registration and

cargo manifest."

Morales merely cast a brief glance at the documents. Officials on

the docks would study them more closely. His only concern was that

the ship had permission to enter the port. He handed back the packet

and said, "Shall we proceed?"

Smith waved a hand toward a wooden helm that somehow seemed

terribly old-fashioned for a ship built in the sixties. "She's all yours,

Senor Morales. What dock do you want us to moor at?"

"There are no docks available until Thursday. You will have to

anchor in the middle of the harbor until then."

"That's four days from now. We have a schedule to meet. We can't

sit around for four days waiting to unload our cargo."

Morales shrugged. "I have no control over the harbormaster. Besides,

the docks are full with ships unloading new farm machinery and

automobiles, now that the embargo has been lifted. These have priority

over your cargo."

Smith threw up his hands. "All right. I guess it's not the first time

we had to twiddle our thumbs waiting to unload." He gave a broad,

rotten-toothed grin. "I guess me and my crew will just have to come

ashore and make friends with your Cuban women."

The thought made Morales's skin crawl. Without further conversation,

he stepped over to the helm as Smith called the engine room and

ordered half speed. The pilot felt the engine's vibrations through the

deck as the tired old ship began to make way again, and he aimed her

bow toward the narrow entrance of Santiago Harbor, which was bordered

by high bluffs that rose from the sea.

>From offshore, the channel that led inside to the bellows-shaped

harbor was invisible until a ship was nearly on top of it. Rising two

hundred feet atop the cliffs on the right stood the old colonial fortress

known as Morro Castle.

Morales noticed that Smith and the members of his mangy crew

standing on the bridge seemed interested in the defenses that had been

dug into the hillside when Fidel Castro had thought the United States

was going to attack Cuba. They studied the gun and missile emplacements

through expensive binoculars.

Morales smiled to himself. Let them look all they wanted--most of

the defenses were deserted. Only two small fortresses maintained a small

company of soldiers to man the missile emplacements in the unlikely

event an unwelcome vessel tried to enter the harbor.

Morales threaded his way through the buoys and steered the Oregon deftly around the twists and turns of the channel, which soon opened

into the broad, ball-shaped harbor surrounded by the city of Santiago.

The wheel felt strange to him, though. The odd feeling was barely perceptible,

but there nonetheless. Whenever he turned the wheel, there

seemed to be a short lag before the rudder responded. He made a quick

but very slight turn to starboard before bringing the wheel back to port.

It was definitely there, almost like an echo, a two-second delay. He did

not sense sluggishness from the steering machinery, but rather a pause.

It had to come from another origin. Yet when the response came, it was

quick and firm. But why the hesitation?

"Your helm has an off feel to it."

"Yeah," Smith grunted. "It's been that way for a few days. Next

port we enter with a shipyard, I'll have the spindles on the rudder looked

at."

It still made no sense to Morales, but the ship was entering the open

part of the bay off the city now, and he pushed the mystery from his

mind. He called the harbor officials over the ship's radio and kept them

informed of his progress, and was given orders for the anchorage.

Morales pointed out the buoys to Smith that marked the mooring

area and ordered the ship brought to slow speed. He then swung the

18

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

19

stern around until the bow was facing the incoming tide before ordering

all stop. The Oregon slowed to a halt in an open area between a Canadian

container ship and a Libyan oil tanker.

"You may drop your anchor," he said to Smith, who acknowledged

with a nod as he held a loudspeaker in front of his face.

"Let go anchor!" he shouted at his crew. The command was answered

a few seconds later by the rattling clatter of the chain links

against the hawsehole, followed by a great splash as the anchor plunged

into the water. The bow of the ship became hazy from the cloud of dust and rust that burst from the chain locker.

Morales released his grip on the worn spokes of the wheel and

turned to Smith. "You will, of course, pay the pilot's fee when you turn

over your documents to the harbor officials."

"Why wait?" snorted Smith. He reached into a pocket of his coveralls

and produced a wad of crinkled American hundred-dollar bills. He

counted out fifteen bills, then hesitated, looked into Morales's shocked

expression, and said, "Oh, what the heck, suppose we make it an even

two thousand dollars."

Without the least indecision, Morales took the bills and slipped them

into his wallet.

"You are most generous, Captain Smith. I will notify the officials

that the pilot's fee was paid in full."

Smith signed the required affidavits and logged the mooring. He put

a massive arm around the Cuban's shoulder. "Now about them girls.

Where's a good place in Santiago to meet them?"

"The cabarets on the waterfront are where you'll find both cheap

entertainment and drinks."

"I'll tell my crew."

"Good-bye, Captain." Morales did not extend his hand. He already

felt unclean just by being on board the ship; he could not bring himself

to grip the greasy hand of the obnoxious captain. Morales's easygoing

Cuban warmth had been cooled by the surroundings and he didn't want

to waste another second on board the Oregon. Leaving the wheelhouse,

he dropped down the ladder to the deck and descended to the waiting

pilot boat, still stunned at experiencing the filthiest ship he had ever

piloted into the harbor. Which is just what the owners of the Oregon wanted him to think.

If Morales had examined the ship more closely, he might have realized

it was all a facade. The Oregon rode low in the water because of

specially fitted ballast tanks, which when filled with water lowered the

hull to make it look as though it were loaded with cargo. Even the

engine tremors were mechanically staged. The ship's engines were

whisper-silent and vibrationless.

And the coating of rust throughout the ship? It was artistically applied

paint.

SATISFIED THAT THE pilot and his boat had pulled away from the Oregon, Captain Smith stepped over to a handrail mounted on the

deck that did not seem to serve any particular purpose. He gripped it

and pressed a button on the underside. The square section of the deck

on which Smith was standing suddenly began descending until it stopped

in a vast, brightly lit room filled with computers, automated controls

and several large consoles containing communications and weapons-firing

systems. The deck in the command center was richly carpeted, the

walls were paneled in exotic woods and the furniture looked as if it had

come straight from a designer's showroom. This room was the real heart

of the Oregon.

The six people--four men and two women--neatly dressed in

shorts, flowered shirts and white blouses were busy manning the various

systems. One woman was scanning an array of TV monitors that covered

every section of Santiago Bay, while a man zoomed a camera on

the pilot boat as it turned and headed into the main channel. No one

bothered to give the fat captain half a glance. Only a man dressed in

khaki shorts and a green golf shirt approached him.

"All go well with the pilot?" asked Max Hanley, the ship's corporate

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21

president, who directed all operational systems, including the ship's engines.

"The pilot noticed the delay in the helm."

Hanley grinned. "If only he'd known he was steering a dead wheel.

We'll have to make some adjustments, though. You speak to him in

Spanish?"

Smith smiled. "My best Yankee English. Why let him know I speak

his language? That way, I could tell if he played any tricks over the

radio with the harbor officials as we anchored." Smith pulled back a

sleeve of his grimy coveralls and checked a Timex watch with a badly

scratched lens. "Thirty minutes until dark."

"The equipment in the moon pool is all ready."

"And the landing crew?"

"Standing by."

"I just have time to get rid of these smelly clothes and get decent,"

said Cabrillo, heading toward his cabin down a hallway hung with

paintings by modern artists.

The crew cabins were concealed inside two of the cargo holds and

were as plush as rooms in a five-star hotel. There was no separation

between officers and crew on the Oregon. All were educated people,

highly trained in their respective fields--elite men and women who had

served in the armed forces. The ship was owned by its staff, who were

stockholders. There were no ranks. Cabrillo was chairman; Hanley,

president; the others held various other titles. They were all mercenaries,

here to make a profit--though that did not necessarily rule out good

works at the same time--hired by countries or large companies to perform

clandestine services around the world, very often at great risk.

THE MAN WHO left the cabin twenty minutes later did not look

like the man who'd entered. The greasy hairpiece, scruffy beard

and grimy coveralls were gone, as was the foul smell. So was the Timex,

now replaced with a stainless-steel Concord chronograph. In addition,

the man had dropped at least a hundred pounds.

Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo had transformed himself from the grimy

sea dog Smith to his true self again. A tall man in his forties, ruggedly

handsome, he stared through pixie-blue eyes. His blond hair was

trimmed in a crew cut and a western cowboy-style mustache sprouted

from his upper lip.

He hurried down the corridor to a far door and entered a control

room perched high inside a vast cavern in the hull amidships. The three-deck-high

moon pool, as it was called, was where all the Oregon's underwater

equipment was stored--diving gear; submersibles, manned and

unmanned; and an array of underwater electronic sensors. A pair of

state-of-the-art contemporary underwater craft by U.S. Submarines--a

sixty-five-foot Nomad 1000 and a thirty-two-foot Discovery 1000-- hung in cradles. The doors on the bottom of the hull slid open and

water flooded in until it was level with the outer waterline.

The remarkable ship was not what she appeared from her exterior.

The outer decks and hull were disguised to make her look like a rust

bucket. The wheelhouse and the unused officers' and crew's quarters

below were also kept in a slovenly condition to avoid suspicion from

visiting port officials or harbor pilots.

Cabrillo entered the underwater operations room and stood before

a large table showing three-dimensional holographic images of every

street in the city of Santiago. Linda Ross, the Oregon's security and

surveillance analyst, was standing at the table lecturing a group of people

dressed in Cuban military fatigue uniforms. Linda had been a lieutenant

commander in the navy when Cabrillo had sweet-talked her into

resigning and joining the Oregon. In the navy she had been an intelligence

officer on board an Aegis guided-missile cruiser before spending

four years in Washington in the navy's intelligence department.

Linda glanced sideways at Cabrillo as he stood quietly without interrupting.

She was an attractive woman, not a head turner, but most

men still considered her pretty. She kept her five-foot-eight-inch, 130

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

23

pound body in firm shape with exercise, but rarely spent extra time on

makeup or hairstyle. She was one smart lady, soft-spoken and greatly admired by the entire Oregon crew.

The five men and one woman standing around the detailed 3-D

image of the city listened intently as Linda ran through the last-minute

instructions, using a small metal rod with a light on the end to point

out their objective. "The fortress of Santa Ursula. It was built during

the Spanish-American War, and after the turn of the twentieth century

it was used as a warehouse until Castro and his revolutionaries took

over the country. Then it was turned into a prison."

"What is the exact distance from our landing to the prison?" asked

Eddie Seng, the Oregon's master of subterfuge and director of shore

operations.

"Two hundred yards less than a mile," answered Linda.

Seng folded his arms and looked thoughtful. "We'll be able to fool

the locals with our uniforms going in, but if we have to fight our way

back a mile to the docks while herding eighteen prisoners, I can't guarantee

we'll make it."

"Certainly not in the condition those poor people are going to be

in," said Julia Huxley, the Oregon's medical officer. She was going

along on the raid to care for the prisoners. A short woman, large bosomed

with a body suited for wrestling, Julia was the congeniality lady

of the ship. She'd served as a chief medical officer for four years at the

San Diego Naval Base and was well respected by them all.

"Our agents in the city have arranged for a truck to be stolen twenty

minutes before you leave the prison. It's used for hauling food supplies

to the hotels. The truck and a driver will be parked one block from the

workers' maintenance shack situated on the wharf above your landing

dock. He'll drive you to the prison, wait, and return you to the dock.

>From there he'll ditch the truck and ride home on his bicycle."

"Does he have a name? Is there a password?"

Linda smiled slightly. "The password is dos."

Seng looked skeptical. "Two? That's it?"

"Yes, he'll reply with uno, one. It's that simple."

"Well, at least it's concise."

Linda paused to flick a series of switches on a small remote control.

The images of the city dissolved into a 3-D interior diorama of Santa

Ursula Prison without its roof, revealing the inner rooms and cells and

their connecting passageways. "Our sources tell us there are only ten

guards in the whole prison. Six on the day shift, two in the evening and

two from midnight until six in the morning. You should have no problem

overpowering the two on the station. They'll think you're a military

unit come to transport the prisoners to another secure facility. You're

scheduled to gain entry at ten o'clock. Subdue the two on-duty guards

and release the prisoners, then return to the submarine and make the

ship by eleven o'clock. Any later and you jeopardize our escape out of

the harbor."

"How so?" asked one of Seng's team members.

"We're told the harbor defense systems are run through an operational

test every night at twelve. We've got to be well on our way to

sea before then."

"Why not wait and go in after midnight, when most of the town is

asleep?" asked a member of the landing force. "At ten o'clock, the local

citizens will still be stirring around."

"You'll cause less suspicion if you don't sneak around the streets

before dawn," she replied. "Also, the other eight guards are usually out

on the town in the local bars until early morning."

"You're sure about that?" asked Seng.

Linda nodded. "Their movements have been watched and clocked

for two weeks by our agents in the city."

"Unless Murphy's Law rears its ugly head," said Cabrillo, "the release

of the prisoners and the escape should go smoothly. The tough

part comes when you're all on board and we have to sail out of the

harbor. The minute Castro's harbor security forces see us pull up the

anchor and turn down the channel for the open sea, they'll know something

is wrong and all hell will break loose."

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

25

Linda looked at Cabrillo. "We have the weaponry to knock them

out."

"True," Cabrillo acknowledged. "But we cannot fire the first shot.

If they strike the Oregon first, however, we'll have no choice but to

protect ourselves."

"None of us has been told," said Seng, "who exactly are we breaking

out of jail. They must be important or we wouldn't have contracted

for the job."

Cabrillo looked at him. "We wanted to keep it under wraps until

we got here. They're Cuban doctors, journalists and businessmen who

opposed Castro's government, all highly respected men and women.

Castro knows they are dangerous if they are free. If they reach the Cuban

community in Miami, they can use it as a base to instigate a revolutionary

movement."

"Is it a good contract?"

"Ten million dollars if we deliver them to U.S. soil."

Seng and the others around the holographic display smiled. "That

should add a tidy little amount to everyone's nest egg," he said.

"Doing good for profit," Cabrillo said with a wide grin. "That's our

motto."

AT PRECISELY 8:30, Seng and his small force boarded the Nomad

1000 along with the two crewmen who would pilot the sub and

guard it during the operation. The sub looked more like a luxury surface

yacht than a submersible. Capable of running at high speeds on the

surface with its diesel engines, it was battery powered beneath the

waves. With a speed of twelve knots underwater, the Nomad could dive

to a thousand feet. The interior was designed to hold twelve people

comfortably, but Cabrillo had had her configured to carry three times

that number tightly packed together, for missions such as this one.

The entry door was closed and sealed, and the craft, secured by a

large sling, was lifted by a crane into the center of the moon pool. The

operator looked into the control room and was given the descent signal

by Cabrillo. Then, slowly, the large craft was lowered into the black

water. As soon as she settled, divers removed the sling and were carried

upward to the surrounding balcony by the crane.

"Radio check," said Seng. "Do you read me?"

"Like you're in the same room," Linda Ross assured him.

"Are we clear?"

"No ship movement and only three fishing boats are heading out to

sea. At thirty feet, you should stay well below their keels and props."

"Keep the coffee on," said Seng.

"Bon voyage," quipped Cabrillo.

"That's easy for you to say," Seng came back.

A few moments later, the lights inside the Nomad blinked out and

it vanished into the dark water of the harbor.

THE PILOTS OF the sub relied on their Global Positioning System

to set them on an exact course for the section of the city docks

that was their destination. Detecting the pilings by their laser monitoring

system, they were able to slip between the stern and bow of two container

ships unloading cargo and maneuvered their way amid the giant

pilings. Once under the wharves and out of sight from anyone above,

they surfaced and closed the remaining gap using a laser night-penetrating

camera that magnified the city lights filtering beneath the

pilings.

"Floating maintenance dock dead ahead," announced the chief pilot.

There was no hard check of weapons or survival gear. Though they

all carried concealed handguns, they wanted to look like a small security

unit moving through town without any menacing designs on the citizens.

Their only inspection was to make sure their uniforms looked neat and

presentable. The combat members of the team had all been members of

the Special Forces. They were under strict orders not to commit mayhem

26

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

27

unless it was absolutely necessary in order to save lives. Seng himself

had served on a marine recon team and had never lost a man.

No sooner had the Nomad gently bumped against the floating dock

than Seng, followed closely by his team, exited the sub and headed up

the stairs to a little house that sheltered the dock and maintenance workers'

tools and small equipment. The door was easily unlocked from the

inside, and Seng, with only a brief look to see if anyone was standing

nearby, silently motioned everyone to follow him.

The lights of the cranes and the ships they were unloading lit up the

dock like daylight, but luckily the exit door was opposite and the team

formed in the shadows. Then, in a column of twos and marching in

cadence, Seng led them to the end of the dock and around the warehouse.

His watch said 9:36. Exactly twenty-four minutes to arrive at the

front gate of the prison. They found the truck nine minutes later, parked

under a dim dock light beside the warehouse. Seng recognized it as a

1951 Ford delivery van that looked like it had passed the two-million-mile

mark years ago. In the gloom he could make out lettering in a

fancy red script on the side of the fourteen-foot cargo body. It read

gonzales food purveyors in Spanish. The driver was visible only by

the glow of his cigarette.

Seng walked up to the open window, hand on his Ruger P97 .45

caliber automatic with suppressor, and said quietly. "Dos."

The driver of the truck exhaled a cloud of nonfiltered cigarette

smoke into the cab and replied, "Uno."

"Pile in the back," Seng ordered his team. "I'll ride in front." He

opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat. There was no conversation

as the driver crunched the worn-out transmission into gear

and drove off the dock into the city streets. Every other light on the

boulevard running along the bay was dark, either because the bulbs had

burned out and had never been replaced or to conserve energy. After a

few blocks the driver turned onto a main street and headed up a slight

grade toward San Juan Hill.

Cuba's second largest city, Santiago was in Oriente Province and

had been the island's capital in the seventeenth century. Surrounded by

hills with coffee and sugar-cane plantations, the city was a maze of

narrow streets, with small plazas and buildings of Spanish colonial architecture

bearing hanging balconies.

Seng remained silent, concentrating on scanning the side streets and

studying the numbers on his portable GPS to make certain the driver

was heading in the right direction. The streets were mostly empty of

traffic, except for fifty-year-old cars parked along the curbs, and the

sidewalks were filled with people simply out for an after-dinner stroll

or sitting in bars that reverberated with loud strains of the Cuban beat.

Many of the stores and apartments above had paint that was faded and

chipped, while others were coated in vivid pastel colors. The gutters and

sidewalks were clean, but the windows looked like they had rarely seen

a cleaner and a squeegee. For the most part, the people looked happy.

There was much laughter and occasional singing. No one gave the truck

a second look as it passed slowly through the main downtown section

of the city.

Seng spotted a few men in uniform, but they seemed more interested

in talking with women than watching for a foreign intrusion. The driver

lit up another foul-smelling cigarette. Seng had never smoked, and he

leaned further against his door and turned his face through the open

window, lifting his nose in disgust.

Ten minutes later the truck reached the front gate of the fortress

prison. The driver pulled past and stopped fifty yards down the road.

"I will wait here," he said, in almost perfect English. They were the first

words he had spoken since the dock.

Seng read him like a book. "Educator or doctor?"

"I teach history at the university."

"Thank you."

"Don't be long. The truck will look suspicious if it sits here past

midnight."

"We should be out before then," Seng assured him.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

29

Seng climbed out of the truck cab and peered up and down the street

cautiously. It was empty. He rapped softly on the cargo doors. They

opened and his team dropped out and joined him on the brick-surfaced

street. Together they marched as a unit up to the front gate and pulled

the bell cord. A ringing could be heard in the guard's office behind the

gate. In a few minutes, a guard came wandering out, rubbing his eyes

and temples. He had obviously been asleep on duty. He was about to

tell the intruders to go away when he recognized Seng's uniform and

insignia as a colonel's and he feverishly opened the gate, stood back and

saluted.

"Sir, what brings you to the fortress this time of night?"

"Colonel Antonio Yarayo. I was sent by the Ministry of State Security

with this team to interrogate one of the prisoners. A new investigation

has turned up a suspected United States spy operation. We

believe they have information which could prove useful."

"Pardon me, sir, but I must ask you for the proper papers."

"As a good soldier, Sergeant," said Seng officiously, "well you

should." He handed the guard an envelope. "Why aren't there more

guards on duty?"

"There is one other who watches the prisoners' cells."

"Hmm. Well, I see no reason to stand out here all night. Take me

to your office quarters."

The guard immediately ushered them into a barren office that contained

only a desk and two chairs. A photo of Castro, taken when he

was a young man, hung alone on one wall.

"Who is the officer in command here?" asked Seng.

"Captain Juan Lopez."

"Where is he?"

"He has a girlfriend with a house in the city. He will be back at

nine o'clock tomorrow."

"How very convenient," Seng said as if bored. "What is your

name?"

"Lieutenant Gabriel Sanchez, sir."

"And the name of the other guard on duty in the cells?"

"Sergeant Ignez Macco."

"Please check the documents so we can get on with it."

The guard sat down at the desk and pulled some paper out of the

envelope. Seng moved behind and removed a small gun from his pocket

as Sanchez stared blankly at a pair of comic books. He looked up.

"Colonel, I don't under--"

That was as far as he got before Seng shot a tiny dart filled with a

tranquilizer into the nape of his neck. Sanchez looked at Seng oddly

before slumping unconscious over the table.

Seng threw a roll of duct tape to one of his team. Every move was

so well rehearsed that he did not have to give orders. Two men took

the tape, bound the unconscious guard, searched his pockets--finding

an unusual round key--and then stuffed him in a closet. Another man

went to work carefully rendering the security alarms and communications equipment inoperable.

As they rushed through the passageways and tunnels and down

stone steps to the cells below, Seng knew where he was within a foot,

thanks to the holographic image of the fortress that he had committed

to memory.

There was no desperate hurry, but they could not afford to throw

away time. He could see now why only a few men guarded the entire

facility. The walls were massively thick, and there was only one entrance

in and out of the dungeon cells far below street level. The only way a

prisoner could escape was the way the team from the Oregon had

come--from the outside. A string of lightbulbs lit the passageway. The

ceiling was very high, but the space between the walls was very narrow.

The steps finally ended at an enormous steel door with the thickness of

a bank vault. A TV camera stared ominously at Seng and his men. This

was the tricky part, he thought, as he inserted the odd-looking key into

the steel lock. Seng prayed that the key would do the job without a code being demanded.

His fear was confirmed when he turned the key and a buzzer could

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

31

be heard from the other side of the door. A minute later a voice called

through a nearby loudspeaker, "Who goes there?"

"Colonel Antonio Yarayo, State Security, with an interrogation

team to question the traitors."

There was a pause. Seng didn't wait for a reply.

"Open up. I have the authority and necessary documents. Lieutenant

Sanchez would have accompanied us, but he said he was not allowed

to leave the front gate unguarded. Sergeant Ignez Macco, is it?" Seng

held up the envelope. "If you have any questions, I have your service record in my hands."

"But sir," the voice of Macco pleaded, "if the door is opened before

eight o'clock in the morning, alarms will go off in the state security

office at Fort Canovar."

"I ordered Lieutenant Sanchez to turn off the dungeon alarm," Seng

bluffed.

"But sir, he cannot do that. The door is on a separate system that

is wired to the security commandant's office in the city. It cannot be

opened until eight o'clock in the morning."

It was one more obstacle to overcome, but not totally unexpected.

Seng was betting that the security officers would think the alarms were

malfunctioning and call the fort to check it out before sending a squad

of security police.

Macco fell for it. A few seconds later, the big steel lock clacked and

the bolts that extended from the door into the framework could be

heard withdrawing from their slots. Then the massive door swung open

silently and smoothly. Sergeant Macco stood at attention and snapped

a salute.

Seng wasted no more time on niceties. He aimed the tranquilizer

gun at Macco's throat and squeezed the tiny trigger. The guard's eyes

rolled back in his head and he dropped to the stone floor like a sack of

sand.

The dungeon was not a state-of-the-art prison. The rusting iron cell

doors had been hung in the late nineteenth century and still required

the large antique key chained to Macco's belt. Seng ripped the key and

its ring from the guard's belt and began opening the first doors. As soon

as the door was swung ajar, Julia Huxley rushed into the cell to check

the condition of its inhabitant. Seng's team helped by assisting the

shocked prisoners, who feared the worst, into the dungeon's passageway.

"Five are in no condition to walk up the stairs and onto the street,"

said Julia. "They'll have to be carried out on stretchers."

"Then we'll haul them on our backs," replied Seng. "We don't have

enough bodies to carry five stretchers."

"These poor devils think we're going to execute them," said a tall,

ruggedly built team member with red hair in a buzz cut.

"We haven't got time to explain!" snapped Seng. He knew that the

security officials downtown were wondering why the dungeon alarm in

Santa Ursula had been triggered at this time of night. They were certain

to call and find the phones down. How soon they would send a squad

of men to check was anybody's guess. "Julia, you round up those who

can move on their own two feet. The rest of you men carry the ones

too weak to walk."

They moved off, almost having to drag the poor, suffering Cubans

out of the dungeon and up the stairs, every team member with a Cuban

over one shoulder, their free arms braced around other prisoners who

could barely manage the steps. Julia brought up the rear, supporting

two women and whispering encouraging words whose meanings could

only come through in her soothing tone--she knew only enough Spanish

to order a margarita.

Climbing the winding stone steps was a torturous exertion for the

weakened prisoners, but there could be no turning back. Any capture

now meant certain execution. They struggled up the steps, chests rising

and falling, lungs gasping for air, hearts pounding. Men and women

who had long ago given up hope now saw an opportunity to live normal

lives again, thanks to these crazy people who were risking death to

rescue them.

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33

Seng could not afford the time to sympathize with their plight, or

look into their gaunt faces. Any thoughts of compassion were fleeting.

Sympathy could come once they reached the safety of the Oregon.

He concentrated on pushing them all toward the main gate, keeping

his mind cold and logical.

At last the front of the column reached the guard's office at the gate.

Seng stepped cautiously out onto the brick street. There was no whisper

of sound or any sign of vehicles or people. The truck was right where

they'd left it.

The team carrying those too weak to walk were huffing and puffing

now and soaked in sweat from the tropical humidity. Warily, Seng studied

the darkened street and buildings through his laser night binoculars.

The area was clear. Satisfied, he hustled everyone through the gate and

shoved them roughly in the direction of the truck.

He rushed back into the office and checked the guard. He was still

unconscious. He also spotted a red light on a console beside the desk.

The alarm had indeed been activated when they'd opened the dungeon

door. The phone began to ring, and he picked it up and snapped in

Spanish, "Uno momenta!"

Then he set the receiver down and dashed out the door.

The rescue team and the freed prisoners were crammed into the

cargo bed of the truck like Japanese workers during rush hour. The

driver shifted the weary old transmission into gear with a brief metallic

grind, and the truck leaped forward. The streets were as before, the auto

traffic thin, while Cubans were enjoying a balmy evening outside on

their balconies, sitting at chairs and tables on the sidewalks or drinking

in the cantinas, dancing and singing.

Seng cocked his ear out the window and listened for any sound of

alarms or sirens. There came only the strains of music in the night air.

The harshest sound came from the truck's muffler, which seemed to be

coming loose from the engine header pipe. The rattle of the exhaust

soon drowned out the city noise. He saw Cubans glance at the truck

and then turn away. Loose exhaust pipes and rusted-out mufflers were

common on the old cars that traveled the streets of Santiago. The city's

inhabitants had more entertaining thoughts on their minds.

The truck driver drove maddeningly slow, but Seng knew better than

to push him. A truck casually taking its time through town would arouse

no suspicion. After what seemed an hour, but was only fifteen minutes,

the driver pulled up alongside a warehouse dock and stopped. A quick

look up and down the deserted dock and Seng began goading everyone

toward the maintenance shed. The five-minute journey to the shed was

uneventful.

Their luck still held. The only activity was centered on the two cargo

ships unloading their big containers. Though still apprehensive, Seng

finally began to relax. He motioned them through the door of the maintenance

shed and down the wooden stairs. In the darkness he saw the

vague shape of the Nomad sub's pilot, standing on the floating dock

and helping the Cubans on board. The other pilot was down below,

packing them tightly inside the narrow confines of the Nomad's main

cabin.

When Seng and Julia Huxley, the last to board, climbed onto the

sub's upper deck, the pilot quickly cast off the mooring lines, looked up

briefly and said, "You made good time."

"Get to the ship as fast as this craft can take us," Seng replied. "We

couldn't help setting off an alarm. I'm surprised Cuban security forces

aren't already breathing down our neck."

"If they haven't tracked you here," said the pilot confidently as he

closed and sealed the hatch, "they'll never guess where you came from."

"At least not until the Oregon's found missing from her assigned

anchorage."

In seconds the sub was dropping beneath the surface of the dark

water. Fifteen minutes later it surfaced inside the moon pool of the Oregon. Divers attached the hook and cable of the big overhead crane,

and the Nomad was lifted delicately until it was even with the second

deck and moored to the balcony. Huxley's medical team was waiting

34

CLIVE CUSSLER

along with several members of the ship's crew to help the Cubans to

the Oregon's well-equipped hospital.

The time was three minutes past eleven.

A thin man, his hair white before his time, recognized Cabrillo as

an officer and walked unsteadily up to him. "Sir, my name is Juan Tural.

Can you tell me who you people are and why you rescued my friends

and me from Santa Ursula?"

"We are a corporation, and we were contracted to do this job."

"Who hired you?"

"Friends of yours in the United States," answered Cabrillo. "That's

all that I can say."

"Then you had no idealistic purpose, no political cause?"

Cabrillo smiled slightly. "We always have a purpose."

Tural sighed. "I had hoped that salvation, when it came, would

come from another quarter."

"Your people did not have the means to do it. It's that simple. That

is why they came to us."

"It's a great pity your only motivation was money."

"It wasn't. Money is simply the vehicle," said Cabrillo. "It allows

our corporation to pick its fights and to fund our charity projects. It's

a liberty none of us had when we were employed by our respective

governments." He glanced at his chronograph. "Now if you'll excuse

me, we're not out of the woods just yet."

Then he turned and left Tural staring after him as he walked away.

ELEVEN SEVENTEEN. IF they were going to make a run for it, now

was the time, thought Cabrillo. The alarm had long been answered

at the prison, and by now patrols were certainly roaming the city and

the countryside in search of the escaped prisoners and their rescuers.

Their only link was the truck driver, but he could not provide any information

to the Cuban security forces, even if he was captured and tortured. His original contact had made no mention of the Oregon. As

35

GOLDEN BUDDHA

far as the driver knew, the rescue team had come from a landing party

on another part of the island.

Cabrillo lifted a phone and called down to the Corporation's president

in the engine room. "Max?"

Hanley answered almost immediately. "Juan."

"Have the ballast tanks been pumped dry?"

"Tanks are dry and the hull is raised for speed."

"The tide is about to turn and will swing us around. We'd better

leave while our bow is still aimed toward the main channel. As soon as

the anchor comes free, I'll set the engines very slow. No sense in alerting

any observers on the shore to a sudden departure. At the first alarm or

when we reach the main channel, whichever comes first, I'll enter the

program for full speed. We'll need every ounce of power your engines

can give."

"You think you can get us through a narrow channel in the dead

of night at full speed without a pilot?"

"The ship's computer system read every inch of the channel and the

buoy markers on the way in. Our escape course is plotted and programmed

into the automatic pilot. We'll leave it to Otis to take us out."

Otis was the crew's name for the ship's automated control systems. It

could steer the Oregon within inches of the intended route.

"Computerized automated controls or not, it won't be an easy matter to race through a tight channel at sixty knots."

"We can do it." Cabrillo punched off and hit another code. "Mark,

give me a status on our defense systems."

Mark Murphy, the Oregon's weapons specialist, replied in his west

Texas drawl, "If any of them Cuban missile launchers so much as hiccups,

we'll take them out."

"You can expect aircraft once we're in the open sea."

"Nuthin' we cain't handle."

He turned to Linda Ross. "Linda?"

"All systems are online," she replied calmly.

Cabrillo set the phone in its cradle and relaxed, lighting up a thin

n

GOLDEN BUDDHA

37

L

36    CLIVE CUSSLER

Cuban cigar. He looked around at the ship's crew, standing in the control

center. They were all staring at him, waiting expectantly.

"Well," he said slowly, before taking a deep breath, "I guess we

might as well go."

He gave a voice command to the computer, the winch was set in

motion, and the anchor slowly, quietly--through Teflon sleeves the

team had inserted inside the hawsehole, which deadened the clank of

the chain--rose from the bottom of the harbor. Another command and

the Oregon began to inch slowly ahead.

Down in the engine room, Max Hanley studied the gauges and instruments

on the huge console. His four big magnetohydrodynamics

engines were a revolutionary design for maritime transport. They intensified

and compounded the electricity found in saline seawater before

running it through a magnetic core tube kept at absolute zero by liquid

helium. The electrical current that was produced created an extremely

high energy force that pumped the water through thrusters in the stern

for propulsion.

Not only were the Oregon's engines capable of pushing the big cargo

ship at incredible speeds, but it required no fuel except the seawater that

passed through its magnetic core. The source of the propulsion was

inexhaustible. Another advantage was that the ship did not require huge

fuel tanks, which enabled the space to be utilized for other purposes.

There were only four other ships in the world with magnetohydrodynamics

engines--three cruise ships and one oil tanker. Those who had

installed the engines in the Oregon had been sworn to secrecy.

Hanley took proprietary care of the high-tech engines. They were

reliable and rarely caused problems. He labored over them as if they

were an extension of his own soul. He kept them finely tuned and in a

constant state of readiness for extreme and extended operation. He

watched now as they automatically engaged and began pushing the ship

into the channel that led to the sea.

Above in the command center, armored panels slid noiselessly apart,

revealing a large window on the forward bulkhead. The murmur among

the men and women gazing intently at the lights of the city was quiet,

as though the men manning the Cuban defense systems could hear their

words.

Cabrillo spotted another ship leaving the harbor ahead of them.

"What ship is that?" he asked.

One of the team pulled up the list of ship arrivals and departures

on his computer monitor. "She's a Chinese-registered cargo vessel carrying

sugar to Hangchou," he reported. "She's leaving port nearly an hour

ahead of her scheduled departure time."

"Name?" asked Cabrillo.

"In English, the Red Dawn. The shipping line is owned by the Chinese

army."

"Turn out all the outer lights, and increase speed until we are close

astern of the vessel ahead," he commanded the computer. "We'll use

her as a decoy to lead us out." The outer deck and navigation lights

blinked out, leaving the ship in darkness as she narrowed the gap between

the two vessels. The lights inside the command center dimmed to

a blue-green glow.

By the time the Red Dawn entered the ship's channel and passed

the first of the string of marker buoys, the darkened Oregon was trailing

only fifty yards off her stern. Cabrillo kept his ship just far enough back

so that the Chinese vessel's deck lights would not cast their beams on

his bow. It was a long shot, but he was betting the silhouette of his ship

would be mistaken for the shadow of the Red Dawn.

Cabrillo glanced at a large twenty-four-hour clock on the wall above

the window just as the long minute hand clicked onto 11:39. Only

twenty-one minutes to go before the Cubans' defense systems test.

"Following the Red Dawn is slowing us down," said Linda. "We're

losing precious time."

Cabrillo nodded. "You're right, we can't wait any longer. She's

served her purpose." He leaned over and spoke into the computer's

voice receiver.

"Go to full speed and pass the ship ahead!"

38

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

39

Like a small powerboat with big engines and a heavy hand on the

throttles, the Oregon dug her stern into the forbidding water and lifted

her bows clear of the waves as her thrusters erupted in a cloud of froth,

creating a vast crater in her wake. She leaped down the channel and

swept past the Chinese cargo ship less than twenty feet away, as if she

were stopped dead in the water. The Chinese sailors could be seen staring

in stunned disbelief. Faster and faster with each passing second she

raced through the night. Speed was the Oregon's crowning achievement,

the thoroughbred heart of the vessel. Forty knots, then fifty. By the time

she passed Morro Castle at the entrance to Santiago, she was making

nearly sixty-two knots. No ship in the world that size could match her

speed.

The beacon lights mounted high on the bluffs were soon little more

than blinking specks on a black horizon.

THE ALARM SPREAD quickly onshore that a ship was making an

unauthorized departure--but the radar and fire control operators

did not unleash their shore-to-surface missiles. Their officers could not believe that such a large ship was moving at such an incredible rate of

speed. They assumed their radar systems were malfunctioning, and they

were reluctant to unleash missiles that they did not think could lock on

to such an inconceivable target.

Not until the Oregon was twenty miles out to sea did a general in

Cuban security put two and two together and deduce that the sudden

departure of the ship and the escape of the Santa Ursula prisoners were

somehow tied together. He ordered missiles fired at the fleeing ship, but

by the time the word filtered down through the sluggish command, the Oregon was out of acceptable range.

He then ordered jets from the Cuban air force to intercept and sink

the mystery ship before it reached the protection of a United States

Coast Guard cutter. It could not possibly escape, he thought, as he sat

back, lit a cigar and contentedly puffed a cloud of blue smoke toward

1

the ceiling. Seventy miles away, two geriatric MiGs were sent aloft and

set a course toward the Oregon as directed by Cuban radar.

CABRILLO DIDN'T NEED to study a chart to see that sailing

around the tip of Cuba from Santiago through the Windward

Passage and then northwest to Miami was little more than a suicide run.

For nearly six hundred miles, the Oregon would be less than fifty miles

from the Cuban coast, a voyage in a shooting gallery. His safest option

was to set a course southwest around the southern tip of Haiti and then

almost due west to Puerto Rico, which was a territory under the U.S.

flag. There he could unload his passengers, where they would be safe

and cared for at proper medical facilities before being flown to Florida.

"Two unidentified aircraft closing," announced Linda.

"I have them," Murphy announced, hunched over a console with

enhanced radar screens and an array of knobs and switches.

"Can you identify?" asked Linda.

"Computer reads them as a pair of MiG-27s."

"How far out?" Cabrillo probed.

"Sixty miles and closing," Murphy answered. "Poor beggars don't

know what they're in for."

Cabrillo turned to his communications expert, Hali Kasim. "Try and

raise them in Spanish. Warn them we have surface-to-air missiles on

board and will knock them out of the sky if they show any sign of

hostility."

Kasim didn't have to speak Spanish to deliver the warning. He

merely ordered the computer to translate his message over his radio,

which was tuned to twenty different frequencies.

After a couple of minutes he shook his head. "They are receiving,

but not responding."

"They think we're bluffing," said Linda.

"Keep trying." Then to Murphy: "What's the range of their missiles?"

38

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

39

Like a small powerboat with big engines and a heavy hand on the

throttles, the Oregon dug her stern into the forbidding water and lifted

her bows clear of the waves as her thrusters erupted in a cloud of froth,

creating a vast crater in her wake. She leaped down the channel and

swept past the Chinese cargo ship less than twenty feet away, as if she

were stopped dead in the water. The Chinese sailors could be seen staring

in stunned disbelief. Faster and faster with each passing second she

raced through the night. Speed was the Oregon's crowning achievement,

the thoroughbred heart of the vessel. Forty knots, then fifty. By the time

she passed Morro Castle at the entrance to Santiago, she was making

nearly sixty-two knots. No ship in the world that size could match her

speed.

The beacon lights mounted high on the bluffs were soon little more

than blinking specks on a black horizon.

THE ALARM SPREAD quickly onshore that a ship was making an

unauthorized departure--but the radar and fire control operators

did not unleash their shore-to-surface missiles. Their officers could not

believe that such a large ship was moving at such an incredible rate of

speed. They assumed their radar systems were malfunctioning, and they

were reluctant to unleash missiles that they did not think could lock on

to such an inconceivable target.

Not until the Oregon was twenty miles out to sea did a general in

Cuban security put two and two together and deduce that the sudden

departure of the ship and the escape of the Santa Ursula prisoners were

somehow tied together. He ordered missiles fired at the fleeing ship, but

by the time the word filtered down through the sluggish command, the Oregon was out of acceptable range.

He then ordered jets from the Cuban air force to intercept and sink

the mystery ship before it reached the protection of a United States

Coast Guard cutter. It could not possibly escape, he thought, as he sat

back, lit a cigar and contentedly puffed a cloud of blue smoke toward

the ceiling. Seventy miles away, two geriatric MiGs were sent aloft and

set a course toward the Oregon as directed by Cuban radar.

CABRILLO DIDN'T NEED to study a chart to see that sailing

around the tip of Cuba from Santiago through the Windward

Passage and then northwest to Miami was little more than a suicide run.

For nearly six hundred miles, the Oregon would be less than fifty miles

from the Cuban coast, a voyage in a shooting gallery. His safest option

was to set a course southwest around the southern tip of Haiti and then

almost due west to Puerto Rico, which was a territory under the U.S.

flag. There he could unload his passengers, where they would be safe

and cared for at proper medical facilities before being flown to Florida.

"Two unidentified aircraft closing," announced Linda.

"I have them," Murphy announced, hunched over a console with

enhanced radar screens and an array of knobs and switches.

"Can you identify?" asked Linda.

"Computer reads them as a pair of MiG-27s."

"How far out?" Cabrillo probed.

"Sixty miles and closing," Murphy answered. "Poor beggars don't

know what they're in for."

Cabrillo turned to his communications expert, Hali Kasim. "Try and

raise them in Spanish. Warn them we have surface-to-air missiles on

board and will knock them out of the sky if they show any sign of

hostility."

Kasim didn't have to speak Spanish to deliver the warning. He

merely ordered the computer to translate his message over his radio,

which was tuned to twenty different frequencies.

After a couple of minutes he shook his head. "They are receiving,

but not responding."

"They think we're bluffing," said Linda.

"Keep trying." Then to Murphy: "What's the range of their missiles?"

40

CLIVE CUSSLER

"According to specs, they're carrying short-range rockets with a

range of ten miles."

Cabrillo looked solemn. "If they don't break off within thirty miles,

take them out. Better yet, launch one of ours. Then manually guide it

for a close flyby."

Murphy made the necessary calculations and pressed a red button.

"Missile on its way."

An audible swoosh swept the command center as a rocket lifted

from an opening in the foredeck and swept into the sky. They all

watched on the monitors as it raced to the northwest and soon disappeared.

"Four minutes to flyby," said Murphy.

Every eye turned to the big clock above the window. No one spoke,

all waiting in anticipation. Time dragged as the second hand on the

clock seemed to take forever to make a sweep. Finally, Murphy spoke

mechanically. "Missile passed two hundred yards over and between the

hostiles."

"Did they get the message?" asked Cabrillo, a slight tone of apprehension

in his voice.

There was a long pause, and then, "They're turning for home,"

Murphy reported happily. "Two Cubans who are very lucky men indeed."

"Also smart enough to recognize a no-win situation."

"Indeed," Linda said with a broad smile.

"No blood on our hands this day," Cabrillo said with an obvious

sigh of relief. He leaned over in his chair and spoke to the computer.

"Slow to cruise speed."

The clandestine operation was almost complete, the contract fulfilled.

The Oregon and her crew of executives did not consider themselves

lucky. Their achievement had come from a combination of special

skills, expertise, intelligence and precise planning. Now, except for a

technician to watch over the command center and the navigation systems,

everyone could relax; some headed for their staterooms for well

1

41

GOLDEN BUDDHA

deserved sleep, while others congregated in the ship's dining room to

snack and wind down.

Cabrillo retired to his teak-paneled cabin and removed a packet

from a safe under the carpet mounted in the deck. It was their next

contract. He pulled out the contents, studied them for nearly an hour,

and then began planning the initial levels of tactics and strategy.

Two and a half days later, the Oregon sailed into the port of San

Juan, Puerto Rico, and discharged the Cuban exiles. Before the sun set,

the remarkable ship and its strange crew of corporate officials were once

again at sea on a course toward their next assignment. Before it was

through, they would steal a priceless artifact, return a divine leader to

power and free a nation. But when the Oregon left port, Cabrillo was

not on board. He was winging his way east against a rising sun.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

43

back in a Burberry toiletry bag, then left the room to get a midmorning

meal. The art auction he was in Geneva for was due to start soon.

THE BURGUNDY FALCON 2000EX left Heathrow at just after six

in the morning, arriving in Geneva around half past nine Swiss

time. The jet aircraft cruised at Mach .80 with a 4,650-mile range; it

cost $24 million. Winston Spenser was its sole occupant.

After arriving at Geneva International Airport in Cointrin, Spenser

was met by a chauffeured Rolls-Royce that delivered him to the hotel.

There, he was immediately taken to a suite without having to register.

Once in his room, Spenser took a few minutes to freshen up. Standing

in front of the beveled-edge mirror, he stared at his image. Spenser's

nose was long and patrician, his eyes pale blue and distant and his skin

in need of a tan. Neither his cheeks nor his chin were very defined. Truth

be told, his image always appeared to be slightly out of focus, as if

lacking character. His was not the face of a man others would follow.

It was the face of a high-priced minion.

When he finished his examination, he placed his expensive cologne

WILL MR. SPENSER require anything else?" the waiter asked.

Spenser stared for a moment at the remains of his meal and

said, "No, I think that will be all."

The waiter nodded, removed the plates, then took a brush from his

apron and whisked up the few crumbs on the table. Then he silently

retreated. No bill was presented, no money changed hands. The cost of

the breakfast and the gratuity would appear on the room charge, which

Spenser would never see.

In the far corner of the dining room, Michael Talbot stared toward

Spenser. Talbot, an art dealer from San Francisco, had crossed paths

with Spenser before. Three times in the last year, the stodgy Britisher

had outbid Talbot's clients, for Spenser's own clients seemed to have unlimited resources.

Talbot could only hope today would be different.

Spenser was dressed in a gray suit over a sweater vest, a blue polka-dot

bow tie around his neck. His black lace-up leather shoes were highly

polished, as were his fingernails, and his neatly styled short hair was

flecked with gray, as befitted his age, which Talbot estimated at close

to sixty years.

Once, when Talbot had been in London on business, he'd tried to

visit Spenser's shop. There was no telephone number available, the small

stone building had had no name outside, and aside from an unobtrusive

video camera above the buzzer, it could have been suspended in time

from a hundred years before. Talbot had pushed the buzzer twice, but

no one had answered.

Spenser sensed Talbot staring his way but only glanced at him out

of the corner of his eye. Of the other seven men Spenser had determined

had an interest in the artifact he'd come to purchase, the American

would probably bid the highest. Talbot's buyer was a Silicon Valley

44

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

45

software billionaire with a penchant for Asian art and argumentation.

The billionaire's belligerency could only help Spenser. The man's ego

might take him beyond his set price, but as the competition stiffened,

he traditionally became angry and dropped out. The new rich are so

predictable, Spenser thought. He rose to return to his room. The auction

was not until 1 p.m.

L;

OF THIRTY-SEVEN," THE auctioneer said with reverence, "the

'Golden Buddha."

A large mahogany crate was wheeled onto the podium and the auctioneer

reached for the clasp holding the door closed.

The audience of bidders was small. This was a highly secret auction

and the invitations had only gone out to the select few who could afford

to pay for art masterworks with somewhat shady histories.

Spenser had yet to bid on anything. Lot twenty-one, a Degas bronze

that he knew had been stolen out of a museum twelve years ago, had

appealed to him, but the bidding had gone higher than his South American

client had authorized him to pay. More and more, Spenser was

weaning himself away from clients on a budget, even if the stop price

ran into the millions. The auction today was the first step in his plan

for retirement. The auctioneer opened the door to the crate at the same

time that Spenser pushed a button on the miniaturized satellite telephone

in his vest pocket. He spoke into the tiny microphone clasped to his

lapel.

"Please tell your employer they have the object on display," he said

to an aide thousands of miles away.

"He asks if it is everything you'd hoped," the aide asked.

Spenser stared at the massive gold statue as a hush fell over the

crowd.

"Everything and more," Spenser said quietly.

A few seconds passed as the aide relayed the information. He said, "At all costs."

'It will be an honor," Spenser said as he thought back on the his

tory.

THE GOLDEN BUDDHA dated from 1288, when the rulers of what

would later become Vietnam commissioned the work to celebrate

their victory over the forces of Kublai Khan. Five hundred and ninety-six

pounds of solid gold mined in Laos had been formed into a six-foot

likeness of the Enlightened One. Chunks of jade from Siam had formed

the eyes, while a ring of Burmese rubies wound around the neck. Buddha's

potbelly had been outlined in sapphires from Thailand and his

belly button was a large rounded opal that glowed iridescently. The icon

had been given as a gift to the first Dalai Lama in the year 1372.

For 587 years, the Golden Buddha had remained in a monastery in

Tibet and then accompanied the Dalai Lama into exile. While being

transported with the Dalai Lama on a trip to the United States for display,

however, it had disappeared from the airport in Manila.

President Ferdinand Marcos had always been the prime suspect.

Since then, the ownership had always remained cloudy, until suddenly

it had mysteriously reappeared for the auction. The seller's identity

would remain an enigma.

While it was almost impossible to place a value on such a rare artifact,

that was exactly what was about to happen. The preauction estimates

had conservatively placed the value at between $100 million and

$120 million.

W:

rE WILL START the bidding at fifty million U.S. dollars," the

auctioneer said.

A low starting point, Spenser thought. The gold alone was worth

twice that. It was the history, not the beauty, that made it a priceless

piece of art. Must be the weak world economic climate, Spenser concluded.

46

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

47

"We have fifty million," the auctioneer said, "now sixty."

Talbot raised his paddle as the bid hit eighty.

"Eighty, now ninety," the auctioneer said in a monotone.

Spenser glanced across the room at Talbot. Typical American, ear

on a satellite telephone, paddle in his hand, as if he were worried the

auctioneer would miss his signal.

"Ninety, now a hundred," the auctioneer droned.

The hundred bid was from a South African dealer Spenser knew.

The dealer's patron had made his fortune in diamonds. Spenser admired

the woman--they'd shared a glass of sherry more than once--but he

also knew her patron's habits. When the value exceeded what he felt he

could sell it for later, he'd drop out. The man loved art, but he only

bought at his price and if he could someday make a profit.

One hundred ten million came from the rear of the room. Spenser

turned to stare at the bidder. The man's age was hard to determine, but

if Spenser had to hazard a guess, he'd pick the low side of sixty, based

primarily on the bidder's flowing gray hair and beard. Two things were

odd, though. Spenser knew practically everyone in the room at least by

sight or reputation, but this man was an unknown. And he seemed

totally unconcerned, as if he were bidding on a weekend trip to a spa

at a local charity auction instead of tendering a bid in the amount of a

small country's yearly budget. The man was obviously qualified--the

auction company would have made sure of that--but who was he?

One hundred twenty from a German pharmaceutical magnate.

"One twenty, now one thirty."

Talbot again, waving his paddle like a landing semaphore.

The bidding began to stall at $140 million, bid again by the gray-haired

man. Spenser turned again and felt a touch of apprehension. The

man was staring directly into his eyes. Then the man winked. A chill

ran down Spenser's spine.

He turned to the side, where he could see Talbot talking animatedly

into his telephone. He could sense then that the Silicon Valley billionaire

was flagging.

"Tell him," Spenser whispered in his phone, "it's slowed at one fifty,

with maybe one more bid still forthcoming."

"He wants to know if you've bid yet."

"No," Spenser said, "but they know I'm here."

Spenser had bought from the auctioneer many times; the man had

been watching him like a hawk. Any smile, flinch or gesture of his would

be taken as a bid.

"He asks that you bid two hundred," the aide relayed, "and blow

them out."

"Acknowledged," Spenser said.

Then in almost slow motion, he placed two spread-apart fingers to

his lips.

"The bid is two hundred million," the auctioneer said emotionlessly.

A raise of fifty million when the auctioneer was begging for ten.

"I have two hundred million in the room," the auctioneer said quietly,

"anyone in for two hundred ten?"

The room was as silent as a tomb. Spenser turned to the rear of the

room. The gray-haired man had vanished.

"Two hundred going once," the auctioneer said. "Going twice, fair

warning." He paused again. "Sold! Two hundred million, plus buyer's

premium, a stunning buy it is."

The room, which had been silent, now rippled with contained applause.

Spenser stayed another half hour to arrange the crating and security

to the airport, and by five that night he was flying east for delivery. For

security purposes, Spenser had chartered a plane that could not be traced

to the Macau billionaire who was his client. The company was full

service--it would both transport him to Asia as well as facilitate the

delivery of the artifact to its new home by armored car. He was almost

home free.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

49

"So does this," Lincoln said, "and it barely uses any computer

power."

A buzzer sounded, then the ship slowed and went dead in the water.

>From the north, a black amphibious plane approached, made a pass

over the Oregon to check the direction of the wind by the flag on the

flagstaff, then gracefully dropped into the water and taxied alongside.

"The chairman has arrived," Kasim noted.

SIX DAYS AFTER depositing the Cubans in San Juan, the Oregon had

rounded the Cape of Good Hope. Inside the control room, the seas

beyond the bow were projected on a high-definition four-byeight-foot

screen. There was little to see. The sun was dipping in the west, and the Oregon was in an empty part of the Indian Ocean where few cargo

ships steamed. Twenty minutes ago, Hali Kasim had caught the glimpse

of a blue whale. Triggering the underwater sensors, Kasim made a record

of the mass of the beast, then began to scan his data banks for a

match.

"She's a new one," Kasim said.

Franklin Lincoln, the huge pitch-black man who was sharing duties

in the control room, stared up from his game of computer solitaire.

"You need to find a different hobby."

"It passes the time," Kasim noted.

ONCE SAFELY ABOARD the Oregon, Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo

made his way to his stateroom. Walking inside, he shut the door,

tossed the bag containing his gray wig and fake beard on the bed, then

kicked off his shoes and started unbuttoning his shirt as he made his

way to the head.

Unlike most ships, where the bathroom facilities are almost an afterthought,

his was large and opulent. A sunken copper tub with jets

sat against the side of the hull, with a brass-lined rectangular porthole

giving a view of the water outside. Angled next to the tub was a separate

shower decorated with Mexican tile. Along the bulkhead toward the

bow was a cabinet containing a copper sink, with drawers beneath.

The floor was dark hardwood with thick cotton throw rugs. A recessed

toilet was set back in the bulkhead across from the sink and a

Philippine carved mahogany sitting bench graced one wall.

Cabrillo stared at his image in the mirror above the sink.

His blond crew-cut hair was in need of a trim and he made a mental

note to schedule an appointment with the ship's barber, who also doubled

as a masseuse. His skin had a light pallor, the result of stress, he

knew, and his eyes showed red from the strain. He was tired and his

joints felt stiff.

Sitting on the mahogany bench, he slid off his trousers and stared

down at his prosthetic leg. The leg was the third he had owned since

he had lost it in a naval battle with the Chinese destroyer Chengdo,

50

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

51

when the Corporation had been covering a NUMA operation in Hong

Kong. But it was a good one--it worked almost as well as the one he

had lost.

Rising, he walked over and began to draw a bath in the copper tub.

While the bath filled, he shaved at the sink and brushed his teeth, then removed the prosthetic limb and climbed into the water. As he

soaked, his thoughts drifted back. . . .

CABRILLO CAME FROM a family that had descended from the first

explorer to discover California, but despite his Spanish surname,

he looked more like a Malibu surf rat than a conquistador. He'd been

raised in Orange County by an upper-middle-class family. California in

the 1970s had seen wild times, filled with sex and drugs, but Cabrillo

had never drifted that way. By his nature, he'd been both conservative

and patriotic, almost a throwback. When everyone he knew was growing

long hair, he'd kept his short and well groomed. When clothing

tastes had run toward torn denim and T-shirts, his wardrobe had remained

neat and presentable. But this had not been his own form of

protest against the time, it was just who he was.

And even today he was still a bit of a clotheshorse.

In college he'd majored in political science, and had been an active

member of his university's ROTC program. So it was not a surprise

when the CIA had offered him a job at graduation. Juan Cabrillo was

just what they were seeking in new agents. He was bright without being

bookish, stable without being boring, and flexible without being outlandish.

Trained in Spanish, Russian, and Arabic, he'd proved a master at

disguise and stealth. Inserted into a country, he could read the pulse of

the people instinctively. Fearless but controlled, within a few short years

he'd become a valuable asset.

Then came Nicaragua.

Teamed with another agent, he and his partner had been ordered to

stem the growth of the pro-communist Sandinistas, and at first Cabrillo

had made inroads. But within a year the situation had spun out of

control. It was the oldest story in the world--too many chiefs and not

enough Indians. Chiefs in Washington calling the shots, native Indians

in Nicaragua paying the price. And when bombs had burst, the fallout

had blown back in their faces.

Cabrillo had been one of the fall guys, and he'd taken the hit for

his partner.

Now the partner, high up the ladder at the CIA, was repaying the

favor. The man had been funneling jobs to the Corporation almost since

their inception, but he'd yet to offer one with a potential payday this

large.

And all Cabrillo and his team needed to do was to accomplish the

impossible.

WHILE CABRILLO FINISHED his bath and got dressed, Kasim and

Lincoln continued their watch. By the time they were relieved

at midnight, Kasim would log one more whale, Lincoln would have

played thirty-two games of Klondike, and both men would have read

three of the magazines that had been loaded aboard in San Juan. Lincoln

tended to aviation periodicals, Kasim automobile digests.

Quite frankly, there was little work for the two men--the Oregon ran herself.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER--clean and dressed in tan slacks, a

starched white shirt and a Bill Blass blazer--Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo

was sitting at the large mahogany conference table in the corporate

meeting room. Linda Ross was across the table, sipping a Diet

Coke. Eddie Seng sat next to Ross, flipping through a stack of papers.

Mark Murphy was farther down the table, stroking a throwing knife

52

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

53

against a leather strap. Murphy found the action relaxing and he tested

the edge against a piece of paper.

"How did the auction go?" Max Hanley asked.

"The target brought two hundred million," Cabrillo said easily.

"Wow," Ross said, "that's a hefty price."

At the end of the table, in front of a bank of floor-to-ceiling monitors

that were currently blank, Michael Halpert turned on a laser pointer,

then pressed the remote for the monitors. He waited for Cabrillo, who

nodded for him to start.

"The job came from Washington to our lawyer in Vaduz, Liechtenstein:

a standard performance contract, half now, half on delivery. Five

million of the ten-million-dollar fee has already been received. It was

washed through our bank in Vanuatu, then transferred to South Africa

and used to purchase gold bullion, as we all agreed."

"It seems," Murphy said, shaving off a sliver of paper with the knife,

"that after all those machinations, we should just steal the Golden Buddha

for ourselves. It would save us a hell of a lot of time and effort.

Either way, we end up with the gold."

"Where's your corporate pride?" Cabrillo said, smiling, knowing

Murphy was joking, but making the point anyway. "We have our reputation

to consider. The first time we screw a client, the word would

get out. Then what? I haven't seen any want ads for mercenary sailors

lately."

"You haven't been looking in the right newspapers," Seng said, grinning.

"Try the Manila Times or the Bulgarian Bugle."

"That's the problem with stealing objects out of history books,"

Ross noted. "They're tough to resell."

"I know a guy in Greece," Murphy said, "who would buy the Mona 1

Lisa."      I

Cabrillo waved his hands. "All right, back to business."

A map of the world filled the main monitor, and Halpert pointed , >

to their destination.   1

"As a crow flies, it's over ten thousand miles from Puerto Rico to

this location," he noted. "By sea, it's a lot farther."

"We're going to run up the costs just getting there," Cabrillo said.

"Do we have any other jobs lined up in that part of the world after we

finish with this?"

"Nothing yet," Halpert admitted, "but I'm working on it. I did,

however, require the lawyer to include a bonus if we deliver the object

by a certain date."

"How much and when?" Cabrillo asked.

"The bonus is another million," Halpert said. "The date is March

thirty-first."

"Why March thirty-first?" Cabrillo asked.

"Because that's when they plan to have the leader return to his people."

"Ah. Good. All right, so we have a total of seven days, three of

which will be spent traveling. That gives us four days to break into a

secure building, steal a gold artifact that weighs six hundred pounds,

then transport it nearly twenty-five hundred miles to a mountain country

that most people have only heard about in school."

Halpert nodded.

"Sounds like fun," Cabrillo said.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

55

and opened it. "Has your company made arrangements with the armored

car to meet us at the airport in Macau?"

"Don't worry," Gunderson said. "They've taken care of everything."

THE PORT OF Aomen was bustling. Sampans and trading barges

shared the sea-lanes with modern cargo ships and a few high-performance

pleasure crafts. The wind was blowing from land to sea,

and the smell of wood cooking fires on mainland China mixed with the

scent of spices being off-loaded. Twelve miles out in the South China

Sea, and only minutes from landing, Gunderson received clearance for

final approach.

Spenser stared at the Golden Buddha strapped down on the floor

across the aisle.

CHUCK "TINY" GUNDERSON was dining on sausage and slabs of

cheddar cheese as he steered the Citation X and watched the

mountains that lay below. Gunderson carried nearly 280 pounds on his

six-feet-four frame and had played tackle at the University of Wisconsin

before graduating and getting recruited by the Defense Intelligence

Agency. Gunderson's experience with the DIA had enhanced his love of

flying, which he'd transferred into his job later in the private sector.

Right now, however, Gunderson was wishing he could have a bottle of

beer with his lunch. Instead, he finished a warm bottle of Blenheim's

ginger ale to wash it all down. Checking the gauges every few minutes,

he found them all in the green.

"Mr. Citation is happy," he said as he patted the automatic control

switch and checked his course.

Spenser made his way forward to the cockpit, knocked on the door

AT THE SAME instant, Juan Cabrillo was enjoying an espresso after

a meal of chateaubriand, mixed vegetables, a cheese plate and

baked Alaska for dessert. He held a napkin to his mouth as he talked

from the head table in the ship's dining salon.

"We have a man on the ground in Macau," he said. "He'll arrange

transportation once we have acquired the Buddha."

"What's his plan?" Hanley asked.

"He's not sure yet," Cabrillo admitted, "but he always comes up

with something."

Seng was next to speak.

"I've retrieved detailed maps of the port, streets and entire city,"

Seng said. "Both the port and the airport are less than a mile from where

we believe the Golden Buddha will be taken."

"That's a good twist of luck," Linda Ross said.

"The entire country's only seven square miles," Seng said.

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57

"Are we planning to anchor offshore?" Mark Murphy asked.

Cabrillo simply nodded.

"Then I need GPS numbers for the entire country," Murphy noted,

"just in case."

Another hour would pass as the corporate officers hashed out de

tails.

i^\ M," THE MAN said quietly, "from."

The man who would benefit the most from the return of

the Golden Buddha had no idea of the maelstrom of activity surrounding

him. He was meditating in a tranquil rock garden outside a home

in Beverly Hills, California. Now nearing seventy years old, he seemed

not to age as did ordinary men. Instead, the passage of time had simply

molded him into a more complete human being.

In 1959, the Chinese forced him to flee his own country for India.

In 1989, he'd received the Nobel Peace Prize for his continued work

toward the nonviolent freeing of his homeland. In a world where a

hundred-year-old house was considered historic, this man was believed

to be the fourteenth incarnation of an ancient spiritual leader.

At this instant, the Dalai Lama was traveling on the winds of his

mind back to home.

WINSTON SPENSER WAS tired and irritable. He had not had any

rest since leaving London, and the dreariness of travel and his

age were catching up to him. Once the Citation X had rolled to a stop

on the far end of the field, he waited while the pilot made his way to

the door and extended the stairs. Then he climbed out. The armored

car was only feet away, with the rear doors open. To each side of the

vehicle was a guard in black uniform with a bolstered weapon. They

looked about as friendly as a lynch mob. One of the men approached.

"Where's the object?" he asked directly.

"In a crate inside the main cabin," Spenser said.

The man motioned to his partner, who walked over.

At just that instant, Gunderson climbed down the stairs.

"Who are you?" one of the guards asked.

"I'm the pilot."

"Back in the cockpit until we're finished."

"Hey," Gunderson started to say as the larger of the two men

grabbed his arm and shoved him into the cockpit and slammed the door.

Then the two men eased the crate onto a roller ramp to the ground.

They pushed the crate on the ramp right into the truck. Two men

couldn't lift it. Once it was inside, the truck was pulled forward so they

could shut the doors. One of the guards was locking the doors when

Gunderson reappeared.

"You can be sure this will be reported," he said to the guard.

But the guard just smiled slightly and walked forward to climb into

the passenger seat.

"A-Ma Temple?" the driver said out the window.

"Yes," Spenser said.

The guard pointed to a dark green Mercedes-Benz limousine parked

nearby.

"You're supposed to follow us in that."

Rolling up the window, the driver placed the armored car in gear

and started driving.

Spenser climbed into the limousine and set off in pursuit.

THE ARMORED CAR and the limousine carrying Spenser crossed the

Macau-Taipa Bridge, went around the cloverleaf, passed the Hotel

Lisboa and headed up Infante D. Henrique until the name changed and

the road became San Mo La, or the New Road. On the west end of the

island, they reached the intersection of Rua das Lorchas and headed

south along the waterfront.

The waterfront was like a scene from an adventure movie. Junks

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

59

and sampans floated on the water, while the street along the water was

crammed with shops displaying everything from plucked chickens to

silver opium pipes. Tourists stood snapping pictures while buyers and

sellers negotiated prices in the singsong staccato of Cantonese.

At the fork with Rua do Almirante Sergio, the caravan veered

slightly left, drove past the bus terminal, then entered the grounds of

the A-Ma Temple. The temple was the oldest in Macau, dating from

the fourteenth century, and it sat on a densely wooded hill with a view

of the water. The complex held a total of five shrines linked by winding

pebbled paths. The smell of incense was in the air as Spenser climbed

from the limousine and walked to the armored car. At just that instant,

someone lit a coil firecracker to chase away the evil spirits. He instinctively

ducked, staring up at the driver's open window.

"You okay, sir?" the driver asked.

"Yes," Spenser said sheepishly, rising again to his full height. "I need

to step inside for a moment. If you will just wait here."

The driver nodded and Spenser walked up the path.

Entering the A-Ma Temple, Spenser walked to a rear room he knew

the leader of the monks used as an office, and knocked on the door.

The door opened, and a shaven-headed man dressed in a yellow robe

stood smiling.

"Mr. Spenser," he said, "you've come for your crate."

"Yes," Spenser said.

The monk rang a bell and two more monks appeared from another

room.

"Mr. Spenser is here for the crate I spoke about," the head monk

told them. "He'll explain what to do."

A large donation to the temple had ensured that his decoy would

remain here until needed. A well-placed lie would solve the rest.

"I have a gilded Buddha outside I'd like to display for a time,"

Spenser said, smiling at the monk. "Do you have a space to put it?"

"Certainly," the monk said. "Bring it inside."

Twenty minutes later the switch had taken place. The Golden Bud

dha

was now hiding in plain sight. Thirty minutes and less than a mile

away, the armored car made its final delivery of the day. After the

guards were dispatched, Spenser stood with the Macau billionaire, staring

at the object.

"It's more than I could have hoped for," the billionaire said.

But less than you think, Spenser thought. "I'm glad you like it."

"Now we celebrate," the billionaire said, smiling.

Silver platters of delicacies littered the long cherrywood table in the

palatial dining room of the man's estate. Spenser had passed on the

monkey meat, as well as the sea urchin, and settled on poultry in a

peanut sauce. Still, the spicy side dishes were wreaking havoc with his

travel-weary stomach, and he just wished the night would end.

Spenser sat at the far end of the table, the owner at the head. A

total of six concubines were seated, three to a side, in the middle. After

a dessert of wild berry mousse, cigars and cognac, the man rose from

his seat.

"Shall we take a soak, Winston?" he said, "and allow the ladies to

do their job?"

The man had no idea he would possess the faux Golden Buddha for

less than a week.

And Winston Spenser had no way to know he had less than a fortnight

to live.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

61

YW

Overholt was a runner.

He'd started the practice as a senior in high school, when the craze

had swept the country, fueled by the Jim Fixx book The Complete Runner. Throughout college and graduate school he'd kept up the practice.

Marriage, joining the CIA, divorce and remarriage had not slowed down

his obsession. Running was one of the few things that relieved the stress

of his job.

Stress was Overholt's other constant.

Since joining the CIA in 1981 fresh out of graduate school, he'd

served under six different directors. Now, for the first time in decades,

Langston Overholt IV had a chance to make his father's promise to the

Dalai Lama a reality, while at the same time repaying his old friend

Juan Cabrillo. He was wasting no time in moving his plans forward.

Just then, his telephone buzzed.

"Sir," his assistant said, "it's the DDO, he'd like to meet with you

as soon as possible."

Overholt reached for the phone.

LANGSTON OVERHOLT IV sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. His

hips rested in a tall leather chair sideways to the desk. In his hand

was a black racquetball paddle, its handle wrapped with white cloth

tape stained by sweat. Slowly and methodically, he hit a black rubber

ball two feet in the air and then back down to the racquet. Every fourth

hit, he flipped the racquet over to change sides. The rhythmic action

helped him think.

Overholt was thin without being scrawny, more lean and sinewy

than bony. One hundred and sixty-five pounds graced his six-foot-one-inch

frame, with skin stretched tight over muscles that were long and

squared rather than rounded and plump. His face was handsome in a

rugged way, rectangular in shape, with hard edges abounding. His hair

was blond, with just a touch of gray starting to appear at the temples,

and he had it trimmed every two weeks at the CIA barbershop inside

the compound.

THE WEATHER IN Washington, D.C., was as hot as Texas asphalt

and as steamy as a bowl of green chili. Inside the White House,

the air conditioners were set as high as they would go, but they just

couldn't drop the temperature below seventy-five degrees. The president's

home was aging, and there was just so much adaptation you

could make to an old building and still retain the historical structure.

"Has there ever been an official photograph of the president sitting

in the Oval Office in a T-shirt?" the president joked.

"I'll check, sir," said the aide who had just led the CIA director

inside.

"Thank you, John," the president said, dispatching the man.

The president reached across the desk and shook the director's hand

as the aide closed the door to leave the men alone. The president motioned

for him to be seated.

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63

"These aides I have are sharp as tacks," the president noted as he

sat down, "but short on a sense of humor. The kid's probably checking

with the White House historian as we speak."

"If it was anyone," the director said, smiling, "I'd guess LBJ."

When you're seventeen years old and you know the director of the

Central Intelligence Agency, the spy game seems pretty cool. When you

later become president, you really have a chance to see what happens.

Time had not diminished his enthusiasm--the president still found the

intelligence game fascinating.

"What have you got for me?" the president asked.

"Tibet," the director said without preamble.

The president nodded, then adjusted a fan on his desk so that the

breeze swept evenly across both men. "Explain."

The CIA director reached into his briefcase and removed some documents.

Then he laid out the plan.

bird fluttered around for a few seconds, then stopped and peered in the

window and looked directly toward Jintao.

"How would you cut costs?" Jintao said to the bird, "and where

do we find oil?"

IN BEIJING, PRESIDENT Hu Jintao was studying documents that

showed the true state of the Chinese economy. The picture was grim.

The race to modernization had required more and more petroleum, and

the Chinese had yet to locate any significant new reserves inside their

borders. The situation had not been such a problem a few years earlier,

when the price of oil had been at twenty-year lows, but with the recent

price spike upward, the higher costs were wreaking havoc. Adding to

the problem were the Japanese, whose thirst for oil had led to a price

competition the Chinese could not hope to win.

Jintao stared out the window. The air was clearer than usual today

--a light wind was blowing the smoke from the factories away from

central Beijing--but the wind was not so strong as to blow away the

soot that had landed on the windowsill. Jintao watched as a sparrow

landed on the sill. The bird's tiny feet made tracks in the powder. The

GOLDEN BUDDHA

65

Kasim was sound asleep, his feet up on the control panel. His mouth

was partially opened.

Kasim could sleep through a hurricane, Lincoln thought, or in this

part of the ocean, a cyclone.

mi

THE OREGON SWEPT past the Paracel Islands under a pitch-black

night sky. The air was liquid with rain that fell in sheets. The

wind was blowing in gusts without firm direction or purpose. For several

minutes it would rake the Oregon amidships, then quickly change

to blow bow on or stern first. The soggy flags on the stern were pivoting

on their staffs as fast as a determined Boy Scout trying to light a fire

with a stick.

Inside the control room, Franklin Lincoln stared at the radar screen.

The edge of the storm began petering out just before the ship passed

the twenty-degree latitude line. Walking over to a computer terminal

in the control room, he entered commands and waited while the satellite

images of the Chinese coastline loaded.

A haze of smog could be seen over Hong Kong and Macau.

He glanced over at Hali Kasim, who was sharing the night shift.

i

AT THE SAME time the Oregon was steaming east, Winston Spenser

awoke, startled. Earlier in the evening he had visited the Golden

Buddha at A-Ma. The icon was still in the mahogany crate, sitting upright,

door opened, in the room where it had been taken. Spenser had

gone alone; simple common sense dictated that as few people as possible

know the actual location, but he'd found the experience unnerving.

Spenser knew the icon was nothing more than a mass of precious

metal and stones, but for some strange reason the object seemed to have

a life force. The chunk of gold appeared to glow in the dim room, as if

illuminated by a light from within. The large jade eyes seemed to follow

his every move. And while its visage might appear benign to some-- only that of a potbellied, smiling prophet--to Spenser the image seemed

to be mocking him.

As if he had not known it before, earlier in the evening Spenser had

become certain that what he had done was not a stroke of genius. The

Golden Buddha was not some canvas, dabbed with paint--it was the

embodiment of reverence, crafted with love and respect.

And Spenser had swiped it like a candy in a drugstore.

THE DALAI LAMA listened to the slow flow of water over the

smooth stones while he meditated. On the far reaches of his mind

was static, and he willed the disturbance to clear. He could see the ball

of light in the center of his skull, but the edges were rough and pulsating.

Slowly he smoothed the signals, and the ball began to collapse in on

66

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

67

itself until only a pinpoint of white light remained. Then he began to

scan his physical shell.

There was a disturbance, and it was growing.

Eighteen minutes later, he came back into his shell and rose to his

feet.

Eight yards away, sitting under a green canvas awning alongside the

kidney-shaped pool on the estate in Beverly Hills, was his Chikyah

Kenpo. The Dalai Lama walked over. The Hollywood actor who was

his host smiled and rose to his feet.

"It is time for me to go home," the Dalai Lama said.

There was no pleading or disagreement from the actor.

"Your Holiness," he said, "let me call for my jet."

VICE PRESIDENT OF Operations Richard Truitt was still awake.

His body clock had yet to adjust and his night was still Macau's

day. Logging on to his computer, he checked for messages. One had

been sent by Cabrillo a few hours before. Like every e-mail he received

from the chairman, this one was short.

Confirmation received from the home of George. All systems go.

ETA 33 hours.

The CIA was still in and the Oregon would arrive in less than two

days' time. Truitt had a lot of work to complete in a short span. Calling

down to the hotel's twenty-four-hour room service, he ordered a meal

of bacon and eggs. Then he walked into the bathroom to shave, shower

and pick his disguise.

L

IN THE NORTH of Tibet, on the border between U-Tsang and Amdo

province, the Basatongwula Shan mountains towered over the

plains. The peak was a snowcapped sentinel watching over an area

where few men trod. To the untrained eye, the lands around Basatongwula

Shan looked barren and desolate, a wasteland best left alone and

deserted. On the surface, this may have been true.

But underneath, hidden for centuries, was a secret known only by

a few.

A yak walked slowly along a rocky path. On his back was a black

mynah bird that remained silent as he hitched a ride. Slowly at first, but

growing in intensity, a light tremor rippled across the land. The yak

began to shake in fear, causing the bird to take to the air. Digging his

cloven hooves into the soil, he stood firm as the land trembled. Then

slowly the disruption passed and the earth stilled. The yak resumed his

journey.

Within minutes, the fur on his legs and lower body was covered

with a haze from a mineral that over countless generations had made

some men rich and others go mad.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

69

[H

Cabrillo lifted his cup of coffee and then stood up. "We're less than

twenty-four hours from port. How are things going in the Magic Shop?"

"Most of the props are constructed and I'm starting on the disguises."

"Excellent," Cabrillo said.

"Do you have any preferences for your look?" Hanley asked.

"Try to keep the facial hair to a minimum," Cabrillo said. "It can

be muggy in Macau."

Hanley rose from the table. "Sahib, your wish is my command."

IUAN CABRILLO FINISHED the last bite of an omelet filled with

apple-smoked bacon and Gorgonzola cheese, then pushed the plate

away.

"It's a wonder we all don't weigh three hundred pounds," he said.

"The jalapeno cheese grits alone were worth waking up for," Hanley

noted. "I just wish the chef would have consulted with my ex-wife. I

might still be married."

"How's the divorce going?" Cabrillo asked.

"Pretty good," Hanley admitted, "considering my reported income

last year was only thirty thousand dollars."

"Just be fair," Cabrillo cautioned. "I don't want any lawyers snooping

around."

"You know I will," Hanley said as he refilled their coffee cups from

a silver thermal carafe on the table. "I'm just waiting for Jeanie to calm

down."

WHEN THE OREGON had been refitted by the Corporation in the

shipyard in Odessa, two decks had been installed inside the hull,

giving the interior a total of three levels, not including the raised pilothouse.

The lowest level housed the engines and physical plants, along

with the moon pool, machine shops, armory and storage rooms. One

level above, reached by metal stairs or the single heavy-lift elevator

amidships, was the deck containing communications, weapon systems,

a variety of shops and offices, a large library, a computer room and a

map room. The third level housed the dining room, recreation rooms,

a full gym, plus crew cabins and meeting and boardrooms. Level three

was surrounded by a two-lane running track for exercise. The Oregon was a city unto itself.

Hanley walked from the dining room and across the running track,

then eschewed the elevators for the stairs. Opening the door, he started

down. The stairway was paneled with mahogany and lit by sconces. At

the bottom Hanley stepped onto a thick carpet in a room with insets in

the walls that held plaques and medals awarded by grateful customers

and nations to the men and women of the Oregon.

He made his way forward toward the bow until the walls in the

hallway turned to glass on the port side. Behind the glass was what

could have passed for a Hollywood costume and set shop. Kevin Nixon

raised his head and waved.

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71

Hanley opened the door to the shop and entered. It was cool inside

and the air was scented with the smells of grease, vinyl and wax. A

Willie Nelson CD was seeping from hidden speakers.

"How long have you been here?" Hanley asked.

Nixon was sitting on a three-legged stool in front of a metal-framed,

wood-topped workbench that had a ring of hand tools around the perimeter.

In his hands he held an ornamental headdress with silken gold

fabric that flowed down his right side to the floor.

"Two hours," he said. "I woke up early, checked my e-mail and got

the preliminary specs."

"Did you eat breakfast?" Hanley asked.

"I just grabbed some fruit," Nixon said. "I need to drop ten pounds

or so."

Nixon was a big man, but he carried his weight well. If you saw

him on the street, you would think him stocky but not fat. But he was

in a constant battle, his weight running from 240 pounds to 210, depending

on his vigilance. Last summer, when he'd taken a few weeks

off and hiked the Appalachian Trail, he'd gotten down to 200, but his

sedentary life aboard ship and the charms of the chef's cooking had

caught up to him.

Hanley walked over to the bench and stared at Nixon's work.

"That's religious garb?"

"For a Macanese in a Good Friday parade, it is."

"We'll need a total of six sets," Hanley said.

Nixon nodded. "I figured two shaman and four penitents."

Hanley walked over to the wall, where several more benches were

abutting the bulkhead. "I'm going to start on the masks."

Nixon nodded and reached for a remote control for the CD player.

He punched a button and Willie stopped. Johnny Rivers's "Secret Agent

Man" began to play.

"Kevin," Hanley said easily, "you just love to do that, don't you?"

"There's a man who lives a life of danger," Nixon sang in a baritone.

TRUITT SENT A map showing the parade route for Good Friday,"

Cabrillo said. "We lucked out--traffic in the downtown area will

be at a standstill."

Eddie Seng reached across the table for one of the folders. "It's

surprising that the Chinese would have such a large celebration for

something that concerns Christianity."

"Macau was a Portuguese possession from 1537 until 1999," Linda

Ross noted. "Roughly thirty thousand of the population is Catholic."

"Plus the Chinese love festivals," Mark Murphy said. "They'll form

a parade at the drop of a hat."

"Truitt said they are going to do the same as last year and put on

a massive fireworks display over the city," Cabrillo said, "fired from a

series of barges in the bay."

"So the cover of night and a waning moon no longer apply," Franklin

Lincoln noted.

Lincoln's friend Hali Kasim couldn't resist. "A real shame, Frankie--

you blend in so well when the sky is dark."

Lincoln turned toward Kasim and brushed his nose with his middle

finger. "That's okay, Kaz, the fireworks also make it harder for you lily-white

Hugh Grant types."

"There's still the question of weight," Cabrillo said, ignoring the

exchange. "The Golden Buddha weighs six hundred pounds."

"Four men on each side could lift that weight without too much

strain on their backs," Julia Huxley said.

"I think I'll have Hanley and Nixon fabricate something," Cabrillo

said. "Any suggestions?"

The crew continued planning the operation--Macau was just about

a day's sail away.

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73

THE CHAIRMAN OF the Tibet Autonomous Region, Legchog Raidi

Zhuren, was reading a report on the fighting just across the border

in Nepal. Last night, government forces had killed nearly three hundred

Maoist insurgents. The ferocity of the attacks on the communist rebels

had been increasing since spring 2002. After several years of growing

rebel activity, the Nepalese government had begun to feel threatened

and finally started to take firm action. The United States had sent army

Green Beret advisors to the area to coordinate strikes, and almost immediately

the body count had begun to grow.

To prevent the fighting from spilling over across the border into

Tibet, Zhuren had needed to call Beijing for additional troops to station

them on the high mountain passes that led from Nepal to Tibet. President

Jintao had not been happy about the development. In the first

place, the cost to secure Tibet was increasing at a time the president

wanted to cut costs. In the second place, the Special Forces advisors

added a dimension of danger to the mission. If a single American soldier

was wounded or killed by Chinese forces protecting the Tibet border,

Jintao was worried the situation might spiral out of control and China

would be embroiled in another Korea.

What Legchog Zhuren did not know was that Jintao was starting

to consider Tibet more of a liability than an asset. The timing was critical

--if the Tibetan people launched a popular uprising right now,

China might have another Tiananmen Square on its hands, and the

world mood was not the same as in 1989. With the fall of communism

in the Soviet Union and their increasingly close relations with the United

States, any heavy-handed action against the Tibetan population might

be met with force from two fronts.

American forces could be launched from carriers in the Bay of Bengal

and from bases in occupied Afghanistan, while Russian ground

forces could sweep in from the republics of Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan,

as well as the area of far eastern Russia where it bordered northern

Tibet. Then there would be a free-for-all.

And for what? A small, poor mountain country China had illegally

occupied?

The reward didn't equal the risk. Jintao needed to find face--and

he needed it fast.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

75

Macau and into the United States, would run him another million or

so. As a result, right at this instant, for all practical purposes, Spenser

was broke.

The art dealer had tapped all his available savings and business lines

of credit to fund his nefarious operation--if he didn't have the commission

check lying before him on the table, he'd be in trouble. If Spenser

had not been completely certain he had a buyer for the Golden

Buddha, he might be worried. Tearing the slip of paper from the pad,

he tore the note into tiny pieces, tossed the pieces in the toilet and

flushed. Then he poured himself half a glass of Scotch to calm his trembling

hands. It had taken Spenser a lifetime to build his reputation-- and if his crime was known, it would be gone in seconds.

Money and gold can make men do strange things.

WINSTON SPENSER TOOK his pen to paper to tally his ill-gotten

gains. The 3 percent commission on the original $200 million

sale of the Golden Buddha was $6 million. This was hardly a small sum.

In fact, it was just over five times Spenser's income last year--but it was

a drop in the bucket compared to the money he was about to collect

for selling it again.

In the first place, against the $6 million commission check, he had

the cost of the decoy. The fabricators in Thailand had charged nearly a

million for that. In the second place, the company he'd had hired in

Geneva to transport the Golden Buddha to Macau and provide armored-car

service to A-Ma had charged too much, a flat fee of $1 million for

their services, while Spenser had quoted the billionaire a cost of one-tenth

of that so as not to arouse suspicion. Bribes now, and in the next

few days, when Spenser was planning to transport the original out of

THREE-QUARTERS OF THE way across the globe and sixteen time

zones distant, it was almost midnight, and the Silicon Valley software

billionaire was passing his time making changes to his newest

yacht. The blueprints for the massive 350-foot-long vessel had been created

on a computer, designed on a computer and refined on a computer.

Each individual piece could be highlighted and changed, all the way

down to the screws that attached the thirty toilets to the deck. Right

now, the billionaire was playing around with the furnishings and upholstery,

and his ego was running rampant.

The computer would generate a full-bodied hologram of him to welcome

guests to the main deck salon, and that had been a cool touch,

but at this instant he was deciding what font would be best for his

initials, which were to be sewn into the fabric on all the couches and

chairs. A few years ago, he'd bought himself a minor British title that

had come complete with a coat of arms, so he inserted the script he'd

selected into the emblem, then overlaid that onto the fabric. A cameo

of my face might look better, he thought, as he stared at the royal crest.

76

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

77

Then people could sit on my face. The idea brought a smile; he was still

smiling when his Philippine houseboy entered the room.

"Master," he said slowly, "I'm sorry to bother you, but you have a

long-distance telephone call from overseas."

"Did they say their name?" he asked.

"He said he was a friend of the fat golden one," the man said.

"Put him through," the billionaire said, smiling, "at once."

THE TIME WAS just before four in the afternoon in Macau, and

while he waited for the software billionaire to come online, Spenser

was fiddling with a voice-alteration device that he had placed over

his satellite telephone. He had placed a new battery in the device and

the tiny light was blinking green, but still he questioned if the scrambler

would work as advertised.

"Yo," the billionaire said as he came on the line. "What have you

got for me?"

"Are you still interested in owning the Golden Buddha?" a

mechanical-sounding voice asked.

"Sure," the billionaire said. At the same time, he input commands

into the computer hooked to his telephone to counter the effects of the

scrambler. "But not at two hundred million."

"I was thinking"--the man's voice was scrambled, but then the

computer did its magic and the voice cleared--"a price of one hundred

million."

A British accent, the software billionaire thought. Talbot had told

him a British dealer had made the successful bid for the Buddha, and

maybe he had acquired it for a British collector--but that made no

sense. No one would buy something for $200 million, only to offer it

a few days later for half that. The dealer must have pulled the old

switcheroo--or he was offering a fake.

"How do I know what you are offering is real?" the software billionaire

asked.

"Do you have someone who can date gold?" Spenser asked.

"I can find someone," the billionaire said.

"Then I'll send you a sliver of metal along with a videotape of me

removing it from the bottom of the artifact. The gold used in the Buddha

was mined in--"

"I know the history," the billionaire said, cutting him off. "How

are you going to send the sample?"

"I'll FedEx it this evening," Spenser said.

The billionaire reeled off an address, then asked, "If it checks out,

in what form will you want payment?"

"I'll accept a wire transfer of American dollars to an account I'll

specify at the time of the transfer," Spenser said.

"Sounds reasonable," the billionaire said. "I'll set it up tonight. One

more thing, though," the billionaire added. "I just hope you're better at

stealing than you are at picking electronics. Your choice in voice-alteration

equipment is second-rate--your accent is as British as beans on toast, and that gives me a pretty good idea of who you are."

Spenser stared at the flashing green light in disgust, but said nothing.

"So just remember," the billionaire finished, "if you try and screw me--I can be real unpleasant."

F

ULL STOP," HANLEY ordered.

The Oregon had crossed the outer edge of the harbor just after

11 a.m. and picked up the pilot. Several containerized ships leaving port

had slowed their progress, and the trip to a mooring buoy in the water

just off the main portion of the port had required most of the next hour.

The time was just before noon when the vessel was finally secured.

Cabrillo stood next to Hanley at the helm and stared at the city,

which encircled the harbor. The pilot had just left, and he watched the

stern of the boat retreating.

"You don't think he noticed anything unusual?" Cabrillo asked.

"I think we're okay," Hanley answered.

78

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

79

H

I

The Corporation's previous ship, the Oregon I, had been involved

in a sea battle off Hong Kong a few years before, which had resulted

in them sinking the Chinese navy vessel Chengdo. If the Chinese officials

figured out this was the same crew that had sunk their multimillion-dollar

destroyer, they'd all be hung as spies.

"Truitt arranged for us to receive our cover cargo the day after

tomorrow," Cabrillo said, scanning the sheet of paper on a clipboard

that listed the operational plans. "You're going to love this--it's a load

of fireworks bound for Cabo San Lucas."

"The Oregon delivering fireworks," Hanley said quietly. "It seems

so fitting."

THE EXECUTIVE JET terminal in Honolulu was plush without being

ostentatious. It was cool inside, the air conditioning maintaining

an even seventy degrees. The smoked-glass windows gave the lobby

a clear view of the runways, and Langston Overholt IV passed the time

watching a series of private jets appear in the night sky and then touch

down and taxi over to the refueling area near private hangars. Overholt

never saw the passengers of the jets; they were either met by limousines

or large black SUV's on the tarmac then transferred to their locations,

or they stayed aboard while the jets were refueled and continued on

their journies. Pilots or copilots came and went--stopping for weather

briefings, to use the restrooms, to grab a cup of coffee or a pastry from

a pantry to the side of the lobby--but for the most part it was quiet in

a mid-evening lull. Overholt rose from the couch, walked over to the

pantry and poured a cup of coffee, then was removing a banana from

a fruit basket on the table when his telephone vibrated.

"Overholt," he said quietly.

"Sir," a voice a few thousand miles away said steadily, "tracking

reports the target on final approach."

"Thank you," Overholt said as he disconnected.

Then he peeled the banana, ate it and walked over to the flight desk.

Taking a leather badge cover from the breast pocket of his suit, he

flipped it open and handed it to the clerk. The man quickly scanned the

golden eagle, then perused the ID card showing Overholt's picture and

title.

"Yes, sir," the clerk said.

"I need to talk to the party on the Falcon you have inbound for

landing."

The man nodded and reached for a portable radio on his belt. "I'll

notify the ramp and call for a golf cart. Is there anything else you need?"

Overholt turned and stared out the window. The light mist was

turning to rain.

"Do you have an umbrella I can borrow?"

The clerk was on the radio calling out to the ramp attendants and

nodded at Overholt's request. "You can use mine," the clerk said, reaching

under the counter and handing it across the desk.

Overholt slipped his hand in his trouser pocket and removed a

money clip, then peeled off a fifty. "The CIA would like to buy you

dinner tonight," he said, smiling.

"Is this when you say you were never here?" the clerk said, smiling

in turn.

"Something like that." Overholt nodded.

The man pointed to the doors. "Your golf cart is here."

Outside the window, the landing lights on the Falcon jet reflected

off the light rain and the wet surface as it lowered onto the runway

with a chirp from the tires. A truck with a flashing light bar mounted

on the roof raced down an access road in hot pursuit. The truck would

lead the jet to the spot for refueling.

Then Overholt could board and ask the Dalai Lama if he was ready

for the journey.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

81

rn

MACAU IS A tiny country consisting of three small islands connected

by causeways. The farthest north is Macau, which houses

the government buildings; the middle island, Taipa, has a manmade

extension for the airport and runways, and is connected to the main

body of the island with a pair of roads; and the farthest south island is

Coloane. To the north and east of the country is the Chinese mainland,

and to the west, across the body of water known as Zhujiang Kou, is

Hong Kong.

Formerly a Portuguese colony, the country had reverted to China in

1999 and was administered as a special region similar to Hong Kong.

The landmass of Macau is a mere 9.1 square miles, or just under a sixth

of the size of Washington, D.C. The population is estimated at around

430,000 people.

The Oregon was moored off Coloane, and nearest to international

waters.

"Dick," Cabrillo said as he reached the top of the ladder leading

from the shore boat to the pier, "how goes it?"

"Mr. Chairman," Truitt said, "I think all is in order."

Bob Meadows and Pete Jones, former Navy SEALs and operational

specialists, along with security and surveillance expert Linda Ross, followed.

Once they were all on the pier, Truitt motioned to the van.

"Let me show you the layout," Truitt said quietly as they all entered

the van.

Truitt steered the van onto the 1.3-mile-long bridge that would take

them to Taipa. It was quiet inside the van, the only sound coming from

the tires as they periodically crossed over the expansion joints.

"This is Taipa," Truitt said as the van reached the island. "Two

bridges lead to Macau. We'll take the shorter, which is about a mile

and a half long."

As Truitt steered the van onto the second bridge, Cabrillo stared to

the west across the water toward the other bridge and Hong Kong. The

road was crowded with trucks carrying cargo from the seaports and air

terminal, but the traffic was moving fast.

"Can the authorities seal off the bridges?" he asked.

"There are no gates per se," Truitt said, "but they could easily station

large trucks on the approaches and we'd be in trouble."

The high-rises on Macau were becoming more visible through the

windshield.

"We're not going to luck out and have the building located along

the waterfront?" Linda Ross asked.

"Sorry, Linda," Truitt said, glancing in the rearview mirror, "his

home is on the hillside."

Cabrillo was staring ahead at the mass of humanity and buildings

as the van covered the final hundred yards over the bridge. "So if we're

caught making a run for it ..." His voice trailed off.

Truitt slowed the van and turned onto a crowded side street. "That's

the score, boss," he said quietly.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

83

"How come we never steal things that are hidden in the middle of

nowhere?" Meadows asked.

"Because the stuff we're paid to do never happens in an isolated

area," Jones said, smiling.

LANGSTON OVERHOLT HAD needed more time with the Dalai

Lama to explain his proposal, so he'd made a quick call to Washington,

then boarded the Falcon. Flying against the sun had made the

night last a long time--it was still dark when they stopped in Manila

to refuel. Lifting from the tarmac at Manila International Airport, the

pilot set a course skirting Vietnam then over the southernmost strip of

Thailand above Hat Yai. Once he passed over Thailand, he'd make a

sweeping turn north over the Andaman Sea, stop at Rangoon for more

fuel, and then he could make it to Punjab, where the Dalai Lama would

take a small plane the rest of the way to Little Lhasa, his exile home in

northern India.

Once the jet reached cruising altitude, Overholt continued the conversation.

"Your father was a friend of mine," the Dalai Lama said quietly,

"so I've listened carefully to your proposal. But you have yet to explain

how we make the Chinese simply hand back my country. You know I

cannot agree to this if there will be bloodshed."

"The president feels if we enlist the Russians' help, the threat of war

might make the Chinese back down. Their economy is in a pinch right

now--the cost to occupy your country is starting to mount."

"So you believe the financial motive is sufficient?" the Dalai Lama

asked.

"It might help if you offered them the Golden Buddha," Overholt

said, saving his silver bullet for the last.

The Dalai Lama smiled. "Like your father, you are a fine man, Lang-ston,

but in this case your information is faulty. The Golden Buddha

was stolen when I went into exile. The government-in-exile no longer

has it to offer."

The sun was finally appearing over the horizon and it illuminated

the wings on the Falcon jet in a golden glow. To the rear of the plane

a steward was preparing a light breakfast of juice and muffins. The time

had come for Overholt to show his hand.

"The United States has a plan to liberate the Golden Buddha," he

said. "We should have it in a few days."

The Dalai Lama's smile became a grin. "I must say that is very

unexpected news. Now I can see why you have flown halfway around

the world with me."

Overholt smiled and nodded. "So you think the Chinese will accept

the icon as payment when combined with the threat of war?"

The Dalai Lama shook his head. "No, my CIA friend, I do not. The

true secret of the Golden Buddha is inside . . . a secret the Chinese would

pay dearly for."

L

EXITING THE BRIDGE, Truitt steered the van through the clover-.? leaf. The thousand-room Hotel Lisboa and casino was to the right f

as they drove west on Avenida Dr. Mario Soares. To the right, the Bank

of China soared into the air, a pink granite-and-glass structure whose

top levels allowed the occupants a view across the border into China.

"For anticapitalists, they build a nice bank," Meadows said quietly.

No one replied; they were enamored with the scenery. Central Macau

was a strange mishmash of new and old, European and Asian, traditional

and modern. Truitt reached Rua da Praia Grande and turned

left.

"From what I'm told, this used to be a beautiful drive," Truitt said, "until construction started on the Nam Van Lakes Reclamation Project."

The road was clogged with construction trucks, cement mixers and

piles of materials.

GOLDEN BUDDHA     85

Driving farther, the road became Avenida da Republica and skirted

Nam Van Lake.

"That's the governor's residence," Truitt said, pointing up the hill.

"I'm taking us the long way around the tip of the peninsula so you can

see the geography. The hill north of the governor's residence is named

Penha. This one on the end is Barra Hill. Our target is between the two,

on a street named Estrada da Penha."

Angling left on the road, they climbed a rise until the van reached

Estrada de D. Joao Paulino. Turning a quick right, they drove a few

yards and made another sharp right onto Estrada da Penha, which

formed a wavy U shape around the top of the hill until it met back up

with Joao Paulino.

The van passed the bottom of the U and was halfway up the side

when Truitt slowed. "Thar she blows."

"She" was a mansion, an old elegant structure worthy of a landed

family. A tall stone wall encircled the grounds, broken only by a

wrought-iron gate and the creeping growth of ivy. Giant, perfectly

placed trees, planted generations past, studded the expanse of emerald

grass. As the van rolled past, a croquet field was visible off to the side.

Farther to the right, down a cobblestone driveway, was a two-story garage building, where a handyman was soaping down a Mercedes-Benz

limousine.

The mansion looked like a wealthy nineteenth-century shipowner

could live there now; the only compromise for the times was the series

of security cameras atop the stone wall fronting the street.

"There are six cameras strategically located around the grounds."

The van was approaching the junction with Joao Paulino, and Truitt

slowed before commenting.

"That would complicate things," Truitt said, as he slowed for the

stop sign, "except for one thing I failed to mention."

"What's that?" Cabrillo asked.

"Our target is throwing a huge party," Truitt said as he steered the

van left, "and we're booked as the entertainment."

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CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

87

Truitt took the scenic way back, past the temple and along the waterfront.

W

'ELL?" THE SOFTWARE billionaire asked pointedly.

, ,   One thousand dollars to the Stanford scientist had pro

cured

his services; a call to the president of the university reminding him

of past donations had opened up the full use of the laboratory.

"The date shows thirteenth century, but for me to give you a more

accurate estimate of the area from which it was mined, I'll have to melt

half of your sample."

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"It's going to take me thirty or forty-five minutes," the scientist said,

already growing weary of the billionaire's rude manner. "Why don't

you head to the cafeteria and grab something to drink?"

"Do they have Chai tea?" the billionaire said.

"No," the scientist said wearily, "but there's a Starbucks on the

commons that does."

After giving him directions to the Starbucks, he waited until the man

walked out and closed the door to the laboratory.

"Idiot," the scientist said.

Then he walked over to a small kiln and slid the metal plate holding

the shaving of gold inside. After it melted, he placed the sample inside

a computer-powered sampler that would give a breakdown of the percentages

of the other metals present. By comparing the ratios with

known ores already mined, the scientist could determine the general area

where the gold had been mined.

As he waited for the machine to perform its magic, the scientist read

a skiing magazine. Twenty minutes later, the machine stopped.

THE PRESIDENT OF the United States was sitting in an Adirondack 1

chair behind the main house at Camp David, Maryland. The pres-1 ident of Russia sat across from him, a wooden table separating the two.

Though not visible, $2 billion in foreign aid was on the table.

"How does it sound, Vlad?" the president asked.

"You know I've never been a big fan of the Chinese," the Russian

president said, "but the foreign aid is only a bandage. My country's

factories need orders for our economy to mend itself."

The president nodded. "The biggest-ticket items in my budget are

always the military planes and ships. The Taiwanese have got a shopping

list a mile long. What if I could steer some of that business your

way?"

The Russian president smiled. "You are a crafty one," he said.

"You've managed to give me what my country needs while at the same

time pitting us against the Chinese, who as you well know make an

enemy of anyone who befriends Taiwan."

The president rose from the chair and stretched. "Now, Vlad," he

said, "isn't that the nucleus of negotiation--to give both sides what they

want?"

"I think," the Russian president said, rising, "we may just have a

deal."

"Good, then," the president said, motioning toward the dining hall.

"What do you say we go see what kind of pie the chef has in the oven?"

" ^"^^r^^

r I ^HE GOLD WAS mined somewhere in the area of Burma," the

-A. scientist said when the billionaire returned, clutching a paper cup

of tea.

"Can you be more specific?"

"South of the twenty-degrees latitude line, which means southern

Vietnam, Laos, Thailand or Burma. I can try to pin it down more, but

it will take time."

The billionaire sipped the tea, then shook his head back and forth.

"Don't bother, you said the magic word."

The billionaire started toward the door while at the same time re

88

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

89

moving a cellular telephone from his belt. "Bring the car around," he^j

said to the driver. Then he disconnected and reached for the door.

"Do you want your gold back?" the scientist shouted across the

laboratory.

"Keep it," the billionaire shouted. "I've got a lot more where that

came from."

"You're most generous," the scientist muttered as he scraped the

sample from the now-cool plate and slid it into the envelope with the

other.

Carrying the envelope over to his desk, he tossed it into the top

drawer. Then he walked to the door, shut off the lights, and locked the

door to the laboratory behind him. A few minutes later, he was tooling

across campus on his moped, still shaking his head at the strange encounter.

Hanley said. "I'll break out a repeater we can place on Barra Hill so

we're not using local channels."

"Better place a beacon up there, too," Nixon said, glancing at the

clipboard. "Murphy wants a fixed targeting point if he needs to loose

a missile."

"Murphy," Hanley said, shaking his head, "he'd drive a thumbtack

with a sledgehammer."

Nixon turned on an exhaust vent, then slid his leg over the motorcycle

and poked the kick starter. The machine roared to life and settled

into an idle. Shutting it off, he moved toward the second motorcycle

and repeated the process. The hours passed as the pair of men checked

then double-checked the equipment.

INSIDE A STORAGE hold on the lower level of the Oregon, Hanley

was standing with Kevin Nixon, staring at a collection of wheeled

conveyances.

"For certain, we should have a couple of the motorcycles and at j

least one of the all-terrain vehicles prepared," Hanley said.

Nixon nodded, then walked over to one of the motorcycles. Since

the last time it had been used, it had been cleaned and oiled. All the

tools used by the Corporation were kept in a constant state of readiJ

ness--it was one of the easiest ways to ensure success.

"I'll go ahead and test run everything," Nixon said. "Want me to

fabricate Macau license plates for each?"

"Sounds good," Hanley said. "Just standard tags, nothing diplomatic."

Nixon stared at the clipboard with the sheet of paper Cabrillo had

prepared earlier. "Looks like Ross wants earpiece communications for

the ground operators, with a secondary channel to reach the ship."

"Make sure the batteries are charged, and check everything out,"

AT THE SAME instant, closer to the stern, Mark Murphy was in the

armory. The room had a bench containing reloading equipment

and rows of drawers containing ammunition, charges, timers and fuses.

Along the walls were a series of recessed cases that housed automatic

weapons, rifles and handguns. The room smelled of gunpowder, metal

and oil.

Parts of a U.S. Army M-16 sat atop a piece of cloth on the bench.

Murphy pushed the button on a digital timer, then reached for the stock and began to assemble the weapon. A minute later, he pushed the timer

again, then raised his hands in the air. One minute and four seconds--he

was slow today. Walking over to an ammunition drawer, he began to

remove banana clips and load them with different types of ordnance.

"God, I love my job," he said aloud.

THE VAN WAS entering the bridge leading from Macau to Taipa.

"The Minutemen," Cabrillo said. "Where did you come up

with that name?"

90

CLIVE CUSSLER

"It could be construed as an homage to Paul Revere and the revolutionary

way," Truitt said, laughing.

"Wouldn't that be Paul Revere and The Raiders?" Jones said.

"But in fact," Truitt continued, "it's the name of the band that was

already hired."

"Won't it be crowded when two bands show up?" Ross asked.

"It would be, but the real Minutemen, a California cover band doing

a tour of the Far East, was detained in Bangkok after a two-week stint

in the Phuket bars. Apparently a customs official found a joint in the

drummer's shaving kit."

"Planted?" Cabrillo asked.

"Had to," Truitt noted. "The Minutemen are probably the only

band in these parts that are clean--they met one another in a twelve-step

group."

"The boys sound all right," Meadows said. "You can't fault someone

who's turned his life around--we shouldn't let them rot in a Thailand

prison."

"Not to worry, the customs official is on our payroll," Truitt said.

"There's no record of the stop. One of our people in California made

contact with their management company and explained the situation,

and we upgraded them to first class for the flight home since the Macau

gig was the last one on the tour. Right now, the Minutemen are convinced

they were critically helpful in the war on terrorism--as per our

standard cover story."

The van rolled onto Taipa and started across the island.

"I just have one question," Cabrillo said. "Which one of us is the

lead singer?"

DC

THE DALAI LAMA walked down the steps of the jet in Jalandhar,

in the Punjab province of India, into an unusually hot day. Despite

his forty-five years in exile in India, he had never learned to adjust to

the weather. His Holiness was a man from the mountains and he missed

snow and cold temperatures. He sniffed the air for the slightest smell

from the glaciers far to the north. Instead of snow and pine trees, his

nose was assaulted by fumes from the trucks passing by the airport on

the traffic-packed highway.

He smiled anyway and gave thanks.

"Looks like my transportation is here," he said to Overholt, who

had joined him on the tarmac.

A large, single-engine Cessna Caravan was nearby, with a pilot doing

a walk-around.

"Very good, Your Holiness," Overholt said.

"As soon as I return, I will meet with my advisors and the oracle,"

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

93

the Dalai Lama said, staring directly into Overholt's eyes. "If they agree

and you can ensure me no bloodshed, then I will agree to the plan we

have designed."

"Thank you, Your Holiness."

The Dalai Lama began to walk toward the Cessna, then stopped

and turned around. "I will pray for your father and for you," he said

quietly, "and pray this all works out."

Overholt simply smiled as the Dalai Lama turned and walked over

to the steps, then climbed into the Cessna for the rest of his journey. As

soon as he was seated, the Dalai Lama turned to one of his assistants.

"As soon as we arrive in Little Lhasa, I will need the trunk containing

the Golden Buddha documents brought to my office."

The assistant scribbled notes on a small pad.   ;

"Then I will need to see my doctor," he said quietly. "There is

something wrong with my physical shell."

"As ordered, Your Holiness," the aide said, "I shall do."

The pilot started the engine on the Cessna and ran through his

checks. Four minutes later he was rolling toward a runway, and a few

minutes after that he was airborne. Overholt stood on the tarmac and

watched as the Cessna lifted off the ground and made a climbing turn

to the right. The Caravan was just a speck against the backdrop of the

white cloud cover before he turned to the pilot of the Falcon.

"Mind if I catch a ride back to Santa Monica with you?" he asked.

"We're going that way anyway, sir," the pilot said. "Might as well

tag along."

OVERHOLT HAD A quality that was often overlooked in successful

spies. He could sleep anywhere. By the time the jet stopped for

fuel in Taiwan, the several hours of sleep had renewed his vigor. As the

plane was being fueled, he walked a distance away and unfolded his

portable telephone, then dialed a number from memory.

Bouncing off a satellite, the signal arrived in the Marshall Islands in

the Pacific, then was redirected toward the ultimate destination. The

signal was scrambled and untraceable and there was no way to determine

where the receiving party was actually located. The voice answered

with an extension number.

"2524."

"Juan," he said quietly, "this is Langston."

"Que pasa, amigo," Cabrillo said.

"Everything still looks good," Overholt said. "How is your crew

coming?"

"We're ten by ten," Cabrillo said.

"Good," Overholt said.

"Looks like there's a little side deal here for us to grab," Cabrillo

said. "I trust there's no problem with that?"

"As long as there's no blowback," Overholt said. "Your company's

dealings are none of my concern."

"Excellent," Cabrillo said. "If it works out as planned, there will be

no need to bill you for travel expenses."

"Money's not a problem, old friend; this is coming from the top,"

Overholt said, "but time is--make this happen for me before Easter."

"That's why we get the big money, Lang"--Cabrillo laughed--"because

we're so damn prompt. You'll have what you need, you have my

word."

"That's what I love about you," Overholt said, "your complete lack

of ego."

"I'll call you when it's done," Cabrillo said.

"Just don't let me read about it."

Overholt disconnected, slid the telephone into his pocket, then did

a series of stretching exercises before climbing back aboard the jet.

Twenty-four hours later, he boarded a military transport plane from

Southern California to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. There he

was met by the CIA car service and transported to headquarters.

94

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

95

AT THE MANSION on Estrada da Penha, preparations for the party

were moving at a blistering pace. One truck after another rolled

through the gates, then parked and unloaded their contents. Three large

yellow-and-white-striped canvas tents were quickly erected on the

grounds, with portable air-conditioning units to make the tents more

comfortable. They were followed by a pair of large portable fountains

with spotlights that would shoot colored streams of water twenty feet

into the air; red carpets for the guests to walk across; sound equipment;

a baby grand piano for the musician who would play during the cocktail hour; parrots, doves and peacocks; and tables, chairs and linens.

The party planner was a middle-aged Portuguese woman named Is-elda,

whose black hair was kept in a tight bun on the back of her head.

She was chain-smoking thin brown cigarettes with blue satin tips while

she screamed orders to the staff.

"These are not the goblets I ordered," she said as a worker carried

a case into the tent and began to unpack them. "I ordered the ones with

the gold lip--take these back."

"Sorry, Miss Iselda," the Chinese worker said, scanning a sheet.

"These are what are on the list."

"Take them back, take them back," she said as she furiously puffed

away.

A peacock wandered into the tent and made a mess on the floor.

Iselda grabbed a straw broom and chased it out onto the grounds.

"Where are the laser lights?" she shouted to no one in particular.

AT EXACTLY THAT same instant, Stanley Ho, host of the party, was

standing in one of his three home offices, this one on the top floor

of his house. This was his private sanctuary. None of the staff or assistants

were allowed to enter this most private of spaces. The attic room

was decorated to Ho's tastes, which ran to early eclectic. His desk was

from an early sailing ship, his television a brand-new plasma screen.

Bookcases lined one wall, but they were not filled with the classy

tomes Ho displayed in areas where guests visited; these shelves were

rilled with pulp spy novels, soft porn featuring damsels in distress, and

cheap paperback westerns.

A giant wool rug with a stick-shaped phoenix design that had been

woven by a Navajo in Arizona graced the wood floor, while the walls

were dotted with framed posters from past and current popular movies.

The top of the captain's desk was a study in disorderliness. Stacks of

papers, a metal car model, a cup from Disney World holding pens, and

a dusty brass lamp shared the crowded space.

Ho walked over to a small refrigerator shaped like a bank vault and

removed a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he took a sip, then

stared at the Golden Buddha sitting upright on the floor, the door of its

case open.

Ho was trying to decide if he should display his latest prize at the

party.

Right then, his private telephone rang. It was the insurance underwriter,

who wanted to schedule an appointment. Ho set a time, then

went back to staring at his treasure.

AS LONG AS we don't lose power," Kevin Nixon said, "no one

should be the wiser."

"Did you receive their song list?" Cabrillo asked.

"We got it," Hanley said, handing him the list, "and programmed

the songs into the computer."

"Heavy on the sixties and seventies," Cabrillo noted, "with a fair

amount of guitar riffs."

"Unfortunately, we can't change the playlist without arousing suspicion,"

Hanley said.

"I'm just worried--if any of the guests happen to be guitar players,

they'll know we're faking it," Cabrillo said.

"I rigged the guitar with tiny LED lights that are only visible with

special glasses," Nixon said, smiling. "They're color-coded for the

96

CLIVE CUSSLER

player's fingers. All he has to do is place his fingers where the light shows

and he should be okay."

Nixon handed Cabrillo the guitar and a pair of black-framed sunglasses.

He slid the strap over his neck and Nixon plugged the guitar

into the power source.

"It goes thumb purple, index finger red, then down the fingers, yellow,

blue and green," Nixon said. "Same on the frets. Hold a second

and I'll start the computer."

Cabrillo slipped on the glasses and waited. Once the lights lit up,

he pushed his fingers on the illuminated strings. A crude rendition of

the "Star Spangled Banner" filled the Magic Shop.

"We won't win any Grammys," Cabrillo said when the lights went

dark, "but it should get us past any casual scrutiny."

Hanley walked over to a bench and removed a clear glass bottle

containing a pale blue liquid. "There's one other thing to consider," he

said, smiling. "This stuff came straight from the labs at Fort Dietrich,

Maryland. Once we slip some of this into the punch bowl, this party

will be kicking."

"There's no long-term effects, right?" Cabrillo asked.

"No," Hanley said, "only short-term. It seems that after a few drops

of this elixir, you'll have the time of your life."

THE SAMPLE CHECKS out," the software billionaire said over the

telephone.

Spenser had dispensed with the voice-alteration equipment, but his

words were tinged with a fear that made his upper-crust accent less

polished than perplexed.

"Then you are interested?" he said.

"Sure," the software billionaire said, "but I've decided that I want

to make the transfer myself. I have the feeling you're about as trustworthy

as a hooker with a crack habit."

Spenser frowned. His plan of thievery and deceit was unraveling.

The costs he had already incurred made a quick sale his only salvation--

there was no time to line up another buyer. He was in the worst possible

place. He was a seller who needed to sell--with a buyer who was calling

the shots.

"Then you need to come here and take delivery," Spenser said.

98

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

99

"Where's here?"   ,

"Macau," Spenser said.  j

The software billionaire stared at a      calendar on his desk. "I'll be f

there the evening of Good Friday."  |

"I'll want cash or bearer bonds then," Spenser said. "No more bank ;

transfer."

"Fair enough, but don't try anything, I'm bringing reinforcements."

"You bring the money," Spenser said, "and you get the Buddha."

The billionaire disconnected and Spenser sat quietly for a moment.

He didn't have long to go.

MONICA'S A GUEST," Cabrillo said as he glanced at the sheet of

notes. "For this operation, she's a minor member of the Danish

royal family."

"It's all so common," Crabtree said with a Scandinavian accent.

"You'll need to fake a speech impediment with that accent," Hanley

said. "Stop by the Magic Shop and we'll make you a mouth guard that

will add a lisp."

"Great," Crabtree said, "I get to play a lisping lady-in-waiting."

"It could be worse," Cabrillo said. "Linda's replacing the chainsmoking

Portuguese party planner, Iselda."

"Excellent," Linda Ross said, laughing. "I finally quit smoking a

few years ago and now the Corporation is going to get me hooked

again."

"By the way," Hanley said, "we think Iselda also practices an alternative

lifestyle."

"So I'm a chain-smoking Portuguese lesbian party planner," Ross

said. "At least it's not as bad as when I was a German transsexual

dominatrix."

"I remember that," Murphy said. "You looked like Madeline Kahn

in that Mel Brooks film."

"I remember you being kind of turned on," Ross said.

"We were going to use Julia, but we couldn't, for the obvious reason,"

Cabrillo noted.

Julia Huxley, the Oregon's medical officer, grinned. "I always knew

growing up that these big boobs would pay off."

"You'd just better perfect your Pamela Anderson-Lee-whoever

look," Hanley said.

"I get to play a slut?" Huxley said happily.

"Girlfriend of one of the band members," Cabrillo noted.

"Same thing," Huxley said eagerly. "Can Max do me some fake

tattoos?"

"Be glad to," Hanley said. "We might even fake some piercings, if

you like."

"And now to the band," Cabrillo said. "I'm playing keyboards--a

lot of songs don't feature keyboards, so that will give me time to sneak

away. Murphy's lead guitar, Kasim is our drummer, and the soul man

Franklin is on bass."

"Oh, yeah," Lincoln said. "The pulsing beat runs through me."

"And the singer?" Huxley asked.

"That would be Mr. Halpert," Cabrillo said.

The entire conference table turned and stared at Michael Halpert.

As the head of finance and accounting, he didn't exactly seem to fit the

job. Easily the most conservative of the crew, the rumor was that he

ironed his handkerchiefs. The idea of him posing as a rock musician

seemed as ludicrous as casting Courtney Love as the Virgin Mary.

"Unfortunately, the lead singer of the Minutemen is tall, thin and

slim, and the owner has seen a videotape of the band performing. If no

one can think of anyone else, Mike's got to be our man."

"I can do it," Halpert said quickly.

"Are you sure?" Hanley asked. "There is only so much the Magic

Shop can do."

"For your information, I was raised on a commune in Colorado,"

Halpert said. "I've forgotten more about the rock lifestyle than most of

you ever knew."

100

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

101

Cabrillo was the only one who already knew that--he was the sole

officer of the Corporation who had access to all employment files.

"Man," Murphy said, "I thought your baby clothes were a three-piece

suit."

"Now you know," Halpert said. "My family got around. Jerry Jeff

Walker was my godfather, and Commander Cody taught me how to

ride a bicycle."

"Man," Hali Kasim said, "just when you think you know someone."

"Let's get back to the project," Cabrillo said. He knew Halpert's

upbringing made him uncomfortable--the day Halpert had enlisted in

the marines, his father had quit speaking to him. Ten years had passed

before they'd talked again, and even now the relationship was strained.

Halpert waited for Cabrillo to continue.

"Right now we have two of our people posing as a landscaping

crew. They will install parabolic microphones in the trees they're trimming.

The microphones record the vibrations on the glass of the house

and we should be able to hear everything that is happening inside."

"We're having trouble monitoring the telephone lines, however,"

Linda Ross noted, "Normally, we can tap into the mainframe, but since

the Chinese took over the telephone system, they moved the major systems

across the water into Hong Kong. We'll try and install something

at the junction box leading into the house, but we're not sure how well

it will receive."

"So there's a chance we will only be able to hear one side of the

telephone calls?" Hanley asked.

"Right," Ross said. "Anyone talking inside will cause vibrations on

the glass we can read."

"I'm not so concerned about that," Cabrillo said, "but we do need

to be able to cut the lines leading into the house--the burglar alarms

work through the telephone lines."

"That we can do," Ross said, "but people will still be able to use

cell phones."

I

The hours passed as the planning continued. The party was less than

thirty hours away.

LIKE A WHIRLING dervish, the oracle began to shake and parade

about.

The Palace of Exile in India was much smaller than Potala, but it

served the same purpose. Home to the Dalai Lama and his advisors, it

featured a temple, sleeping rooms and a large stone-floored meeting

room, where the Dalai Lama was sitting on a throne chair now, watching.

The oracle was dressed in his ceremonial robes, topped by one of

golden silk, its interwoven designs of yellow, green, blue and red encircling

a mirror on the chest surrounded by amethyst and turquoise

stones. A harness held small flags and banners, and the entire outfit

weighed nearly eighty pounds. As soon as the oracle had been dressed

and entered a trance, his assistants had placed a heavy metal-and-leather

helmet upon his head and cinched it tight.

Had the aging oracle not been possessed by a spirit outside his own,

the weight of the helmet and robes would have been too much for him

to bear. Instead, once the oracle reached his deep state, the weight

seemed to be lifted and he hopped about like an astronaut walking on

the surface of the moon. He exploded in motion. Arms akimbo, he

danced like a praying mantis from one side of the room to the other.

Strange guttural sounds radiated from somewhere deep inside his body,

while his left hand flashed a heavy silver-plated sword in a figure-eight

pattern.

Then he stopped in front of the throne chair and shook his entire

body like a dog after a swim.

Once the oracle became motionless, the Dalai Lama spoke.

"Is it time to go home?" he asked.

The oracle spoke in a voice unlike his own. "The Dalai Lama returns,

but to a smaller Tibet."

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CLIVE CUSSLER

"The oracle explains," the Dalai Lama said.

A backflip, a flapping of arms, a stillness again.

"The north holds the key," the oracle said loudly. "We give the

aggressors the land that once held Mongols, then they will go."

"Can we trust the Westerners?" the Dalai Lama asked.

The oracle bent his knees and strutted around in a circle. When

facing the Dalai Lama again, he spoke. "We will soon have something

they want; our gift of this will help strengthen the friendship. Our power

is returning--our home is near."

Then all at once, as if a gust of wind had blown the skeleton from

his body, the oracle collapsed on the ground in a heap. His assistants

ran over and untied the helmet, then began to remove the sweat-soaked

robes. They began to bathe the oracle with cool water, but it was almost

an hour before he opened his eyes again.

o

NLINE," THE CORPORATION technician whispered.

On board the Oregon, a radio operator adjusted his receiver.

The sound of a maid came through his headset. He flipped a

switch to a recorder, then keyed his microphone.

"Okay," he said, "we're recording."

Climbing down from the tree, the technician gathered up the limbs

he had trimmed, then spent the next few hours working on the bushes.

When he had finished the job and loaded the rented truck with the

debris, it was just past lunchtime. Walking around to the service entrance,

he handed a bill to the manager of the mansion. Then he walked

back to the truck and drove away.

Back on the Oregon, the radio operator monitored the conversation

in the mansion and made notes on a yellow pad. Nothing much was

happening, but that might change at any moment.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

105

BELOWDECKS IN THE Magic Shop, the band was rehearsing. Kevin

Nixon motioned for them to stop, then adjusted the control panel.

"All right," he said, "from the top again."

Murphy started strumming his guitar, and the opening bars of the

Creedence Clearwater Revival song "Fortunate Son" filled the shop. The

rest of the band added their parts. Halpert's voice was surprisingly good.

After being washed through the computer, it was hard to tell his rendition

from the original. His moves were good as well--unlike those of

most of the band.

Cabrillo on the keyboards came off as Liberace on methamphetamines.

Kasim moved like Buddy Rich in a neck brace. Lincoln was

slightly better--he kept his eyes closed and strummed the bass guitar

and managed to tap his foot in time; the problem was that his hands

were so large it looked like he was not moving his fingers. Nixon waited

until the song was finished.

"It's not bad," he admitted, "but I have some videotapes of live

bands and I suggest you men watch them so you can work on your

choreography."

Three hours later, the band was as ready as they would ever be.

THIS WAS THE part of her job Iselda loved best--the last-minute

nagging details.

She reached in her handbag and found a pack of thin brown cheroots.

Unlike most smokers who stuck to a single brand, Iselda stocked

her bag with three or four different kinds. She selected her poison depending

on many factors. The aching in her lungs, the rawness of her

throat, the amount of nicotine needed for the job. Menthols for that

minty fresh buzz; thin cigars when she needed a boost; long, thin,

brightly tipped tools when she needed to punctuate a conversation by

using the burning sticks like a maestro's baton. She fired up the cheroot

and took a drag.

"I specifically requested glacier ice for the cocktails," she screamed

at the caterer, "not the round highball cubes."

"You asked for both," the caterer said, "but the glacier ice has yet

to arrive."

"You'll have it here?" she asked.

"It's in the warehouse, Iselda," the man said patiently. "We didn't

want it to melt."

Iselda stared across the tent to where a worker was adjusting the

devices that made clouds of smoke from dry ice.

"We need more smoke than that," she shouted, then quickly walked

across to the row of machines and began to berate the worker.

After a few minutes of adjustment, the man flipped the machine on

again. Clouds of dense, cold gas billowed from the machine, then began

to settle on the floor.

"Good, good," Iselda said. "Now make sure we have plenty of dry

ice."

A technician was adjusting the light display and she raced in that

direction.

ON BOARD THE Oregon, the technician monitoring conversations

in the mansion made a note on the yellow pad, then reached for

the shipboard communication microphone.

"Chairman Cabrillo," he said, "I think you need to come up here."

THE LIMOUSINE SLOWED outside the gate leading to the runway

at the San Jose, California, airport. A guard with a bolstered

weapon stood blocking the way. The driver rolled down his window.

"New security regulations," he said. "There's no more driving onto

the tarmac."

106

CLIVE CUSSLER

The software billionaire had rolled down his window as well. This

was an unwelcome inconvenience. Intolerable, in fact.

"Wait a minute, now," he shouted from the rear. "We've driven out

to my plane for years."

"Not anymore," the guard noted.

"Do you know who I am?" the billionaire said pompously.

"No idea," the guard admitted, "but I do know who I am--I'm the

guy that's ordering you to turn away from the gate now."

With nothing else to say, the limousine driver backed up and steered

toward the terminal, then parked in front and waited for his employer

to climb out. The encounter put his boss in a foul mood and he could

hear him muttering as he carried the bags a safe distance behind.

"Good God," the billionaire said, "for what I pay for hangar space,

you'd think I'd get some service."

As they approached the door leading out to the taxiway, a smattering

of expensive jets sat awaiting their owners. There were a trio of

Gulfstreams, a Citation or two, a half dozen King Airs, and a single

burgundy behemoth that looked like it belonged to a regional airline.

The software billionaire was big on appearances.

If the rich had private jets--he wanted a large one. An airplane that |

screamed success and excess like a dog collar made from diamonds. The

billionaire's choice was a Boeing 737. The aircraft was fitted with a l single-lane bowling alley, a hot tub and a bedroom bigger than many

homes. It was fitted with a large-screen television, advance communications

equipment, and a chef trained at the Cordon Bleu. The pair of

dancers he had ordered from the service were already aboard. The entertainment

for his flight was a California blonde and a redhead who

bore a striking resemblance to a young Ann-Margret.

The billionaire wanted some way to pass the time on the long flight.

He burst through the door leading outside without waiting for his

driver with the luggage, then made his way over to the 737. Then he

walked up the ramp and inside.

GOLDEN BUDDHA     107

"Ladies," he shouted, "front and center."

Thirteen minutes later, they were airborne.

INSIDE THE OREGON, the technician was entering commands in the

computer when Cabrillo opened the door and walked inside.

"What have you got?" he said without preamble.

"Ho just had a telephone conversation with an insurance adjuster

who is coming out to the mansion to inspect the Buddha."

"Damn," Cabrillo said, reaching for the microphone. "Max, you

better get up to communications, we've got a problem."

While the technician continued to trace the source of the call, Cabrillo

paced the control room.

Hanley arrived a few minutes later. "What is it, Juan?" '

"Ho has an insurance adjuster coming out to inspect the Golden

Buddha."

"When?" Hanley asked.

"Four p.m."

The technician hit a button and a printer spit out a sheet.

"Here's the location of the call, boss," he said. "I have it overlaid

on a map of Macau."

"We need to come up with a plan," Cabrillo said, "posthaste."

WINSTON SPENSER WAS juggling chain saws.

Only his long stint as a customer of the bank had earned

him an increase on his business line of credit, but the manager had made

it clear he wanted the balance paid down in no less than seventy-two

hours. His credit cards were at their limits, and calls had already come

into his office in London, inquiring about the situation. For all intents

and purposes, Spenser was, at this instant, in dire financial straits. As

soon as the deal with the billionaire went down, he would be as flush

108

CLIVE CUSSLER

as he had ever dreamed--right now, however, he could not afford an

airplane ticket home.

All he had to do tomorrow was remove the Buddha, transfer it to

the airport and receive his ill-gotten gain. Then he'd charter a jet and

fly off into the sunset with his fortune. By the time his customer in

Macau realized he'd been duped, he'd be long gone.

J

JUAN CABRILLO SAT at the table in his stateroom and studied the

folder for the third time.

In nine minutes, the hands of the clock would pass twelve and it

would officially be Good Friday. Game day. There was always a fair

amount of luck combined with flexibility when the Corporation

launched an operation. The key was to minimize surprises through rigorous

planning, and always have a backup plan in place.

At this, the Corporation excelled.

The only problem was the object itself. The Golden Buddha was not

a microchip that could be slipped into a pocket or sewn into clothing.

It was a heavy object the size of a man that required effort to move and

stealth to conceal. Any way you cut the cake, the movement of the icon

would require men and machines to transport it to a safe place.

The mere size and weight of the Golden Buddha made that a condition.

no

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

111

Then there were the players themselves. The art dealer, Ho; the people

at the party; the Chinese authorities; and now the insurance appraiser.

Any one of them could throw a wrench into the works, and the

stakes and timing were such that retreating and regrouping was not an

option.

Cabrillo hated operations where a clear path of retreat was not

available.

People could be captured, injured or killed when the plan was to

execute the operation at all costs. The last time the Corporation had -]

sustained losses was the operation in Hong Kong, where Cabrillo had |

lost his leg and others had been killed. Since then, he had consciously |

avoided ultra-high-risk assignments. The Golden Buddha assignment i

had started out fitting the lower-risk profile, but it was becoming more

and more dangerous as time passed.

Just pregame jitters, Cabrillo thought as he closed the folder. Sometime

tonight, they would have the Buddha and begin the process of

transferring it back to the Dalai Lama. A few more days and the Corporation

would be cashiered, out of the loop and sailing away to another

part of the globe.

WINSTON SPENSER GULPED Glenmorangie whiskey like it was

ginger ale.

Spenser's brilliant plan of deceit had hit a speed bump that had

ripped off the oil pan, and now it was leaking its fluid onto the ground.

Ho had called earlier in the evening and his words had been an ice pick

to the brain.

"Please come to the party early," Ho had said. "I'd like you to be

here when the insurance man examines the Buddha."

One day more and Spenser would have been long gone.

Uruguay, Paraguay, one of the South Pacific islands, anywhere but

here. The fake Buddha was good--he'd paid a princely ransom to ensure

it could withstand scrutiny--but if the insurance inspector was top

notch,

he'd see through the ruse. The gold itself would probably pass

muster. The problem was the precious stones. If the inspector was any

sort of gemologist, he'd realize the stones were just too perfect. Massive

rocks of the size that adorned the Golden Buddha were extremely rare.

The existing stones that large almost always had flaws.

Only stones produced in a laboratory were lacking inclusions.

He drained the scotch and walked over to the bed and lay down.

But the bed was spinning and sleep was hard to come by.

SINCE HIS EXILE from Tibet, it would be easy to imagine that the

Dalai Lama had lived in a vacuum concerning events inside his

country. Nothing could be further from the truth. Almost from the time

he'd stepped across the border, an ad hoc system of local intelligence

had begun filtering south to his headquarters in Little Lhasa.

Messages were passed from mouth to mouth by a series of runners

who breached the mountain passes far from Chinese scrutiny, then delivered

their messages either in person or through intermediaries. With

hundreds of thousands of Tibetans loyal to the Dalai Lama, the tentacles

of the operation reached into every part of the country. Chinese troop

movements were reported, intercepted cables sent south, overheard telephone

conversations disclosed.

Snow tables and water flow from the rivers and other environmental

concerns were memorized and transmitted. Tourists were monitored and

casually engaged in conversation to glean more facts about the Chinese

and their attitudes. Merchants that sold to the Chinese soldiers reported

on sales and the troops' general demeanor. Times of alert were noted

and sent south, as were times when controls over the population were

loosened. Briefings were held for the Dalai Lama and his advisors, and

most of the time the exiles in India had a better picture of the conditions

in Tibet than the hated Chinese overlords.

"The troops seem to be buying more trinkets?" the Dalai Lama

asked.

L

112

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

113

1

"Yes," one of his advisors noted, "things that are uniquely Tibetan." |

"When has this ever happened before?" the Dalai Lama asked.

"Never," the advisor admitted.

"And we have reports that the fuel stocks at the bases are low?"

"That's what the Tibetan workers at the bases report," the advisor

said. "Excursions by trucks into the countryside are being curtailed, and

we have not had a report of a tank on exercises in nearly a month. It's

as if the occupation is moving into a stagnant time."

The Dalai Lama opened an unmarked folder and scanned the contents.

"This coincides with the reports from the Virginia consulting

group we have under contract. Their latest report shows the Chinese

economy in dire straits. The Chinese have the largest increase of any

country in oil imports, while at the same time the value of their investments

overseas are decreasing. If President Jintao doesn't make some

much-needed adjustments, his country could be plunged into a full-scale

depression."

"We can only hope," one of the advisors noted.

"That brings me to our main topic of discussion," the Dalai Lama

said quietly. "If we could take a moment to meditate to clear our minds,

I will explain."

THE BURGUNDY 737 was a flying sybaritic palace in the sky.

The software billionaire was dosing himself with a carefully

calculated mixture of Ecstasy and male impotence pills to pass the time.

The Ecstasy made him loving, but the impotence pills offset that by

fueling his sexual appetite, which was a little aggressive.

At this instant, in a forward part of the jet, a flight attendant was

making notes on the pad of a personal digital assistant. Once he was

finished, he plugged it into the air phone and hit send. Now all he had

to do was wait for a reply.

The other flight attendant seemed more concerned. This was her first

flight on the billionaire's 737, and she found the debauchery unnerving.

Turning her head away from the rear section of the plane, she addressed

the blond-haired man.

"You ever worked this gig before?"

"First time," the man admitted.

"If I didn't need the money," the brunette said, "I'd make this trip

one-way."

The blond-haired man nodded. "Tell me about yourself," he said.

Thirty minutes later, the blond-haired man smiled. She'd fudged

what he knew as the truth--but not by much.

"There's an opportunity you might be interested in," he said easily.

Just then, the buzzer from the rear rang and a voice was heard.

"Bring us another two magnums of champagne," the billionaire ordered.

"You keep that thought," the brunette said. "I'll go water the

horses."

IN MACAU THE streets were filled with late-night revelers. Two men

drove slowly along Avenue Conselheiro Ferriera de Almeida through

the throngs. The man in the passenger seat stared at a portable GPS

mapping unit and gave directions. Turning at Avenida do Coronel Mesquita,

they headed northwest along the road until they were at a side

street that led to a residential area within a half mile of mainland China.

"Find a place to park," the navigator ordered.

Pulling to the side of the road under a tree, the driver placed the

van in park, then shut off the engine. The navigator pointed to a house

set back from the road up the street.

"That's the house."

"Shall we?" the driver asked.

The navigator climbed out of the van and walked around to the

front and waited while the driver reached under the seat, removed a

leather bag, then met him in front of the van.

"You notice almost no one here has a dog?" the driver said.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

117

SUNRISE ON GOOD Friday, March 25, 2005, was at 6:11 a.m.

On the decks of the sampans in the inner harbor, the Chinese

traders began to stir. Along Avenida da Amizade in front of the Hotel

Lisboa, a dozen women dressed in cotton shifts with conical hats lashed

around their necks began washing the sidewalk with soapy water

splashed from tin buckets. Dipping straw brooms into the buckets, they

erased the debris from both the winners and the losers from the night

before. A few diehards stumbled from inside and squinted at the light

from a sun just beginning her day.

A few small three-wheeled motorized rickshaws plied the avenue,

their drivers stopping for strong black coffee served in small cups, then

continuing on to deliver packages or people to their destinations. At a

small restaurant two hundred yards northwest of the casino, the owner

finished a cigarette then walked inside. On the stove in the rear was a

pot of caldo verde, the Portuguese stew of potatoes, sausage and locally

grown greens. He stirred the mixture, then set the long wooden spoon

onto a counter and started to prepare chickens marinated in coconut milk,

garlic, peppercorns and chilies by rubbing them with rock salt. Later, the

poultry would be slid onto skewers and slow-cooked on a rotisserie.

Across the water, Hong Kong was hidden by a haze of humidity

and smog, but the sound of the first high-speed ferry leaving port could

be heard. The first few jets of the day, mainly cargo planes, streaked

across the blue sky and made ready for landing at the airport. A Chinese

naval vessel left its moorage below A-Ma Temple and started out for a

patrol, while a large luxury yacht with a helicopter perched on her fantail

called on the radio for the location of her slip.

A lone cargo ship, decades past her prime, started into port to deliver

a cargo of bicycles from Taiwan. On another cargo ship, this one

appearing old and decrepit, a man with a blond crew cut was sitting at

the table in his stateroom reading.

Juan Cabrillo had been awake for hours.

He was running every possible scenario through his head.

A light knock came at the door, and Cabrillo stood up and walked

over and opened the hatch.

"Somehow I knew you'd be awake," Hanley said.

Hanley held a tray of plates covered by metal lids, steam escaping

from under them.

"Breakfast," he said as he walked inside.

Cabrillo cleared a space on the table and Hanley off-loaded the contents.

Next he pulled the lid off a dinner-sized plate and smiled.

Cabrillo nodded and pointed to a seat.

Hanley slid into the seat and poured two cups of coffee from a

thermal carafe, then removed the lid from another plate.

"Anything unusual happen overnight?" Cabrillo asked.

"No," Hanley said easily, "everything is still according to plan."

Cabrillo sipped his coffee.

"There's a lot here that could go wrong," he said.

"There always is."

n

118   CLIVE CUSSLER

"That's why we get the big money."

"That's why we get the big money," Hanley agreed.

SO, DO YOU know when I lost my virginity?" the brunette flight

attendant asked. "You seem to know everything else."

"That's too personal." The blond-haired man laughed.

"But my failed relationships and credit card bills aren't?" The attendant

grinned.

"Sorry about the intrusion into your privacy. The group I work with

has a thing for detail."

"Sounds like you're a spy," the attendant noted.

"Oh, heck no," the blond-haired man said, "we just work for

them."

"Tax-free income enough so I can retire?"

"Everyone's dream," the blond-haired man admitted.

The brunette attendant glanced around the forward cabin. She was

really nothing more than a glorified waitress on a restaurant in the sky.

"How can I say no?" she said finally.

"Good," the blond-haired man said, rising.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I have to go kill the pilot," the blond-haired man said lightly.

The look on the brunette flight attendant's face was priceless.

"Just kidding," the blond-haired man said. "I have to pee. I'm qualified

in 737s, but I think Mr. Fabulous would think it odd if I disappeared."

"Who are you people?" the attendant muttered as the blond-haired

man slipped into the lavatory.

"A

RE YOU SURE this beast will make it to the border and back?"

.--Carl Gannon asked.

Gannon was staring at a decrepit old two-and-a-half-ton truck

119

GOLDEN BUDDHA

parked under a tree alongside a stone building on a side street in

Thimbu, Bhutan. Sometime in the past the truck had been painted an

olive drab color, but most of the paint was gone and now it showed

mostly a light dusting of hairy rust. The two-part windshield was

cracked on the passenger side, and all six of the tires were worn past

any margin of safety. The hood, which had a strip down the center so

the sides could be flipped open to work on the engine, was bent and

had been welded more than once. The running boards were wooden

slats. The exhaust pipe hung down from the undercarriage and was held

in place with rusted wire.

Gannon walked to the rear and stared into the bed. Some of the

planks that formed the floor were cracked and some were missing, and

the canvas flaps that covered the sides were in roughly the same condition

as a World War II pup tent.

"Oh, yes, sir," the Bhutanese owner said easily. "She has a strong

heart."

Gannon continued his walk around. Climbing onto the passenger

running board, he peeked into the cockpit. The long bench seat was

worn, with portions of the springs underneath visible, but the few

gauges on the dash were not cracked and appeared functional. He

climbed down, then walked over to the hood and lifted the passenger

side, which he folded up and over. The engine was surprisingly clean.

It smelled strongly of thick grease and fresh oil. The belts and hoses,

while not new, were serviceable, and the electrical wires and battery

looked good. Gannon climbed down.

"Can you start her up?"

The man walked around, opened the door and climbed into the

driver's seat.

After pulling out the choke, he pumped the gas pedal, then twisted

the key. After turning over a few times, the engine roared to life. Smoke

drifted out of a rusted hole in the exhaust pipe, but the engine settled

into an idle. Gannon listened carefully. There was no tapping from the

120   CLIVECUSSLER

valves, but he placed his hand over the covers just to be sure. Nothing

was amiss.

"Rev her up," he shouted.

The owner depressed the gas pedal, then left off. He did this four

times.

"Okay," Gannon said, "you can shut her off."

The owner turned off the engine, pocketed the key, and then climbed

from the cockpit. He was small, a shade over five feet tall, with tanned

skin and slightly almond-shaped eyes. Smiling at Gannon, he awaited

the verdict.

"Do you have spare belts and hoses?"

"I can find some," the man told him.

Gannon reached into his pocket and removed a wad of bills wrapped

with a thick rubber band. Removing the rubber band, he fanned out

the bills.

"How much to take me and a cargo to the border with Tibet?" he

asked. "With amnesia included."

"Amnesia?" the man said, not understanding.

"After this is over," Gannon said, "I want you to forget we ever

met."

The man nodded. "One thousand dollars," he said easily, "and one

DVD player."

"Sounds reasonable," Gannon said. "Now, do you know where I

can buy an ox?"

nn

THE OREGON WAS a buzz of activity. Belowdecks in the Magic

Shop, the players in the band were checking their instruments and

arranging their costumes. Juan Cabrillo flipped open his cell phone and

answered a call.

"Situation is stabilized here," Linda Ross said. "I'm headed to the

site now."

"We've got three men inside and one watching from outside the

wall," Cabrillo said. "If anyone catches on, you sound the alarm and

help will come running."

"Piece of cake," Ross said.

The telephone went dead and Cabrillo turned to Max Hanley.

"Iselda is making her entrance."

"So far so good," Hanley said.

Mark Murphy finished with Kasim and patted his back. "There you

go," he said.

122

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

123

Michael Halpert was playing with a microphone. Murphy turned to

him and motioned.

"Come on, kid," he said, "let me get you strapped."

Halpert walked over and turned his back to Murphy, who raised

Halpert's shirt.

"This is a featherlight thirty-eight, Mike," Murphy recited as he

taped a holster containing the weapon on Halpert's lower back. "Now

I want you to reach back and yank the smoke wagon."   «

It was a line Murphy had heard from the movie Tombstone--ever

since then, he'd used it unmercifully. Halpert reached back and pulled

the pistol.

"Hang on," Murphy said. "It's too high, you're cocking your elbow."

He readjusted the holster and waited until Halpert tried it again.

"That's better," he said. "Let me see your boot."

Halpert turned and raised his pant leg. Murphy strapped on a knife

inside a hard plastic case.

"Be careful with this, Mike," Murphy told him, "the blade has been

dipped in a paralytic poison. If things turn to shit, you just have to nick

someone and they'll go down. The problem is, the same thing happens

to you if your target takes it from you. Be sure he's close and make sure

you are in control of the situation."

"Okay, Mark," Halpert said quietly.

The knife was in place and Murphy climbed from his knees. "You

worried?" he asked quietly.

"A little," Halpert said. "I'm usually not on the operational end."

Murphy nodded and smiled. "Don't worry, buddy, I'm going to be

right next to you. If trouble breaks out, they have to get through me

first."

Halpert nodded, then walked over to pick his microphone up again.

"Boss," he said to Cabrillo, "you're last."

Cabrillo smiled and walked over to Murphy. He was dressed in a

costume that would make Elton John blush. Murphy raised one of the

1

sequined pockets on the vest and slid two hypodermic needles in covers

inside. In the other pocket, he slid an arced carbon-fiber blade that had

holes for fingers.

"Your blade is dipped in paralytic agent, too," he said, spinning

Cabrillo around and strapping a small automatic weapon to his lower

back. "The bullets are wad cutters. There's not as much horsepower in

the rounds as I like, so be close before you pull the trigger."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Cabrillo said.

Lincoln had already been outfitted, and he stood to one side, playing

with his bass guitar.

Cabrillo smiled, then spoke.

"Okay, everybody, we'll be going in soon," he said. "Remember the

order of operations and make sure you've memorized the out. If at any

time I give the signal to pull out, make your way to the extraction point.

Keep in mind this portion today is only one part of the bigger picture--if

this goes haywire, we still have ways of salvaging the operation. There

are no bold heroes--only old heroes. The weapons are to be used only

if everything goes to hell and one of our people is in danger of losing

life or limb. What we want, as always, is an orderly operation where

we do our job and return here safe and sound. Any questions?"

The Magic Shop was silent.

"Okay, people," Cabrillo said, "then give your letters to Julia."

Medical Officer Julia Huxley hated this part of her job. The letters

gave instructions for the lengths of medical care each man wanted if

critically injured. They also gave detailed instructions as to the dispersal

of the operatives' funds and other bequests. Whatever was in the letters,

Huxley was bound to see it through. She walked around the room collecting

the sealed envelopes. When she was done, the room was quiet.

"That always puts a pall over the proceedings," Murphy said, laughing.

"We're not going in to disable a nuclear warhead. We're just stealing

some gold."

The sour mood dissipated and they resumed talking.

122

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

123

Michael Halpert was playing with a microphone. Murphy turned to

him and motioned.

"Come on, kid," he said, "let me get you strapped."

Halpert walked over and turned his back to Murphy, who raised

Halpert's shirt.

"This is a featherlight thirty-eight, Mike," Murphy recited as he

taped a holster containing the weapon on Halpert's lower back. "Now

I want you to reach back and yank the smoke wagon."

It was a line Murphy had heard from the movie Tombstone--ever

since then, he'd used it unmercifully. Halpert reached back and pulled

the pistol.

"Hang on," Murphy said. "It's too high, you're cocking your elbow."

He readjusted the holster and waited until Halpert tried it again.

"That's better," he said. "Let me see your boot."

Halpert turned and raised his pant leg. Murphy strapped on a knife

inside a hard plastic case.

"Be careful with this, Mike," Murphy told him, "the blade has been

dipped in a paralytic poison. If things turn to shit, you just have to nick

someone and they'll go down. The problem is, the same thing happens

to you if your target takes it from you. Be sure he's close and make sure

you are in control of the situation."

"Okay, Mark," Halpert said quietly.

The knife was in place and Murphy climbed from his knees. "You

worried?" he asked quietly.

"A little," Halpert said. "I'm usually not on the operational end."

Murphy nodded and smiled. "Don't worry, buddy, I'm going to be

right next to you. If trouble breaks out, they have to get through me

first."

Halpert nodded, then walked over to pick his microphone up again.

"Boss," he said to Cabrillo, "you're last."

Cabrillo smiled and walked over to Murphy. He was dressed in a

costume that would make Elton John blush. Murphy raised one of the

sequined pockets on the vest and slid two hypodermic needles in covers

inside. In the other pocket, he slid an arced carbon-fiber blade that had

holes for fingers.

"Your blade is dipped in paralytic agent, too," he said, spinning

Cabrillo around and strapping a small automatic weapon to his lower

back. "The bullets are wad cutters. There's not as much horsepower in

the rounds as I like, so be close before you pull the trigger."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Cabrillo said.

Lincoln had already been outfitted, and he stood to one side, playing

with his bass guitar.

Cabrillo smiled, then spoke.

"Okay, everybody, we'll be going in soon," he said. "Remember the

order of operations and make sure you've memorized the out. If at any

time I give the signal to pull out, make your way to the extraction point.

Keep in mind this portion today is only one part of the bigger picture--if

this goes haywire, we still have ways of salvaging the operation. There

are no bold heroes--only old heroes. The weapons are to be used only

if everything goes to hell and one of our people is in danger of losing

life or limb. What we want, as always, is an orderly operation where

we do our job and return here safe and sound. Any questions?"

The Magic Shop was silent.

"Okay, people," Cabrillo said, "then give your letters to Julia."

Medical Officer Julia Huxley hated this part of her job. The letters

gave instructions for the lengths of medical care each man wanted if

critically injured. They also gave detailed instructions as to the dispersal

of the operatives' funds and other bequests. Whatever was in the letters,

Huxley was bound to see it through. She walked around the room collecting

the sealed envelopes. When she was done, the room was quiet.

"That always puts a pall over the proceedings," Murphy said, laughing.

"We're not going in to disable a nuclear warhead. We're just stealing

some gold."

The sour mood dissipated and they resumed talking.

1

124

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

125

"We have some time before we need to leave," Hartley said, "so if

you need to eat or whatever, the time is now."

Everyone filtered out of the room, leaving only Cabrillo and Hanley.

"Meadows and Jones ready?" Cabrillo asked.

"Right on schedule," Hanley said.

"And the flyboy?"

"Jetting his way here," Hanley said, "as we speak."

"Then the fun is about ready to happen."

A PAIR OF men on motorcycles with sidecars sat on the side of Rua

de Lourenco and watched employees from the Macau Public

Works Department erecting barricades along the route of the Good Friday

parade. The side streets would all be blocked off, but the barricades

were wooden sawhorses and would yield to the bumper of a car or the

front tire of a motorcycle.

"Let's ride over to the staging area," one of the men said.

The other man nodded and pushed his starter button, then placed

the cycle in gear and drove up the street. A few blocks away, he slid

over to the side of the road and shut off the engine. The street leading

out of the staging area was festooned with banners and crepe-paper

streamers. Paper lanterns holding candles were placed along the route,

waiting to be lit at dusk. Various vendors were setting up shop in handcarts

to offer food and drink to those watching the parade, while a street

sweeper made a last-minute pass to make sure the street at least started

out clean.

"They sure are big on dragons," said one of the men, pointing to a

large line of floats.

There were at least seventy different floats. Ships, stages where musicians

would play, sword swallowers and juggling acts. And dragons.

Red crepe-paper monstrosities, a blue-and-yellow dragon with a long

tail posed in the air.

The floats were built on motorized platforms, then outlined in thick

wire and covered with cloth, paper or, in one case, what looked like

hammered copper. A single driver perched inside each steered down the

route by staring through a small slit in the front of the float. The exhaust

from the small internal-combustion engines was vented out the side.

It was quiet now, but by the amount of speakers on the various

floats, it was obvious that once the parade got under way there would

be a medley of sights and sounds.

"I'm going to go take a look," one of the men said as he climbed

off the motorcycle and walked over to a nearby float. Lifting the side

curtain, he stared at the framework before a policeman walked over and

shooed him away.

"Lot of room under there," he said to his partner as he returned

and climbed back into his seat.

Several members of a marching band trudged past, followed by an

elephant with a handler sitting atop in a basket chair.

"Hell of a deal," the second man said quietly, "hell of a deal."

T) ICHARD TRUITT STARED in the mirror in his hotel room on Av--LV^nida

de Almeida Ribeiro, then adjusted his tie. Reaching into his

shaving kit, he removed a round container and opened it up. Touching

his fingertip to the colored contact lens, he placed it over an eye and

blinked it into place. After placing the second lens, he stood back and

examined the result.

Truitt was pleased and he smiled.

Then he reached into another bag and removed a dental appliance

and slid it over his top row of teeth. Now he had a slightly bucktoothed

look. Removing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from the bag, he placed

them over his ears and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. If it

was geek he was seeking, he'd hit the mother lode. All that remained

was to grease down his hair and sprinkle a little false dandruff on the

collar of his tweed jacket. Perfect.

i

126

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

127

Walking into the living room of the suite, he removed a document

from the out tray in his printer and gave it an examination. It was ornate

and pompous in true British fashion. By royal appointment to the queen,

said one line. Since 1834, said another. Truitt folded the document and

slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he turned off the

computer and printer and packed it into its case. His bags were already

packed and sitting by the door. He returned to the bathroom to gather

up his things there, then walked back into the living room and slid them

into a side pocket of one of the bags. Then he walked over to the telephone

and dialed a number.

"On my way," he said quietly.

"Good luck," Cabrillo replied.

Now he just needed to make his way out of the room without being

seen.

1 7 OR THE MOST part, Linda Ross was a good-natured and positive

JL person.

That's what made playing Iselda so much fun. Most people have a

bitchy side--they just keep it suppressed. Since the report on Iselda

claimed she suppressed the best and not the worst, Ross was playing

the opportunity to the hilt. Riding down the elevator to the parking

garage, she stepped over to the attendant's window and frowned. The

man raced from the enclosure to bring her car. As Ross waited, she tried

to decide what Iselda would tip and decided it was probably nothing.

The attendant pullod up in a dirty Peugeot and opened the door.

Ross slid into the driver's seat and muttered "I'll get you next time" to

the attendant and slammed the door. The inside of the car smelled like

a Wisconsin roadhouse at closing time. The carpet was littered with

ashes and the ashtray was overflowing. The inside of the windows were

covered with a film of nicotine.

"Here we go," she whispered as she reached into the glove box and

removed a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Then she placed the Peugeot

I

into drive and rolled out to the street. Ten minutes later she pulled in

front of the mansion and passed her first test.

"Open the gate," she shouted at the guard, who stared inside and,

seeing it was her, pushed a button, "I'm late."

Parking over to one side of the driveway, she climbed from the car

and lit another cigarette.

"Dump my ashtray when you get a chance," she said to a gardener

who walked past.

The man ignored her and continued on. Walking to the front door,

she rang the bell, then waited until the butler opened the door.

"Out of my way," she said as she swept past and headed for where

she remembered the kitchen to be from the blueprints she'd memorized.

Bursting into the kitchen, she stared at the stove, then turned to one of

the chefs Iselda had hired.

"Is that the bisque?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," the Chinese chef answered.

Strutting over to the stove, she removed the lid and smelled. "Spoon,

please."

The chef handed her a spoon and she tasted the soup.

"Seems light on the lobster," she said.

"I'll add more," the chef said.

"Good, good," Ross said. "If Mr. Ho needs me, I'll be out back.

Let me know when you bake the first shrimp puffs--I want to sample

them."

"Very good," the chef said as Ross headed through the rear door

leading to the grounds.

As soon as she was spotted leaving the house, the caterer in charge

of the libations walked toward her. He paused and stared.

"You look particularly lovely today, Miss Iselda," he said.

"Flattery will get you zilch," Ross said. "Do you have everything

ready?"

"Except for that one thing we spoke about yesterday," the caterer

said.

128

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

129

Damn, Ross thought.

"What thing?" Ross said. "I can't be expected to remember everything."

"The glacier ice," the caterer said. "It will be here in another hour

or so."

"Good, good," Ross said. "Now make sure all the glassware is polished."

She hurried away to where a chef with an electric chain saw was

cutting an ice sculpture.

The caterer shook his head at the exchange. Her demeanor was the

same, but the caterer could swear that the mole on Iselda's cheek was

a few inches lower. He banished the thought and went to check the

glasses.

Ross crushed her cigarette out under her high heel. Her head was

spinning from all the smoking, and she paused and took a few deep

breaths. "More detail on the wings," she said to the chef, who nodded

and continued working. A tall man walked past carrying several stacked

chairs. He smiled and winked.

High in a hickory tree on the property, a Corporation employee

dressed in a ghillie suit that blended into the leaves keyed a microphone

and spoke.

"Linda's in and working," he said quietly.

STANLEY HO WAS standing in his top-floor office staring down at

the party preparations. He had seen Iselda walk onto the yard, but

the last thing he wanted to do was talk to her. The butch Portuguese

woman annoyed Ho--she was good at what she did, but she took herself

much too seriously. This was a party, after all, not a Broadway

musical. From past experience, Ho realized that a few hours from now

most of the guests he had invited would be so inebriated that if he served

rat as an entree, most wouldn't even notice.

I

Ho was more concerned by the insurance adjuster who was due to

arrive.

That and the fact that on the history of the Golden Buddha he had

commissioned, the historian had noted that the icon supposedly had a

secret storage compartment Ho had yet to find. It was a minor detail,

but it bugged him nonetheless. The insurance adjuster was apparently

an expert in ancient Asian art. Ho figured he'd question him when he

arrived and see if he could supply the answer.

If not, Spenser would be here soon and Ho could ask him about it.

T) ICHARD TRUITT DROVE the rental car carefully up Praia Grande

JL Vjo the gate of the mansion, then stopped. Rolling down the window,

he handed the guard his invitation.

"Let me call the house," the guard said.

Dialing Ho's extension, the guard waited.

"Mr. Ho," the guard said, "there's a Mr. Samuelson from the insurance

company here."

That wasn't who he'd been dealing with, Ho thought.

"Go ahead and let him in," Ho said, "and have him wait downstairs."

Then he hung up and dialed another number.

"Go on in," the guard said. "Park by the garage and wait downstairs."

Ho tapped his finger on the desk while the telephone rang.

"Lassiter residence," a voice with a Cantonese accent answered.

"This is Stanley Ho. Is Mr. Lassiter available?"

"Mr. Lassiter sick," the voice said. "Doctor coming soon."

"Did he leave any message if I called?" Ho asked.

"Hold on," the voice said.

Ho waited a few minutes, then a croaking voice came on the line.

"Sorry, old bean," the voice sputtered, "I've taken ill. A Mr.

130   CLIVECUSSLER

Samuelson from our main office was in town. He'll keep the appointment

as scheduled."

Lassiter didn't sound anything like himself, Ho thought. Whatever

he'd caught sounded serious. "He's here now," Ho said.

"Don't worry, Mr. Ho," the voice said, hacking, "he's very knowledgeable,

an expert on ancient Asian art."

"I hope you feel better soon," Ho said.

The sound of a phlegmy coughing fit erupted that lasted for almost

a minute.

"Me, too," the voice said, "and I hope I can view the Golden Buddha

very soon."

Ho hung up the telephone and rose to walk downstairs.

On the Oregon, the operator disconnected the line and turned to

the man who had portrayed Lassiter.

"For a chef," he said quietly, "you make a hell of a spy."

WINSTON SPENSER WAS not wired for a life of crime and deceit.

At this instant, he was vomiting into the toilet in his hotel room.

Someone might argue it was all the booze from the night before, but in

fact it was the tension that was ripping his guts apart. The tension that

comes from living a lie, from being wrapped in deceit, from doing what

one knows is wrong. By now there was nothing but bile rising--any

food he had ingested was long gone, any liquor left was in his pores.

Spenser reached up, grabbed a hand towel, then wiped the corners

of his mouth.

Rising from the floor, he stared at his image in the mirror. His eyes

were red and bloodshot and his skin pallor a ghastly gray. The tension

he was feeling was revealed by the muscles in his face. They twitched

and popped like a kernel of popcorn in a sizzling pan. He reached up

to dab a tear from the corner of his left eye, but his hand was shaking.

J

132   CLIVECUSSLER

He supported one hand with the other and finished the task. Then he

climbed into the shower to try and sweat out the fear.

T) ICHARD TRUITT STOOD in the living room, waiting. He stared

JL.^around the room and tried to form a picture of his target. If Truitt

was to guess, he figured the man who resided here was self-made and

had only recently become affluent. He based this judgment on the furnishings

and general decor. The pieces in the room were expensive

enough, they just had no soul. And they were arranged in a fashion

favoring flash over comfort. The possessions of old money always contained

a story--the story Truitt was seeing was of objects bought in

bulk to fill a space and give a picture of the occupant that was neither

real nor imaginative.

There was a stuffed lion, but Truitt doubted the owner had stalked

and shot the animal himself. A few paintings from contemporary artists

like Picasso, but the paintings were far from the artists' best works.

Truitt imagined they had been bought for image value. Guests without

foundation or substance would be rightly impressed. An ancient coat of

armor that to Truitt's eye appeared to be a reproduction ... a French

Louis XVI-style couch that looked about as comfortable to sit on as a

bed of nails.

"Mr. Samuelson," a voice said from the staircase.

Truitt turned to see who was speaking.

The man was small. Five and a half feet tall and slight of build. His

hair was jet black and styled like a 1970s California hustler. The mouth

was small, with teeth that held a certain feral rage. Although Truitt

imagined the man was smiling to be friendly, the effect from his grin

made Truitt want to reach for his wallet to see if it was safe.

"I'm Stanley Ho," the man said, reaching the bottom of the stairs

and extending his hand.

The stage was set and Truitt became the actor.

"Paul Samuelson," he said, extending a slightly limp wrist for a

i

133

GOLDEN BUDDHA

handshake. "The home office asked me to take over for Mr. Lassiter,

who has unfortunately been stricken with a bug."

Truitt's version of Samuelson was coming across as a light-in-the-loafers

Michael Caine.

"I trust you're familiar with this type of sculpture?"

"Oh, yes," Truitt gushed. "I did graduate studies in Asian art. It's

one of my favorite forms."

Ho motioned to the stairs, then led the way up. "The object is

known as the Golden Buddha. Are you in any way familiar with the

piece?"

They rounded the first leg of the stairs and crossed the landing to

the second flight.

"I'm afraid not," Truitt said breathlessly. "Has it ever been displayed?"

"No," Ho said quickly. "It has been part of a private collection for

decades."

"Then I shall examine it with an eye for comparison to the other

pieces I am familiar with."

They had exited the second flight and were winding their way

around to the last set of stairs.

"You have a beautiful home," Truitt lied. "The staircases are mahogany,

are they not?"

"Yes," Ho said, pausing at the door to his office to scan a card that

unlocked the door. "From Brazil and hand fitted without nails or

screws."

Ho opened the door and stepped aside.

"How lovely," Truitt said. He stared across the office to where the

Golden Buddha sat. "But nowhere near as lovely as this."

Truitt walked over to the Buddha, followed by Ho.

"Magnificent," Truitt said easily. "May I touch it?"

"Please," Ho said.

The insurance adjuster was acting just as Ho had hoped. Equal parts

respect and sublimation. There was a good chance the appraisal would

134

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

135

be in his favor. If it was not to his liking, Ho was sure he could bully <

the agent into capitulation.

Truitt rubbed his hand over the face of Buddha, then stared into the

jeweled eyes. "Might I ask some about the history?"

"He's from the thirteenth century and from Indochina," Ho said.

Truitt opened a small leather clutch he had been holding and removed

a jeweler's eyepiece. He placed it over one eye and examined the

stones. "Exquisite."

Ho watched as the adjuster examined the Buddha from head to toe.

The man seemed competent, so he decided to ask him about the secret

storage compartment. "I had a historian dig into it a little and he mentioned

that some of these pieces contained an inner chamber."

"The part of Buddha where there is no ego," Truitt said quickly,

"the void."

"Then you are familiar with the idea?" Ho said.

"Oh, yes," Truitt said. He was glad the Corporation had seen fit to

provide him with a report on ancient Asian art. The "void" had been

part of the study.

"I can't seem to find one on this piece."

"Let's look closer," Truitt said.

The two men spent the next twenty minutes carefully examining the

object, but no secret compartment was found. Truitt decided to use the

revelation to his favor.

"Shall we sit for a bit?" he asked Ho.

The men took seats around Ho's desk.

"What value do you have in mind," Truitt said, "that you would

like our company to underwrite?"

"I was thinking in the neighborhood of two hundred million," Ho

said.

"That's an expensive neighborhood," Truitt said, smiling.

Leaning forward, he spilled the contents of his leather clutch on the

floor. Scooping down to pick up the contents, he attached a small bug

to the bottom of Ho's desk.

"Silly me," he said after the bug was attached and the bag placed

back on his lap.

"What do you think is the value?" Ho asked.

"The absence of the secret compartment actually adds to the rarity

of the piece," Truitt lied. "It places the age at least a few decades before

what I had estimated. The voids date from the twelfth century and later.

You may have something here that defies accurate pricing."

Ho smiled his feral smile. He loved it when he bested someone in a

deal, and he was beginning to think he'd outsmarted some of the wisest

art collectors in the world. At first, the $200 million he'd paid had

seemed like a king's ransom--now it was looking like he'd bought

cheap.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"I could easily insure it for twice what you are seeking," Truitt said,

"but of course the premiums would reflect the increased value."

This was going better than Truitt could have hoped--greed had removed

Ho's doubt in his identity. He had come a stranger, but now he

was a friend bearing gifts. Cons only work when the mark wants to

believe. Ho wanted to believe.

"But. . . ," Ho said slowly, "if I insured it for more, banks would

loan on the increased value."

"Yes," Truitt said, "banks tend to follow our lead."

Ho nodded slowly. "Why don't you figure the premiums on four

hundred million."

"I would, of course, need to contact our main office for the quotes,"

Truitt said, "but I can easily attest to the value."

Ho sat back in his chair. The realization that he owned a truly

priceless work of art was sinking into his soul. Now his ego needed

stroking. A stroking that only other rich people could give him.

"I'm having a party today," he said.

"I saw the preparations," Truitt said, smiling.

"You, of course, are invited," Ho said, "but I was thinking of displaying

the artifact to my guests. I would feel more comfortable if I had

J

CLIVE CUSSLER

136

a rider covering the piece until I receive the actual quote. Just something

to cover today."

"You are, of course, thinking of displaying it downstairs," Truitt

said.

Ho wasn't, but he was now.

"Yes," Ho said. "Perhaps out on the grounds?"

Truitt nodded. "Let me make a quick call."

Ho pointed to his telephone, but Truitt whipped out a cell phone

and hit the speed dial.

"Samuelson here."

"Richard, you're a magnificent bastard," the voice said. "We have

been listening for the last few minutes over the bug. Nice work."

"I need a quote on a one-day rider to Mr. Ho's policy to cover a

piece of art valued at four hundred million until we can come up with

an accurate figure for long-term coverage."

"La de dah, de dah. All right then," the operator on the Oregon said, "let me make up a number for you. How about twenty thousand

dollars? Or whatever you decide. But I'd take the fee in cash if I was

you. Then we can have a party after this is over."

"I see," Truitt said, nodding, "so we will require increased security.

Hold on a minute."

Truitt placed his hand over the telephone.

Back on the Oregon, the operator turned to Hanley.

"Truitt's red-hot today," he said. "I had not even thought of that

angle."

Ho was waiting for the adjuster to speak.

"The fee for the rider for the day will be eighteen thousand five

hundred U.S. But my company is insisting on increased security. Luckily,

we have a local firm we use--my office will contact them and have some

men out here within the hour, if that's okay with you."

"Does the fee include the security detail?" Ho asked.

Truitt thought for a second, but decided not to push.

I

137

GOLDEN BUDDHA

"The fee includes three security guards, but we will want the fee in

cash," Truitt said seriously.

Ho stood up and walked over to his safe. "Sounds reasonable," he

said.

Truitt smiled--the offer was anything but reasonable, but Ho had

no way to know that.

"I'll tell them," Truitt said.

Ho began spinning the dial to his safe.

"We have an agreement," he said to the operator on the Oregon, "but we'll need the security people here as soon as possible."

"Damn, you're good," the operator said.

"Yes, I am," Truitt said quietly, then disconnected.

Ho returned with two wrapped stacks of dollars. Each strip read

$10,000. Removing fifteen of the hundred-dollar bills from one of the

stacks, he handed Truitt the rest. Sliding the stacks of money into his

leather clutch, he smiled at Ho.

"Do you have a sheet of paper?"

"What for?" Ho asked.

"I need to write you a receipt," Truitt said.

HANLEY REACHED FOR the telephone and dialed Cabrillo. "Dick

Truitt just got us three more men inside the compound, acting

as security guards."

"Excellent," Cabrillo said, "and there was no problem with the appraisal?"

"He handled it like the pro he is," Hanley said.

"Have we got security guard uniforms in the Magic Shop?"

"Absolutely," Hanley said. "I'll just call Nixon and have him blast

off a jazzy patch on the embroidery machine."

"Get on it," Cabrillo said quickly, "so we can extract Truitt."

"Truitt's been invited to the party," Hanley said, "unless you want

Oie to order him out."

CLIVE CUSSLER

"Have him wait until the fake security team arrives," Cabrillo said.

"That way he can verify their identity to Ho. Then have him stick

around--I have another job for him."

"Done," Hanley said.

Cabrillo disconnected and Hanley dialed the Magic Shop.

"Kevin," he said, "I need three security guard uniforms with the

appropriate badges."

"Name?"

Hanley thought for a moment before answering.

"Make them Redman Security Services."

"As in Redford and Newman?"

"You got it," Hanley said, "The Sting."

"It will take me twenty minutes or so to make the badges," Nixon

said, "but send the three operatives down right away. I can fit the uniforms

while the patches are forming."

"They will be there shortly," Hanley said in closing.

Hanley glanced at a clipboard in the control room. Most of the

Corporation stockholders were already assigned to functions of operations,

extraction or backup. His remaining choices were an assistant

chef, Rick Barrett; a propulsion engineer named Sam Pryor; and a

middle-aged man who worked in the armory, Gunther Reinholt. None

had ever worked on the operations end. But beggars can't be choosers

"Get me Reinholt, Pryor and Barrett," Hanley said to one of the

communications operators, "and have them meet me in the Magic

Shop."

The operator began paging the men.

DON'T WORRY," MURPHY said to Halpert, "it just smells like

marijuana."

Murphy was waving what looked like an incense stick near the

members of the band when Cabrillo walked into the conference room-"Smells

like a Grateful Dead concert in here," he said.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

Murphy walked closer and let the smoke waft over the chairman.

"It's the little things," he said with a grin, "that makes the Corporation

successful."

"The real band was sober," Cabrillo noted.

"But Ho doesn't know that."

Cabrillo nodded. "Listen up. Dick Truitt has managed to get three

more operatives inside. The men will be dressed as security guards. I'll

have the company name shortly. Be careful, because there might be

other guards Ho already hired. Don't slip up and mistake ours for

them."

Just then, Cabrillo's telephone rang. He listened then disconnected.

"Redman Security is the name on our guys' uniforms," he said to

the group.

A moment later Julia Huxley walked into the room.

"Wow," Kasim said.

Huxley was dressed in a pair of form-fitting leather pants that laced

up the side and showed two panels of leg from foot to hip. Her top was

a metal-studded vest that barely covered her ample bosom. Around her

neck was a strap of leather with a D-shaped hook, and one of her arms

was decorated with a flowing tattoo of barbed wire and flower vines.

Her hair was teased and coated with hair spray in a wild fashion and

her makeup was bold and thickly applied. Five-inch pumps and a dusting

of glitter on her exposed skin completed the picture.

"Slutty enough for you boys?" she asked.

"I didn't know the Magic Shop had such costumes in stock," Hal-pert

said.

Huxley walked over to Halpert and rubbed herself along his side.

As the lead singer, he, of course, was the one who got the girl.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "This is from my own collection."

Huxley was lying, of course--but then this entire operation was a

facade.

"Now, who would argue," Kasim said, "that America's not the

greatest country in the world?"

GOLDEN BUDDHA

141

T) OSS WAS CHECKING the smoke machines when Ho walked out

iV-onto the lawn.

"Miss Iselda," he said as he walked over, "I have a new piece of

artwork I've decided I want to display out here on the lawn."

Ross watched Ho carefully. The man was gesturing toward one side

of the tent. He looked back at her expectantly. There was no hint he

found anything amiss.

"Is it a painting?" Ross asked.

"No, it's a statue," Ho said.

Two workers were waiting alongside the colored lights near the

smoke machine.

"Take a break for a few moments," Ross said.

The men walked into the shade of the tent.

"Describe it to me," Ross asked.

"Six foot tall and made of gold," Ho said.

Ross quickly thought. "Perhaps we could place the object there"-- she pointed a few feet away--"at the end of the red carpet leading into

the tent. As sort of a sentinel."

Ho and Ross walked over to the spot.

"I could light it with blue and red spotlights," she said.

"What else?" Ho asked.

Ross racked her brain. What could help the Corporation with the

theft?

"What do you think about some billowing clouds of smoke," she

said slowly, "so the object seems to appear and disappear like a mirage?"

"Excellent," Ho said eagerly.

Ross smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a

trio of men from the Oregon; they were dressed in security guards'

uniforms. Somehow her team had sent help. Barrett, acting as the leader

of the guards, walked over to where she and Ho were standing.

"Are you Mr. Ho?" he said.

"I'm Ho."

"The insurance company sent us."

Barrett placed a finger to his eye and winked at Ross when Ho was

not looking.

"Good," Ho said, "I'm glad you arrived so quickly. This is Iselda;

she's in charge of planning. We were just now figuring out the best place

to place the object you will be guarding."

Barrett nodded.

"We're thinking there," Ho said, pointing, "near the entrance to the

tent."

Barrett scanned the grounds as if to determine the security of the

spot. He turned back to Ho and spoke.

"My company mentioned it was a statue."

"Right," Ho said, "a six-foot-tall Buddha."

Barrett nodded as if he were weighing his options.

"Is it heavy?" he asked.

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CLIVE CUSSLER

"It weighs about six hundred pounds," Ho said. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir," Barrett said, "I thought you might want it to be more

of a part of the festivities--you know, have it moved from place to place

as the party proceeds. Six hundred pounds is too heavy for my men to

move, however."

Ross was catching on.

"You mean to have the statue become one of the guests," she said

eagerly.

"Something like that," the guard admitted. "The object would actually

be safer the more people that are around."

"Interesting," Ho said.

"The party's almost ready to start," Ross said, "but I could see if I

could scrounge up some other Buddha statues and do an entire theme

in that direction."

"What do you mean?" Ho asked.

"Maybe I could find some plaster Buddha statues and have them

placed around the grounds," Ross said.

"That would help with security," Barrett admitted, "by confusing

the real and the fakes."

"Do you think you can?" Ho asked.

"Don't worry, Mr. Ho," Ross said, "my company can work miracles."

THE BAND WAS assembled in the conference room on the Oregon. Hanley and Cabrillo were walking them through their last-minute

instructions.

"As you know, we have three more men inside," Cabrillo said, "posing

as security, so we don't need to worry about getting it down to

ground level. It should already be there."

"That's a plus," Franklin noted.

"So the actual removal from the site has become easier," Hanley

said, "but we have the added problem of more witnesses."

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

"That means we almost certainly need to drug the guests," Kasim

noted.

"It's beginning to look that way," Cabrillo admitted.

"The playlist features three sets," Hanley continued. "That gives us

two breaks between sets when you, as members of the band, can move

freely about. Watch the chairman for the lead and.be flexible--this entire

caper is still unfolding."

"Do we have the plane waiting to receive the icon after the theft?"

Halpert asked.

"Arranged," Cabrillo said. "A plane is inbound as we speak."

"When's the extraction scheduled?" Monica asked.

"Ten minutes before midnight, tonight," Hanley said.

"The Oregon sails away from here sometime tomorrow," Cabrillo

said, "no matter what the outcome. So let's just do our jobs and take

our leave."

"A little richer for the effort," Murphy said, smiling.

"That's the idea," Cabrillo agreed.

THIN TENDRILS OF richly scented incense smoke wafted toward

the ceiling in the A-Ma Temple.

A scattering of tourists filed through the public areas and left offerings

at the foot of various Buddhas. They walked on the pebbled paths,

sat on the carved wooden benches on the grounds and stared at the sea

in reflection. It was a place of tranquillity; a port of serenity in a storm

of confusion and haste.

Winston Spenser was not feeling calm.

Fear gripped him. The Golden Buddha was laughing at him--of that

he was sure. The calm gaze and unmoving solidness made him uneasy.

Spenser dreamed of when he would be rid of the curse and collect his

money. He could see it in his mind. The armored-car company picking

up the icon again and delivering it to the software billionaire's plane.

The crates of money he would receive.

144   CLIVE CUSSLER

He rose from the bench in the main temple, then walked out the

door and down the hillside to his waiting limousine. The parking lot

was half empty. Most of the people in Macau were preparing for the

parade and tonight's parties. A pair of motorcycles sat off to one side

under a tree. Spenser didn't notice them--he was wrapped up in his

own certain failure. Climbing in the rear of the limousine, he gave the

driver directions. A few moments later the limousine rolled out of the

lot.

"I've seen what I need to see," one of the motorcyclists said.

"I agree," said the other.

SIX CHINESE VALETS awaited the first of the guests. After showing

their invitations to the guard, they pulled through the gate, drove

up the circular drive, then climbed from their cars near the front door

of the mansion.   a

The sun was slowly dipping in the west and the view from the mansion

was an expanse of sea lit with the golden hues of a waning sun.

Spenser climbed from the rear of his limousine and stared at the scene.

He was dressed in a black tuxedo that hid the pools of sweat under his

arms. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the foyer.

Juan Cabrillo rolled down the window of the van and handed the

guard a slip of paper.

"Park over by the garages," the guard said, "then unload your

equipment and wheel it around back."

Cabrillo nodded. When the gate opened, he drove around to the

garages, then backed the van up near the edge of the lawn.

"Showtime," he said.

And the band climbed from the van and began shuttling equipment

to the rear of the house.

Cabrillo walked around to the rear of the house, seeking Ross. He

saw her in the distance talking on a cell phone. Several people were

standing nearby.

145

GOLDEN BUDDHA

"We're The Minutemen," he said when she had disconnected.

"Good," Ross said. "The bandstand is over there."

"We have some large speakers," Cabrillo said, "that we'll need some

help moving."

"Let me summon some help."

"We like to take care of our equipment ourselves," Cabrillo said.

"We just need some carts."

Ross nodded and turned to one of the caterers.

"This is the leader of the band," she said. "He needs to borrow a

few of the carts you use to move the tables."

The man nodded and motioned to Cabrillo. "Right this way."

Mark Murphy stood on the bandstand and surveyed the surroundings.

Three large tents were erected, forming a Y with the band at the

far end. The bandstand was slightly elevated from the ground, and to

the rear the back of the tent had slits that opened to provide access.

Electrical cables to power their speakers and lights stretched out under

the tent. He sat his guitar down and poked through the slit in the back.

Forty feet behind the rear of the tent was part of the wall that formed the boundary of the house. To the right side of the Y portion of the

tent, some thirty yards away, was the rear wall of the mansion and the

doors leading to the kitchens and inside. He began to walk the perimeter

of the tent.

At the front, or top, of the Y were the entrances for the guests. In

the opening between the legs of the Y there was a portable fountain and

a small wooden platform that was currently empty. Murphy continued

around the other side, examining the way the tents were fastened to the

ground. There were large metal stakes on the edges with guy wires running

farther out onto the lawn, where they were staked into the earth.

He stared up. Long metal poles, two per each section of the three separate

tents, poked through the tops. He found a slit in the tent and

walked over to one of the poles. The bases sat on plastic holders.

Murphy figured it wouldn't take much to bring it all down.

CLIVE CUSSLER

146

Ho was making his way back to the mansion when he stopped in

his tracks.

Several longhaired men were approaching the tent, but that didn't

concern him. What did concern him was the lady that was following.

Ho pivoted on his heel and walked over.

"I'm Stanley Ho," he said, smiling. "I'm your host."

"I'm Candace," Julia Huxley said.

Ho's eyes were riveted on Huxley's ample assets. "I find this hard

to believe," Ho said, "but I don't remember meeting you before."

"I'm with the band," Candace said, smiling wickedly. "At least I

came with them."

"Performer?" Ho asked.

"In many ways," Candace said, smiling.

Ho was beginning to get the feeling that if he played his cards right,

he might get lucky.

"I need to go inside and greet my guests," Ho said quickly as he

saw Iselda approaching from the corner of his eye. "Perhaps we could

talk later."

He turned and moved toward the back door of the mansion.

"Mr. Ho," Ross shouted after him, "I think we have the placement

figured out."

"Just take care of it," Ho said over his shoulder.

Ross passed by Huxley. "Slut," she whispered.

"Lesbian," Huxley replied.

MAXHANLEY WAS sitting in a leather chair in the command center

of the Oregon.

"Okay, people," he said to the trio of operators that remained,

"we're a go. Display from the tree," Hanley ordered.

The image from the tiny camera in the tree filled one of the screens

in the control room. Hanley could see Cabrillo rolling a cart containing

147

GOLDEN BUDDHA

several long speaker boxes across the lawn. Ross had just passed Huxley

and was now turning to go back toward the tent. Murphy popped out

from the side of one of the tents. As if on cue, he turned to the tree and

smiled.

"Larry," Hanley said, "all okay."

Larry King was the Corporation member hiding in the tree. He adjusted

his sniper rifle and then pushed the tiny microphone over his voice

box and answered.

"How's the picture, boss?"

"Looks good," Hanley said. "You holding up?"

King had been forced to take his position above the party sometime

just after 3 a.m. He'd been in his perch over twelve hours already. There

was a good chance he'd need to remain there almost that long again.

"I did six days once in Indonesia," King said. "This is a piece of

cake."

"Have you dialed in your fields of fire?" Hanley asked, already

knowing the answer.

"About a thousand times, boss," King said, swatting away a fly on

his arm.

King was a U.S. Army-trained sniper. If Hanley gave the order, he

could lob a dozen shots onto the grounds in about as long as it took to

sneeze. Hanley hoped it wouldn't come down to that--but if one of the

crew was in trouble and there was no other choice, King was the great

equalizer.

"Stand by, Larry," Hanley said. "We'll call you if we need you."

"Affirmative," King said as he continued to scan the grounds

through his scope.

"Try the inside of the tent," Hanley ordered.

An image filled the screen from a camera that was inserted in the

body of Cabrillo's electric keyboard. The image was slightly off.

"Juan," Hanley said.

Cabrillo was pushing the cart around the side of the tent, but he

could hear through his tiny earpiece.

CLIVE CUSSLER

148

"You'll need to adjust your keyboard slightly to the right. We're |

missing a little of the left side of the tent."

Cabrillo made a slight nod to confirm.

"Go to the van," Hanley ordered.

Another picture flicked onto a separate screen that was split in half.

The cameras had been attached to the van's folding mirrors. They were

showing a pretty good view of most of the front of the house. Lincoln

was removing a box from the back of the van.

"Frankie," Hanley said.

Franklin Lincoln moved out of the back of the van and stared into

one of the rearview mirrors as if he were fixing his hair.

"Try to leave the van where it is," Hanley said. "You guys got lucky

and placed it where we have a good field of view."

Lincoln made an okay sign at the mirror.

"Okay, men," Hanley said to the operators, "we're the eyes and

ears, so be alert."

UH

WINSTON SPENSER WALKED into the mansion, snagged a glass

of champagne from a passing waiter, and slurped down half of

the flute before approaching the receiving line. Stanley Ho was beaming

and shaking hands with each guest that passed. Ahead of Spenser were

an Australian couple who were just being greeted, and directly in front

of him was the local Portuguese consular agent. Spenser waited patiently,

finishing the first glass of champagne and summoning the waiter

for another, then took his place in front of Ho.

"Winston," Ho said, smiling, "it's good to see you, but you're a

little late--the insurance adjuster was already here."

"Sorry," Spenser said, "I was running late."

Spenser tried to keep moving along, but Ho reached out and took

him by the arm.

"That's all right," Ho said. "It seems your timing is perfect."

Ho pointed to the staircase.

150   CLIVE CUSSLER

Spenser's stomach did a backflip. The Golden Buddha, strapped to

a dolly like a patient in a mental ward, was descending the stairs, being

helped down by the guards from Redman Security.

"I've decided to display my newest treasure," Ho said, "so all the

guests can share in the glory. Don't worry, I'll let everyone who asks

know who helped me handle the acquisition."

A thousand thoughts raced through Spenser's mind. None of them

were good.

"Sir . . . ," Spenser began to say. But the line was moving along and

Ho was already preparing to greet the next guest. "I don't think . . ."

"I'll talk to you when we are outside," Ho said quietly as he turned

to shake a couple's hands.

AT THE REAR door," Hanley said, pointing to a screen.

He flipped a switch on the communication console, then

spoke into a microphone.

"Juan, the Buddha is being wheeled outside."

On one of the screens, Cabrillo could be seen inside the tent checking

the connection to his keyboard. He raised his head and made a signal

that he understood. Ross walked over to the front of the tents as the

Buddha was wheeled up, then supervised the placement near the fountain.

The target of all the planning and preparation was now in plain

sight.

CHIEF INSPECTOR OF the Macau Constabulary Sung Rhe<

watched the statue from his place on the lawn near the rear door

of the mansion. Rhee had known Stanley Ho since before he'd become

wealthy. He was an acquaintance, not a friend. The first ship Ho had

owned, the start of his shipping fortune, had been a constant thorn in

Rhee's side.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

The chief inspector had been a mere detective at that time, assigned

to vice and smuggling, and he had become convinced Ho was moving

drugs with the ship. Rhee had just never been able to catch him in the

act. Ho's fortune had grown fast, and the chief inspector knew what

that usually denoted--the problem was that as the shipowner's fortune

had swelled, so had his power. Twice in the past decade Rhee had been

ordered away from Ho's activities when he was close to amassing

enough evidence to bring charges. Now Rhee was beginning to understand

that as Ho legitimized his holdings, he probably never would pay

the price for his past shady dealings.

Rhee had been invited to the party in an unofficial capacity--window dressing for the guests.

Like the mayor, the ambassadors of various countries, and the minor

royalty who were present, Rhee was here today to add to the theme of

legitimacy Ho so desperately craved.

He was a prop--but that didn't make the police officer inside him

take leave. He stared at the chunk of gold and tried to decide how, if

it was up to him, he would steal it. Rhee stared around the grounds,

trying to imagine an escape route. The wall surrounding the grounds

almost insisted on a departure through the main gate. The fact that the

object was being placed out in the open actually helped the security. It

would almost certainly always be in view of someone. He glanced

around again, then shook his head slightly.

Rhee concluded theft was not a problem and went inside for some

shrimp puffs.

A DARK GREEN Mercedes-Benz limousine pulled up to the gate and

the driver was waved through. Tom Reyes, the driver, swung

around on the circular driveway and positioned the passenger door near

the front door of the mansion. He then climbed out and opened the

door to the rear compartment and helped the occupant out.

Once Crabtree was standing alongside the limousine, Reyes raced to

152   CLIVE CUSSLER

the front door and said to the butler, "This is Princess Aalborg of Denmark."

The butler stood aside as she swept into the foyer in a rustle of satin

and lace, then walked toward Ho, who was now standing alone.

"Princess Aalborg," Reyes announced from two steps behind.

Ho bent over and lightly kissed the proffered hand, then raised his

head and smiled. "I'm honored to have you visit my humble home."

"Charmed," Monica Crabtree said in a bizarre accent.

Ho snapped his fingers and a waiter instantly appeared. "May I offer

you a libation?"

"Champagne with a strawberry would be nice," Crabtree said.

Ho motioned to the waiter, who scurried off.

"Jeeves," Crabtree said to the driver, "I'll be fine now--you may

take your leave."

Reyes backed away a distance, then turned and walked toward the

front door. Moving the limousine away from the front of the mansion,

Reyes parked in a spot near the garage and climbed out. Then he walked

around to the front of the limousine, tilted back his cap and lit a cigarette.

"Monica is safely inside," Hanley reported to Cabrillo.

TWILIGHT FELL OVER the grounds with a light breeze that brought

the smell of the sea. A few miles away, at the staging area for the

parade, the engines of the lead floats came to life. The marching band

that was the first group to walk the route began to assemble in orderly

rows, awaiting the signal to begin. Macau began to settle in for the

night, and in the high-rises in the city center and along the waterfront,

lights began to flicker on. Out to sea, the navigation lights of the ships

approaching port began to be visible, and the scattering of airplanes

both inbound and outbound appeared as light specks in the distant sky-All

of the guests had arrived and the front lawn of the mansion

looked like a luxury car dealership. There were Jaguars and BMWs, *

153

GOLDEN BUDDHA

single Lamborghini, a pair of Ferraris. Twelve limousines, a lone armored

Humvee and an old Rolls-Royce crowded the lawn. On the wall

along the road, the security cameras swept back and forth, but no more

cars approached and the guard tired of watching the monitor.

So no one noticed when a pair of motorcycles drove slowly past.

If someone had, and they were knowledgeable, they might have noticed

that one of the motorcycle's sidecars had been enlarged and reinforced.

The modifications were barely perceptible, but if you looked

closely, you could see that there was a heavy-duty training wheel underneath,

and that the passenger seat had been removed and made into

a cargo compartment. The motorcycles continued north to the stop sign,

then turned left and headed in the direction of the Inner Port. The bikers

had an appointment to keep in a place not too far distant.

THE BAND WAS performing a sound check. The wall of speakers

behind the bandstand lent an air of full-on rock concert, but the

actual sound coming out of them was less than one would have thought.

Unless someone was standing directly in front of the speaker wall, he'd

have no way to tell that many of the speakers were not functioning.

Some were hollow shells, others held items that would be needed for

the operation.

Ross walked over and spoke to Cabrillo.

"The first set starts at seven," she said. "Are you ready?"

Cabrillo stared at the players, then at the crowd that was still milling

about the tent, some seated, more still flitting from table to table. "I'll

put the background music on in a second. That should signal we're

about to begin."

He walked over to the main console and adjusted a switch. At the

sound of the music, the crowd began to make their way to their assigned

seats. Stanley Ho was standing just inside one of the tents on the left

side of the Y. He was attempting to regale Huxley with stories of his

Vast wealth and power.

154

CLIVE CUSSLER

"I love the Buddha," Huxley said, smiling. "Perhaps you have some

other artwork you could show me later."

"I'd be glad to," Ho said. "In fact, there are many pieces in my

upper office that might interest you. Maybe we could slip away later

and take a look."

"I'd like that," Huxley said.

Ho nodded greedily. He was already imagining the possibilities the \ suicide blonde might offer his libido--if he needed to ignore his guests '

for the opportunity, so be it.

"I need to go to the front and make my introductions now," Ho

said, "but we can meet later."

Huxley smiled and slinked away. Ho walked through the crowd,

stopping at various tables to glad-hand his guests. A few minutes later,

he was standing in front of the bandstand.

"I'm Stanley Ho," he said to Halpert. "Might I use your microphone

to make an introduction?"

Halpert handed his microphone to Ho, who tapped the top to be

sure it was working.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said.

The crowd quieted down.

"I'd like to welcome you to my Good Friday party."

The crowd clapped.

"I hope that you are finding the food and drink to your liking."

Another round of applause.

"I hope each of you has a chance to view my latest acquisition, a

good-luck charm. I have displayed the piece at the entrance to the tent.

Like another we honor tonight, he signifies enlightenment and spirituality

and that is the theme of this evening's festivities. Now, if we could

take a second to remember those that have sacrificed themselves for our

freedoms."

The crowd was silent.

"Thank you," Ho said a few moments later. "We will have

fireworks and light displays tonight, as well as an excellent band straight

155

GOLDEN BUDDHA

from California in the United States. Please join me in welcoming the

Minutemen."

He handed the microphone back to Halpert. At the same time, the

lights in the tent began to dim until a single spotlight illuminated Hal-pert's

back, which was turned from the crowd. The band keyed their

instruments and the opening notes of the Eagles song "Already Gone"

began pulsing through the crowd.

Halpert swung around and began to belt out the lyrics.

MORE THAN ANY one thing, the key to a successful robbery is

stealth. The pair of men on the motorcycles knew this and they

moved quietly through the A-Ma Temple toward their target. The tourists

had gone home for the night and most of the monks were in the

dining hall partaking of their simple evening meal. The side room where

their target stood was dimly lit, and the men, who were dressed in black

clothes and face masks, blended into the air like whispery goblins.

"There he is," one man whispered.

The man was pushing a heavy-duty dolly stolen from a rental store

the previous night. He wheeled it over, examined the artifact, then

waited while his partner closed the door on the wooden crate and tilted

it so the other man could slide the dolly underneath. After securing it

with straps, they began to make their way toward the door.

WINSTON SPENSER WAS past wine and into cognac. He was

pleasantly buzzed and beginning to feel that he might just accomplish

his goal. He glanced at his watch. He had some time before

he needed to slip away and meet the armored-car company at the temple.

Then he would make his way to the airport and consummate the

sale with the software billionaire.

By first light, he'd be on his way away from here, then he'd take a

break from all the drinking.

[

CLIVE CUSSLER

156

Finishing the snifter, he motioned to a passing waiter for a refill.

Then he turned to one of the guests seated next to him.

"Excellent band."

"They truly are," Crabtree replied.

TWO HUNDRED AND twenty-seven miles from Macau, in the South |

China Sea, the burgundy jet was passing over Tungsha Island,

inbound for landing. The software billionaire walked forward, fastening

a sash around his black silk kimono.

"The ladies are tired," he said with a barely hidden trace of pride.

"Could you prepare pitchers of coffee, orange juice and some pastries

and take them to the rear?"

"Immediately," the blond-haired man said, leaping to his feet.

Continuing forward, the billionaire knocked on the cockpit door.

The copilot opened the door. "Sir?" he asked.

"How far out are we?"

"Less than half an hour," the copilot said, glancing at his navigational

chart.

"Have you arranged for refueling?"

"All taken care of, sir," the pilot said, turning his head toward the

cockpit door.     ,

Passing through the galley, the billionaire could smell the coffee '

brewing. "About a half hour and we'll be on the ground," he said as

he passed.

The blond-haired man waited until he was gone, then removed a

digital pager from his belt and pushed a few buttons. Then he winked

at the other flight attendant and resumed his preparations.

THE TRIO OF Redman Security officers glanced up as the band was

finishing the last song in the first set. Then Sam Pryor turned toward

a camera and touched his nose.

157

GOLDENBUDDHA

Back on the Oregon, Max Hanley reached for a microphone.

"Julia," he said, "you can start now."

Huxley slipped from behind the speaker wall and motioned to Hal-pert.

Cabrillo, Lincoln and Murphy began to remove a few speakers

from the bank behind them. Ho walked over.

"You have two more sets," he said.

"We have some electrical glitches," Cabrillo told him. "Three of the

tower speakers aren't working. Don't worry--they haven't worked yet

and we sound all right."

"Do you want me to take them back to the truck?" Huxley asked.

"That's part of your job," Halpert said.

Ho stared at Huxley. The thought of his suicide blonde becoming

sweaty disturbed him.

"I'll have one of the guards give you a hand," Ho said. "Miss Candace

asked earlier if she might have a tour of my home."

"Okay, Mr. Ho," Cabrillo said. "We'll move them around to the

front of the tent, then have one of the guards help us put them in the

van."

"Whatever," Ho said. "Now, Candy--may I show you my home?"

ROSS MOTIONED TO the caterer. "Before the second set, Mr. Ho

wants to make a special toast."

"The passion fruit punch?" the caterer said.

"Correct," Ross said.

"Just before the main meal is served?"

"That's the plan."

"I'll go ahead and ice down the punch then," the caterer said.

"You look busy here," Ross said, "I'll take care of the punch."

When the chef had his back turned, Ross removed the flask of liquid

and broke the seal. The viscous fluid was a strange blue green with flecks

of what looked like powdered silver. She swirled it around then poured

158

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

159

it into the vat. Taking a wooden spoon, she stirred the mixture and

added a block of ice.

The caterer was on the far end of the kitchen, talking to the chef.

Ross called across the room.

"Have the punch transferred to the crystal pitchers and taken into

the tent," she said. "Then order the waiters to begin serving."

The caterer waved a hand in reply and Ross walked back outside.

Huxley walked over to Ho and rubbed her ample assets against his

side.

"I'll quickly go make the toast," he said with a growing need.

"I need to make an appearance, too," Huxley said, "then we'll have

plenty of time."

Ho motioned to the door and the pair started out of the office.

'' O IGNAL FROM ROSS," Larry King said.

On board the Oregon, Hanley was watching the monitors.

"We saw it too, Larry."

Hanley zoomed in on the Buddha; Reinholt, Pryor and Barrett were

standing in a delta formation around the object, while to the left three

large speaker stacks sat on carts awaiting removal.

"As soon as Ho makes his toast and the band resumes, we can begin

the extraction," Hanley said. "Did anyone see where Ho went?"

"He headed inside with Huxley," King noted.

"I've got him on audio in the upper office," one of the operators on the Oregon said.

"Put him on speaker," Hanley ordered.

"It's a Manet," Ho was saying.

"I always get Monet and Manet confused," Huxley said. "But then,

art is not my strong suit."

"What exactly is your strong suit?" Ho asked.

Just then, Hanley keyed the tiny earpiece in Huxley's ear. "Julia,"

he whispered, "you need to have Ho get back to the tent and make the

toast now."

"It's something I need to show you, not tell you," Candace purred,

"but it takes some time. Once the band starts the next set and my boyfriend

is busy, I'd feel a lot safer."

"Safer is good," Ho said.

INSIDE THE TENT, the waiters were clearing away the appetizers.

Then they began to pour the punch from crystal pitchers into small

glass cups at each setting. Most of the guests had returned to their seats

by the time Ho walked through the center of the tent toward the stage.

Snagging a cup of punch from a passing waiter, he continued toward

the stage.

Mark Murphy was setting the last of the charges around the perimeter

of the grounds and tent. He pocketed a small remote trigger, then

walked around to the rear of the stage. Juan Cabrillo was standing off

to one side of the stage, staring at the crowd. Crabtree had her large

purse on the floor next to her and she moved her foot to make sure it

was at her feet. Kasim, Lincoln and Halpert stood off to one side, awaiting

their cues. At the front of the tent, the trio from Redman Security

paced nervously.

Ho walked over to Cabrillo. "Is the P.A. system on?"

"Just a second," Cabrillo said as he flicked a switch. "Okay, sir."

Ho tapped the microphone to see that it was working.

THE MONK WALKED out from the dining room, then stopped in

his tracks. There was a banner with Arabic writing stretched

across the alcove where the Golden Buddha had been placed--but the

massive golden icon was nowhere to be seen. He raced back to the

dining room to alert the others. A dozen monks in yellow robes entered

160   CLIVE CUSSLER

the main temple. After appraising the situation, the head of the monks

walked into the office and lifted up the telephone.

"Why don't they make dollies with brakes?" one of the motorcyclists

said as he dug in his heels to slow the descent down the hill outside

the temple.

The other man was in front of the dolly, trying to slow Buddha

down, but the loose soil was not allowing him much purchase and he

was sliding downhill fast.

"Drop it down and dig in the rear," he whispered.

With more of a slide than a controlled descent, they reached the

bottom of the hill. Once they had regained control of the dolly, they

quickly wheeled it over to the motorcycle sidecar and cut the straps.

The man at the front lowered the door on the sidecar.

"Let's get him in," he said.

At just that instant, a gong on the grounds of the temple started

sounding.

"Damn," the first man said as the two wrestled the chunk of metal

into the sidecar, "I figured we'd at least be out of the parking lot before

someone caught on."

"I'll strap him down," the second man said. "You start your engine."

The man climbed aboard the motorcycle and pushed the starter. The

engine roared to life. The second man finished with securing the Buddha

and walked over to his motorcycle and started the engine. Looking up

the hill, he caught a glimpse of several monks starting down, and he

beeped his horn. The first man turned his head and, upon seeing the

monks stumbling down the hill, reached for the clutch, then toed the

motorcycle into gear. He twisted the throttle and began driving out of

the parking lot.

"A

GAIN," HO SAID, "thank you all for coming. Before I make a| .toast, let's give a round of applause to the Minutemen."   1

161

GOLDEN BUDDHA

The crowd clapped.

"Now," Ho said, "if you will all raise your glasses."

He paused.

"To peace and prosperity on this holy day," he said. "Let us all

remember the sacrifices the few have made so that the many may find

peace."

Ho tipped the glass cup to his lips and took a drink. The crowd

followed suit.

"The dinner will be served now," Ho said, "and in a second the

band will begin again."

THE POTION IS in," Hanley said to everyone listening, "we move

in five minutes."

Sometimes, if you know where to look, a person can realize that life

is a well-orchestrated ballet. If one is in tune, seemingly unrelated events

begin to reveal themselves. If there were someone high above the party,

what he would see right now would be two distinctly different groups.

The people from the Corporation began to move like pieces on a chessboard,

while those who were part of the party seemed to act as a single

unit.

Sung Rhee tried to focus his eyes, but the view of the inside of the

tent was ebbing and flowing. Specks of blue dotted the far edges of his

peripheral vision. Then he saw what he thought was a yellow-and-red

weasel out of the corner of his eye, but when he moved his head, it was

gone. At just that instant, his cellular telephone rang.

"Rhee."

"I can barely hear you, sir," one of his detectives said.

Rhee stared at the tiny telephone. He was holding it a foot from his

mouth, as if unable to gauge distances. He tried to move it to the proper

place, but he slammed it into his temple.

"How's that?" he asked.

"Better. Sir, we just received a call from the head abbot at the

162   CLIVECUSSLER

A-Ma Temple. They report that a pair of men has just stolen a large

golden Buddha they had on display."

Rhee thought for a second. The Buddha was right outside the tent.

"That's all right," Rhee said, "I saw our friend earlier."

"What are you talking about, sir?"

Rhee stared at the floral arrangement in the center of the table. The

head of a tiny horse appeared and spoke in a British accent. Take me

for a ride, it said.

"Listen, you," Rhee said, "my horse is here."

"Sir," the detective said, "I'm coming over there right away."

Rhee dropped the telephone and turned to the person next to him.

"See my horse?"

The person was a troll and he was speaking in a language Rhee

could not understand.

OVER THE ROAR of the motorcycle engine, a siren came from just

over the hill. The two men shut off the engines and listened. The

sound neither grew louder nor diminished.

"Good," the first man said, "they're stuck in traffic, just like we

planned."

"Let's do it," the second man said.

They started their engines and roared away.

DETECTIVE LING PO was screaming into the radio as he raced

toward the mansion. He was a half mile away when the traffic

ground to a stop.

"Can anyone reach the temple?" he shouted.

The units reported in one at a time. Only the car along the Inner

Port Road was making any progress.

"We have a pair of men on motorcycles that have stolen a large gold

Buddha," he said as he beeped his horn. "Has anyone seen them pass?"

163

GOLDENBUDDHA

The reports were negative.

Po steered his squad car onto the sidewalk and, blaring his horn,

continued on.

THE BAND WAS performing the Thin Lizzie song "The Boys Are

Back in Town."

On the Oregon, Hanley was watching the monitors in alarm. They

had expected some unusual behavior once the potion was administered,

but what he was seeing was chaos. A crowd of guests in tuxedos and

evening dresses had suddenly filled the dance floor, and several of the

ladies were shedding their clothes.

Stanley Ho was walking through the tent in a daze. He was feeling

strange, but he had no idea why. Spotting Candace across the tent, he

began to make his way toward her.

"Okay, everyone, we go in sixty seconds," Hanley ordered.

"I hear sirens," King reported, "and they are growing closer."

"Monica," Hanley said, "are you hearing?"

Crabtree turned to where she knew the camera was in the keyboard

and winked.

"Now," Hanley said.

Crabtree bit down on a packet she had taken from her purse and

slipped it inside her mouth. Ho was a few feet away and she stumbled

toward him with foam seeping from the edges of her mouth. She

grabbed him around his neck and held tight.

"Go ahead, Murph," Hanley ordered.

Murphy slipped his hand inside his pocket and hit the trigger. Almost

instantly there was a series of explosions like fireworks. The outside

lights and those inside the tent went dark.

"We're a go for switch," Hanley said.

At exactly that instant, Barrett and Pryor slid one of the speaker

boxes off the cart and opened a back door. A gold-painted plaster Buddha

replica slipped onto the ground. At the same time, Reinholt flipped

164   CLIVECUSSLER

the edge of the tent over the Buddha on display. Several potted plants

placed in the Y inside the tent shielded the guards from anyone who

might be watching.

"All dark on the western front," King said as he scanned the ground

through the pale green light of a night scope.

"Anyone moving?" Hanley asked.

King swept across the grounds, then down the hillside.

"There's an unmarked police car with a portable light on the roof

proceeding along Avenida Republica. He's three hundred and fifty yards

distant."

"Can you hit at that distance?" Hanley asked.

"Oh ye of little faith," King said. "It's a car, not a bug. I doubt I

can hit the driver's nose, but you never know."

"Just a tire, Larry," Hanley said.

"Hold on," King said.

Supporting the rifle on a branch, he regulated his breathing, then

waited until the police car was in his field of fire. He was in an almost

Zen state of concentration. When the target appeared, it was as if it

were in slow motion. King squeezed the trigger, then willed the bullet

to run true. Inside the rifle, the firing pin hit the shell primer and

sparked, the gunpowder burned and propelled the shell out of the cartridge

and sent it spinning through the rifling inside the barrel. Leaving

the end of the barrel and passing through the noise suppressor, the slug

started down the hill in a straight line toward the target.

"Shit," Po said as his front tire shredded. He slowed down and

climbed out of the squad car, leaving the door open. Looking back onto

the sidewalk, he tried to see what he had hit. There was nothing visible,

but that didn't mean anything. He stared up the hill to his intended

destination, then decided the hill was too steep to climb. Po slid back

into the driver's seat and reached for the radio.

"Target has stopped and he's calling for help," King said.

"Good job," Hanley said.

Hanley was watching the monitors, but without lights there was

165

GOLDEN BUDDHA

little to see. He stared at his watch, then glanced at the schedule of

actions. Thirty seconds passed. King continued to scan the grounds. A

few of the kitchen workers had popped out from inside and were clustered

around the rear door. He swiveled his scope to the front of the

house and noticed that the front gate to the driveway had opened automatically

when the power was cut. Ten seconds.

"Have you sighted the charge on the fireworks display?" Hanley

asked.

"Got it," King said.

"Protect your eyes after the shot," Hanley said.

"I'll switch back to regular sights," King agreed.

"We go in five, four, three, two, one."

King squeezed the trigger and hit the explosive packet Murphy had

laid in place hours earlier. The fireworks exploded with a roar. Roman

candles streaked skyward and the large mortarlike devices began to

spew forth in belches. There was shrieking and thumping sounds as the

fireworks began to discharge. King rubbed his eyes and stared at the

now-lit-up scene.

Three flickers from a flashlight at the front of the tent caught his

attention.

"I have a signal the switch has been made," King noted.

"Signal the helicopter," Hanley said to one of the operators.

"She's having a seizure," Ho shouted.

Monica Crabtree hung on to Ho's neck and rolled her eyes back in

her head. A doctor Ho knew was dancing on one of the tables nearby,

but he didn't respond to Ho's request to come over. At just that instant,

Barrett walked over.

"This woman is sick," Ho said.

The guard grabbed Crabtree and slid her to the ground. The inside

of the tent was chaos, the music was blaring, but in the dim light no

one noticed the band had left the stage. Ho's head was spinning and he

vvas having trouble concentrating. The guard placed his lips over Crab-tree's.

CLIVE CUSSLER

166

"No tongue, please," Crabtree whispered.

Faking CPR, the guard turned to Ho. "This woman is dying."

"Call for help," Ho said.

The guard reached for the radio on his belt and called for an ambulance.

"Juan," Hanley said, "the bird is inbound."

"Time to pull out," Cabrillo said to his team. "Round everyone up."

Reinholt and Pryor were rolling the cart containing the false-bottomed

speakers over the lawn to the far side of the heliport. Once

the cart was positioned, they removed green light bars from their pockets

and bent them in half. The chemical reaction made the tubes glow

and they spread them in a crude circle so the helicopter pilot would

know where to land.

The scene inside the tent was absolutely chaotic. People were singing,

howling, dancing and prancing. Sung Rhee was groping a woman

at his table, the mayor of Macau was drinking the water out of the table

arrangement.

Only Winston Spenser seemed composed. When his stomach was

upset, he was sensitive to fruit juice. He had faked the toast and was

beginning to see something was terribly wrong. Right then, he felt a

prick on his neck. A second later, his head slumped over on the table.

THE TRAFFIC OPENED up for a second and the police car racing

along the Inner Port Road managed to make some headway. I

the distance, the officer managed to glimpse the motorcycles making a

turn onto Calcada da Barra. Pushing the gas pedal to the floor, he raced

after the retreating pair of motorcycles.

"I have them in sight," he shouted over the radio. "They're northwest

on Calcada."

The man aboard the motorcycle carrying the Buddha glanced in his

167

GOLDEN BUDDHA

rearview mirror and saw the police car approaching. He waved his hand

in the air and the second motorcyclist turned his head. Dropping back

a little, he waited until the police car was right behind him. Then he

reached over and tripped a lever on his sidecar.

GOLDENBUDDHA

169

STANLEY HO'S METICULOUSLY planned party had deteriorated

into a bacchanalia.

Juan Cabrillo walked over to where Ho was standing next to the

prone Crabtree. Ho was in a daze. There were so many things happening,

his drug-addled brain could not comprehend them all. A few moments

ago, the lesbian party planner had come to him and said that she

could not figure out how to restore the lights inside the tent and offered

to have some workers raise some of the side panels to allow the scant

natural moonlight to filter inside. It was now a little brighter inside the

tent, but many of the guests had started wandering outside onto the

lawn.

tion.

"Sir," the security guard said, "the roads are choked with traffic and

the ambulances can't get through. They recommended an air evacua-

Ho

stared down. A minor member of a royal family expiring at his

party would definitely put a crimp in his social aspirations.

"Do it," Ho said through the fog in his brain.

"I already did," the guard admitted, "but we have another problem."

That was all Ho needed.

"What is it?"

"There's another guest slumped over," the guard said, pointing toward

Spenser.

"Have him taken out, too," Ho said.

Juan Cabrillo spoke. "Mr. Ho. Some of my band is feeling queasy.

We indulged in some of the appetizers and I think something was bad.

I'd recommend we end this party and have the guests seek medical attention

immediately."

The entire affair was collapsing before Ho's eyes.

"The band wants to leave," Cabrillo said. "We're going to pull our

van around to the rear and load up our equipment."

"I need the P.A. system to make an announcement," Ho said.

"We already broke it down," Cabrillo told him, "but we have a

portable megaphone we can let you use. I'll go get it from the van."

Ho turned to the security guard. "Who is watching the Buddha?"

"The other two guards," he said. "I'd recommend we place it back

inside."

"Take it to my office," Ho ordered.

The sound of an approaching helicopter grew louder.

The guard reached for his walkie-talkie and ordered the Buddha to

be moved upstairs. Then he reached down and lifted Crabtree and cradled

her in his arms. He started walking out of the tent toward the

landing zone. Cabrillo raced across the grounds to the van. Once inside,

he adjusted the outside mirror and stared into the camera.

"We're collecting the props," he said as he twisted the key and

started the engine.

170

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

171

ON THE OREGON, Max Hanley was watching the unfolding scene

with amazement.

The two distinct groups were obvious. The Corporation members

were moving about in a blur of motion and action, while the rest of the

party seemed caught in a haze of indecision and disbelief. The element

of chaos in the surroundings was complete. It was almost time to stoke

the fires of escape.

"Murph, Lincoln, Halpert," Hanley said, "Juan's coming around

with the van. Load up fast and make your way to the front of the

mansion."

He saw the waves of acknowledgment.

"Ross, dispose of the punch and the doctored appetizers left on the

tables."

"Larry," Hanley asked, "what do you see?"

"The policeman is leaning against the front of his car, waiting for

help. I think we can count him out for now. One of the guards has just

left the tent, carrying Monica. He's making his way to extraction point

one." King scanned the grounds with the scope. "Two of the guards are

wheeling the faux Buddha toward the rear door as I speak."

"Good," Hanley said, "everything is in play. You can make your

egress anytime you deem fit. If you make your way along the wall and

wait by the street, I'll have Juan slow the van down as he passes."

"Understand," King said.

He began to break down the rifle and fit it into its case. Once that

was done, he climbed down to the edge of the wall and began to make

his way west.

"Who haven't we used?" Hanley asked one of the operators, who

stared quickly at the list of participants.

"Truitt," the operator replied.

"Where's Julia?"

"Last we saw her, she was going back inside the tent," the operator

said. "But since the chairman broke down the keyboard set, we've lost

the camera inside."

"Dick," Hanley said, "if you can hear me, signal someone in our

team."

Cabrillo pulled the van to the rear of the tent. It had been slow

going with all the people wandering the grounds. He slid the van into

Park and opened the door. Truitt appeared at the rear of the tent and

motioned to the camera in the van's mirror.

"Dick, I need you to find Julia," Hanley said. "She immobilized the

art dealer. Carry him to the landing zone, then I want the two of you

to exit via Crabtree's limousine."

Truitt gave the camera a thumbs-up and raced away.

The members of the team were tossing the remaining speakers and

electronics into the rear of the van. Out over Nam Van Lakes, the landing

lights of the helicopter were visible and growing brighter. The

thumping of the rotor blades increased as the helicopter drew near.

Inside the tent it was pandemonium. Truitt found Huxley talking to

Ho, who seemed unable to move from where he stood. Too much was

happening, his brain could not put it all into place.

"The megaphone," he said in a daze. "I have to warn the guests."

"Who has it?" Truitt asked Ho.

"The band," Ho said. "The band said they had one."

"I just saw them at the rear of the tent," Truitt said. "You should

go there."

Ho raced off.

Truitt reached over and whispered in Huxley's ear, "Where's the art

dealer?"

Huxley led him over, and she and Truitt carried Spenser out onto

the grounds.

The helicopter pilot slowed his forward speed and initiated a hover.

The Eurocopter EC-350 that the Corporation had leased was a sweet

machine--it hung in the air with little input from the controls. Reaching

to the radio on the control panel, the pilot changed the radio frequency.

172

CLIVE CUSSLER

"I'm waiting," he said to the Oregon.

"What do you see?" Hanley asked.

The pilot flicked on his landing lights.

"I have two people carrying a body to the zone," the pilot said.

"Everything else is in place."

"As soon as they reach the zone, touch down," Hanley said, "but

watch for another party who will be arriving. We'll need four to get the

object aboard."

"Tom?" Hanley said.

Crabtree's limousine driver was behind the wheel of the car. He

flashed his lights.

"I have a car flashing their lights," the pilot said.

"Drive onto the lawn and park near the landing zone. Then load

the helicopter."

The lights flashed again and the limousine began moving.

"He heard you," the pilot said.

Hanley was pacing back and forth. There were several carefully

timed actions occurring. As long as everyone followed the plan, the team

would be out in a few more minutes. This was what the Corporation

called Critical Time. The time when it could all go to hell in seconds.

"Juan's waving," one of the operators said, pointing to a monitor.

Just then, Ho wandered over.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Cabrillo turned and smoothed his hair back. "Just checking my

hair."

Ho nodded. "You said you had a megaphone I could use?"

Cabrillo nodded and reached between the seats, removed the megaphone

and handed it to Ho.

"It's battery operated," he said. "Just flick that switch."

Ho flicked it on. "Testing."

It worked. He stared into the van, where the rest of the band members

were sprawled across the seats and atop the cases of equipment.

[

173

GOLDEN BUDDHA

"Where's Candace?" Ho asked. His head was starting to clear. That

was dangerous.

"We are going to meet her around front," Cabrillo said as he

climbed into the driver's seat. "Now I need to get my people to the

hospital."

"Tell her she can stay if she wants," Ho said.

"I'll mention it," Cabrillo said as he twisted the key, then placed

the van in gear and slowly began to steer through the crowd.

Ho wandered back into the tent. He was thinking clearer now. The

megaphone was not that powerful, but if he could find a spot above the

crowd they would probably be able to hear his warning. His office-- his office was on the top floor.

The helicopter pilot touched down and Truitt opened the rear door.

Then Truitt, Barrett, Reyes and Huxley struggled to slide the crate

inside the cargo area. Once the Golden Buddha was safely stowed, they

laid Spenser on the floor and helped Crabtree inside. Truitt slid the door

closed, then slapped it twice to signal the pilot to lift off. Then they

bent over and protected their faces from the rotor wash as the Eurocopter

lifted back into the air.

Once the helicopter was safely away, Reyes stood up.

"I'm supposed to give you guys a ride," he said easily.

At that instant, Reinholt and Pryor had just reached the bottom

stair. They opened the front door and walked out onto the driveway.

The door had only been shut a few seconds before Ho raced to the first

step and headed up to his office.

"What's the playlist?" Hanley asked an operator.

"The helicopter has Crabtree; the limo contains Reyes, Barrett,

Truitt, and Huxley, with Reyes driving. Cabrillo has the band inside the

van." The operator pointed to the screen. "They are just past the end

of the tent and will be on the driveway momentarily."

"Where's Ross?"

"There, on the grounds," the operator said, pointing.

The van containing the band was passing and she came into view.

174

CLIVE CUSSLER

A few minutes before, Ross had ordered the waiters to dump all the

cups of punch, then she wheeled the cart containing the pitchers outside

and tipped it over.

"Linda," Hanley ordered, "go to your car now! I want you out of

there."

Ross began walking quickly to the front.

"Who else?" Hanley asked.

"King is on the wall awaiting extraction, the other two guards

should be in front now and that's it," the operator noted.

"Is the van full?" Hanley said to Cabrillo.

Cabrillo mouthed yes in the mirror.

The van rolled onto the drive, with the Mercedes-Benz limousine

directly to the rear. Ross followed the retreating motorcade. She reached

the Peugeot and started the engine.

"Slow at the front door and tell the guards they will be catching a

ride with Ross," Hanley said to Cabrillo, who acknowledged the instruction.

A second later, he slowed the van and explained, then continued

down the driveway toward the gate. The first team was almost off the

property.

Stanley Ho opened the door to his office. He started toward the

window to warn the guests, then stopped dead in his tracks.

Cabrillo made it out the gate and turned right.

"Slow along the corner of the wall," Hanley ordered. "The King ii

coming."

The limousine was not far behind the van; it slowed at the gate to

turn at the same instant Ross pulled up at the front door, and Reinholt

and Pry or climbed inside the Peugeot. She steered toward the gate.

"Close the gate," Ho screamed.

"The electricity's out," the guard said. "The gates are locked open.

"You need to stop anyone from leaving," Ho shouted.

Ross was twenty feet from the gate when the guard burst from the

guard shack, fumbling with his holster. Ross never hesitated, never fal-

GOLDEN

BUDDHA      175

tered. She steered toward the guard and hit the gas. At the same second

the guard was making a life-and-death choice, Cabrillo heard a thump

as Larry King jumped from the wall and landed on the roof of the van.

Sliding off the roof, still holding the case containing his sniper rifle, he

opened the passenger door, tossed the case between the seats, and

climbed into Halpert's lap. The limousine passed the stopped van, and

then blew through the stop sign at the end of the street.

The front gate guard could not get his weapon out of the holster.

As the Peugeot accelerated toward him, he could only jump out of the

way. Ross blew through the gate at nearly fifty miles an hour, then

stomped on the brakes and twisted the wheel to the stops.

The Peugeot slid around in a hard right turn. Ross hit the gas. Ca-brillo's

van was moving again. He raced through the stop sign and

turned right, following the limousine, just as the guard made it to the

middle of the street in front of the mansion and removed his sidearm.

Sighting down the barrel, he began to squeeze off rounds.

The first hit the left rear taillight, the second and third went wide.

The fourth entered the rear window and shattered the rearview mirror

at the same instant Ross passed the stop sign and did a left-hand turn

toward the water.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

177

the cloud of powder from the airbag inflating cleared, the motorcycles

were two blocks away.

After pushing the bag away from his face, the officer reached for

the radio. "I've crashed and lost them," he said.

ONCE THE LEVER was pulled back, the cargo inside the sidecai

of the motorcycle began sliding down a chute and spilling ont<

the road. The small metal orbs were about the size of marbles but wed

shaped like children's jacks. The difference with these jacks was that thj

dozen points sticking out were razor-sharp. They bounced off the as

phalt and spread across the road.   I

The motorcycle accelerated away as the police car hit the patch

metal shards.

The two front tires exploded, followed a second later by the reai

The police car careened out of control as the officer fought with tl

wheel, while at the same time stomping on the brakes. The police c

slid hard to the left, slammed into a newspaper rack, then into a tel

phone pole just beyond the rack. A microsecond later, the air bag d

ployed and slammed the policeman back against the seat. By the til

DETECTIVE LING PO was monitoring the radio inside his unmarked

squad car as the tow truck pulled alongside. Headquarters

had just reported the robbery at the mansion and Po knew his

immediate superior, Sung Rhee, had been scheduled to attend. Po had

no idea why Rhee was not already coordinating the efforts to capture

the thieves. A few minutes before, he'd heard the report from the officer

chasing the motorcyclists who had robbed the A-Ma Temple, and he

was beginning to think the two were related. He jumped out of the car

and ran over to the tow truck.

"Hook this up fast," he said, "then tow me up to Estrada da

Penha."

"Right away," the driver said.

Po reached into his car and removed a portable radio. He continued

listening as the driver hooked his car to the rear. A few moments later

they were on their way around the hill, then up to the mansion. Eight

minutes later, the tow truck stopped on the street outside the wall

around the mansion, and Po raced toward the gate. A guard stood in

the dark near his shack and Po flashed his badge.

"Detective Ling Po," he said quickly. "Macau Police."

"I'm glad you're here," the guard said. "Mr. Ho is going crazy."

"Tell me what happened," Po said.

The guard related what had occurred. "I got off a few shots," he

said, "but they kept going."

Po made notes on the vehicles' descriptions and radioed them in to

leadquarters. "I want a countrywide bulletin issued. If anyone sees the

178   CLIVECUSSLER

vehicles, he is to follow them but not make a stop unless he has

backup."

After headquarters had confirmed his request, Po turned to the

guard. "Have you seen any other officers here tonight?" he asked. "My

boss, a Mr. Rhee, was scheduled to attend."

"I saw him when he came," the guard noted. "He hasn't left."

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?"

179

GOLDEN BUDDHA

"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

180

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

181

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

reported to Po.

"Summon fire and rescue," Po said. "What's the status on the kidnapping

calls?"

"Units are just now arriving at the first scene," the dispatcher said.

"It's a home in the northern section. A second group should be at the

high-rise location in a few moments."

"Keep me posted," Po said, walking to the window and staring at

the column of smoke in the distance.

* * *

ON THE FRONT seat of the limousine next to Reyes, Barrett started

removing his Redman Security uniform. He was wearing a pair

of lightweight slacks and a black T-shirt underneath.

"So, Rick, do you like the galley or operations better?" Huxley

asked.

Huxley was in the rear compartment with Richard Truitt. She had

pulled a sleeveless blue sweater over her leather top and was now fumbling

around inside the sweater, unfastening her vest. Once she got it

off and slid it out from under the sweater, she rolled down the window

and tossed it out. Barrett had been watching the entire affair through

the rearview mirror.

"I can't say the galley is quite this exciting," he admitted.

Truitt flicked on a light in the center console of the limousine's rear

compartment, then removed a fake mustache from a small clutch and

slapped it on his face. Once it was straight, he removed a set of false

teeth from the same bag and slapped them over his own. He stared at

the results in the mirror. He was rubbing gray liquid from a small bottle

in the bag as he spoke.

"By now they're on the lookout for this vehicle," he said.

Reyes reached to his chest and pulled on his limo driver's uniform

shirt. It ripped cleanly away, revealing another shirt underneath. Tearing

at the tabs on his pants, he unleashed the pleats. "Sunglasses," he said

to Truitt, who handed them over the seat. He placed them over his eyes.

At the same time, Huxley ripped the Velcro-attached legs off her leather

pants and reached into a compartment in the rear of the limousine and

removed a conservative skirt, which she slipped under herself and zipped

up. Peeling off her false eyelashes, she took a plastic bag from Truitt

and removed a wet cloth and scrubbed her face clean of the garish

makeup.

"Looks like we're good to go," Truitt said.

Reyes pulled to the side of the road and the four climbed out. Walking

through an alley, they made their way toward the Main Market and

split into groups of two. Back on the street, the limousine sat running

If

182   CLIVECUSSLER

with the door open. A police officer would find it there in less than ten a

1

minutes. But the vehicle had been cleaned of clues and there would not

be much to report.

CABRILLO TOUCHED THE garage door opener halfway down the

block and the door began to rise.

Once the van was inside and the door had shut again, everyone piled

out. "They have descriptions of everyone by now," he said quickly as

he popped the top off a fifty-five-gallon drum containing their change

of clothes and disguises, "so change fast and make an exit."

Removing a folder from the top of the clothes, he set it aside and

quickly dressed. Once he was changed, and the others were doing the

same, he opened the packet and began to remove documents.

"A couple of you are staying in town tonight," he said, removing

passports and hotel reservation forms. "We don't want too much traffic

heading back to the Oregon. As always, the rule is no boozing, and stay

where we can reach you so if there's a change we can alert you."

He handed out the various assignments, then stared at the group.

"So far so good," he said, just as a siren approached.

Cabrillo ran over to a window, but the car continued past the building.

"Fire truck," he said. "Ross must be safely away."

He walked back to the group. "Okay, men," he said, "make like an

egg and scramble."

Filing out through a side door, the men went their separate ways.

PRYOR STEERED THE Scarab around the end of the Southern Peninsula,

then set a course for where the Oregon was anchored. Ross

stepped into the opening between the seats next to the helm.

"How's he doing?" Pryor asked over the noise of the racing boat.

"Not too good," Ross said. "He's lost some blood and the top of

his ear as well."

183

GOLDEN BUDDHA

"Is he in pain?"

"Damn right, it hurts," Reinholt said.

"We should contact the Oregon," Pryor said, "so they can have the

clinic ready."

"We're on radio silence," Ross said. "The authorities might hear."

Pryor turned and looked back at his fallen friend. Reinholt smiled

gamely. "The Oregon's monitoring all the frequencies, right?" he asked.

"Ground, sea and air," Ross agreed.

"And we need to maintain silence on the marine bands."

"Right."

"But the helicopter can talk, because if it goes silent, air traffic control

will know something's up, right?"

"Yeah," Ross said, suddenly understanding.

Pryor reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt. "These can sometimes

transmit on the aviation bands."

Ross grabbed for it and hit Scan. A few seconds later, a burgundy

737 passed overhead and Ross could hear the pilot receiving final clearance.

Pressing Talk, she gave the call sign for the helicopter. A few

moments before, he had landed and transferred Spenser and Crabtree

to a waiting car. He had just returned to remove his headset when the

call came in. Another two minutes and he would have been gone.

"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.

CLIVE CUSSLER

184

"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.

185

GOLDEN BUDDHA

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.

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 ' switch on a nearby bulkhead. Slowly the Scarab rose from the watei

Once it was clear of the upper deck, he pushed another button tha

rotated the davits around so the Scarab was over the deck. The entire

GOLDEN BUDDHA

187

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 evacuation a ruse."

Po raised his hand to be quiet as his telephone rang again.

"Po."

"Sir," the officer said, "we entered the apartment in the high-rise

and found a woman named Iselda tied up in her closet."

"Was she harmed?"

"Other than severe nicotine deprivation, no," the officer said. "She's

smoked half a pack of cigarettes since we untied her."

"Did she see her assailants?"

"She said it was like staring into a mirror," the policeman relayed.

188   CLIVE CUSSLER

"A woman disguised to look like her popped out of the closet and held

a rag soaked with something to her mouth. That's all she remembers."

Po held his hand over the cell phone and spoke to Rhee. "They

switched the party planner."

Ho raised his hands in the air and began cursing.

"Carefully search the apartment for clues," Po ordered. "Then have

the kidnapped woman fill out a report at the station house."

"Got it, boss," the officer said as Po hung up.

Rhee's mind was almost back to normal. He paced the living room

as he spoke.

"This was a high-budget, carefully orchestrated operation," he said.

"So let's take a minute and look at what happened from the start."

"The insurance man was a plant," Ho said. "They replaced my party

coordinator and band with others, then put fake guests inside as well."

"It appears they even provided their own security," Rhee noted.

"The alleged protectors were the thieves."

Just then, the tow truck driver who had brought Po to the mansion '

walked into the living room.

"What do you need?" Po asked. 1

"Your tires have been changed," the driver said, "but I found a hole

inside the inner fender well."

"What do you mean?"

"I think someone shot out your tire," the tow truck man said.

"There's probably a slug somewhere inside the engine compartment."

"We'll look into it," Po said. "If the car's ready, you can take off.

Just bill my department."

The tow truck driver walked from the room.

"This is not some haphazard group of thieves," Rhee noted. "They

have snipers capable of long-range shooting, helicopter pilots and masters

of disguise."

"They sure as hell aren't locals," Po said quietly.

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better," Ho said loudly. "At least

I was robbed by professionals. How about you two work on recovering

189

GOLDENBUDDHA

my Buddha first, then you can play all the mind games you want about

their modus operandi."

At this second, there were seventeen Macau police officers and two

other detectives searching the grounds and mansion. In addition, a trio

of teams had been dispatched to the airport and the two kidnapping

sites. The entire force had been mobilized and Ho was complaining.

"We are doing everything in our power, Mr. Ho," the detective said.

"We're going to catch them."

Ho shook his head with disgust and walked out of the room.

THE PARADE CAME down the hill just as the fireworks barge in the

inner harbor launched the first several rounds of the evening's display. The Macau police had moved quickly and surrounded the edges

of the route as soon as the pair of motorcyclists had been spotted. There

was no chance of escape except a shoot-out. It was just a matter of time

until the police captured the men. The man driving the motorcycle containing

the Buddha steered down a side street, then honked his horn for

the crowd to part. His partner followed close behind with the sound of

sirens growing closer.

A tall float of a dragon was just ahead. At regular intervals, his

mouth spewed fire.

ON THE OREGON, Max Hanley stared at the screen, then moved

the joystick a little to the left. The dragon moved to the center

of the road. On another screen, a camera was showing a view from the

side. Hanley caught sight of the motorcycles. Another screen displayed

a GPS map of Macau, with pulsing dots that showed the location of the

police cars. The net was closing in on the motorcyclists. He adjusted the

movement of the float again, and then stared at the blueprints stolen

from the Macau Public Works Department.

190

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

191

CLIFF HORNSBY WAS tired and sweaty. Staring at his watch, he

arose from the crate he was sitting on in the storm drain, then

inflated a lift bag at the base of a metal ladder. Once that was in place,

he climbed the rungs of the ladder. On the way up, he tested the wooden

ramp to ensure it was solid. Finding it fine, he touched his hand to the

bottom of the manhole cover he had already removed once, earlier in

the night, to make sure that it was free.

Now he just had to wait for the signal.

Hanley stared at the control box. Gas jets for the fire from the

dragon's mouth, aluminum powder charges for the maelstrom, joystick

for control. Just then, a voice came over the radio.

"They have blockaded the route at Avenida Infante D. Henrique,"

Halpert said.

"Got it," Hanley said. "You're done, Michael, get out of there."

Halpert began walking in the direction of his hotel for the night.

"Go now," Hanley said to the motorcyclists.

Steering the float with the dragon over the top of the manhole cover,

Hanley stopped it in its tracks. From the side camera, he could see the

motorcycles approaching from the side street.

"Pop the top, Hornsby," he said over the radio.

Hornsby pushed against the manhole cover and-lifted

it in the air.

Then he slid it to the side and stared up into the bowels of the beast

that had stopped over his lair. Unclipping a flashlight from his belt, he

scanned the inside. There was a metal frame constructed of welded tubes

with a fabric outer layer. A round gas canister with tubing was attached

to one side, another tube with a small explosive charge on the other.

The explosive charge was flashing with a tiny green light. At just that

instant, Hornsby heard the sound of motorcycles approaching and he

ducked down.

The first motorcycle drove under the fabric side wall and slid to a

stop inside. It was as if he were inside a tent. The interior of the dragon

float was fifteen feet long and more than eight feet wide, and the peaked

top reached nearly seven feet above. The motorcyclist felt like a kid in

a secret fort as he climbed off the seat. The second motorcycle steered

under the fabric side curtain and stopped. Hornsby climbed from the

hole.

Bob Meadows was unfastening his helmet; he got it off and tossed

it to the side.

"I could see the cops," he said quickly. "They're right at the end of

the street."

Pete Jones tossed his helmet aside. "So be it," he said to Meadows.

"Hey, Horny," Meadows said as he began to unfasten the Golden

Buddha from the sidecar.

Jones walked over and dropped the hinged metal sides of the sidecar.

"This is heavy, Cliff."

"I've got a ramp," Hornsby said. "If we walk it to the ground and

over to the ramp, we can just let go--it'll slide down to a lift bag at

the bottom."

"Slick," Meadows said as he started to wrestle with the Buddha.

Hanley stared at the image from the forward camera. The Macau

police had organized, and with weapons drawn, they were walking carefully

through the parted crowd. He hit the button for flames and the

dragon's mouth roared.

The Golden Buddha was lined up above the ramp, then released. It

plunged down the wooden ramp onto the lift bag, then tumbled over

on its side. Hornsby wrestled the ramp over to one side, then motioned

to Meadows and Jones.

"You two first," he said. "Pull the ramp aside when you hit bottom.

I'll close the cover."

Meadows and Jones started climbing down the ladder. Hornsby

walked over to the charge on the metal tube and armed the device. The

light flicked red. He was walking back to the hole when Hanley came

over the radio.

192

CLIVE CUSSLER

"The police are less than a hundred feet away," he said quickly.

"Where are you at?"

Hornsby climbed down the ladder a few feet, then reached up and

slid the manhole cover back in place. He flicked a tiny switch on the

lapel of his thin jacket and spoke.

"We're armed and the door closed," he said. "Give me ten seconds

to reach the bottom."

"Got it," Hanley said.

Hornsby reached the bottom of the ladder and stared at the crate

containing the Golden Buddha. "So what have you guys been up to?"

he asked.

Hanley pushed a button and increased the flow of gas to the

dragon's mouth. A flame shot forty feet forward and the crowd backed

away. Then he pushed the button to ignite the charge. A small explosion

ripped into the side of the metal tank containing the aluminum powder.

It began to burn with a hot white light. Almost instantly the fabric

covering of the float ignited and began to burn. In a few seconds, the

float was a maelstrom, with flames reaching twenty feet into the air.

"We need fire and rescue," one of the officers said, giving the address.

Then he stared at the firestorm, waiting for a pair of men to run

screaming forth.

But no one emerged from the glowing pile.

THE WHITE CHEVROLET SUV pulled to the side of the road and

Cabrillo climbed into the front seat. The helicopter pilot, George

Adams, pulled away from the curb.

"Gorgeous George," he said, "any problems?"

Adams looked like a poster child for the American way. He had a

chiseled jaw, short brown hair parted to one side, and a smile that could

sell toothpaste. Strangely enough, in spite of his looks, he was almosl

193

GOLDENBUDDHA

without ego. Married to his high school sweetheart, he had been an

army warrant officer before joining the Corporation.

"No, sir," he said.

"Monica?" Cabrillo said, turning to the rear seat.

"No, boss," she said. "Our guest is still out of it, however."

Cabrillo stared at Spenser slumped against the window. Then back

to the rear compartment, where the speaker frame holding the fake Buddha

was sitting.

"Did the folding ramp work?" he asked Adams.

"Like a dream," Adams said. "We just adjusted the legs to the same

height as the helicopter floor, then pushed the package across on the

wheels."

"Good. We've rented part of a small hangar at the airport," he said

to Adams. "We need to go there now."

Adams nodded and steered the Chevrolet back toward the bridge.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

195

ALIGHT RAIN began falling over Macau. Sung Rhee and Ling Po

were standing on the front porch of the mansion staring toward

the city. Po disconnected his cellular telephone and turned to Rhee.

Down the hill, near the Maritime Museum, the lights from the fire trucks

that had extinguished the burning Peugeot were still visible. To the right,

along the parade route, a column of smoke lit by the city lights was

visible from the burning float.

"Whoever's stealing Buddhas tonight, they're well trained and well

funded," Po said to Rhee.

Rhee's mind was back to normal. And he was as mad as a Dobei

man. It was bad enough that some team of thieves was using his city as

a playground--it was worse that he had been made part of the heist.

"Whatever happens," he said, "they still have to spirit the icons out

of the country."

"I have men at the airport and patrolling the waters," Po said, "and

the border into China has been alerted to be on the lookout. They won't

be able to leave Macau, that's for sure."

"All of the suspects except the British art dealer are American,"

Rhee said. "Did you pull up the list of tourist visas?"

"The tourism authority is closed for the night," Po admitted, "but

I'll have someone there first thing in the morning."

"These guys are professionals," Rhee said quietly. "They won't hang

around. By the time we get the list and begin to question all the Americans,

they will be long gone."

Po's telephone rang and he unfolded it and pushed the button.

"Po."

"The fire reached part of one of the buildings," an officer at the

parade reported, "but the fire department has got that under control.

They are hosing down the float as we speak, but the framework is still

hot and it melted in onto itself. There is a pile of twisted metal that is

still too hot for inspection."

"Can you see the motorcycles inside the wreckage?"

"It seems they are inside the frame," the officer said, "but it's hard

to be certain."

"I'm coming down there," Po said. "Keep the crowd back and order

the rest of the floats to the end of the route. The parade has officially

ended."

"Excellent, sir," the officer said. "See you shortly."

Po disconnected and turned to Rhee. "I'm going down to the parade.

Would you like to come along, sir?"

Rhee considered this for a moment. "I don't think so, Ling," he

said. "We're going to get some flack over this--I think it's best if I go

to headquarters and coordinate efforts there."

"I understand, sir," Po said as he started to walk down the driveway.

"You find these men," Rhee said, "and recover the objects."

"I'll do my best, sir," Po said.

Then Rhee opened the door to the mansion and went inside to report

to the mayor of Macau.

196

CLIVE CUSSLER

a     a-    *

GOLDEN BUDDHA     197

"Good luck, Mr. Chairman," Hanley said.

"Cabrillo out."

INSIDE THE CHEVROLET SUV, Juan Cabrillo adjusted his radio and

called the Oregon. "Where are we at, Max?"

There was a slight lag as the scrambled signal was rearranged and

delivered.

"The Ross team took a casualty," Hanley said. "He's being worked

on in the clinic."

"Report to me as soon as you know more," Cabrillo said. "What

else?"

"The temple team has made it to the catacombs, as planned."

"I saw the smoke," Cabrillo said. "No injuries?"

"None," Hanley said. "So far so good. They are initiating the extraction."

"What about the others?"

"Most everyone staying in town has reported in," Hanley said.

"King made it back to the boat and is going to direct offensive actions

until Murphy returns."

"Target three?"

"The 737 landed a few moments ago," Hanley reported. "They

should be going through customs as we speak."

"Our man is still with them?"

"Awaiting instructions."

"What else?"

"The second leg of the journey is almost ready to activate," Hanley

said. "The way it looks so far, we can deliver the package on time."

"Good," Cabrillo said. "We're almost at the airport."

Hanley stared at the flashing blip on one of the monitors. "I've gol

you made, Juan."

"Now all I have to do is collect on our side deal," Cabrillo said,

"and we can be on our way."

MEADOWS, JONES AND Hornsby looked like three tourists on an

Arizona mine tour.

They were wearing silver hard hats made from pressed metal, with

small battery-operated lamps that spewed beams of light from the front.

Hornsby was holding a blueprint that showed the underground drainage

systems. The map looked like the tentacles of an octopus. Jones stared

overhead as the first drops of water from the rain above filtered down

through an aged tile drainpipe in the wall.

"Did the operations plans factor in possible rain?" he asked.

"As long as there isn't a prolonged shower," Hornsby noted, "we

should be okay."

"What if there is?" Jones asked.

"That's not good," Hornsby admitted.

"So we should get moving," Meadows said.

"Exactly," Hornsby said. "But let's not worry too much--the plan

states we can have six hours or so of continuous rain before the drains

reach chest-high level."

"We can be out of here by then," Jones said.

"That's the plan," Hornsby agreed.

The Golden Buddha was resting on the wooden ramp. When

Hornsby had entered the storm drain through a side tunnel earlier that

evening, he had brought along a bag that contained four rubber-tired

wheels that attached to the ramp. It was a crude arrangement, but it

would allow the three men to wheel the heavy object along the tunnels.

A pair of olive drab ditty bags was atop the crate containing the Golden

Buddha; these contained emergency supplies and weapons. The entire

affair stood at nearly chest height.

"Here's where I came in," Hornsby said. "It's a shame we can't

leave the same way--it's only about two hundred yards to the grate.

198

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDENBUDDHA

199

The problem is, when we emerge, we're right in the middle of town and

the police should be everywhere by now."

Meadows looked to where Hornsby's finger was pointing. "So

which way did the control room route us?"

Hornsby traced the route with his finger.

"That's a long way," Jones noted.

"A couple of miles," Hornsby agreed. "But we come out in a secluded

spot alongside the Inner Port, where we can be extracted."

Meadows wiped the edge of his hard hat to dispel a few drops of

water, then walked around behind the Golden Buddha. "You've got the

map, Horn Dog," he said. "Why don't you pull the front strap and

navigate. Me and Jonesy will push from the rear."

Slowly, the three men began trudging along the storm sewer. Outside,

the rain grew in intensity. Within the hour, it was a full-fledged

monsoon.

LINDA ROSS WALKED into the Oregon's control room. Max Hanley

was pouring a cup of coffee from a pot on a side table. His face

was lined with tension and Ross could see he was stressed.

"Reinholt's rebounding," she said quietly. "It looked worse than it

was. If we keep any infections at bay, he should pull through."

"Will there be any lasting damage?" Hanley asked as he motioned

to the coffee and Ross walked over and poured a cup.

"The top of his ear is gone," Ross said. "He'll need plastic surgery

to make that right."

"How's his attitude?"

"He came out of the stupor once and asked where he was," Ross

said. "When I told him he was on the Oregon, he seemed happy."

"Propulsion engineers always seem more comfortable on board

ship," Hanley said.

"How's the rest of the operation going?" Ross asked.

"The actual Golden Buddha is currently in an underground storm

i

sewer," Hanley said, pointing to a monitor. "That team is making its

way to the waterfront."

"I thought the Buddha was lifted out by helicopter," Ross said.

"That was the fake," Hanley said.

"But. . .," Ross started to say.

"It was on a need-to-know basis," Hanley said. "Remember when

the chairman arrived by seaplane?"

"Sure," Ross said. "When we were under way at sea."

"He had just returned from the art auction where the icon was sold.

The Corporation jumped in then--we arranged the shipment to Macau.

Gunderson was the pilot. Then a couple of our men met the plane with

an armored car--we thought we'd just grab it then. The art dealer had

other plans, however. He was planning to screw the owner with a fake,

so we just went along with his plan, knowing all the while where the

true artifact was hiding."

"So all the efforts at the party were a facade?"

"It was designed to throw off the authorities and confuse the picture,"

Hanley said. "Meanwhile, if all goes well, Cabrillo will complete

the art dealer's sale and the Corporation will pocket the proceeds."

"So Reinholt was shot for no reason," Ross said.

"There were a hundred million reasons Reinholt was wounded,"

Hanley said. "A hundred million and one, if you count the fact that we

confused the Macau police and made the art dealer the prime suspect."

"So the art dealer is the patsy," Ross said.

"He's our Oswald," Hanley agreed.

"Diabolical," said Ross.

"It's not over yet," Hanley said quietly. "We still need the payoff.

And to get out of here."

I

N BEIJING, THE foreign secretary, the head of the Chinese army and

President Hu Jintao were staring at satellite photographs.

"As of yesterday," the foreign secretary said, "Novosibirsk in Siberia

200   CLIVECUSSLER

is the busiest airport in the world. The Russians are ferrying in military 1

supplies at an alarming rate. Cargo planes are landing at the rate of one

every few minutes."

Hu Jintao was examining a photograph with a magnifying glass.

"Tanks, personnel carriers, attack helicopters are already on the

ground."

The head of the Chinese army handed Jintao a photograph. "The

amount of supplies already on the ground can support nearly forty thousand

ground troops, and more is arriving every minute."

"I've already contacted Legchog Zhuren in Tibet," Jintao said.

"He's mobilized his forces and they are starting toward the northern

border."

"How many men are under his control?" the foreign secretary

asked.

"He has twenty thousand combat and support troops in Tibet," the

head of the Chinese army answered.

"Then it's already two to one," the foreign secretary noted.

Jintao pushed the photographs aside. "To maintain control inside

Tibet, we have sponsored mass immigration from the other regions of

China over the years. Zhuren has mobilized the Chinese citizens in Tibet

and drafted them into the army. That gives us nearly twenty thousand

more that are of the right age to serve. Some have already left Lhasa

for the march north--we are trying to train them as they travel."

"The Russians have crack troops," the head of the Chinese army

said. "Our recently recruited farmers and shopkeepers will be wiped

out."

"That's if the Russians cross the border," the foreign secretary

noted. "They are still claiming through diplomatic channels that this is

just an exercise."

"That's a damn big exercise," Jintao said quietly.

He sat back in his chair to think. The last thing he wanted was to

face off with the Russians--but he could not back down from the threat,

either.

L

THE BOEING 737 was still undergoing customs inspection when

Cabrillo and the others arrived at their rented hangar. Spenser had

started to come out of his stupor a few minutes before. Adams opened

the rear door of the white SUV, then waved smelling salts under his

nose. Spenser shook his head several times, then cracked open his eyes.

Adams helped him to his feet just outside the door of the Chevrolet.

Spenser stood on the floor of the hangar on wobbly legs and tried to

remember what had happened.

"Come here," Adams said, leading him over to a chair alongside a

Workbench and seating him.

With the help of Kevin Nixon, Cabrillo was erecting the folding

ramp to unload the fake speaker case holding the faux Buddha. Nixon

had arrived at the hangar several hours earlier and had been busy ever

since.

"Is everything ready?" Cabrillo asked.

202

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

203

"Yes, sir," Nixon said as he grabbed one side of the speaker case.

The two men rolled the case onto the wheeled metal conveyor. When

it reached the end, they tilted the case upright, folded the legs of the

ramp under, then bent it in half on the hinges and slid it back into the

SUV.

"We have the clothes?" Cabrillo inquired.

"I stopped at his hotel room on the way over. His bags were already

packed," Nixon said.

"The best-laid plans," Cabrillo said, "of mice and men."

Cabrillo, followed by Nixon, walked over to where Spenser was

sitting.

The art dealer stared up at Cabrillo. "You look familiar," he said

slowly.

"We've never met," Cabrillo said coldly, "but I know a lot about

you."

"Who are you people?" Spenser said, shaking his head to clear the

fog, "and what do you want from me?"

Adams was standing a few feet from Spenser. While his rugged good

looks did not make him appear menacing, Spenser was sure that if he

tried to stand, he wouldn't get far. Cabrillo walked right in front of the

art dealer and invaded his space. He stared into Spenser's eyes and spoke

quietly.

"Right about now," Cabrillo said, "you're not in a good position,

so shut up and listen. A few miles from here, you have one infuriated

Asian billionaire who is convinced you bilked him out of a couple of

hundred million dollars. And contrary to what you might think, he is

not a nice man--he launched his fortune by running drugs for an Asian

triad, and though he's legitimized his actions, he's still connected. I

would guess he's already made a call, and the entire criminal element

of this country is searching for you as we speak."

"What are you--" Spenser began to say.

"You're not listening," Cabrillo said acidly. "We know y°u switched Buddhas and were just about to resell the icon. If you coop'

erate, we will give you a chance to run. Otherwise, we'll do the switch

anyway, then phone Ho and tell him where you can be found. As they

say, you are out of options."

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-andcotton-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,

204   CLIVECUSSLER

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 email.

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 I

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."

N

IXON WALKED OVER ,o Spenser, aimed at his head and pushed the button.

205

GOLDEN BUDDHA

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.

206   CLIVECUSSLER

"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 pilot.

"We'll move to the fuel ramp now," the pilot said to the officials,

who nodded and walked out the door and down the ramp. The ramp

was retracted and the operator drove it away.

"Close the door," the pilot said to Gunderson. Then he steered

down the wet runway.

Thirty minutes later, the 737 was refueled and parked in a large

hangar only yards from where Cabrillo and his team were waiting. The

software billionaire dialed his satellite telephone.

HORNSBY, MEADOWS AND Jones stopped to catch their breath.

All along the walls of the storm sewer, metal and tile pipes were

funneling water into the main line. There was eight inches of water on

the floor of the main sewer and it was dotted with cigarette butts, scraps

of paper and the refuse from the world above their heads.

"We're gaining an inch every few minutes," Meadows said.

Hornsby was staring at the blueprint under the light of his miner's

helmet. He traced the route and stared at his compass. "I don't think

the water is rising that fast," he said, "but it is cause for concern."

Jones stared around the crowded space. He didn't like being in confined

spaces and he wanted out as soon as possible. "Which way do we

go, Horny?"

"We take the left passage," Hornsby said.

[

207

GOLDEN BUDDHA

INSIDE THE CONTROL room on the Oregon, Max Hanley was staring

at a weather radar image. A cell of clouds, the center an angry

red color, was situated in the water between Hong Kong and Macau.

"Show the movement," he said to an operator.

The man entered commands into the computer and the image moved

in a slow, sweeping wave to the west. At the present speed, the storm

center would pass over Macau around four a.m. Sometime during

breakfast, the trailing edge would reach the Chinese mainland and the

weather would clear. Between now and then, there would be only rain.

"Eddie," Hanley said, "I'm going to need you to take a team into

the tunnel."

Eddie Seng was the Corporation go-to guy. He had served in marine

RECON, had spearheaded more than a few Corporation projects and

had an innate knack for making good out of bad. So far, Cabrillo and

Hanley had kept him on the sidelines in this operation. He was their

reserve man in case of unforeseen circumstances, and he was itching to

get in the game.

"I'll need a couple of Zodiac boats, and a method of locating the

men if the water keeps rising," Seng said.

"Murphy, Kasim and Huxley," Hanley said quickly. "I'll have the

boats prepped and the equipment arranged. You assemble the team and

meet me back here."

Seng walked quickly from the control room.

" *^L.

^k T O COMMENT," SUNG Rhee said, slamming down the telephone.

-1-i|

The reporters for the local newspapers had gotten wind

something was happening--they just did not know what. The hospital

Was filled with guests from Ho's party, but as the drug wore off they

Were leaving one by one. Food poisoning was mentioned as the source

of the guests' discomfort, but the cover story was flimsy and someone

208

CLIVE CUSSLER

would soon pierce through that lie. The kidnappings were being investigated;

reporters with police scanners had ensured that. The theft at the

A-Ma Temple, the burning Peugeot, the fire at the parade--all were

being investigated by reporters. Only Stanley Ho's house was sealed

from them. Once he had cleared the house, he had locked the doors to

outsiders. Once morning came, Rhee would be compelled to comment.

Just then his telephone rang again.

"The wreckage of the float is cooling, but we have yet to get close

enough to inspect for remains," Detective Po said. "But my guess is they

burned up in the conflagration."

"Was the float being observed the entire time?" Rhee asked.

"Yes, sir," Po said.

"Then find me some teeth," Rhee said, "and melted gold."

"Yes, sir."

Po stared at the firemen who were still spraying water over the

twisted mess of metal. Within the hour, he should be able to inspect the

wreckage. In the meantime, Ho's theft would take center stage. Somewhere

in Macau was another Golden Buddha. And Po intended to

find it.

OUR DEAL WAS cash," Spenser said in answer to Cabrillo's question.

Monica Crabtree was on the secure line to the Oregon. She made

notes on a sheet of paper, then disconnected. "Mr. Chairman," she said,

"I think you should see this."

Nixon was doing layout on Spenser's new documents. Once he had

the basic package together, he entered a command and they were sent

through the lines to the Oregon, where there was a store of blank passports,

immigration documents and blank credit cards. Someone on

board would print up the material and deliver it to the hangar.

Cabrillo stared at the notes and handed them back to Crabtree.

"Shred them."

I

GOLDEN BUDDHA

209

TOM REYES WAS driving at breakneck speed, with Franklin Lincoln

in the passenger seat. Lincoln stared at the cab dispatch records,

then out the windshield once again. "There were three cabs dispatched

to the ferry dock, numbers twelve, one twenty-one, and forty-two."

"I've been listening to the scanner," Reyes said. "Forty-two has already

dropped its fare at the Hotel Lisboa, and number twelve is

heading along the New Road. He must be on number one twenty-one.

He called the dispatcher to report that he was inbound to the Hyatt

Regency on Taipa, then he was supposed to wait for his fare and take

him onward."

Reyes steered onto the bridge leading to Taipa. "Call Hanley and

explain the situation."

Lincoln turned on his radio and reported to the control room.

"Give me a minute or so," Hanley said.

"Access the Hyatt computer and search for this name," he said,

handing Eric Stone, an operator, the sheet of paper, "and get me a

room."

Stone's hands danced over the keyboard; a second later he turned

I to Hanley.

"What timing," Stone said. "He's just now checking in."

Stone waited until the data filled the screen. "Room twenty-two

' fourteen," he said.

"Hyatt Regency, room twenty-two fourteen," Hanley said to Lincoln,

"and grab him fast--if he asked the cab to wait, he's headed for

the airport soon."

"Got it," Lincoln said. "Then what?"

"Bring him here."

Reyes steered up the driveway to the Hyatt Regency.

"Room number twenty-two fourteen," Lincoln said. "We grab him

and bring him to the Oregon."

Reyes stopped the car and slid it into Park. "You got any money?"

210

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

211

"Sure, what for?" Lincoln asked.

"There's the cab," Reyes said, pointing. "Pay him off and tell him 'j

to leave. Then meet me on the twenty-second floor."

MICHAEL TALBOT PAID the bellman, then closed the door. He

was due at the airport any minute, but he was grimy and decided

on a quick shower. Undressing, he walked into the bathroom and

adjusted the shower.

Tom Reyes reached into his wallet and removed a universal key

card. Then he slid it through the slot and waited until the light went

green. Then he slowly opened the door. At first, he thought no one was

in the room, then he heard the shower running. Reyes started to close

the door but heard the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall.

He peered out and saw Lincoln. Reyes touched his finger to his lips,

then motioned Lincoln inside.

bedspread. Next, he was quickly gagged and blindfolded, with his arms

and legs secured with plastic ties.

Earplugs were slipped into his ears. He could not hear Reyes tell

Lincoln, "I'll go find a room service cart. You stay here."

Lincoln nodded and flipped on the television. Their prisoner was not

going anywhere. He lay trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, not moving

a muscle. Eight minutes later, Lincoln and Reyes had snuck him out a

back entrance of the hotel, then brought the car around and slid him

onto the backseat.

"I'm hungry," Reyes said as he reached over to place the car in

Drive.

"Man," Lincoln said, "you always say that."

BARRETT," HANLEY SAID, "are you cross-trained in the Magic

Shop?"

"I've worked it before," Barrett said.

"Go down there and warm up the latex machine."

"You've got it, boss," Barrett said, walking quickly out of the control

room.

TALBOT WAS TOWELING himself off and trying to decide what he

would wear. He stepped from the bathroom and into the bedroom.

A large black man was sitting at his table, and the image so

surprised him that his mind was unable to process the discovery for a

second.

Then, from the side of the door, he felt a hand around his mouth.

He was thrown facedown on the bed, his eyes pressed tight against the

GOLDEN BUDDHA

213

stainless-steel screws on the rear of the box with an optometrist's screwdriver.

"Go again."

"I did not have sex with that woman, Miss Lewinsky," Barrett said.

"Read my lips, no new taxes. Out of respect for the family, I will not

answer that question, la de dah."

"Hold on," Hanley said.

He repeated Barrett's ramblings while staring at the screen. Barrett

watched and raised an eyebrow. His voice was coming from Hanley's

mouth. It was both eerie and amazing.

"My mother couldn't tell the difference," he said.

"Modern technology," Hanley said, "still astounds me."

"How are you going to attach it?" Barrett asked.

Hanley showed him.

AT THE SAME instant that Reyes and Lincoln were pulling alongside

the Oregon and parking, Max Hanley was checking a device in

the Magic Shop. In the background, on one of the numerous workbenches,

the machine that heated liquid latex beeped to signal it was at

operating temperature, then automatically went to standby.

Hanley turned and stared at the latex machine, then diverted his

eyes back to the small box in his hand. "Okay," Hanley said to Barrett,

"let's try it again."

"Testing, one, two, three," Barrett said. "The brown cow jumped

over the red moon, four score and seven years ago our--"

"That's fine," Hanley said, cutting him off.

He stared at the small box, then placed it to his throat and repeated

what Barrett had said. Staring at a computer screen displaying a series

of bar graphs, he noted the discrepancy and adjusted a series of tiny

T) EYES GLANCED AROUND the port; no one was watching. With

-L.Xiincoln's help, he removed Talbot from the rear seat, then

dragged him up the gangplank onto the Oregon. Met at the inner door

by Julia Huxley, the trio was directed down to the Magic Shop. Talbot,

still blindfolded, stumbled down the passages, into the elevator, then

along the last stretch of hallway until they reached the Magic Shop.

Once Lincoln opened the door, Reyes directed Talbot to a chair, then

sat him down and placed straps across his body. A light was moved to

the front of Talbot's seat, then turned on. Talbot could feel the heat

from the lamp. A few seconds later, his blindfold was removed and the

blinding light met his eyes.

"You Michael Talbot?" Hanley asked.

"Yes," Talbot said, turning from the light.

"Eyes forward," Hanley said.

Talbot complied, but he had a hard time looking into the light. He

could sense someone was behind him, but the straps were too tight to

turn.

IT1

214

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

215

i

"Did you have sex with a teenage boy in Indonesia?"

"Who are you people?" Talbot said.

A second later, he felt a touch on his neck, then a surge of electricity

hit his body.

"We ask the questions here," Hanley said. "Did you have sex with

a teenage boy?"

"He told me he was eighteen," Talbot said through gritted teeth.

"We're tired of slime like you coming over to Asia to partake of

your sick desires," Hanley said. "It's giving America a bad name."

"I'm here on busi--" Talbot started to say.

The sharp bite of electricity.

"Silence," Hanley snapped.

Talbot was afraid, the kind of deep-down fear of the unknown and

unseen that creeps into a man's soul and plays with his nerves and

internal organs. Talbot began sweating from his forehead and the need

to urinate was overpowering.

"I have to pee," he said.

"When we say you can," Hanley said. "First we are going to make

a mold of your head. Then we will produce a three-dimensional image

of it, which we will transmit over our computer network. From here on

out, the Asian police organizations will be on the lookout for you. Then

you are going to read a confession aloud. If you cooperate and perform

these tasks, you will be taken to Hong Kong so that you can catch the

first flight to the United States. Screw with us in any way and you will

be washing up on the beaches of mainland China a few days from now.

What'll it be, lover boy?"

"Okay, okay," Talbot blurted. "But I'm about to pee my pants."

"Take him to the facilities," Hanley said.

Blindfolded once again, Talbot was led to a restroom and his hands

untied.

Four minutes later, he was back in his seat and strapped in place

Fifteen minutes after that, the mask was formed and the voice prin

recorded. A few minutes later, Michael Talbot was placed facedown on

the rear seat of the sedan again and was driven toward the ferry dock.

WINSTON SPENSER WAS trying to figure an angle. There was

none. He had grabbed for the brass ring and come up short. His

choice now was to live or to die, and the people that were controlling

him had made a compelling argument. He'd walk out with a new identity

and a million in funding. He decided this was a deal he would

honor.

Spenser stared at his new passport and documents, then watched the

lady in the group talking on the cellular telephone. She disconnected

and turned to the leader.

"The president is on his way, Mr. Chairman," she said. "He's taken

care of the problem."

Spenser had no idea of the identities or affiliation of the people who

had taken him hostage. He only knew from what he had witnessed so

far that they had a power that went far beyond anything he had ever

_ seen. They seemed to exist in a world of their own creation, a world of

' control and illusion, and whatever Spenser may have planned, they had

always been one step ahead. And then it hit him.

"You were at the auction in Geneva," he said to the leader.

Cabrillo stared at Spenser, as if trying to decide. "Yes, I was."

"How did you know I'd switched the Buddhas?"

"You paid our company to fly the icon here to Macau, then take it

by armored car to the temple," Cabrillo said.

"So you staged the entire affair at the party as a ruse?"

"That, and we wanted to fulfill your deal with the man outside,"

Cabrillo said.

"Unreal," Spenser said. "And the one hundred million?"

"It will go to charity," Cabrillo said. "We were hired to bring the

real Buddha back to its rightful owner--this side deal is just frosting on

the cake."

w

216

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

217

Spenser thought for a moment. "What is your ideology, your

group's motivation?"

"We are a corporation," Cabrillo said. "That is the only ideology

we need."

"So you exist to make a profit?"

"We exist," Cabrillo said, "to make right from wrong. But along

the way, we've learned how to make that a very lucrative enterprise."

"Amazing," Spenser said.

"Not as amazing as this," Cabrillo said as the door to the hangar

opened and the car carrying Hanley drove inside. Once the door closed,

Hanley climbed from the passenger side of the SUV. "Meet Michael

Talbot," Cabrillo said to an astonished Winston Spenser.

THE SOFTWARE BILLIONAIRE took a key from a chain around his

neck and opened the leather portfolio on the table. Then he removed

a folder and flipped through the papers. The stack of papers was

nearly an inch thick and was composed of bearer bonds in various

amounts. The largest denomination was for an even $1 million. The

smallest, $50,000. The banks that had issued the bonds were from a

hodgepodge of European countries, from Great Britain to Germany to

the most prevalent, Switzerland and Liechtenstein. The total was $100

million.

It was a king's ransom to purchase a princely prize.

But to the software billionaire, it was just money. He lived for the

fulfillment of his own desires. It was not the art of the Golden Buddhs

that intrigued him, nor the history that surrounded the icon like a cloud;

it was the fact that it had once been stolen and now it had been stoler

again. It was the crime that turned him on, the inflation of his ego h<

would feel when he knew that he was the only man in the world to

possess the rare and priceless artifact. Truth be told, he already owned

a collection of stolen art that rivaled any museum in Europe. Monet,

Manet, Daumier, Delacroix. Da Vinci sketches, Donatello bronzes. Illuminated

manuscripts, crown jewels, stolen historical documents.

Warehouses in California were filled with antique automobiles, historic

motorcycles, and early airplanes. Stolen Civil War artifacts, Romanov

icons heisted from a museum in St. Petersburg, scientist Nikola

Tesla's writings lifted from a museum in Romania after the fall of communism,

secret presidential letters, even a toilet from the White House.

The first computer, the first personal computer, the first mass-produced

consumer computer.

Those last were for nostalgia, since computers were where his fortune

had come from. He still had a hard copy of the first program his

company had sold--one he had stolen himself from an unsuspecting

programmer who'd believed he was just helping another enthusiast.

That had been his first and largest theft, and it had set the stage for all

the others.

He stared at the bonds again, then reached for the satellite telephone.

EDDIE SENG WATCHED as a pair of olive-green Zodiac boats were

raised from a lower deck on a utility elevator that exited amidships

on the Oregon. As soon as the elevator stopped, Sam Pryor hooked a

cable to the center hoisting ring of the first boat and swung it over the

side, then into the water. Down at water level, Murphy took the bowline

of the boat and tied it to the dock. While Pryor was hooking up the

second boat, Murphy climbed aboard and checked the fuel and oil for

the high-output four-stroke outboard motor. The oil was fresh and full,

the tanks topped to the rim. Murphy turned the key and watched the

lights on the dash; once he was sure everything was fine, he twisted the

key and the engine started and settled into an almost silent idle.

Once the second boat touched the water, Kasim duplicated Murphy's

efforts. The two boats sat idling in the night. Seng climbed aboard

Murphy's vessel and checked the supplies that had been loaded aboard

IT?

218

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

219

down in the inner workings of the Oregon. Finding all in order, he

spoke to Huxley in a low voice.

"You got everything?"

Huxley stared at her list, then found the last item. "We're good."

Next, Seng reached across between the boats and handed Kasim a

CD. "These are the coordinates for the onboard GPS--we are running

an exact copy on this boat. Let's try to stay within ten feet or so of one

another, that way the radar shielding should hide us both."

Kasim nodded. "You got it, Eddie."

"Okay, Mark," Seng said quietly as he threw off the line, "you can

take us out."

Murphy slid the control lever down and the boat backed in reverse.

A few minutes later, the two boats were skimming across the rain-splashed

water at speeds of nearly thirty knots. For all intents and purposes,

they were undetectable. Any radar that might try to paint them

was being jammed; anyone listening for the engines would not be able

to hear the noise over the storm. Help was coming.

TWO IN THE morning and the trio in the tunnel had between three

and four hours until first light.

That was not as much of a problem as it might seem. Right now,

the main threat was drowning. Hornsby stared ahead to where a large

tile pipe was spilling its contents into the main sewer. What had begun

as a trickle from the offshoot pipes had grown into angry torrents of

water. The pipe ahead was raging with such force that the stream of

water was slapping against the far wall of the main sewer like the torrent

from a broken fire hydrant.

"From that point forward," Meadows said, "we lose the bottom

half of the sewer to water."

Already the water was knee-deep, and the farther the men had gone,

the more it had risen. Now they were at an impasse. From here to the

i.:

i

i

i .

end of the line, the water would be too deep to walk through. "Let's

inflate the rafts," Jones said wearily.

Hornsby opened one of the duffle bags and removed a pair of folding

rafts. Taking a high-pressure air supply from inside the bag, he attached

it to a raft and turned the switch. The raft unfolded and quickly

became rigid. Two minutes later, Hornsby turned off the inflator.

"We need to place the Buddha in one raft," Hornsby said, "and the

three of us in the other."

"Weight problems?" Jones asked.

"Each raft can carry a maximum of seven hundred pounds,"

Hornsby said. "Since none of us weighs under a hundred pounds, he'll

need to ride alone."

Meadows was unpacking the second raft. He laid it out and attached

the inflator. As it was filling with air, he spoke. "What do you think?"

he asked his partners. "Should we let the Buddha lead or follow?"

Hornsby thought for a moment. "If he's behind, the weight might

push us into something."

"But if he leads," Jones said, "we can let go of the lead rope if we

get into trouble."

Meadows stared at the rapidly filling pipe just ahead. "There will

not be much steering required," he said, pointing to the rising water. "I

think we'll all just go with the flow."

"Then he leads," Hornsby said as he grabbed one end of the Buddha

to wrestle it onto the raft, "and we just go along for the ride."

"Hear, hear," Meadows said.

"Makes sense to me," Jones added.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

221

device malfunction, he might have been all right--as it was, everything

that had happened to him was rushing back in a flood. Now these

people had created some kind of robot. Who knew what they might do

next?

"Mr. Talbot," Spenser managed to say.

"I think you fixed it, Kevin," Hanley said.

Spenser stood mute.

"Okay, everyone, listen up," Cabrillo said, "it's almost time."

TALBOT?" SPENSER SAID. "You're part of this?"

Hanley walked over to Spenser and stood as the art dealer

examined him. At least he seemed to be passing the visual test--Spenser

was waiting for him to answer.

"Win . . . ston Spen . . . ser, you old . . . ," Hanley croaked.

He sounded like a cheap P.A. system in a run-down school. Hanley

moved the small device from his voice box and spoke in his normal

voice. "Kevin," he said, "come take a look at this--I thought I had it

dialed in right."

Nixon walked over and flipped the device over. He took a pen from

his shirt pocket and clicked a small toggle switch over two notches.

"You had the delay used for telephone transmissions engaged, boss,"

Nixon said. "Try it now."

"Hi, Winston," Hanley said. "Long time no see."

Spenser stared at the man and shook his head. Had he not seen the I

DETECTIVE LING PO stared at the mass of melted metal. The support

beams of the float had been twisted into grotesque shapes

by the intense heat of the fire, and they were wrapped around the remains

of the motorcycles like the blackened tentacles of an octopus. A

handler with a dog was poking at one side of the wreckage.

"Sir," the handler said, "the dog is not signaling any human remains."

"Does that mean there are none?" Po asked.

"Usually, it would need to be an extremely hot fire to fully turn a

corpse to ash. Anything less than that he'll smell."

Po glanced at the wreckage. It had melted the asphalt of the road,

and parts of the metal support beams were imbedded into the roadway.

There was no way to tell with any certainty what was underneath.

"Hook a chain to the end," Po said, "and drag it with one of the

trucks. I want to see what's under there."

A fireman ran to remove a chain from the storage compartment on

his truck. A few minutes later he had one end secured to the wreckage

and the other end to the truck's bumper. Slowly, the fireman eased the

truck forward and the wreckage was wrestled from down in the asphalt.

After dragging it a few feet north, the fireman stopped his truck.

"It that far enough?" he shouted out the window to Po.

"Perfect," Po said, staring at the manhole cover.

Bending down, Po tried to lift the cover, but he had no luck. Another

222

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

223

fireman removed a tool from the truck and slid it into the small opening

on the manhole cover, then pried it open. He slid the cover a few feet

away. Po removed a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it down

into the hole.

"Bingo," he said.

Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed the number for headquarters.

"Sir," he said, "I think I know where the A-Ma Temple Buddha

went."

THERE ARE A total of sixteen places in Macau where the storm

runoff exits into the bay. Seng and his team were pulling up to

the only one that mattered. After securing the Zodiacs to some rocks

alongside the grate, Seng walked over and examined the metal shield.

The square screen was made of tubular stock, with the openings measuring

some two feet by two feet, or large enough to allow any trash to

pass through. It was connected to the angled concrete slab that attached

to the storm sewer by a series of large bolts. Seng walked back to the

Zodiac and removed a toolbox. Finding the proper size socket, he attached

it to a battery-operated wrench, then walked back over to the

grate and began to remove the bolts. Once the bolts were all free, Seng,

Huxley, Murphy and Kasim positioned themselves on all four corners

of the grate and lifted it free. The water was racing out of the outflow,

and on the far side Murphy and Kasim had some trouble pulling the

grate onto the rocks. Once it was out of the way, everyone stared into

the opening.

"It's becoming a river in there," Huxley said finally.

Seng threw a strip of bright yellow plastic in the stream and then

timed the movement. He stared at the second hand of his watch intently-Once

the piece of plastic was fifty yards out in the Inner Harbour, he

calculated the speed.

"The water's flowing about ten miles an hour," he said, "but you

know that's going to increase."

"Piece of cake for the Zodiacs," Murphy said.

Seng nodded.

"As long as we don't run out of headroom," Kasim said, "we should be able to collect our boys and be back on the Oregon in an hour or

so."

Seng started walking back to the Zodiac. "Okay, you two," Seng

said, "drive on in and collect the team. Julia and I will be providing

security, just like we planned."

"Be back shortly," Kasim said as he climbed behind the wheel.

If only it'd be so easy.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

225

CABRILLO TOOK AN erasable marker and drew on a board placed

on one of the benches.

"I just checked again and the 737 is parked here," Cabrillo said,

making an X on the board. "They won't be moving until they taxi out

to leave. Adams will drive Spenser in the SUV to the ramp, then park."

Adams nodded in agreement.

"Once you've stopped, climb out and erect the portable awning over

the rear of the truck," Cabrillo said. "Then you can open the crate

displaying the Buddha."

"What if the buyer wants us to bring the Buddha aboard?" Spenser

asked.

"Tell him no," Cabrillo said. "He needs to do his inspection on the

ground and take ownership on Macau soil."

Spenser nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

"Max," Cabrillo continued, "you are going to leave in a few

minutes and make your way around to the front terminal, where a cab

will bring you back to the 737."

"Got it," Hanley said.

Cabrillo paused and stared at the team. "This should go nice and

easy," he said quietly. "Hanley will verify the authenticity, the payment

will be made, and then the billionaire can haul the Buddha aboard. Any

questions?"

No one spoke.

"All right then," Cabrillo said. "Good luck, Max."

Hanley nodded and walked toward a rear door to the hangar.

"George," Cabrillo said, "you and Spenser can climb in the SUV.

We'll want to give Hanley a few minutes to make contact and some

small talk, then we need to make the approach."

Adams nodded and motioned to Spenser to climb in the passenger

seat of the Chevrolet.

THE SOFTWARE BILLIONAIRE was drinking tea with coconut milk

and smoking a thin cheroot. The intrigue of the event had caught

up to him and, a few minutes before, he had retired to the rear compartment

of the 737 to change into all black clothing. His success in the

software industry, a condition of luck and timing more than skill and

ability, had over the years allowed his ego to swell into dangerous proportions.

He was beginning to believe his own hype. At this instant,

with the drugs and sex wearing off and the nicotine and caffeine increasing,

he was beginning to think he was a secret agent. The heist,

followed by the payoff, and then absconding with the goods. He was

already thinking about the fun he would have relaying the story to his

friends.

H

ANLEY WALKED OVER to the Macau taxi and climbed into the

backseat. The taxi rolled around the edge of the mam terminal,

226

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

227

then back down toward the 737. Once it was close to the ramp, Hanley I

ordered the driver to slow, then sound the horn.

The billionaire heard the sound and glanced out a window of the

jet. Seeing Talbot in the rear of the taxi, he walked forward toward the

open cabin door, then stood at the top of the ramp. Hanley climbed ;'

from the rear of the taxi. The billionaire motioned for him to climb the

ramp. :

Hanley started up the steps.  ;

At that exact instant, Juan Cabrillo picked up a portable radio and

pushed Talk.      '-

"Flyswatter,"

he said, "how you holding up?"

Larry King was perched inside the scooped intake of the hangar's

air-conditioning system. The rain was occasionally blowing inside the

shaft, but at least he had something over his head. "I stopped by the Oregon after the party," King said, "and picked up a thermos of tomato

soup, a waterproof cover for the nightscope and some depleted uranium

rounds. I'm in tall cotton."

Cabrillo was always appreciative of King's professionalism. The

Corporation could parachute him into a barren wasteland with a few

packaged meals and his rifle, and within hours he would have found a

nest and lined up his shots. Then he would patiently wait until his special

services were needed or not, without complaint. Since Cabrillo had

access to the operatives' personal records, he knew that King was also

the owner of a piano bar in Sedona, Arizona. It had been odd the single

time Cabrillo had traveled through the area and caught King at work-- not only had the sniper been dressed in a black tuxedo instead of camouflaged

sniper clothes, but he'd sung mainly love songs and ballads in

a sweet melodious voice.

"How's the reception, Larry?" Cabrillo asked.

"The parabolic is distorted some by the droplets on the glass," King

admitted. "But I can make out some of what's being said."

"You know to call if something big happens."

"Yes, sir," King said, staring through the nightscope and touching

the earpiece to the microphone. "Hanley just made his greetings."

Monica Crabtree was on the far end of the hangar, staring out a

crack in the door. "Mr. Hanley just walked inside," she said across the

space of the hangar.

"Come on in out of the rain, Michael," King heard the billionaire

say.

Hanley passed Gunderson in the aisle as he followed the billionaire.

He touched the middle finger of his left hand to his eyebrow, as if to

wipe away a droplet. Gunderson brushed his chin in reply.

"Have a seat," the billionaire said as they reached a conference table

in a compartment in the front section of the 737.

Hanley slid into a seat and stared at the man.

"I couldn't tell you what was happening over the telephone," the

billionaire said. "But the Buddha that you bid on for me has come up

for sale once again."

"That's quick," Hanley said.

The billionaire nodded but offered nothing more. "Your voice

sounds rough. Can I offer you something?"

"The rain and the air on the commercial flights I've been taking,"

Hanley said. "I think I'm coming down with something."

The billionaire pushed a button and Gunderson appeared.

"Could you bring Mr. Talbot some tea with lemon and honey?"

"And for you, sir?"

"I'll have a snifter of warmed Ouzo, please."

"Right away, sir," Gunderson said.

On the roof of the hangar, King heard the exchange. "They are

ordering drinks, sir."

"Open the door, Monica," Cabrillo ordered.

Crabtree hit a button and raised the hangar door far enough for the

SUV to exit.

"Time to go, men," Cabrillo shouted to Adams and Spenser.

J

228

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

229

Adams placed the Chevrolet in gear and drove slowly to the door.

Then he exited the hangar into the pouring rain.

Gunderson returned with the drinks to find the billionaire staring

silently at Hanley. "The pilot asked me to tell you that a truck is approaching,"

said Gunderson.

The billionaire turned from Hanley and stared out the window. A I

white Chevrolet SUV pulled near the ramp, and a man he didn't recognize

climbed from the driver's seat and walked to the rear. Once there,

he removed a folded, portable, aluminum-legged awning from the rear

and erected it. Then the billionaire watched as Spenser climbed from

the passenger seat.

"Come on," the billionaire said to Hanley. "Our prize has arrived."

At the same time Hanley and the billionaire were walking toward

the ramp, Adams pulled the crate containing the Buddha forward and

opened the top. Then he walked back to the driver's seat and climbed

inside out of the rain.

The billionaire appeared at the top of the stairs and Spenser, under

the awning, motioned for him to descend. The two men walked down

the ramp.

"Let's do this out of the rain," the billionaire said when he reached

the tarmac. "Inside my plane."

Spenser shook his head in the negative. "I don't know you, and you

don't know me," he said, "so until I receive payment and you take

delivery, the Golden Buddha remains on the ground."

The billionaire turned to Hanley. "Is this the dealer that made the

winning bid?"

"Yes," Hanley said.

"You're Mike Talbot," Spenser said.

"Michael," Hanley corrected.

"Did you bring cash like we agreed?" Spenser asked.

"Bearer bonds," the billionaire answered. "If everything checks

out."

Hanley stood quietly, with the gusts of wind blowing sprinkles of

rain onto his mask.

"Check it out," the billionaire said to Hanley.

Hanley walked over and examined the Buddha in detail, then

reached down and shaved a small sample of gold from the foot. "Did

you bring the other sample?" he asked the billionaire, who reached into

his pocket and removed an envelope.

Hanley removed an eyepiece from his pocket and pretended to study

the sample for a few minutes. "They match," he said at last.

"I'll retrieve the payment," the billionaire said.

At exactly the same time, Chuck Gunderson was placing the last

strip of duct tape over the mouth of the copilot. Binding the men's wrists

with plastic ties, he laid the pilot and copilot together on the floor of

the cockpit.

"Target's heading up the stairs," King radioed Cabrillo.

"Make the call," Cabrillo said to Nixon.

Inside the 737, Gunderson turned to the brunette flight attendant.

"Do me a favor," he said, "close that cabin door."

As the billionaire climbed the stairs in the rain, he could not hear

the footsteps as Adams, Spenser and Hanley sprinted through the puddles

to the rear of the hangar. His mind was on the Golden Buddha and

retrieving the briefcase that held the key to owning the icon. He was

halfway up the ramp when the door to his jet started to close. Just as

he reached the top step, the hatch was locked in place. Banging on the

door, the billionaire began screaming at the top of his lungs.

ACROSS TOWN, LING Po was just about to enter the manhole when

his cell phone rang.

"Things have gotten too hot for us," an unknown voice said to Po.

"You win, Detective. There is a white Chevrolet Tahoe on the runway

at Macau airport. It has the Buddha that was stolen from the party.

Goodbye."

1

230

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

231

The telephone went dead in Po's ear. For a moment, he stared at it

in amazement--then he quickly dialed Sung Rhee.

"I just had a call from the thieves," Po said rapidly. "They claim

the Buddha is in a white Chevrolet truck on the runway at Macau airport."

HANLEY, SPENSER, AND Adams ran to the rear of the hangar to

where a limousine was sitting with the engine running. Monica

Crabtree was behind the wheel. Once the trio of men was safely in the

rear compartment, she placed the limousine in gear and raced toward

the gate.

"Okay, Kevin," Cabrillo said.

Using a remotely operated device he had installed a few hours earlier,

Nixon began to back the ramp away from the 737. As soon as the

ramp lurched backward, the billionaire knew he had been had--he swiveled

around at the top of the ramp and glanced down. The truck was

there, but no one was visible.

Larry King watched the 737 through the nightscope. Less than a

minute later, he watched as Gunderson slid into the pilot seat, then

motioned he was ready. King flashed a red laser on his rifle sight at the

pilot's window of the 737, and, at the signal, Gunderson fired the engines

on the jet. The ramp was retracting faster and faster, and Nixon

steered it to the side. Once it was safely clear of the jet, he let his joystick

go neutral and the ramp began to roll to a stop. Tossing the controller

into a box, he did a final visual sweep of the hangar with Cabrillo. He and Crabtree had packed everything else into the trunk of the limousine

in the half hour before Spenser had made his approach. All that remained

was for Nixon and Cabrillo to hightail it off airport property.

Once the ramp was free of the 737 and a safe distance away, King

signaled again with the laser and Gunderson began to advance the throttles.

Cabrillo and Nixon were walking quickly for the rear door when

King radioed.

"Chuck's started his taxi," King said.

The ramp had finally slowed enough for the billionaire to leap off.

He ran down the tarmac after his retreating 737. A few seconds of that

and he knew the situation was hopeless, so he raced toward the Chevrolet.

Once he reached the vehicle, he was surprised to find the Buddha

still aboard. Pushing over the aluminum awning, he slammed the rear

door closed, then climbed into the driver's seat. Another break, the keys

were still in the ignition. His $100 million in bonds were lost--but the

Buddha was worth twice that. Now his plan was to escape with the

Golden Buddha and worry later about who had stolen his jet. He started

the truck and placed it in gear.

On board the 737, the brunette flight attendant was guarding the

cockpit door. No one had told her to do this, she had just thought it

prudent. One of the bimbos walked forward and started for the cockpit

door.

"Get back," the brunette said.

"I need to talk to the pilot," the blonde said.

She started for the door again, and the brunette threw a punch that

never landed. The blonde deflected the blow, then struck the brunette

in the breadbasket with a chop.

"Chucky," the blonde shouted over the noise of the engines, "will

you tell this bitch you need me up there?"

The brunette was bent over, trying to catch her breath, when the

cockpit door was flung open. Through the open door, the brunette could

see the 737 taxiing faster toward the runway for takeoff. Gunderson

was sitting in the pilot's seat. He turned and smiled.

"That's okay, honey," Gunderson said quickly. "She's my copilot."

The Macau taxi was sitting to the rear of the hangar, the purring

engine making puffs of smoke in the rain-soaked air. Cabrillo and

Nixon climbed into the rear just as King radioed again. "Okay, boss,"

he said easily, "he went for the truck."

4

CLIVE CUSSLER

232

"Come out

front."

of the nest," Cabrillo said, "and we'll meet you around

King began to extract

himself from inside the air intake at the same

JVlHg ucg,an i-v. ~^«

time the billionaire had the Chevrolet up to speed on the road leading

from the hangars to the main terminal.

INSIDE THE BURGUNDY 737, Gunderson scanned the storm scope

and answered a call from the control tower. Then he hit the switch

to allow him to talk over the cabin speakers. "Ladies, if you could take

a seat, I'd appreciate it--we'll be taking off in a second. Also, after we 1

get in the air, if one of you could bring a pot of coffee and some sand-'.. wiches to the cockpit, you'd be our hero."

Then he turned to the blonde sitting next to him. "Hi, Judy, long

time no see."

ALONG THE BRIDGE leading from Macau proper to the island

where the airport was situated, twelve police cars with sirens

screaming and lights flashing formed a rolling barricade as they raced

to the main terminal.

"There they go," Crabtree said as she drove in the opposite direction.

She watched in the rearview mirror as several cars left the bridge,

then crossed the median and sealed off both lanes of traffic. "Just made

it," Adams noted.

The driver steered the cab slowly around the front of the building,

then waited as King slid down the drainpipe and climbed into the front

seat. Then he turned his head and stared at Cabrillo.

"Take us to the far south end of the airport across from Coloane,"

Cabrillo said. "We have a boat to catch."

233

GOLDEN BUDDHA

ON BOARD THE 737, the final clearance was approved at the same

time as the Chevrolet SUV passed in front of the main airport

terminal. In the distance, the billionaire could see a line of police cars

blocking the road. Turning his head, he could see through the rain the

flashing lights on the wings and fuselage of his burgundy 737 as it lifted

from the runway and headed out over the bay.

"Destination?" Judy asked.

"Singapore," Gunderson answered. "Now tell me--how was it for

you and Tracy?"

"We took a couple for the team," Judy said. "Then he got tired."

GOLDEN BUDDHA

235

THE FULL FURY of the storm descended on Macau only a few

minutes after Gunderson and the 737 cut a wide arc out over the

South China Sea to head south. Inside the storm sewer, the waters were

rising faster now, and the rafts holding the Golden Buddha and his three

liberators hurtled faster toward salvation or destruction.

Prior to reaching each junction, one of the men would climb off the

raft and drag the rear rope to slow the raft with the Golden Buddha.

Then he would push the side of the raft toward the proper channel and

let the current do the rest. The randomly spaced overhead pipes that

drained into the main sewer were running full now, and each time the

rafts passed under the spray some of the water made it into the floors

of the rafts. The men were using their hats to bail out the buildup, but

as each mile passed the effort was becoming harder and harder.

Hornsby stared at the blueprint carefully. "We've passed the halfway

point," he said, "but if we make the same rate of progress and the

water continues to rise at the current pace, by the time we reach the exit to the Inner Harbor the water will be almost at the top of the pipe."

"The Oregon will have sent help by now," Jones said, "and they

will have a copy of the blueprints."

Meadows wiped some water from his forehead before speaking.

"That doesn't change the problems we face. It just places more people

in harm's way."

Hornsby was standing in water up to his waist, pushing the raft

with the Buddha to the left with his hip. Once the raft entered the other

stream and started to move, he rolled back inside the following raft.

"Not only that," he said, "if the pace continues when we do reach the

Inner Harbor--if we do--it will be at first light and then we risk detection."

Hornsby turned his head. He could see Jones grinning in the dim

light from his faltering hard-hat lamp. Then he spoke.

"We're the Corporation," Jones said quietly. "We're always one step

ahead."

The trio of men nodded as the pair of rafts hurtled faster in the

growing current toward a rendezvous with a rescuing force that was

fighting problems of their own.

THE FOUR-STROKE OUTBOARD on the Zodiac being driven by

Mark Murphy was blasting water out of its jet drive. The current

was running stronger every few feet, but the powerful engine was propelling

the craft forward in spite of the strong stream running against

the bow. To the middle of the inflatable, Hali Kasim was unscrewing

the tubular metal top that supported a canvas sun awning and the electronics

sensors to gain a few feet of needed clearance. Finishing the job,

he stacked the last of the pipes inside the Zodiac and turned to Murphy.

"Maximum headroom," he said. "Now hit the gas. If we don't meet

up with the other team and tow them out of here soon, we're all going

to be swimming."

236

CLIVE CUSSLER

Murphy advanced the throttle and steered around a bend. For lights

he used a handheld spotlight; for navigation, a portable GPS unit held

between his knees. "Find the air horn," Murphy said to Kasim. "I have

a feeling we'll need it soon."

SHEETS OF RAIN washed from east to west as Rick Barrett steered

the Scarab close to the southernmost strip of man-made land that

comprised the Macau airport. Barrett was wearing a bright yellow rain

suit that should have made him stand out, but in the dark of night and

the pouring rain, he and the Scarab were virtually invisible. He listened

for a sound in his earpiece but heard only static.

Scanning the shoreline with a pair of night-vision binoculars, he

began to fear the worst.

WHAT DO YOU mean?" Po shouted in anger.

The head of the Macau Public Works Department was far

from happy himself. He'd been awakened from a sound sleep and or-< dered to make his way to his office to locate the blueprints of the storm

sewer system. Once there, he had been unable to find the documents. ;|

"I mean that they are gone," the man told Po. "Deleted from the |

computers, and the hard copies removed from the office."

"Are you certain?" Po asked.

"I have had the entire night shift searching," the man said. "Nothing

is left."

"So we have no way to know for certain where the water exits into

the bay?" Po asked.

"We don't have a map of it," the man agreed, "but there is one way

to tell."

"Well," Po said, "how?"

"Pour some dye into a drain," the man said. "Then see where it

goes."

1

GOLDEN BUDDHA     237

Po turned to one of the patrolmen nearby. "Find a hardware store,"

he said quickly, "and buy me a dozen gallons of paint."

Then he stared down the manhole. There was no use entering the maze; the rats would be flushed from the hole by the water, and, when

they were, Po would be waiting. He smiled at the thought, but failed to

notice a man standing some ten feet distant in the entryway of an all-night

cafe. The man touched his ear to adjust his earpiece, then walked

inside the restaurant.

THE BILLIONAIRE SLID the Chevrolet into park. There was really

no other choice. To his front, three police cars were blocking the

road. The officers were standing behind their vehicles with pistols

drawn. To the rear were more cars and an armored personnel carrier

that was being used as a temporary command post. Inside the APC,

Sung Rhee peered through a gun port at the stopped truck. Reaching

for a microphone, he spoke over the P.A. system.

"You are surrounded," he said. "Step slowly from the vehicle with

your hands above your head."

Then he turned to one of the officers driving the APC. "Light him

with the spotlight."

The man flicked a switch and a four-millioncandlelight-powered

spotlight turned night into day. Rhee watched as the driver's door

slowly opened. Then a man dressed entirely in black stepped onto the

wet pavement and took a few steps away from the truck.

"Stop," Rhee ordered.

The man stopped dead in his tracks.

"Keep your hands in the air," Rhee ordered. "If you are the only

occupant of the vehicle, wave your left arm slowly."

The man's left arm moved back and forth.

"Take six steps into the direction of the light."

The man complied.

"Now lay down knees-first, then belly-down, on the road."

Zc5«

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

239

The man eased himself down untiJ his entire body was prone on the

wet road.

"Two officers forward," Rhee said, "and restrain the suspect."

A pair of officers approached from behind the police cars to the

front and slowly made their way over to the man. With one covering,

the other man bent down and handcuffed the suspect's hands behind

his back. Then he yanked him to his feet.

"I'm an American," the billionaire said, "and I demand to see the

ambassador."

Rhee waited as the rear door of the APC was lowered, then he

stepped out into the rain and walked over to the Chevrolet. After first

flashing a light inside to verify the other seats were empty, he scanned

the rear storage area and caught sight of the Buddha. Flipping open the

rear gate, he glanced at the six-foot-tall chunk of gold. Then he reached

for his cell phone.

THE LIMOUSINE CARRYING Hanley was just pulling up in front

of the Oregon. "Wipe it carefully and get rid of it," he said to

Crabtree. "You come with me."

Spenser followed Hanley as he bounded up the gangplank. Once on

the deck of the ship, he motioned for Spenser to follow him inside and

started in the direction of the control room. Opening the door, he nodded

at Eric Stone.

"Call for a guard for Spenser here."

Stone spoke over a microphone.

"Where's the chairman?" Hanley said next.

Stone pointed to a screen that showed a flashing light almost at the

end of the airport island and a second separate light a few yards distant.

"There," Stone said, pointing. "The other is Barrett doing extraction."

Hanley watched as the first light slowed, then stopped.

"Signal Barrett that they have arrived."

Spenser was staring at the operation in amazement. He was just

about to ask Hanley a question when the door to the control room

opened and Sam Pryor walked in. "Take this man to the brig," Hanley

ordered, "and secure him."

"Level?" Pryor asked.

"Minimum," Hanley said, "but you stay with him--he's not to use

any communications devices or talk to anyone. You can feed him and

you may allow him to sleep or use the entertainment system for television

or movies, but no computer."

"Yes, sir," Pryor said.

Hanley turned to Spenser. "You fulfilled your end of the bargain,"

he said. "Don't try anything stupid now and we'll do exactly what we

promised."

Pryor started to lead Spenser away by his arm. "When will I be free

to go?" the art dealer asked.

"We'll let you know," Hanley said, "but it will be soon."

Pryor led Spenser into the hall. Just before the door closed, he

looked back to see Hanley begin to peel the latex mask from his face.

BARRETT HEARD A beep in his earpiece and stared at the shoreline

with his binoculars. A quick flash of headlights appeared like twin

explosions in the green screen of his night-lit viewer, then the white dots

faded to black.

Barrett flashed the docking lights on the Scarab, then steered closer

to shore.

Tom Reyes finished wiping his fingerprints off the steering wheel

and controls, then twisted the key to off. Turning around in the seat,

he stared at Cabrillo and Nixon.

"We're clean and green, boss," Reyes said as he slid the keys into his pocket.

"Let's go get wet," Cabrillo said as he opened the rear door of the

cab.

Nixon climbed from the cab, clutching the last box of props and

240   CLIVECUSSLER

tools, and followed Reyes and Cabrillo to the water. Staring to the east,

he could just make out the sky beginning to lighten. To the west, the

wind was diminishing. In a few hours it would be morning and the

storm would have passed over Macau, but for now the sheets of rain

continued to rake the islands.

Barrett angled as close to shore as he dared, then tilted the drive up

to avoid rocks. Cabrillo waded into the water and grabbed the bow and

held it in place. Reyes climbed into the Scarab, then took the box Nixon

held in his arms. Placing it on the deck, he reached over again and

helped Nixon over the gunwale. Once Nixon was on the deck, Cabrillo

gave the Scarab a push backward and reached for Reyes's hand. As the

boat drifted backward he climbed over the side and Barrett lowered the

drive and slid the control into reverse.

Slowly, he backed away from the southernmost edge of the airport

island.

Once free from obstructions, Barrett slid the control forward and

steered toward the Oregon.

WHAT DO YOU mean?" Hanley asked.

"The lead detective sent for buckets of paint," Michael I

Halpert said quietly. "They are planning to pour them down the storm '

sewer to trace the flow of the water."

"I understand," Hanley said. "Good job. You can return to the

Oregon now."

Stone was studying the returns on the radar scope and he turned to

Hanley. "Barrett is headed back across the water. He should reach us

in a few minutes."

Hanley was watching the storm scope.

"Make sure there are a couple of deckhands standing by," Hanley

ordered. "We need the Scarab back in the hangar and out of sight." {

"Yes, sir," Stone said as he reached for the microphone.

241

GOLDEN BUDDHA

SUNG RHEE WALKED over to the suspect, who had been moved

under the overhang just outside the departure terminal at the airport.

In the bright lights spilling from inside the terminal, the man

looked vaguely familiar.

"One of your partners turned on you," Rhee said, "and phoned in

your location."

The man stared at Rhee with a look that contained equal parts pity

and contempt. "I've got no idea what you are talking about."

"There is no reason to try to be coy with us," Rhee said. "We caught

you red-handed."

"You caught nothing," the man said. "I was buying a piece of art,

and a team of thieves scammed me. They're the ones you should be

harassing, not me."

"When did you arrive in Macau?" Rhee asked.

"A couple of hours ago," the man replied.

"The last ferryboat was three hours ago," Rhee said, "and the next

does not leave for two more. In addition, there are no commercial airline

flights from the hours of one a.m. until five a.m. Your story is obvious

nonsense."

"I have my own jet," the man noted.

"Indeed. Where is it now?" Rhee asked.

"I have no idea," the man said. "The thieves stole it."

"How convenient," Rhee said. "You understand: If you refuse to

answer our questions, we can make this very uncomfortable."

The billionaire's are was rising fast. Any dealings with bureaucrats

were usually limited to him telling them what he wanted to do. He was

tired, slightly hungover and missing his hundred million dollars.

He looked right into Rhee's eyes.

"Listen, you asshole," the man said. "My 737 was stolen from your

airport, and inside was a briefcase containing one hundred million dollars

in bearer bonds. I don't know what the hell has been happening

242

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

243

tonight in this little pisspot of a country, but if you just unhook me from these handcuffs and let me use a telephone, I can clear this up in

about ten minutes."

Had Rhee listened to the billionaire, the 737 might have been

tracked. Instead, the man's belligerent attitude doomed him. Rhee motioned

to one of the officers holding the man's arms. "Take him to

headquarters," he said.

BARRETT STEERED THE Scarab into the sling, then Barrett, Cabrillo,

Reyes and Nixon climbed up the boarding ladder while the

deckhands secured the boat.

"Doing some operation time tonight," Cabrillo said to Barrett. "Do

you like it?"

"Not as easy as frosting a cake," Barrett admitted, "but a lot more

exciting."

The four men walked through a hatch into the interior of the Oregon. Cabrillo motioned down the hallway. "You men go and clean

up. I've still got some work to do."

The men started down the hallway to their cabins.

"Hey," Cabrillo said to the retreating men, "good job."

Then he walked down to the control room and opened the door.

Stepping inside, he began to unbutton his wet shirt, then turned to

Hanley.

"Where are we at, Max?"

each side where the two rafts met, standing in a half crouch. As the

rafts careened along, they attempted to alter their direction by pushing

against the hard sides of the pipe with their legs.

"Junction coming up," Hornsby shouted. "We need the left channel."

At the V in the pipes just ahead, the fast-flowing water was being

parted like the bow wake on a nuclear submarine. Chunks of debris

littered the water, the roof of the pipe was dripping so hard they might

as well have been outside, and the pair of rafts was accelerating almost

beyond control.

Jones watched ahead and timed his action. As the rafts reached a

spot twenty feet in advance of the V, he reached over with his leg and

shoved against the wall. The rafts lumbered to the left side, and then

were carried in the current past the junction.

"We made that one," Jones shouted, "but if we get much more

water in this pipe, we're going to have trouble on the next one."

"If we don't get some help soon," Meadows said, "we're going to

need to cut the Buddha loose and try to save our own skin."

FOUR FEET OF space remained between the surface of the rising

water and the top of the storm sewer. The batteries on the hardhat

lights were growing dim, the water was rising fast, and the men

could no longer safely climb from the raft to steer the Golden Buddha,

along.

Meadows had lashed the rafts together, and he and Jones were on

GOLDEN BUDDHA

245

/^\ NE AT A time," Detective Po said to the officer.

W Using a screwdriver on his key chain, the officer opened the

first can of paint and poured the contents through the open manhole

into the racing water below. From the light of his flashlight, Po could

see the purple paint mix with the water, then spread out. Placing the

empty can to the side, the officer pried open a second and repeated the

process. At just that instant, Po's cell phone rang and he stepped a few,

feet away and answered. i

"Ling," Sung Rhee said. "I want you to come to headquarters.

We've captured a suspect."

"Right, boss," Po said.

T

HE 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

246

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

247

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 are available now. If the

account is not accessed within one year of today, the funds will automatically

bounce back to one of our banks. The sectmd you make a

deposit or withdrawal, however, within the next year the computer

erases all traces of where the money came from or would go to."

"Why one year?" Spenser asked.

"Because," Cabrillo said, "in the financial shape you're in, if you

don't touch the money in a year, it'll be because you're dead."

248

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

249

Spenser nodded.

Next, Cabrillo handed Spenser a folder with a plane ticket. "Hong

Kong to Dubai, then on to Paraguay, first class. It's the first available

flight tomorrow morning."

Spenser took the ticket.

"Here is ten thousand dollars in U.S. currency," Cabrillo said, handing

Spenser an envelope. "Any more will arouse suspicions."

Spenser took the envelope.

"That concludes our agreement, Mr. Spenser," Cabrillo said. "We

have called a cab to take you where you want to go. It will be pulling

up at the side of the ship in a few minutes."

The guard stood up and waited for Spenser to rise. Cabrillo started |

for the door.

"Can I ask you a question?" Spenser said.

Cabrillo had just opened the door. He stopped, turned and nodded.

"This all seems a little too perfect," Spenser said. "What's the

catch?"

"You still have to make it to Hong Kong," Cabrillo said as he

walked through the door.

ON THE OREGON'S rear deck, George Adams waited as a landing

pad on the fantail rose up to deck level. A hard rain was raking

the deck and the winds were a steady twenty knots from east to west.

He turned to Tom Reyes.

"Once the deckhand locks the lift in place, we need to rotate the

whirlybird into the wind," he said. "Then I'm going to need to make a

hot takeoff into the wind."

Reyes nodded and watched as another deckhand rolled a metal cart

containing several boxes near the lift. The elevator operator signaled

that the lift was locked, and Adams and Reyes walked over.

The Robinson R-44 helicopter was a medium-sized piston-engine

craft with a top speed of just over 130 miles an hour. The weight was

1,420 pounds, the horsepower of the power plant 260, and the cost was

about $300,000.

The two men attached ground-handling wheels, spun the ship

around, then removed the wheels and handed them to the deckhand.

"We distributed the dye into plastic baggies like you ordered," the

deckhand noted.

Adams nodded and turned to Reyes. "Keep the box at your feet,

but away from the foot pedals. I'll take us down as low as we can safely

go, but the ride will be touchy because of the wind."

"I understand," Reyes said.

Adams did a quick walk around the helicopter, checking fuel oil and

general condition, then motioned to Reyes. "Hop in," he said, "and

we'll get this show on the road."

Once both men were in the seats, Adams reached down and ran

through the preflight checklist. Once he was done, he screamed "Clear"

out the window and engaged the starter. Once the engine had fired and

the clutch was engaged, the rotor blades started slowly spinning, then

gathered speed until the helicopter was shaking and vibrating. Adams

watched the gauges closely, and when the engine was warmed and

everything had settled down, he spoke through the headset microphone

to Reyes.

"Hold on, Tom," Adams said, "this will be like a giant jump."

Neutralizing the cyclic, Adams quickly lifted the collective and the

tiny bird left the pad. A second later, Adams eased the cyclic forward

and the helicopter nosed over into the wind, rising and moving forward

at the same time.

Clear of the Oregon, Adams flew directly into the wind. Heading

offshore a distance, he then started to angle back toward Macau.

Around the knee of his flight suit was a strap with a metal clip, and in

the clip was a folded slip of paper showing the locations of the storm

sewer outflows.

"There we go," Adams said, spotting the dirty water where a pipe

spilled into the bay.

250

CLIVE CUSSLER

Reyes reached down in the box, removed a baggie, slid the top open

partway, and then tossed it out the small window opening in the passenger

door. It tumbled through the ten feet from the helicopter to the

water and began to spread out like blood from a rare steak.

In the distance, a police boat heard the noise from the helicopter

but it could not make it out in the rain. Adams moved the helicopter

up the line, salting the water on the east side of Macau. Then he steered

around the end of the peninsula between Macau and Taipa to repeat

the exercise.

DETECTIVE PO PARKED in front of the headquarters of the Macau

Police Department, then walked through the rain toward the

front doors. In the east, the sky was lightening some, but the rain continued

on unabated.

Entering the building, he rode the elevator up to Rhee's floor, then

exited the elevator and walked down the hallway. Upon reaching the

reception area, he instantly knew that there was trouble afoot. The U.S.

consular agent, the mayor of Macau, a Chinese general and four reporters

were clustered around a man dressed entirely in black.

"This isn't a case of shoplifting," the man in black said loudly.

"They've stolen a Boeing 737, for God's sake."

It had been a case of blind luck for the software billionaire. Still

refused a telephone call, he had been brought to headquarters to be

questioned by Rhee in his office. As soon as they had entered the office,

however, the billionaire had noticed a copy of Fortune magazine on

Rhee's side table. His face was gracing the cover. Once he'd pointed

that out to Rhee, things had begun happening fast.

The billionaire had turned from suspect to victim in seconds.

Po walked over and stood next to Rhee.

Po heard him whisper "Damn" as the elevator door opened again

and Stanley Ho started down the hall.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

251

"Have you found my Buddha?" Ho said as soon as he was within

range.

"Who the hell is this?" the billionaire asked.

"I'm Stanley Ho," Ho said in aggravation. "Who the hell are you?"

"Marcus Friday," the billionaire said loudly. "You might have heard

of me?"

"And you of me," Ho said, affronted. "I'm one of Forbes's richest

people."

"I know all the people ahead of me on the list--you aren't one of

them," Friday retorted.

Detective Po smiled to himself. If all this was true, it was the greatest

game of one-upmanship he had ever seen. Here was a pair of obscenely

rich men vying for attention like children trying to be picked for kickball.

"Yeah," Ho began to say, "well, this is my town, and you can--"

"Mr. Ho," Detective Po said quickly, "why don't you come down

to my office so we can sort this out?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Ho said loudly.

"Everyone calm down," Rhee said.

He motioned to a conference room, pointed for the reporters to

remain in the foyer, and then led the rest inside. Once everyone was

inside and seated, he picked up the telephone, ordered tea to be delivered,

then spoke.

"Okay, everyone," he said slowly, "who wants to begin?"

Ho stared at the chief inspector. "A Buddha I purchased for two

hundred million dollars in Switzerland was stolen tonight while you

were at a party at my house. I demand to know if you have recovered

it yet."

"I lost a hundred million dollars in bearer bonds and my 737 to a

gang of criminals," the billionaire said, "and want to know what is

going on in this godforsaken country."

252

CLIVE CUSSLER

Po stood up and paced for a second. "Was your plane valued over

a hundred million?" he asked Friday.

The billionaire shook his head.

"Then it looks like two hundred million is the highest bid here tonight,"

Po said.

THE STORM SEWER was fast becoming a watery grave.

Less than three feet separated the rising water from the arched

dome of air overhead. The drainpipes on the top of the tube were gushing

like a downpour. The water was littered with refuse washed from

the streets above. Horns by saw a rat swimming toward them in the

current and slapped at the creature with a paddle. Just ahead was another

junction.

"We need to make a decision," he shouted over the roar of the

water. "Sink or swim."

Meadows looked forward. In the dimming light from the miner's

hard hat he could just see the torrent ahead, a cascade of white water

that would make the rafts uncontrollable.

"Ready with the paddles," he shouted. "The horse has to lead the

cart."

Digging into the water on the left side of the raft, they swung the

M

254

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

255

stern of their raft to the right. The nose of the lead raft, which was

carrying the Golden Buddha, pulled hard left but made the turn into

the proper channel. The turn was not as smooth for the raft carrying

the trio of men. It slammed amidships into the junction, and the corner

struck Jones hard in his right side. He hung there for a minute pressed

against a concrete arch until the rope holding them to the lead raft went

taut and yanked them down the channel.

"Jonesy's been hurt," Meadows shouted above the din.

Pete Jones was clutching the side of his chest and wheezing to catch

his breath. Turning his head, in the dim light Hornsby could just make

out his shredded shirt and anguished expression.

"My ribs," Jones managed to groan.

"We need to cut the raft loose," Hornsby shouted. "There's no way

we'll make the next turn."

"Maybe we should slit the side and sink the Buddha," Meadows

shouted. "Then we can return when the water recedes and pull it out

of here."

Jones gritted his teeth and stared at his watch. "The Oregon," he

said painfully, "is due to sail this morning. If we don't get this out now,

we never will."

Hornsby thought for a second, then decided. The next junction

would be coming up in a few minutes. Taking a pen from his shirt

pocket, he stared at the GPS, then drew the rest of their intended course

on the back of his hand.

"Bob," he said, "I'm going onto the lead raft. My weight will place

it low in the water, but it should still remain afloat. As soon as I'm on

top of the case holding the Buddha, cut me loose."

He handed Meadows the GPS.

"You sure, Horny?"

Hornsby threw his paddle onto the top of the Buddha, pulled the

rope to bring the rear raft closer, then turned.

"Ready your knife," he said.

Unclipping a folding knife from his belt, Meadows opened the blade

and nodded.

Hornsby crouched and hopped the short distance to the lead raft.

As soon as he was clear, Meadows sliced through the tether, then dug

his paddle into the side to slow down his raft. Hornsby squirted ahead.

In the dim light, Meadows could see the Buddha was awash, and only

a portion of Hornsby's head and torso were above the waterline.

"Going right," Hornsby shouted as he pulled ahead, "then left."

AS THE STORM sewer pipes came closer to the water, they increased

in diameter so the storm water would not become pressurized and

blow apart the tiles. At six places under Macau were large square pond-like

storage facilities where the water could pool and lose some speed

before spilling out into the last series of pipes and eventually the bay.

Murphy and Kasim were motoring around in circles in one of them.

"Five more minutes," Murphy shouted. "Then we go in and find

them."

Kasim gave three more blasts on the air horn. "They should be here

by now," he agreed.

At just that instant, Murphy's digital pager beeped and he pushed

the button to light the screen. Scrolling through the message, he nodded

his head.

"They poured paint into the sewers to follow the flow," he said as

he steered the Zodiac into another tight circle. "If it makes it down our

escape channel, we're screwed."

"What do you mean?" Kasim asked.

"The paint will bring the Chinese to the area, as well as marking

the sides of the Zodiac," Murphy said. "Then they'll grab us and take

us in for questioning."

"What's the Oregon recommend?"

Murphy was quiet for a moment before answering. "They want us

to blow up the tunnel leading into here and seal off the tainted water."

256

CLIVE CUSSLER

"How long do we have?"

"Six minutes and forty-seven seconds," Murphy said, removing -a

satchel charge from one of the bags in the bottom of the boat.

"What about the others?" Kasim asked.

"If they aren't out by then," Murphy said, "the Oregon said to

assume they took a wrong turn or drowned inside. Then we need to

protect our own asses and make a safe retreat."

Murphy angled the Zodiac over to the pipe leading into the holding

pool. Using the power of the outboard motor, he held the boat in place

against the strong current until Kasim had attached the charges to the

top of the storm sewer. Once the explosives were in place, Kasim activated

the digital timer. Four, three, two, one, and the red light blinked.

"Give the signal again," Murphy said as he backed the Zodiac away.

IT WAS LIKE Hornsby was riding a log down a flume. He was almost

awash and the distance over his head to the top of the pipe was

narrowing as the water continued rising. The last turn had been made

by gouging his paddle into the water and bringing the bow slightly to

one side. He readied his leg to push against the wall for the next bend.

Hornsby had lost sight of the others. The light on his hard hat was

nearly out and he had no way to know if Meadows and Jones had taken

the correct channel. Anyway, there was nothing he could do if they

hadn't. He was more concerned for his own survival. He jammed his

leg against the wall and the raft lumbered over into the correct channel.

And then, like the distant chirping of a mother bird calling her

young, he heard the faint sound of a horn sounding three times. The

raft, with Hornsby atop the Golden Buddha, raced on the current in the

direction of the sound.

A

S THE ZODIAC circled, Kasim attempted to keep a portable spotlight

trained at the opening of the pipe. The timer on the satchel

I

1

257

GOLDEN BUDDHA

charge was ticking down and, quite honestly, he was beginning to lose

faith this was all going to work out.

"Two minutes," he said over the sound of the motor.

Murphy listened intently. A sound was coming from the tunnel that

sounded like the bellowing of a wounded animal. And then, riding on

a scream and a prayer, Cliff Hornsby shot from the pipe and slid halfway

across the pond. Murphy quickly angled the Zodiac alongside and

Kasim grabbed the edge of the raft.

"Where are the others?" Murphy shouted.

Hornsby wiped the water from his eyes and glanced at the high-barreled

ceiling just barely visible from the spotlight trained on the

timer. "They were right behind me."

"Did you see any colored water?" Kasim asked.

"What do you mean?"

"They poured paint in the manhole to trace the flow of water,"

Murphy said. "Did you see anything in the water?"

"No," Hornsby said.

"One minute, thirty seconds," Kasim said.

"What's happening?" Hornsby asked.

"We've been ordered to seal off this exit," Murphy said, "so we

have a chance at a clean escape. Sound the horn."

JONES WAS LYING in the bottom of the raft, barely able to move. If

they had to go in the water or needed to attempt an escape, Meadows

figured he'd have to carry him. They had made the last turn, but

just barely. Anything from here on out had a limited chance for success.

"How's it going, pal?" he asked.

Jones listened to the distant sound, then opened his eyes and grimaced.

"Did you hear that?"

"What?" Meadows asked, thinking Jones was hallucinating.

"They came for us," Jones said.

258

CLIVE CUSSLER

Eighteen seconds later, their raft shot out of the pipe and into the

holding pond.

"I don't have time to explain," Murphy yelled, "but take this line

and hold tight."

"Just passed thirty," Kasim yelled.

Murphy finished tying the leads for the two rafts to the rear of the

Zodiac, then slammed the throttle forward. The outboard prop dug into

the water and the boat lurched forward across the holding pond, then

into the exit tunnel.

"Heads down," Murphy shouted, staring at his stopwatch.

At just that instant, a roar filled the square holding area and reverberated

out the escape tunnel. A second later, the inflow pipe collapsed

down on itself and sealed off the holding pond. At the same time, a

wave began to build that rolled across the pond and sought the only

opening. The top of the wave was higher than the exit pipe and filled

the outflow to overflowing. Kasim swung the spotlight around and noticed

the approaching tsunami.

"Shock wave approaching," he shouted as the Zodiac with the rafts

in tow entered the pipe leading to the bay.

BQ

ON BOARD THE Oregon, preparations for departure were moving

at lightning speed.

Juan Cabrillo reached for the telephone and placed a call to the

acting harbormaster.

"Don't worry," he said, after lying that his parent company had

ordered him to leave immediately, "we have another ship lined up in

Manila to take the load of fireworks to the United States. She'll be here

day after tomorrow."

The harbormaster seemed to accept this as fact. Because it was late

and little was happening, he was talkative.

"Singapore," Cabrillo said in answer to his question, "but they

haven't told me the cargo, only that we need to be there seventy-two

hours from now."

Singapore was fifteen hundred miles as a crow flies, and from what

the harbormaster had heard, the Oregon would be hard-pressed to make

260

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

261

twenty knots an hour. The man had no way to know that if the ship

made it into open water by sunrise, it could be in Singapore by lunch

the next day. Nor did he know the Oregon was not going to Singapore

at all.

"Yes," Cabrillo said, "it's pushing for sure, but orders are orders.

Is the pilot on his way here?"

The harbormaster answered in the affirmative, and Cabrillo hurried

to get off the telephone.

"We'll keep an eye out for him," Cabrillo finished, "and thank

you."

Hanging up the telephone, Cabrillo turned to Hanley. The time was

4:41 a.m.

"Sounds like he bought it," Cabrillo said. "Order the lookout to

watch for the approaching pilot boat."

Hanley nodded. "The helicopter with Adams and Reyes is back, and

I've ordered all the hatches battened down. Which means we need to

retrieve the Zodiacs in open water."

"What do you hear from them?" Cabrillo asked.

"Seng and Huxley report they are still waiting outside," Hanley said,

staring at his watch. "Murphy was ordered to blow up an inner cavern

any time about now to seal off the flow of paint and at least allow the

four rescuers to escape. As of the last communication a few minutes

ago, Hornsby, Jones and Meadows had not shown up with the Golden

Buddha."

"I don't like it," Cabrillo said.

"I had to make a decision when you were dealing with the art

dealer," Hanley said quietly. "If the helicopter salting the water didn't

throw off the Chinese, not only would we lose the men in the tunnel,

but the rescue crew as well."

"I know, Max," Cabrillo said. "You're just following the book."

The two men stared at one another for a moment. Then Eric Stone

spoke.

J

"Sirs," Stone said, pointing at a screen, "we just detected a shock

wave from an explosion."

MURPHY HAD THE throttle on the Zodiac as far forward as she

would go. The trio of boats was rocketing down the tunnel

leading out to the bay. They were only ten feet ahead of the approaching

wave from the explosion, but now that they were at full speed, the

margin was remaining constant.

"Try to reach Seng on the radio," Murphy shouted over the noise,

"and tell him what's happening."

Kasim nodded and reached for the microphone.

"Eddie," he shouted into the microphone, "we have the target with

us. Clear away from the opening--we're coming out hot."

"Got it," Seng shouted from just outside the pipe.

A few minutes before, Seng and Huxley had heard the rumble from

the explosion and had climbed aboard the second Zodiac. They were

just backing away from shore when Kasim radioed. Seng turned the

Zodiac and then accelerated away into the bay. Once they reached the

edge of the fog and rain band, he turned toward land and pointed a

spotlight at the outflow pipe.

"Call the Oregon," he said to Huxley, "and report team two is on

their way out."

THE PILOT BOAT pulled alongside the Oregon. A single tugboat

hovered nearby, awaiting instructions from the pilot. The pilot

climbed off his boat at a boarding ladder, made his way on deck, and

then stared around. The upper deck was a tangled mess of rusting equipment

and cables. He stared above, where the smokestack was polluting

the air around the slip with smoky, oily fumes. This was a ship begging

to be put out of her misery at a scrapyard.

"What a pile of junk," the pilot muttered to himself.

262

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

263

LIGHT AT THE end of the tunnel," Murphy shouted.

Tl^ 7~A:

A man stepped from behind a pillar. "I'm Captain Smith," he said.

"Welcome aboard."

The captain was dressed in tattered yellow rain slickers spotted with

grease and dirt. His face had a full beard, stained around the mouth by

nicotine, and when Smith cracked a smile, he showed a forest of yellow

stubs.

"I'm ready to guide you out," the pilot said, staying a safe distance

away from the man's odor.

"This way," the captain said, turning.

The pilot followed the captain as he wove his way around the tangled

mess on the decks to the rusted metal stair leading to the pilothouse.

Halfway up the stair, the pilot gripped for a handrail and it came

off in his hand.

"Captain," he said.

Smith turned, then walked a few steps to where the pilot was

stopped. Then he took the length of rusted pipe in his hand and tossed

it over his shoulder onto the cluttered deck.

"I'll make a note of that," he said, swiveling around again and

climbing the last few steps to the pilothouse.

The pilot shook his head. The sooner he was off the ship, the happier

he'd be.

Six minutes later, the Oregon was turned and partway out of the

port. The pilot ordered the line from the tug removed and the Oregon headed away from land under her own power.

To the rear of the Oregon, now growing dimmer in the distance,

the mountain peak on Macau began to recede in the rain and fog. Only

a few lights from the airport remained in sight.

"How long until you can be picked up?" Cabrillo asked the pilot.

The pilot pointed to a channel marker thirty yards ahead. The high-powered

light was penetrating the gloom. A few more minutes and he

could be off this beast of a ship.

, .t,.*uj.£siij> ouuuieu.

The Zodiac was racing toward the bay just ahead of the

shock wave that would fill the pipe to the top. Hornsby was holding

tight to his raft and the top of the Golden Buddha, while Meadows

gripped the side of the Zodiac and glanced down at Jones, who was

clutching his side in the bottom of the raft.

"A few more seconds, Jonesy," he shouted, "and we'll be in the

clear."

Jones nodded but did not speak.

The exit from the pipe was like riding over a waterfall on a class IV

rapid. The water was spewing out of the pipe with tremendous force.

The plume cascaded through the air twenty feet, then dropped seven

feet down to the water of the bay. Murphy held to the wheel as the

Zodiac was propelled through the air. As soon as he felt the boat leave

the water, he pulled back on the throttle so he wouldn't over-rev the

engine, then braced himself for the splashdown.

"Let go," he screamed to Hornsby and Meadows.

The lines on the two towed rafts were released and they separated

a few feet from the Zodiac at the same instant the wall of water filled

the pipe, then burst through the air with tremendous force.

"Wow," Seng shouted at the sight of the rafts squirting through the

air.

"Hold on," Meadows shouted to Jones as the raft flew through the

air, then slapped on the surface of the water before slowing almost to

a stop.

"Are you okay?" Meadows said a few seconds later. "Do you need

anything?"

Jones wiped the water from his face, then shifted his body to ease

the pain of his cracked ribs as the raft stopped in the water and bobbed.

"I've been better," Jones said. "I think it would help if you would

hum a few bars of 'Suwannee River.'"

264

CLIVE CUSSLER

PO WAS INSIDE the conference room with Rhee, Ho and Marcus

Friday. A police sergeant entered and whispered in his ear.

"What the hell do you mean?" he asked.

"A few of our people heard what sounded like a helicopter," the

sergeant said. "Now all the waters around Macau are a bright pink

color."

"Those bastards," Po said. "They're covering their tracks."

"Who?" the sergeant asked.

"I don't know who," Po said, "but I intend to find out."

Po waved the sergeant away, then walked over to Rhee and motioned

for him to move a few feet away so they could talk in private.

Once he explained what the sergeant had told him, Rhee had only one

thing to say.

"Seal the port," Rhee said. "No one in or out."

GOLDEN BUDDHA     265

The sound of a ship under power came across the water.

"They're coming," Seng said.

CAPTAIN SMITH WALKED the pilot to the ladder leading down and

bid him farewell. The pilot climbed down the ladder, then stepped

across to the pilot boat, which quickly backed away from the Oregon. Smith watched the pilot boat accelerate away into the rain.

The pilot boat was still visible when it began to slow and turn.

Cabrillo reached for a tiny radio at his belt and flicked it on. "Max,"

he said quickly, "what's happening?"

"The authorities have ordered the port sealed," Hanley said. "The

pilot's been ordered to bring us back to port."

Cabrillo sprinted across the deck as he spoke. "Full steam ahead,"

he shouted. "I'll be in the control room in a few minutes."

AS SOON AS Kasim helped Meadows and Jones aboard the Zodiac,

Murphy slit the rubber raft with a knife. The raft drifted away

and began to sink. At the same time, Seng and Huxley helped Hornsby

aboard and the three of them wrestled the Golden Buddha aboard their

Zodiac. Murphy idled his boat close just as they had finished stowing

the golden icon amidships.

"I just spoke to Hanley," he said to Seng. "The Oregon is almost

to the outer buoy. We are supposed to rendezvous with them in open

water."

Kasim raised his hand for quiet as the radio barked. He listened

intently over his earpiece.

"Got it," he said.

"That was the Oregon again," he said. "They just intercepted a

transmission from the police to the port authorities. They have ordered

the port sealed--no one in or out. The police and port authority boats

have been given orders to fire on any craft that refuses to comply."

"Shh . . . ," Seng said.

"I") HEE WAS IN his office. The port's night manager was on the other

JL V^nd of the phone line.

"They won't stop?" he asked.

"The pilot boat can't reach them," the port manager noted. "The

pilot that guided them out mentioned that the vessel was in terrible

shape--maybe their radios are faulty."

"Have the pilot boat outrun them and deliver the message in person."

"I already ordered that," the manager said in exasperation. "But the

ship keeps gaining speed--the pilot boat can't seem to catch up with

her."

"I thought you said the ship was a rust bucket," Rhee said.

"She's a fast rust bucket," the manager noted. "Our pilot boats can

do over thirty knots."

"Damn," Rhee said. "How long until the ship reaches international

waters?"

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

267

"Not long," the manager admitted.   I

"Get me the navy," Rhee shouted to Po, who reached for another |

telephone.

"What do you want us to do?" the port manager asked.

"Nothing," Rhee said. "You've already done enough."

He slammed down the telephone and took the one in Po's hand.

The second in command of the Chinese navy detachment in Macau was

on the line.

"This is the chief of the Macau police. We need you to stop a ship

heading out into the South China Sea," he said quickly.

"We have a hydrofoil that can run at sixty-five knots," the Chinese

navy officer told him, "but it isn't very heavily armed."

"This is an old cargo ship," Rhee said loudly. "I doubt she'll put

up much of a fight."

Rhee had no way of knowing it, but he'd just made the biggest error

of his life.

CABRILLO BURST INTO the control room, shedding his grimy rain

suit while at the same time removing the dental appliance that

made his teeth appear as stubs. He tossed both to the side and tugged

at his fake beard as he spoke. "Okay, what's the situation?"

"We just intercepted a communique from the Chinese navy to their

high-speed hydrofoil. They've been ordered to intercept us--a naval

frigate and a fast-attack corvette are following."

"Any other ships?"

"No," Hanley said. "That's the only Chinese navy firepower currently

in Macau."

"Where's our team with the Golden Buddha?" Cabrillo asked as he tossed the beard aside, then spit out a sliver of latex left over from the

false teeth mold.

"They are driving at full speed out of port," Stone said, pointing to

a screen. "But it looks like they have picked up a tail."

"Get me Adams," Cabrillo said. "While he's making his way here,

have the deckhands drop the walls on the helicopter pad and start raising

the Robinson from the lower hangar."

"Got it," Stone said.

"Max," Cabrillo said, "get me Langston Overholt on a secure line."

Hanley started to assemble the satellite link.

Cabrillo stared at the screen showing the progress of the Zodiacs

and the ship pursuing them. Then he glanced over at another screen that

showed the Oregon's location and the path of the Chinese navy vessels

giving chase. The screens were filled with blinking lights and estimated

paths.

"Adams will be here in a second," Stone said.

"Sound battle stations," Cabrillo said quietly.

Stone pushed a button and a loud whooping noise filled the Oregon.

Belowdecks in the sick bay, Gunther Reinholt heard the sound and

sat up in bed. Swiveling to one side, he slid his feet into a pair of carpet

slippers. Rising to his full height, he reached around and tightened his

hospital gown around his body. Then with one hand on his IV drip,

which was hanging from a stainless-steel rack with a wheeled base, he

began to shuffle from the sick bay to the engine room.

Reinholt knew that if the Oregon went to war, they would need

every hand on station.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

269

THE CAPTAIN OF the Chinese navy hydrofoil Gale Force, Deng

Ching, stared through the square floor-to-ceiling windows of the

control room with a pair of high-powered binoculars. His craft had risen

up to her full height of twelve feet above the water a few moments

before. The hydrofoil was now reaching speeds of nearly fifty knots.

Ching turned and glanced at the radar screen. The cargo ship was still

a distance away, but the gap was closing.

"Are the sailors on the forward guns locked and loaded?" he asked

his second in command.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied.

"Once we draw closer, I'll want to send a volley over their heads,"

Ching said.

"That should be enough," the second in command agreed.

LANGSTON OVERHOLT SAT in his office in Langley, Virginia. On

his left ear was the secure telephone connected to Cabrillo on the Oregon. His right ear was occupied by a telephone connected to the

admiral in command of the Pacific theater.

"Presidential directive four twenty-one," he said to the admiral.

"Now, what do you have nearby?"

"We're checking now," the admiral said. "I'll know in a few

minutes."

"Can you bring some force to bear on the Chinese without it being

tied to the U.S.?"

"Understood, Mr. Overholt," the admiral said. "Force from afar."

"That's it exactly, Admiral."

"Leave it to the navy," the admiral said. "We'll come up with something."

The telephone went dead. Overholt replaced the receiver and spoke

to Cabrillo.

"Hold tight, Juan," he said quietly. "Help's a coming."

"Fair enough," Cabrillo said before disconnecting.

IN THE MOVIES, when a submarine goes to battle stations, it does

so with much whooping from sirens and gongs. Men scurry down

narrow passageways as they race to their stations and the tension that

comes over the big screen is palpable and thick.

Reality is somewhat different.

Noise inside or outside a submarine is the enemy--it can lead to

detection and death. On board the United States Navy Los Angeles-class

attack submarine Santa Fe, the motions for battle were more like

a roadie setting up a rock concert than the chaos of someone yelling

"fire" in a crowded theater. A red light signaling action pulsed from

numerous fixtures mounted in all the rooms and passageways. The crew

moved with purpose, but not haste. The action they would take had

been rehearsed a thousand times. They were as natural to the crew as

270

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

271

shaving and showering. The commander of the Santa Fe, Captain Steven

Farragut, stood on the command deck and received the condition reports

from his crew with practiced ease.

"Electric check completed on packages one and two," an officer

reported.

"Acknowledged," Farragut said.

"Boat rising to optimal firing depth," the driver reported.

"Excellent," Farragut said easily.

"Countermeasures and detection at one hundred percent," another j

officer reported.

"Perfect," Farragut said.

"Sensors report clear, sir," the chief of boat said. "We appear to be j

alone out here. We can commence operation inside of eight, repeat eight, j

minutes."

"Acknowledged," Farragut said.

The great beast was rising from the depths and preparing to bite if i

necessary.

ADAMS BURST INTO the control room of the Oregon. He was

dressed in a tan flight suit that he was zipping up as he approached.

"Mr. Chairman," he said, smiling a blindingly white smile, "what

can I do for you?"

Cabrillo pointed to one of the computer screens. "George, we have

a situation. We have the two Zodiacs along with seven of our people

trying to get out of Macau waters. We can't turn to pick them up because

we're being pursued ourselves." Cabrillo pointed to another

screen. "You can see they also have a tail. You need to provide support."

"I'll mount the experimental weapons pods Mr. Hanley designed

for the Robinson. That gives me mini-rockets and a small chain gun, so

I can cover their exit."

"What about the extraction system?" Cabrillo asked.

"I can't pull seven people aboard," Adams said, "I don't have the

payload."

"That's not what I was thinking," Cabrillo said. "Let me explain."

CAPTAIN CHING STARED at the radar screen. He had been told

the ship he was supposed to intercept was an aging cargo ship

named the Oregon. From the description given by the pilot, the vessel

was little more than a bucket of rust. Somehow, Ching was beginning

to doubt that--Gale Force was steaming at fifty knots, and if the radar

on the computer screen was correct, the cargo ship was doing forty-five.

At the current speeds, the Oregon would be safely in international waters

in less than five minutes. Then there would be the risk of a major

incident if the sailors on Gale Force attempted a boarding.

"Give me full speed," Ching ordered the engine room.

THE HYDROFOIL IS accelerating," Hanley noted. "At the increased

speed, they will intercept us a minute or two before we

reach the demarcation line."

Cabrillo glanced at the screen showing the water in front of the Oregon. The clouds were finally clearing and soon they would be free

of the fog bank.

"Let's raise them on the radio," Cabrillo said, "and explain the

situation."

Stone started tuning the radio while Cabrillo reached for a different

microphone.

"Engine room," he said.

"Sir," a voice said, "this is Reinholt."

Cabrillo didn't bother to ask why the ailing engineer was not in sick

bay as he had been ordered. The man had obviously felt well enough

to help.

L

272

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

273

"Reinholt," Cabrillo said quickly, "is there any way to coax out a

few more knots?"

"We're on it, sir," Reinholt answered.

DOWN BELOWDECKS, THE weapons pods had already been attached

to both sides of the R-44. While the elevator lifted the

helicopter up to launch height, Adams slid a pair of Nomex flight gloves

over his hands, then slid a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses over his eyes.

He stepped from foot to foot in anticipation, and as soon as the elevator

stopped and locked in place, he raced over, did a quick preflight and

checked the underneath harness, then stepped to the pilot's door of the

Robinson and cracked it open. He was sliding into the seat as a deckhand

raced over.

"Do you want me to pull the pins?" the deckhand asked.

"Arm me," Adams said quickly, "then clear the deck. I'm out of

here as soon as I have operating temps."

The man bent down, removed the pins from the missiles and checked

the power to the mini-gun. Once he was finished, he popped his head

inside the door again.

"Check your weapons console."

Adams stared at the small screen attached to the side of the dashboard.

"I'm green."

The deckhand shut the door and raced away. Adams waited until

he was clear, then engaged the starter. Four minutes and twenty-eight

seconds later, using the surface wind from the accelerating Oregon as a

crutch, Adams lifted from the deck, then pivoted the R-44 in midair,

turned and headed back toward Macau.

THE ZODIACS WERE skimming across the water at thirty knots

According to their crude radars, they were keeping ahead of the

pursuing boats, but just barely. Seng's boat, with the added weight of ]

the Golden Buddha, was straining to maintain speed. He had the throttle

all the way to the stops, but there was no more speed to be coaxed from

his engine. The fog and rain were still thick and they shielded the inflatable

boats from the pursuers, but Seng could sense they were just

out of visual and auditory range. If one thing went wrong--an engine

miss or overheating, a leak in the inflatable pontoons that slowed them

down--they would be toast.

At the same instant Seng was having his dark thoughts, Huxley

heard the Oregon calling over the radio. She cupped her hand over her

ear so she could hear. Because of the potential for interception, the

message was brief and to the point.

"Help is on the way," Stone said.

"Understand," Huxley answered.

She turned to Seng and Hornsby. "The Oregon's sending the cavalry,"

she said.

"Not a moment too soon," Seng said as he stared at the temperature

gauge for his engine, now beginning to creep into the red.

Not too far distant, the Zodiac carrying Kasim, Murphy Meadows,

and Jones heard the message as well. Kasim was steering, Meadows

standing alongside, with Jones lying prone on the deck to the stern.

Once Meadows heard the news, he turned, crouched down, then yelled

the news over the sound of the wind and waves to Jones.

"I wish I'd have known," Jones quipped. "I would have asked them

to bring some aspirin."

"You want another bottle of water?" Meadows asked.

"Not unless there's a bathroom on board," Jones said, grimacing.

"Hang in there, buddy," Meadows said. "We'll be home soon."

LIKE THE DISTANT view of a shoplifter across a crowded store, the

outline of the Oregon started to form through Ching's binoculars

as the fog began to clear. Concentrating on the hull, Ching could see

the large white-capped wake being created by the racing cargo ship. The

274

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

275

wake and the cargo ship's track were like nothing he had ever witnessed

before. Most cargo ships, and Ching had tracked and intercepted more

than a few, moved through the water like lumbering manatees--this

Iranian-flagged vessel he was chasing moved like a thoroughbred in heat.

The water out the stern was not churning, as with most ships; instead,

it seemed to be forming into concentric whirlpools that flattened

the sea to the rear, as if a large container of glycerin had been poured

overboard. Ching stared at the decks, but no crew was visible. There

was only rusty metal and junk piled high.

Though the decks were deserted, the Oregon did not give the appearance

of a ghost ship. No, Ching thought, beneath her metal skin,

much was happening. At just that instant, a medium-sized helicopter

flew over the Gale Force about a hundred yards to the port side, just

above wave-top level.

"Where did that come from?" Ching asked his electronics officer.

"What, sir?" the officer said, staring up from a screen.

"A helicopter," Ching said, "heading from sea toward land."

"It didn't show up on the sensors," the officer said. "Are you sure

you saw it through the fog?"

"Yes," Ching said loudly, "I saw it."

He walked over to the screen and stared at the radar returns.

"What's happening?" he asked a few seconds later.

The electronics officer was short and slim. He looked like a jockey

in a fancy uniform. His hair was jet black and straight and his eyes

brown-edged with bloodshot red from staring at the radar.

"Sir," he said finally, "I'm not sure. What you see has been happening

intermittently since we began the chase. One second we seem to

get a clear return, then it jumps to the other side of the screen like it's

a video game playing hide-and-seek."

"The image is not even the correct size," Captain Ching noted.

"It grows, then diminishes to a pinprick," the officer said. "Then

jumps across the screen."

Ching stared out the window again; they were drawing closer to the Oregon. "They're jamming us."

"I can detect that," the officer said.

"Then what is it?" Ching asked.

The officer thought for a minute. "I read in a translated science

journal about an experimental system an American engineer was building.

Instead of making objects disappear, as with stealth, or using extra

signals, as on most jamming equipment, this system has a computer that

takes in all the signals from our hull and reforms them into different

shapes and strengths."

"So this system can make them appear or disappear as they decide?"

Ching said incredulously.

"That's about it, sir," the officer said.

"Well," Ching said finally, "there's no way an old rust bucket has

anything like that on board."

"Well, let's hope not, sir," the electronics officer said.

"Why's that?" Ching asked.

"Because the article also stated that by changing the object dimensions,

they can increase the targeting potential."

"Which means?"

"That if the frigate to the rear or the fast-attack corvette coming up quick on our stern fires anything other than bullets, and they have a

system like this, they could redirect the fire to us."

"Chinese missiles used to sink Chinese ships?"

"Exactly."

" "~¥~~V

\J AMMING AND JAMMING," Eric Stone shouted.

-*-V. Lincoln was on the far side of the control room at the primary

fire control station. He was running a quick diagnostic check on

the missile battery. He stared intently at the bar graphs as they filled

the computer screen.

276

CLIVE CUSSLER

"Mr. Chairman, I'm good to go," he shouted toward Cabrillo a few

seconds later.

Cabrillo turned to Hanley. "Here's the deal as I see it. The entire

thrust of this operation was the retrieval of the Golden Buddha. We

have it, but it's still inside the circle of Chinese influence. Our first priority

must be to get our teams and the Golden Buddha

safely back on

the Oregon, while at the same time making our escape."

"I hate to say it, Juan," Hanley said, "but I wish the weather wasn't

clearing."

"A wasted wish, but I agree," Cabrillo said.

"We don't know what the navy is sending," Hanley noted, "but we

can safely assume there won't be surface ships involved--our sensors

don't detect any other vessels for a hundred miles."

"They launched cruise missiles from the Persian Gulf into downtown

Baghdad," Cabrillo said, "so we can assume either missile or aircraft

support."

"The enemy has rockets on the fast-attack corvette, and some long

guns that can fire high-explosive rounds, plus the frigate should have

some Chinese-made cruise-type missiles."

"They any good?" Cabrillo asked.

"Not as accurate as ours," Hanley admitted, "but they can sink a

ship."

"The hydrofoil?"

"Deck-mounted machine guns only," Hanley said.

"And the Zodiacs are being pursued by harbor patrol boats?"

"Correct," Hanley said. "A pair of forty-six-foot aluminum cruisers

with diesel power. They each have a single bow-mounted machine gun."

"Radios?"

"Nothing special," Hanley said.

"So even if we took out the harbor boats," Cabrillo said, "the Zodiacs

would still need to pass the trio of vessels on our tail."

"I'm afraid so," Hanley agreed.

Cabrillo started sketching on a yellow pad with a black Magic

277

GOLDEN BUDDHA

Marker. When he finished, he handed the pad to Hanley. "Make sense

to you?"

"Yep," Hanley said.

"Okay then," Cabrillo said forcefully, "hard a' starboard. We're

going back toward land."

GOLDEN BUDDHA

279

adjusted his rotor speed. He was doing 130 miles an hour, and according

to his calculations he should be seeing the first Zodiac one minute

forty-five seconds after he passed the frigate. He strained his eyes to

catch sight of the Chinese vessel, while at the same time watching the

dash-mounted storm scope, which was sending a radar signal into the

weather.

ADAMS EASED THE cyclic to the left and banked the R-44. A few

seconds earlier he had passed to port of the Chinese corvette and

had just picked up a glimpse of the vessel through the fog. It was a

wonder the Chinese vessel had not fired on him--surely they had detected

the helicopter as it flew toward land. The frigate was fast approaching

and Adams planned to give it a wide berth.

He was keeping the Robinson five to ten feet above the tops of the

waves--maybe that was shielding him from detection, but Adams

doubted it. To avoid radar detection, he needed to be closer to the wave

tops--two, three feet maximum. With the weapons pods hanging from

each side of his skids and seawater detrimental to their correct opera tion, Adams was taking no chances. If he had to trade avoiding fire

from the Chinese ships to arriving too high to help his team members,!

he'd do it. 1

Adams eased forward on the cyclic and watched as the governor

HUXLEY POINTED TO the dash of the Zodiac but said nothing.

Seng nodded, then bent down and shouted into her ear. "If

I was to guess," he screamed, "I'd say we have something partially

blocking the raw water intake holes on the drive. Might be something as

simple as a piece of soaked paper or part of a plastic bag--the problem is,

we need to stop and raise the outboard out of the water to check."

"It doesn't seem to be getting any worse," Julia Huxley said.

"No, it doesn't," Seng said. "We are in the low red and staying

there. If the engine can run at those temperatures for a little longer, we

might just make it out of here alive."

Huxley scanned the water through the fog as they raced along. She

turned and caught a quick glimpse of the Zodiac being piloted by Kasim

off the starboard stern. The pair of diesel cruisers had yet to get close

enough to catch sight of either vessel, and if they maintained their speed

they never would.

"Too bad we can't ask for a time out," Huxley said, "so I can clean

the water intake."

Eddie Seng strained to hear Huxley's voice over the noise of his

racing outboard motor. Something else was causing his ears to perk

up--a slight thumping coming from the bow. Then, through the fog, he

caught a glimpse of the R-44. And a voice came over the radio.

T

HE COMMAND BRIDGE on the Gale Force was a buzz of shouted

instructions. Messages were repeated more than once as the news

280   CLIVECUSSLER

that the Oregon was starting a turn back to land was relayed from radar

operator to captain, captain to helmsman, then around to the other

officers. The event was relayed to the captains of the corvette and the

frigate, who immediately began to slow.

Captain Ching figured it would take the Oregon close to a nautical

mile to complete the turn.

Once again, Ching would underestimate.

WITH MAGNETOHYDRODYNAMICS ENGINES powering the Oregon, there was no need to slow down to change directions

on the drives. There were no shafts to twist, no props to bend, no gears

to strip. The water jets from the stern came out of a rectangular shaft

with a scoop on the end that could be diverted like the thrust of a

Harrier jet engine to the fore or to the rear. With the push of a few

buttons, one of the propulsion engineers could divert the flow of one

engine forward and one back and the Oregon would almost pivot on!

her keel, so long as the speeds were kept below thirty knots. Such an-j

abrupt maneuver made for a rough ride--the ship would kneel over and

the gunwales would dip almost into the water--but the Corporation

had done it more than once. Other than a few broken dishes and other

objects being tossed around, the Oregon had been none the worse for

the wear.   1

The engineer plotted in a turn-radius profile on the computer that

resembled a U-turn. Then he alerted the control room that they were

ready. Once the ship commander gave the order, the engineer simply

pushed a button and held on to a nearby table as the Oregon threaded

herself across the surface of the water as if she were on rails. Down in

the engine room, Sam Pryor glanced over at Gunther Reinholt, who had

just disconnected his IV and was sipping from a cup of strong coffee

after inputting the command for the turn. j

"Elementary, Mr. Reinholt," Pryor said, smiling.

"Indubitably, Mr. Pryor," Reinholt said.

281

GOLDEN BUDDHA

Both men stared at the lying-down U-shaped track on the computer

screen for a second.

"Mr. Chairman," Reinholt said over the intercom, "we're ready

when you are."

WE'RE GOING TO do a fast turn and bunch up the three ships

chasing us," Cabrillo said over a scrambled radio link. "You

will need to take out the pair of cruisers fast so the Zodiacs can slow

before they run up on the stern of the frigate."

"Understand," Adams said.

"We'll alert Seng and Kasim to slow as soon as the cruisers are

disabled."

"I'll blow all the ordnance of the port pod on the lead cruiser,"

Adams said, "and the starboard on the following craft. That should stop

them cold."

"Do your best to hit them in the sterns," Cabrillo said. "If possible,

we want to keep casualties to a minimum."

AT ALMOST THE same instant that the lead harbor police patrol

boat caught sight of Kasim's Zodiac in the lessening fog, the lookout

also reported a helicopter approaching from out to sea. Adams had

turned and looped the R-44 around to intercept the lead boat straight

on her rear quarter. Placing the crosshairs on the firing screen on the

rear third of the forty-six-foot aluminum ship, Adams flipped a switch

so all the missiles were targeted to the same spot just above the waterline.

Then he took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

The lookout caught a quick glimpse of the bubble canopy of the

helicopter a second before the port weapons pod erupted with a volley

of four missiles. The missiles were small--only slightly thicker than a

man's arm--but their noses were packed with high explosives. With a

282   CLIVECUSSLER

six-foot plume of fire belching from the rear, the missiles raced across

the gap and slammed into the side of the lead cruiser and severed the

bow from the stern as easily as a machete through a pineapple.

The captain just had time to sound the alarm to abandon ship before

the bow started sinking.

NOW, MR. REINHOLT," Cabrillo said as an alarm sounded

throughout the ship.

Reinholt reached up to the console and pushed a red button, then

took hold of the table next to him in a death grip. The Oregon keeled

over and started to turn. It was as if the ship were on the track of a

roller coaster. The g forces were severe. Everyone in the ship clutched

the nearest immovable object and bent their knees like mogul skiers on

a gnarly slope. A few moments later, the Oregon came out of the fallen

U and rolled upright again.

Lincoln, sitting in a tall fire control chair with a seat belt across his

lap, shouted, "Yeah, baby."

"We'll pass abreast of the hydrofoil in twenty seconds," Hanley

said.

"Hit them in the pontoon, Mr. Lincoln," Cabrillo said.

W:

'HAT THE-" CHING started to say as he watched the massive r T cargo shlp change directions. "Hard a' port," he ordered

But before the order could be earned out, the Oregon was almost

alongside them.

EVERYWHERE I GO, I'm just a gigolo . . .," Lincoln sang as he

lined up his target and fired.

The missile battery on the bow of the Oregon popped up and rotated

toward the target. Now, at Lincoln's command, a pair of Harpoon

J

283

GOLDEN BUDDHA

missiles burst from their launchers and streaked across the distance.

They slammed into the thin slab-sided pontoon that reached down into

the water and blew it off as cleanly as a guillotine would a finger.

The Gale Force was still making fast forward speed when she was

hit. Once the pontoon allowing her to ride up above the waterline disappeared,

her main deck lurched to the side, then began to topple over.

She didn't quite flip over on her back--it was more of a crippled disintegration

into the water. The helmsman managed to place the engines

in neutral before she flipped, and that saved lives if not the ship.

A minute after being hit, the Gale Force had her decks awash and

she was rapidly sinking.

Captain Deng Ching was bleeding from his nose and mouth after

slamming into the command console. He was in a daze from pain. The

second in command gave the order to abandon ship.

A HELICOPTER JUST attacked," the captain of the rapidly sinking

harbor police boat shouted into a portable radio as he climbed

into the emergency raft. "Our boat is sinking."

"Understood," the captain of the second harbor boat said. "We'll

come pick you up."

"I'll shoot a flare."

"We'll watch for it."

Then the captain turned to a sailor nearby. "Man the deck gun,"

he said quickly, "and if any aircraft approaches, shoot it down."

The first time had worked so well, Adams decided to do it again.

Once again approaching from the port side, he lined up the crosshairs

on the second harbor boat and pushed the button. Nothing happened.

Perhaps the starboard weapons pod had been splashed with more seawater

than had the port. Maybe it was simply that the few extra minutes

of time had allowed the fog and rain to seep into the circuitry. It could

have been a glitch--this was the first time the weapons pod had been

used--and rarely did a system work flawlessly the first time out.

284

CLIVE CUSSLER

Whatever the case, the missiles wouldn't fire from the tubes.

The R-44 passed over the harbor patrol boat just as the sailor

yanked back the lever on the deck gun and flicked off the safety. He

pivoted the gun to the correct height and started shooting at the rear of

the retreating helicopter. Adams felt the cyclic get mushy as a single

bullet nicked a control rod to the main rotor. He flew away into the

fog to assess the situation.

"Control," he said over a secure channel on the radio. "I've eliminated

one target, but now my horse is wounded and they broke my

bow."

Hanley took the call in the control room of the Oregon. He scanned the radar screen before answering. "Do you have control

of the craft?"

"It's not too bad," Adams said calmly. "I think I can set her down

okay."

"We're coming in your direction now," Hanley said. "Blow the pods

and bring the ship home."

"What do you mean?" Adams asked.

"There's a toggle switch on the weapons control panel," Hanley

said. "Flip up the cover and lower the switch and the racks will drop

free. We'll deal with the second boat."

Adams started an arc toward the harbor boat. "Give me a second,"

he said. "I have an idea."

ACROSS THE ROOM, Juan Cabrillo was on the satellite telephone i

to Langston Overholt in Virginia.

"We had to sink the vessel closest to us," he said. "But there's a

corvette and a frigate still to contend with."

Overholt was pacing in his office while talking on the speaker phone.

In front of his desk, sitting in a chair and dressed in full uniform, was

a United States Navy commander who was attached to the CIA. "I have

a naval officer here in my office. My superiors are worried about fallout

GOLDEN BUDDHA

285

if you attack and sink the other two ships. How far away from you are

they?"

"We are in no imminent danger for a few more minutes," Cabrillo

stated.

"If we can stop them in their tracks," Overholt asked, "can you

affect an escape?"

Cabrillo thought for a minute before answering. "We can retrieve

our men and the object we came for and be back at full steam in five

to ten minutes," he said. "As long as the Chinese don't launch any

planes at us, I think we will be home free."

"As of this instant," Overholt said, "the only radio transmission that

got through was about a helicopter attacking a harbor police boat. Right

now, at least as far as the Chinese are concerned, you're just a cargo

ship they can't reach on the radio. That could change, however, once

the survivors of the ship you sank are collected."

"By then we should be far out to sea traveling south," Cabrillo said,

"and back into the fog bank. With the electronics on board, we can

hide from ship-to-sea radar. The fog will keep us hidden from above."

Overholt turned to the navy commander. "Will this new device affect

our ship as well?"

"Not if they turn all the electronics off as it passes alongside."

"Juan," Overholt said, "did you hear that?"

"Yes," he said, "but I don't understand."

"It's a new toy the navy has," Overholt said, "called a FRITZY. It

is designed to short out electrical circuits and we believe it will disable

the remaining ships. What we'll need you to do is shut down all the

systems on the Oregon when we give you the order."

Eric Stone was scanning the radar and said, "We're coming up on

the Zodiacs now."

"Slow to stop," Cabrillo ordered. "Prepare to take our people

aboard."

286

CLIVE CUSSLER

ADAMS CLIMBED TO three thousand feet, then dove toward the

harbor boat in the steepest angle the R-44 could handle. He could

feel his body go light in the seat, and then tighten against the shoulder

harness. Through the Plexiglas bubble windscreen, the harbor boat came

into view, then grew in size as he streaked down from above.

The bow gunner tried firing on the helicopter, but his arc of fire was

limited by the wheelhouse directly behind him. The gunner got off a

few hundred rounds while the helicopter was still high in the air, but

the rounds went wide and then he could fire no more.

Adams raced down in a steep dive. When he was only eighty feet

above the stern, he pulled back on the cyclic and up on the collective.

This slowed the dive, then began to raise the nose. Just as the R-44 hit

the bottom of her arc, Adams flipped up the cover and down on the

toggle switch. Both pods dropped from the sides of the helicopter and

plunged straight down into the stern of the last harbor police boat. A

static spark from the pods being cut loose fired one of the remaining

missiles and it streaked down the last twenty feet, igniting the rear of

the boat in a maelstrom of destruction.

With the weight and drag of the pods gone, Adams found he had

better control. Turning the Robinson toward the direction of the | Oregon, he began to scan the water for the outline of the ship.

"Scratch two," he said quietly. "I'm coming home."

WHEN A PERSON is far out in the ocean and the weather is bad,

the sight of anything man-made brings comfort and solace. For

the seven people and one Golden Buddha on the small boats being

chased by the Chinese navy, the bow of the Oregon looming up through

the fog was as welcome as the sight of four of a kind to a losing poker

player.

"Steer over to the davits," Hanley said over the radio. "We need to

get you aboard fast."

The two Zodiac pilots eased their boats into a pair of davits located

GOLDEN BUDDHA     287

off the port and starboard stern of the Oregon. The deckhands had the

boats and the people hoisted through the air and back on the deck in

less than two minutes. Murphy was climbing off the Zodiac when

Franklin Lincoln walked over.

"I played with your toy," he said. "You can put another ship sticker

on the console."

Murphy smiled. "Good shooting, Tex."

"Everyone okay?" Lincoln asked.

"All but Jones," Murphy said, pointing. "We need to carry him to

sick bay."

Lincoln walked across the deck to the second Zodiac and stared

inside. "Jones," he said, smiling, "you look pitiful."

"Don't make me laugh," Jones said. "My ribs are killing me."

"You do what you set out to do?" Lincoln asked.

"Always," Jones said, pointing to the case containing the Golden

Buddha. "Now get me below to the sick bay and fill me up with painkillers."

"Up you go," Lincoln said as he reached into the inflatable and

carefully lifted Jones from the floor as easily as plucking a puppy from

a litter.

THREE MINUTES TO fire," a voice said over the intercom on

board the Santa Fe.

Down in the launch bay, the pair of modified Tomahawk cruise

missiles with the experimental FRITZY electronic destruction modules

sat ready to launch. The FRITZY system used a burst of electronic

waves to scramble the circuitry of any powered electronics. Captain Farragut was waiting anxiously for the launch. The anxiety did not stem

from being worried about his crew's actions--they were highly trained

and would perform the task flawlessly. It was caused by the unknown.

Farragut was curious if FRITZY was all it was cracked up to be--and

if he could soon claim the crown as the first commander to use it in

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CLIVE CUSSLER

battle. That fact might help at promotion time; at the very least it would

be worth a few free drinks once the Santa Fe made port again.

"Doors open, sir," the chief of boat said, "and all is in order."

give

GOLDEN BUDDHA

28$

Only when all the lights on the Oregon went dark in the fog did he

it a second thought.

E SEE YOU," Hanley said to Adams, "but you need to land

WE SEE now.'

Adams was making his approach behind the stern of the Oregon and lining up for his descent onto the landing pad.

"Two minutes or so," Adams said.

"In a minute thirty," Hanley said, staring at a timer, "your electronics

will cease to function."

"Clear the decks," Adams said loudly. "I'll climb, then shut the

engine off and initiate auto-rotation."

"Fire-foam the decks," Hanley said over the intercom. "We shut

down all the electrical power in one minute."

Many people think that once a helicopter loses power it plunges

frpm the sky. Actually, if power to the rotor is lost, the pilot can use

the wind from his descent to spin the blades. The procedure, auto-rotation,

is tricky, but the maneuver has saved more than a few lives

over the years. Usually the pilot has a reasonably large field or clearing

to land on. Doing a forced auto-rotation onto a pad just slightly bigger

than the helicopter herself takes nerves of steel and fortitude. Adams

used his minute to gain altitude. Then he lined up behind the landing

pad. When his watch said it was time, he flicked off the governor and

rolled back the throttle. The R-44's freewheeling unit engaged and the

drive shaft to the main and tail rotor disconnected.

Adams reached up and turned off the key.

Suddenly, without the noise from the engine, it was strangely quiet,

the only sounds the whooshing of the wind racing past the fuselage and

the sound from Adams's lips as he whistled Bobby Damn's "Mack the

Knife." The R-44 was making a steeper descent than normal, but Adams

was in complete control.

ONE AWAY," THE chief of boat said quietly. "Now two."

The cruise missiles left the launch tubes and streaked skyward,

then turned and dived down to wave level. Programmed to the

target by a sophisticated computer, the missiles raced toward the Chinese

corvette and the frigate at 450 kilometers an hour. Once the cruise

missiles were close to the two ships, they sent out a concentrated burst

of electronic friction similar to that emitted after an atomic bomb blast.

The electronic circuits throughout both ships shorted as cleanly as

if a switch had been thrown. The engines ceased to function and the

electronics in the wheelhouse and below went black. Both ships slowed

in the water just as a burst of wind and rain raked across the sea.

Y

"be-HA!" ADAMS SHOUTED as the wind hit the R-44.

He was eighty feet back of the stern and twenty feet in the

air when he initiated his flare. Pulling up on the cyclic, he pitched the

nose up using the drag on the powerless rotor to bleed off forward

speed. He was four feet above the pad when the forward speed ceased

and the Robinson dropped down on the deck with a thud. The foam

reached halfway up the fuselage as Adams pulled on the rotor brake to

stop the blades from spinning. Then he unlocked and pushed the door

open. Next, he began to unsnap his harness.

Richard Truitt waded through the dissolving foam to the door as

soon as the rotor stopped.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Shaken but not stirred." Adams smiled. "What's new?"

At just that instant the Oregon started moving again.

Truitt shrugged. "We're heading out."

II

290

CLIVE CUSSLER

"Open seas," Adams said, climbing from the cockpit, "here we

come."

"Fill out a repair order," Truitt said, "then meet me in the cafeteria.

We need to do a little planning."

The two men reached the edge of the foam just as a deckhand began

to hose the foam over the side with a stream of seawater. They brushed

flecks off their pants as they made their way to the door leading inside.

"Do I need to bring anything special?" Adams asked.

"High-altitude performance charts," Truitt answered.

THE OREGON STEAMED south just inside the edge of the storm.

The time was 6 a.m. and the cafeteria aboard smelled of bacon,

sausage, eggs and cinnamon rolls. Cabrillo was sitting at a table talking

with Julia Huxley as Hanley walked toward them with a cup of steaming

coffee in his hand. He smiled and nodded.

"Now that," he said to Cabrillo, "was exciting."

"Never a dull moment around here," Cabrillo agreed.

"How are Reinholt and Jones?" Hanley asked Huxley.

"Minor injuries," Huxley reported. "Jonesy has a couple of cracked

ribs--I gave him pain medication and he's sleeping in sick bay. Reinholt

claims he's better, but I have him resting in his cabin just to be sure."

"Did you check on repairs to the R-44?" Cabrillo asked.

"Yes, Mr. Chairman," Hanley said as an attendant walked over and

set a plate containing a cinnamon roll in front of him. "A buckle that

292

CLIVE CUSSLER

controls movement to the rotor head was bent. They are replacing it

now and estimate it will be ready to fly in a couple of hours."

"Good," Cabrillo said. "Once the Oregon steams closer to the mainland,

I'll need Adams to drop me off at the airport."

"Just like we planned," Hanley agreed.

"Now all we need to do is find the secret compartment inside the

Golden Buddha," Cabrillo said, "and see if its contents are still intact."

SUNG RHEE CAUGHT sight through the window of the four men

approaching his office. They did not look happy, and the aide did

not bother to knock before swinging the door open. Rhee rose from his ; desk as the aide stood aside and allowed the admiral to enter.

"We managed to get air bags under the hydrofoil to keep her afloat

until a salvage ship can tow her back," the admiral said without preamble,

"but my men tell me repairs will require close to six months."

"Sir--" Rhee started to say.

"Enough," the admiral thundered. "I have one ship out of commission

and our only frigate and fast-attack corvette disabled and dead in

the water. You set me up--and you will pay."

"Sir," Rhee said quickly, "we had no idea . . . the ship to all ap- «| pearances was merely a decrepit cargo vessel."

"The ship was far from that," the admiral said loudly. "She shot

the side out from under the hydrofoil as if it was a routine exercise. We

still don't know what happened to the other two ships."

Just outside the door, the admiral's aide was whispering into a satellite

telephone. He poked his head into Rhee's office.

"Admiral," he said quietly, "Beijing's on the line."

c

HUCK "TINY" GUNDERSON smiled at Rhonda Rosselli and held

out one of the bearer bonds. "So," he said, "here's the deal.

GOLDEN BUDDHA     ;

Tracy, Judy and I need to make an unscheduled midair exit. Once '

are safely out, you can untie the pilots."

"You're abandoning me?" Rosselli asked pointedly. "All that ta

about me joining your team was a lie?"

Gunderson pulled a thick cigar from his flight-suit pocket and sli

it under his nose. Then he bit off the end and lit it with a solid gol

lighter. He puffed the stogie to life. "I never lie to a pretty girl," he said

smiling, "and I'm always right."

"Then what's the deal?"

Gunderson slipped the bearer bond into a plastic envelope and

sealed it inside with the others. "The bond I showed you will be mailed

to your home address once I reach land. That's your payment for a job

well executed."

"What do I say when we land?" Rosselli asked.

"I'd tell them everything," Gunderson said, "except about the bond.

That should remain our little secret."

"Just tell them?" Rosselli said incredulously.

"Why not?" Gunderson said. "I was careful not to relay any information

that can incriminate my group. My team will make sure that

the United States embassy is notified in whatever country the plane

lands. Just spill your guts and they'll let you go in a few days. Once

you get back to California, someone that works with me will make

contact in due time."

"So I won't see you again?" she asked.

"You never know," Gunderson said as red-haired Tracy Pilston

walked over.

"Our ride is only a few miles ahead," Pilston noted, "and we're

both ready to fly the coop."

"Did you take her down?" Gunderson asked.

Pilston nodded. "We're to receive a signal, so we can time the

jump."

Gunderson removed two parachutes from a storage compartment

where a Corporation team member had hidden them when the 737 was

294

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

295

in her hangar in California. He helped strap one on Pilston's back, then

strapped on the other. Removing a sack containing goggles, he handed

one over to Pilston.

"We'll alert Judy," he said quietly, "and exit from the rear."

"Go forward," Gunderson said to Rosselli. "Tell Judy it's time, then f

stay in the cockpit."

"Won't everything be sucked out the rear?" Rosselli asked.

"We're not pressurized," Gunderson said, "so it won't be that bad-- I wouldn't try walking around, however. Just stay in the cockpit, and

after the egg timer goes off, raise the rear door and untie the pilots."

"Okay," Rosselli said as she went forward, opened the cockpit door

and reported the news to Michaels.

"Understood," Judy Michaels said.

Then she checked the speed once more, made sure the autopilot was

operating, then pushed the lever to lower the rear door. The door began

to lower slowly and the alarms on the dashboard began to beep. Twisting

a cheap plastic egg timer, Michaels slid past Rosselli.

"Keep the door closed, and when that timer chimes, you know what

to do."

Rosselli nodded.

"Nice meeting you," Michaels said as she slipped out the door.

Racing down the aisle, Michaels stopped for Gunderson to check

her parachute. The farther the rear door lowered, the more wind raced

through the fuselage of the 737. Magazines rustled, and any loose items

inside fluttered in the wind. Gunderson watched as a silk kimono filled

like a sail and shot out the rear. Then the trio made their way to the

rear, where the steps were now pointing straight below the tail of the

737.

"What do you think they'll do to Rhonda?" Pilston asked.

"Not much they can do," Gunderson said as he adjusted his goggles

and helped Michaels into position to jump.

"I think she's sweet on you," Pilston said as she moved into place

next to Michaels.

1

"There's something about," Gunderson said, "an Aqua-Velva man."

At that instant, the signal was received from the satellite to his alphanumeric

pager. The pager began to vibrate. Gunderson took one

lady under each arm. Then he ran off the end of the ramp and, once he

was clear, pushed them away.

PLODDING THROUGH THE South China Sea, the helmsman on the Kalia Challenger noticed the sky was finally clearing. He noticed

it because the sky overhead was suddenly filled with a pair of Chinese

antisubmarine aircraft as well as a single long-range heavy-lift helicopter.

The Kalia Challenger had originally been built in 1962 for the

United States Line as one of an eleven-ship class of express cargo cruisers.

Later sold to a Greek shipping concern, she plied the seas on a

regular schedule from Asia to the west coast of the United States.

At just over five hundred feet with a seventy-foot beam, the vessel

featured derricks on the upper deck for loading and unloading of cargo.

Her lower hull was a rusty red with a black band along the gunwales.

She was a work ship who had served a long and useful life, and the

wear and tear showed. Still functional, though dated, she was possessed

of one major flaw.

>From a distance, to an untrained eye, she resembled the Oregon.

She was far out in international waters when the antisubmarine aircraft

dropped the first depth charge. It landed a hundred yards ahead

of the bow and exploded with a cascade of water that reached eighty

feet into the air.

"Heave to!" the captain shouted.

The alert reached the engine room, and the Kalia Challenger slowed,

then stopped in the water.

It would be nearly an hour before a Chinese boarding party climbed

across her decks.

The illegal stop was never explained.

CLIV.E CUSSLER

296

DELBERT CHIGLACK STARED up at the sky in amazement. He had

seen some incredible things in the fourteen years he had worked

on offshore oil rigs: strange sea creatures that defied explanation, unidentified

flying objects, weird weather phenomena. But in all the years I

he had drilled offshore, he had yet to see a trio of parachutists come

from nowhere and attempt to land on his rig. Gunderson, Michaels and

Pilston had leapt from the 737 at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet,

just above a cloud layer that hid the airplane from view. Sucking on

oxygen bottles as they made their descent, they had floated around near

the target before directing their parachutes in arcing corkscrews until

they lined up above the helicopter pad on the offshore rig.

The rig was twenty miles off the coast of Vietnam, eight hundred

miles from Macau, and owned by Zapata Petroleum of Houston, Texas.

George Herbert Walker Bush owned the company--and someone from

Virginia had asked him for a favor.

Tracy Pilston landed nearly dead center on the X in the center of

the pad, Judy Michaels only six feet away. It was Chuck Gunderson I

who had the worst landing. He alit on the side of the elevated pad. The

breeze tugged at his parachute before he could cut it away, and had Del

Chiglack not grabbed him, he might have gone over the side.

Once his chute was free and Chiglack had yanked him back from

the edge, Gunderson smiled and spoke.

"My friends called," he said. "I believe we have a reservation for

three."

Chiglack spit some snuff juice into the wind. "Welcome aboard,"

he said. "Your ride will be here soon."

"Thanks," Gunderson said.

"Now," Chiglack said, "if you and the ladies will come inside, I'll

buy you a cup of coffee."

297

GOLDEN BUDDHA

BACK IN THE control room, Hanley turned to Cabrillo. "We just

received word from Tiny," he said. "They arrived safe and sound

with the bonds. They're awaiting a ride home."

Cabrillo nodded.

"You look beat," Hanley said. "Why don't you catch a few hours'

sleep and let me hold down the fort."

Cabrillo was too tired to argue. He rose and started for the door.

"Wake me if you need me."

"Don't I always?" Hanley said.

Once Cabrillo was walking down the hall to his stateroom, Hanley

turned to Stone. "Truitt will be here in a few minutes to relieve you.

Take four hours and get some sleep."

"Yes, sir," Stone said.

Then Hanley accessed the computer next to his seat and began to

read the plan again.

LANGSTON OVERHOLT SLEPT all the way to Paris. The Challenger

jet he was riding inside was registered to a company named Strontium

Holding PLC, which was allegedly based in Basel, Switzerland. In

reality, the jet's tires had never touched Swiss soil.

The Challenger CL-604 had been purchased from a broker in London

using CIA funds and outfitted with advanced electronics at a shop

in Alexandria, Virginia, near Boiling Air Force Base. The large

Canadian-made business jet seated ten people, had a cruise speed of 487

miles per hour and a range of 4,628 miles.

The distance from Virginia to Paris was just over 3,800 miles, where

the jet was refueled and provisions were loaded aboard. The second leg

of the trip, Paris to New Delhi, would cover 4,089 miles. The first leg

of the journey required eight hours to complete; the second leg was

made with a favorable tailwind and took just over seven hours. Within

an hour of receiving word from Cabrillo at 6 a.m. Macau time that the

Corporation was in possession of the Golden Buddha, Overholt had left

I

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CLIVE CUSSLER

U.S. soil. Virginia time had been 6 p.m. Good Friday. By the time the

Challenger touched down, the time changes and flight time made it

9 a.m. Saturday.

The trip by turboprop to Little Lhasa in northern India took just

over two more hours, so it was almost exactly noon on Saturday when

Overholt finally met with the Dalai Lama again. The revered leader of

Tibet had made it clear that if there was to be a coup d'etat, it needed

to take place on Easter Sunday, March 31, exactly forty-six years after

his being forced into exile.

That gave Overholt and the Corporation twenty-four hours to make

a miracle happen.

CARL GANNON HAD been earning his keep the last several days.

After procuring the truck in Thimbu, Bhutan, and plotting a route

into Tibet, he had received a shopping list of tasks from the control

room on the Oregon. As the Corporation's head scrounger, Gannon was

used to accomplishing the impossible. To obtain what was required,

Gannon would have to use the vast network of contacts he had carefully

nurtured over the years.

The funding would come from the Corporation's bank on the island

of Vanuatu in the South Pacific Ocean, and the Oregon had made it

clear that time, not cost, was the object. Gannon loved it when he received

directives like this. Using a laptop computer linked to a cell

phone, he began typing in a stack of telephone numbers, codes and

passwords from memory at seventy words a minute.

Eighty Stinger missiles were bought from a friendly Middle Eastern

nation, with delivery arranged to Bhutan using a South African com-I pany that had never failed to comply. Eight Bell 212 helicopters with |

extra fuel pods from an Indonesian company that specialized in offshore

oil work arrived to deliver the load of missiles and small arms. Eighteen

mercenary pilots from throughout the Far East were recruited, sixteen

to fly, two extras in case someone got sick. Fuel pods, food for all the

299

GOLDEN BUDDHA

participants, and a series of hangars manned by Philippine Special

Forces guards were secretly arranged.

Gannon's last item was the strangest. The Oregon wanted to know

if he could procure a large but slow-moving plane in Vietnam. That,

and a winch with a hundred feet of thin but strong steel cable that could

be mounted on the floor of the plane. It took Gannon a couple of telephone

calls, but he found a 1985 Russian-built Antonov AN-2 Colt

owned by a Laotian company that had a logging contract with the Vietnamese

government. The big biplane, with a wingspan of fifty-eight feet,

a cruise speed of only 120 miles an hour and a stall speed of 58, could

best be described as a flying pickup truck. The large interior was mainly

cargo space and she could carry nearly five thousand pounds of payload.

The winch he bought new from a dealer in Ho Chi Minh City on a

company credit card.

After finishing the arrangements for the plane and winch, Gannon

slurped the last drop from a bottle of Coca-Cola and dialed the Oregon on the satellite telephone. He waited as the number beeped and popped

while the signal was scrambled.

"Go ahead, Carl," Hanley said a minute later.

"I've got the plane, Max," he said, "but you didn't ask for a pilot."

"One of our guys will be flying," Hanley said.

"It's a Russian Antonov," Gannon noted. "I doubt we have someone

typed in this model."

"We'll download some manuals off the Internet," Hanley said.

"That's about all we can do."

"She's fueled and waiting at the airport in old Saigon," Gannon

said. "The mechanic should be finished bolting the winch in place in

the next hour. I'm faxing a picture."

"We'll be seeing you soon," Hanley said. "Everything okay in the

meantime?"

"Smooth as a baby's bottom," Gannon said easily.

300

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

301

ON THE ZAPATA Petroleum rig off Vietnam, Delbert Chiglack

took the sheet that had just printed out of the fax machine, then

called once more to the incoming helicopter. When finished, he returned

to the lunchroom on the rig and handed the sheet to Gunderson.

"This just came for you."

"Thanks," Gunderson said quickly, staring at the picture of the biplane

the Oregon had sent, then folding it and placing it in his flight-suit

pocket.

Just then, a siren on the rig sounded twice.

"Your ride's here," Chiglack said.

Walking the trio out to just below the helicopter pad, Chiglack

waited until the helicopter touched down, then shouted over the noise.

"Up the ladder, heads down, the door should be open," he said.

"Thanks for the hospitality," Michaels shouted.

"Watch your hair, ladies," Chiglack called as they started up the

stairs.

Four minutes later the helicopter was airborne again, heading back

toward land. Chiglack shook his head as the helicopter retreated in the

distance. Then he walked back to his office to report his guests had left

the rig.

like the remains of a bombed-out tank from the war some thirty years

before.

Pilston tapped on Gunderson's arm as the helicopter approached the

airport and located the Antonov from the air. Slowing his speed, the

pilot neared the large biplane, then hovered in the air above the tarmac.

After touching down smoothly some fifty feet away, the copilot unbuckled

his belt, then slipped back and unlatched the door to the Bell.

"Later, alligators," he shouted.

Gunderson, Pilston and Michaels bowed their heads and sprinted

away from the helicopter.

Once they were clear, the pilot throttled up, pulled up on the collective

and moved the cyclic so the Bell rose in the air and made a

sweeping turn. The helicopter disappeared into the haze as it flew off

to the south.

The trio was ten feet from the biplane when Michaels spoke.

"What are we going to do with this beast?" she asked.

"The plan is," Gunderson said as he approached the open door and

stared inside, "to fly out to the Oregon."

"What on earth for?" Pilston asked.

"Our chairman has a meeting to attend."

GUNDERSON HANDED THE photo of the biplane to the copilot.

"She's on the north side of the airport," he said as the copilot

clipped the photo to a strap around his knee. "If you can land nearby,

we'd sure appreciate it."

The copilot replaced his headset over his ears, then relayed the information

to the pilot, who made an okay sign with his fingers. The

copilot smiled at Gunderson, nodded yes, then motioned for him to sit

back in his seat.

Twenty minutes later, the coast of southern Vietnam came into view.

As they passed over shallow water, he caught sight of a wrecked ship

below the surface of the water. In the bushes nearby was what looked

GOLDEN BUDDHA

303

INSIDE THE OREGON'S Magic Shop, Kevin Nixon was loosening the

top off a long wooden crate with a pry bar. The crate was stamped

U.S. Air Force, Special Operations. The second line read: (1) ea. Fulton

Aerial Recovery System, checked 02-11-90, and then the initials of the

airman who had rendered the verdict that the system was operational.

Setting the top aside, Nixon peered inside. Then he began to remove

the contents.

First was a harness made out of nylon webbing similar to that on a

parachute. On the front of the harness was a swivel hook. Next was a

length of high-tension strength line. Last, a deflated balloon and the

fittings to hook the system together. Nixon checked each piece carefully

as he removed them from the box. Everything looked fine.

Just then, the door to the Magic Shop opened.

"How's it look?" Hanley inquired.

"Good," Nixon answered.

Hanley pointed to a strange forged-metal three-pronged hook on

the ground. "What's that?"

Nixon nodded at the bottom of the crate's lid, where a set of directions

had been stenciled on the surface. "That's the hook that grabs the

line at the end of the balloon."

"Doesn't it have to be aboard the pickup plane?"

"Ideally," Nixon admitted.

"So?" Hanley asked.

Nixon pointed across the room. "Good thing we have rules around

here," he said.

"Always have a backup," Hanley said, smiling, reading the sign.

"But of course," Nixon said.

"I'll notify the plane," Hanley said. "We have a few hours yet."

"Mr. Hanley," Nixon said, "you just tell me when."

THE SINGLE ENGINE on the Antonov Colt droned with a monotonous

sound as Gunderson, Michaels and Pilston headed out into

the South China Sea. The skies were clear, the wall of the south-moving

storm still hundreds of miles ahead. Gunderson just hoped that the Oregon, which was cruising at full speed, made it out of the leading

edge of the storm before he reached the ship. He was a great pilot, but

even in clear skies what they were about to attempt was akin to trying

to hit a bull's-eye on a dartboard at ten paces while blindfolded.

Gunderson had the windows in the cockpit and the cargo area

cracked open to vent the gasoline fumes as they cruised along. The Antonov

normally carried 312 gallons of fuel, but since this plane was

used for remote logging operations, two more tanks of 300 gallons each

had been fitted along the center of the cargo bay. That was a good thing.

Without the additional fuel capacity, there was no way they could make

it out to the Oregon and back to Vietnam, a distance far beyond that

of a helicopter. The problem was, the inside of the plane smelled like

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

305

an Exxon station after a big spill. Gunderson stared at his portable GPS

receiver.

"How's it look, Tiny?" Michaels asked.

"So far so good," Gunderson answered, "but this unit burns

through batteries like a kid with a video game. Did they by chance load

any spare batteries on board?"

Pilston, who was crouched between the pilot's and copilot's seat,

rooted around in a pair of paper bags but came up empty. "Sorry,

Chuck," she said, "no luck."

"What did we get?" he asked.

Pilston did a quick inventory. "Some MREs, two thermoses of what

I assume is coffee, some Hershey bars and M&M's, bottled water, maps,

and some mouthwash."

"What about towels and soap?"

Pilston dug around in the bottom of one of the bags. "Yep."

"Gannon's pretty good about that," Gunderson said, yawning.

Michaels stared at the speed indicator. "We have five more hours

until we reach the Oregon," she said. "Tracy and I got some sleep last

night. Why don't you clean up a little and try to get some rest. We'll

wake you when we get close."

"Think you can fill the copilot's duties?" he asked Pilston.

"I received my private pilot's certificate last year," Pilston told him.

"I don't have many hours, but I think I'm qualified to watch the needles

quiver."

Gunderson nodded wearily. "Off the controls," he said.

As soon as he was sure Michaels had the plane, he stood up, slid

out of his seat, and slid past Pilston, who quickly climbed into the pilot's

station. The Antonov could be flown from either the left or right seat,

so there was no reason for Michaels to move across the cockpit. Once

Pilston was situated, she turned around to Gunderson.

"There's a cot that folds out of the wall," she said, "and a toilet

that basically dumps out the side of the plane. You want anything to ;

eat first?"

f

J

"No, ladies," Gunderson said. "Just wake me if you need me."

Then he walked back to the cot, removed his shirt and crumpled it

up as a pillow, stretched out and was asleep within minutes. The Antonov

droned north for the rendezvous.

OVER THE YEARS of its existence the Corporation had invested in

a variety of legitimate businesses. The company was either owner

or part owner of mining concerns, a coconut plantation, a specialty

firearms manufacturer, hotels, resorts, a machine tool company, even a

charter jet service with divisions in North America, South America, Europe

and Asia.

None of the employees of these concerns had any idea of the source

of the parent company's funding and true purpose. They only knew they

were highly paid and treated well and never subject to cutbacks or layoffs.

For the most part, the actual operations end of the Corporation--

the specialized army and intelligence apparatus that formed the nucleus

of the growing fortune--left these companies alone to operate on their

own. Sometimes, however, they came in handy.

Right now was just such a time.

Max Hanley returned to the Oregon's control room and slid into

his chair.

"Pull up the flight operations center of Pegasus Air," he asked Stone.

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 overlaid the map.

"The Asian G550 is in route to Hawaii, so that's out," Stone noted.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

307

"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 hisrstateroom, then showered and dressed.

Leaving his suite, he walked along the gangways toward the control

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CLIVE CUSSLER

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.

Handing one to Cabrillo, he asked, "Feel better?"

"Amazing what a little rest will do," Cabrillo said, taking the cup.

"Richard?" Hanley asked.

Truitt turned from the screen he was studying. "I'm okay," he said.

"What's the score?" Cabrillo asked without further preamble.

Hanley walked back to his chair and motioned for Cabrillo to sit.

Then he pointed at a screen that showed a red line from Ho Chi Minh

City directly toward the Oregon. "That line is Gunderson and his team.

They will be arriving in about a half hour to pick you up."

"They aboard the amphibian?"

"Nope," Hanley said. "It was still too far south to get here in time."

"So we secured another seaplane?" Cabrillo asked.

"Gannon pulled out all the stops," Hanley told him, "but there were

none available."

Cabrillo sipped his coffee while Truitt swiveled his head and stared

back at him.

"You're yanking me off?" Cabrillo said.

"Sorry, Mr. Chairman," Hanley said. "It was the only way you

could make your flight out of Vietnam on time."

"And the Buddha?"

"He'll go first," Hanley rioted.

"Why," Cabrillo said, "do I always end up in these situations?"

"The money?" Truitt said, smiling.

"Or the thrill of victory?" said Hanley.

ON BOARD THE Antonov, Gunderson was brushing his teeth and

washing his face. Spitting out the window, he rubbed the washcloth

across the stubble on his cheeks. Once he had finished, he walked

forward and motioned to Pilston. "Why don't you let me take over."

GOLDEN BUDDHA

309

<s <

Pilston slid out of the pilot's seat and Gunderson climbed aboard

"How'd our rookie do?" he asked Michaels.

"She's not a bad pilot," Michaels noted. "I had her do most of the

flying while I napped."

Gunderson smiled and turned back to stare at Pilston. "Be sure and

log the hours," he told her. "When you have two hundred you can apply

for a commercial license. Our last operative who certified got a five-thousand-dollar

bonus from Cabrillo."

"This old beast is a smooth flying plane," Pilston said. "Slow as a

slug but as stable as a table."

"How far out are we?" Gunderson asked Michaels.

Michaels stared at the GPS and examined her marks in the charts,

then did a couple of calculations in the flight computer. "Twenty-four

minutes, give or take."

"Have you maintained radio silence?"

"As we planned," Michaels replied.

Gunderson adjusted the mixture to the engine and watched the

gauges a few seconds. Satisfied all was okay, he spoke again. "Tracy,

can you pour me a cup of coffee? It's time to call the mother ship."

Pilston unscrewed the cup off the thermos, put a piece of folded

duct tape on the bottom, then poured a cup and handed it to Gunderson.

He sipped the hot liquid, then set the cup down on a flat surface,

where it stuck. Then he reached for the radio, adjusted the frequency,

and spoke.

"Tiny calling the chairman of the board, you out there?"

A few seconds passed before an answer came. "This is control, go

ahead."

"The ladies and I," Tiny said, "will be there in a few minutes to

hook you on board."

"We have you on the scope," Cabrillo said. "You should be seeing

us shortly."      ,

"What's the drill?" Gunderson asked.

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CLIVE CUSSLER

"You'll have two yanks," Cabrillo said. "The first is the object--

remember it's heavy."

"We have a cargo slide with a belt, but the door to this old bird is

on the side," Gunderson said. "My plan was to winch whatever we

were taking aboard close, then do some fancy flying to get the load

aboard."

Back on the Oregon, Cabrillo shook his head in amazement. "Don't

try that on the second load."

"Why's that, boss?"

"Because the second load is me."

Michaels was staring out the window. A speck that was the Oregon came into view.

"I have a visual," she said.

"We have you in sight," Gunderson said, "and we'll take it easy

bringing you aboard, Mr. Chairman, don't you worry."

"I'm going topside to strap up," Cabrillo said. "Is there anything

else you need?"

Gunderson looked at Pilston and Michaels, who shook their

heads no.

"Maybe just some ham-and-cheese sandwiches," Gunderson said.

"I'll see what I can do," Cabrillo said.

"We're descending now," Gunderson said. "See you in a few."

CABRILLO OPENED THE door and walked into the Magic Shop.

Nixon had the Golden Buddha on a small table and was waving

a small electronic radar device across the belly. He stared at a monitor

and shook his head.

"There's a space there, boss," Nixon said to Cabrillo, "but I'll be

damned if I can figure out the access."

Cabrillo stood thinking for a moment, then turned to Nixon. "Hand

me a heat gun," he said.

Nixon walked over to the tool bench and removed a heat gun from

f

GOLDEN BUDDHA

311

a peg, attached an extension cord, then dragged it over to the Golden

Buddha. Cabrillo flicked the switch on and started to heat the Buddha's

belly.

"What are you thinking, boss?" Nixon asked over the roar of the heat gun.

"People always want to rub Buddha's belly for good luck," Cabrillo

said. "Rub something enough and you make heat."

Nixon reached over and touched the golden belly. It was becoming

warm, like human skin.

Cabrillo stared at the icon, then turned to Nixon. "Get me a single-edge

razor blade," he said.

Nixon walked to the workbench, found a box of razor blades,

grabbed them, then walked back, peeling the paper off one of the blades.

"There," Cabrillo said. "There's a crack forming."

Nixon slid the blade into the tiny gap.

"Slide in another," Cabrillo said, "and begin to wedge off the belly

plate."

Minutes passed as the gap widened. As it did, Cabrillo diverted the

heat under the plate, which heated the glue applied centuries before. At

last the crack was large enough that a hand could fit inside. Cabrillo

handed Nixon the heat gun, slid his fingers inside the crack, then gently

pried back the plate while Nixon continued heating the yak's-hoof glue.

Slowly the plate peeled back. Then, all at once, it came off in Cabrillo

's hand.

He stared through the opening into an inner compartment. Inside

lay ancient parchments rolled into a tube and secured witn a decomposing

strip of rawhide. Cabrillo reached in and carefully removed the

bundle.

Nixon looked at Cabrillo and smiled. "What now, boss?"

"We copy them," Cabrillo said quietly, "and put them back."

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SUNG RHEE WAS in the center of a maelstrom of angry people. The

admiral from the Chinese navy had called Beijing to report the damage

to his ships, the two billionaires had both returned with teams of

attorneys, and his assistant had just called to report that the mayor of

Macau was downstairs and on his way up.

And then his telephone rang.

"I told you," he told his receptionist, "no interruptions."

"President Hu Jintao's office is calling."

"Put him through," Rhee said, motioning with his hand to clear his

office. "Put him through."

A few seconds later, a voice said, "President Jintao is on the line."

"Good morning, Mr. President," Rhee said.

"Good morning, Mr. Rhee," Jintao said quietly. "I understand you

had a bit of trouble last night."

Rhee began to sweat. "A ... a minor theft," he stammered. "Nothing

we can't handle, Mr. President."

"Mr. Rhee. We've received calls this morning from the United States

embassy, the head of the Chinese navy, and the vice president of Greece

wanting to know why one of his ships was illegally stopped and boarded

on your orders. That does not sound like a minor theft to me."

"There . . . has been some trouble here," Rhee admitted.

The telephone was silent for a few seconds. "Mr. Rhee," Jintao said

coldly, "I want you to tell me everything that happened. Right now,

from the start."

Slowly, Rhee began speaking.

GUNDERSON STARTED A long lumbering turn around the Oregon. As he stared out the cockpit window, he could see a large balloon

do a fast inflate, then head up in the air, towing a line.

On the stern deck of the Oregon, Kevin Nixon checked the straps

around the crate containing the Golden Buddha again. The three-pronged

hook was duct-taped to the crate and would be used to yank

GOLDEN BUDDHA

„.*   313

Cabrillo aboard if they were successful getting the icon aboard the An-tonov.

Hanley stood off to the side, checking the fit on the harness that

wrapped around Cabrillo's chest and upper thighs. Satisfied it was properly

attached, he snapped a smaller bag containing the sandwiches to

one side of the harness.

"The old Fulton Recovery System," Cabrillo said. "You'd think with

all our funds we'd have found a replacement by now."

"It's so rare we're this far offshore," Hanley said. "Past the point

our amphibian or a helicopter can reach us."

"You ever ridden one of these?" Cabrillo asked.

"Never had the pleasure," Hanley said, smiling.

"It feels like a mule kicked you in the ass," Cabrillo said.

"That's the least of your worries, the way I see it."

"How do you figure?" Cabrillo asked.

"The only winch we could find was designed for light trucks," Hanley

noted. "I just hope they can reel you in fast enough before you strike

the rear stabilizer."

"You make it all sound so appealing," Cabrillo said wryly.

The sound of the Antonov was growing louder.

"Clear the decks," Nixon shouted, "for the first approach."

GUNDERSON WAS NOTED for never becoming flustered. No matter

what the situation, he always maintained his cool. Lowering

the flaps on the Antonov, he slowed the speed to just above jtall, then

lined up less than a hundred feet above the deck.

"Anybody got any gum?" he asked.

Michaels quickly peeled the foil off a piece and jammed it in his

mouth.

"Head back to help Tracy," Gunderson said. "I'll hook the fatso on

the first pass, then I'll shout back before I roll her over."

Inside the Oregon, the cameras on the deck relayed an image of the

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

315

operation throughout the ship. Everyone watched as Gunderson steered

closer.

In the cargo compartment, Pilston and Michaels were watching out

the open door. The steel cable stretched backward, but the hook on the

end was out of view. Gunderson was peering out the front window,

then the side window, in a rapid ballet of visual Olympics. At the top

of the cable leading to the Fulton Aerial Recovery System, just below

the balloon, the cable spread into a Y shape. Gunderson chomped on

the gum as he steered the Antonov closer.

"It's show time," he shouted.

The hook dangling back from the plane slid cleanly into the Y and

snagged the cable. A split second later the crate containing the Golden

Buddha was yanked from the deck as cleanly as ripping a bandage off

a wound. Gunderson instantly felt the drag on the plane and shouted

for Pilston to engage the winch.

She threw the lever forward and the package started to reel aboard,

while at the same time Gunderson eased the biplane over on her side.

Hanley watched from the deck in amazement.

"Tell me when the load's within ten feet," Gunderson shouted.

A minute or so later, Michaels shouted, "Okay, Chuck."

Gunderson did a quick sideways dive to the ocean, now only some

eighty feet away, and the crate went temporarily weightless from the

g forces. The crate floated in the air for a second.

"Rolling flat," Gunderson shouted.

Pilston and Michaels moved away from the door, and the cable

tightened and reeled the Golden Buddha aboard as easily as a book

sliding into a bookcase. The crate slammed against the far inner wall of

the fuselage and stopped. The crate was cracked, but not much. Pilston

turned the winch motor off.

Gunderson stared back, quite happy with the results. He reached

for the radio.

"Mr. Hanley," he said. "I scratched your box a little, but the cargo

is safe and sound."

Hanley pushed the button on his portable radio as Gunderson began

to climb and bank around. "Hell of a job, Tiny. There's a different hook

attached to the box. Attach that to the cable before you pull the chairman

aboard."

"Roger that," Gunderson said.

Then he shouted back to Michaels to attach the other hook to the

end of the line. By the time Gunderson had passed over the top of the Oregon again and was starting his turn to line up, the hook was attached

and Pilston started to reel out the cable once again. Gunderson

adjusted his flight controls, they set the speed of the Antonov to right

at stall.

"Once I hook the boss man," Gunderson shouted, "you reel him in

as fast as possible. When he's next to the door, reach out and pull him

inside."

"Got it," Pilston shouted.

"Here I come, boss," Gunderson said into the radio, "ready or not."

Cabrillo had moved onto the rear deck and Nixon inflated the balloon.

It shot in the air when the Antonov was only a hundred yards off

the bow.

"Clear the decks," Nixon shouted as he sprinted away.

Juan Cabrillo stood quietly. There was really no way to prepare for

what was about to happen. In a few seconds, he would be yanked from

the safety of the Oregon and into the air over the ocean. From the

known to the unknown in a split second. So Cabrillo simply cleared his

mind and waited,

Gunderson chewed his gum, watched the line carefully, and then put

the three-pronged hook directly into the center of the Y once again.

Bam! One second Cabrillo's feet were on the deck, the next second he was yanked into the air. He moved his feet back and forth like he was

trying to run. The wind crept past the goggles he was wearing and his

eyes began to weep as the Antonov grew larger. Cabrillo could see hands

reaching out of the door as he rose, closer to safety. He tilted his head

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CLIVE CUSSLER

back and looked. Every few seconds the cable was bumping against the

rear stabilizer and he prepared to push himself off as he grew closer.

"He's going to hit the tail," Pilston shouted to Gunderson.

Cabrillo put his feet in the air to push against the stabilizer. He was

only a few feet away when Gunderson pulled back on the controls and

pitched the nose of the Antonov up. Cabrillo, hanging from the cable

like a pendulum, dropped a few feet and slid past the tail. A few seconds

later he was next to the door; Michaels and Pilston grabbed his arms

and pulled him inside.

Gunderson started the Antonov climbing, then glanced back into

the cargo area.

"Hey, boss," he yelled, "how was the ride?"

MICHAEL HALPERT FLICKED on the computer in the Oregon's library. Working the party in Macau had been exciting--the

element of danger involved in operations ensured that. Even so, Hal-pert's

forte was the arcane accounting and banking network he had

constructed for the Corporation's activities. In that, Halpert was a master.

The twisted matrix of corporate law and structure was exciting to

him--he loved to hide the Corporation's assets like a penny under a

glacier, and shield its ownership in companies through complex structures

that would take teams of accountants years to unravel.

Today he would need to use all his skills.

Halpert was building what he liked to call a skeleton. A skeleton

was a series of corporations forming the bones to support the skull that

held the nerve center of an operation. Each would need to be structured,

funded and interlinked until the actual source of ownership and control

was as cloudy as a London morning.

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CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

319

He scanned a database of available existing companies.

First would come the skull itself--the eventual owner of the assets

that would soon be created. For that he chose a corporation based in

the tiny country of Andorra. The company, Cataluna Esteme, had been

founded in 1972 with the purpose of mining and trading of lead.

Andorra, all 181 square miles of territory, is perched in the Pyrenees

Mountains, with Spain to the south and France to the north. The population

of Andorra is some sixty-five thousand people, and the primary

industry is tourism, with an emphasis on snow skiing. The country had

been in existence since 1278 and was modern and progressive, plus

Halpert had never used it before.

Cataluna Esteme itself had been active in the lead business until

1998, when the aging owner had been felled by heart trouble while on

a visit to Paris. Over the next year or so, the assets of the corporation

had been distributed to the owner's heirs, and the company itself had

gone dormant. Cataluna Esteme existed in the desk drawer of a lawyer

in Andorra's capital city of Andorra la Vella.

Halpert scanned the history and found it ideal. The company had

perfect credit, a past history of large sums passing through the corporation

coffers, as well as the shield of privacy offered by Andorran law.

The remaining stock in the company was available for the equivalent of

$50,000. This sum would give them complete control of a corporation

that had existed for over thirty years, had a charter similar to the intended

use, and was completely untraceable.

Halpert decided to buy Cataluna Esteme.

For the feet of the skeleton, he used two companies the Corporation

already owned. The first was Gizo Properties, based in the Solomon

Islands in the South Pacific. The second was Paisen Industries, based in

San Marino, a country on the Adriatic coast completely surrounded by

Italy. Accessing the companies' accounts over the computer, Halpert

deposited $874,000 in Gizo Properties and $418,000 in Paisen Industries.

In the blink of an eye, Halpert had moved $1.292 million into

already existing accounts. The money would not remain there long.

Next, Gizo Properties and Paisen Industries, through a special shareholders'

resolution that Halpert drafted and passed, each agreed to buy

stock in two more companies. The first was Alcato, based in Lisbon,

the second, Tellemedics of Asuncion, Paraguay. Both of these companies

were operating concerns--Alcato built specialized marine electronics,

Tellemedics made telemetry equipment used in hospitals throughout

South America. The Portuguese company had a book value of $3 million

U.S.; the Paraguayan, nearly $10 million.

Both had been secretly owned by the Corporation for nearly a decade.

Halpert pulled up the corporate records of both and found sufficient

cash reserves for his plan.

With the legs now in place, he looked for the torso.

He would need a recognizable and stable platform that would appeal

to the Corporation's soon-to-be partners. For this he could only

use Central Europe. Halpert needed a company based in a country with

rock-solid political stability, iron-clad currency and worldwide recognition

of financial wherewithal. He scanned his database and found he

had three companies to choose from--the first was based in Basel, Switzerland;

the second in Luxembourg; the third, which he favored, in Vaduz,

Liechtenstein.

Liechtenstein it was.

Albertinian Investments S.A. was a currency-and-gold-trading concern

that had proved widely successful since the recent upward move in

precious metals prices. The company, secretly controlled by the Corporation,

owned a beautiful six-story building in Vaduz, where it occupied

the top two stories, had a cash balance in accounts amounting

to over $18 million U.S., and frequently invested in other companies

that showed promise.

Next, Alcato and Tellemedics passed corporate resolutions making

loans of $1.25 million each to Albertinian Investments. These were composed

of the monies transferred from Gizo Properties and Paisen

Industries, plus some cash from the coffers of each. Albertinian Invest

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

321

"Anything else?"

"If there is," Halpert said, "I'll contact you when you reach An

--

'5

ments agreed to pay each company 7 percent interest for the loans, as

well as an option to convert the loans to stock at a set price for the

next five years. The trail of money was becoming cloudier by the minute.

There was now an extra $5 million of washed and clean funds in

Albertinian Investments.

Halpert sipped from a glass of iced tea. Then he entered the commands

into the computer and Albertinian Investments offered to buy

Cataluna Esteme for the $50,000 asking price. The transaction would

take several hours for the attorney in Andorra to complete.

Next, Halpert scanned a base of lawyers the Corporation had used

in the past in Spain. Finding one in Madrid, he dialed the telephone and

waited.

"Carlos the Second, please," he said in Spanish when the receptionist

answered. "Mr. Halpert calling."

Exactly forty-two seconds later, the lawyer came on the line.

"Sorry for the wait, Mr. Halpert," the lawyer said. "What can I do

for you?"

"I need you to fly to Andorra, immediately," Halpert said. "We are

buying another company."

"Standard protocol?" the lawyer asked. "Open bank accounts, rent

offices and such?"

"That's the idea," Halpert said, "and we need it done yesterday."

"I'll need to charter a plane, then," the lawyer said. "I doubt there

are commercial flights available at this late hour."

"We will approve the costs," Halpert said.

"How big are you looking, sir?"

"The initial funding will be ten million," Halpert said. "Five will be

a direct loan from one of our divisions in Liechtenstein, the second five

will be in the form of a line of credit, available immediately."

"I understand, sir," the lawyer said. "I'll leave right away."

"One more thing," Halpert said. "Find us a public relations firm in

Andorra--I have a feeling what we are planning will garner some press

interest."

dorra."

"Very good," the lawyer said as he hung up the telephone.

com-

Then

the lawyer sat back in his chair and smiled. He knew his rather

excessive fees would be paid in cash--which he would fail to report to

the tax authorities. Reaching for the telephone, he called a local

pany to charter a prop-jet for the trip north.

LIKE BEING KICKED by a mule," Cabrillo said over the noise of

the droning engine.

Pilston was closing the side door of the Antonov. She wrestled it in

place and held it closed while Michaels locked it down. Cabrillo placed

his hand on the Golden Buddha to stabilize himself, and then removed

the package of papers and the satchel of food. He placed them on the

floor, then unsnapped the harness and set it aside. He stared around the

cargo bay of the Antonov before walking forward to the cockpit.

"How's she fly, Tiny?" he asked as he slid into the copilot's seat.

"She's as slow and steady as a diesel trawler," Gunderson answered.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Yep," Gunderson said. "Tracy needed to rack up some flight time,

so she and Judy flew us here from Vietnam."

Cabrillo nodded and turned his head back to the cargo area.

"How'd it go with Mr. Silicon Valley?" he asked.      x

"We made it through," Michaels said.

"I want to apologize to both of you," Cabrillo said quietly. "If there

was any other way ..."

"We know, sir," Pilston said. "It was just a job--and we treated it

as such."

"Still . . . ," Cabrillo said, "it was above and beyond what we should

ask of you. I approved a special bonus for you both, and Hanley has

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

323

scheduled you for a month off with pay as soon as we finish this mis

sion.

"Thank you, sir," Michaels said. "And this helped soften the blow

somewhat."

She held up the stack of bearer bonds.

"I trust," Gunderson said, "you mean that figuratively and not literally."

THE U.S. AMBASSADOR to Russia sipped from a small glass of

vodka, then smiled at President Putin. The men were seated in

front of a roaring fire inside the presidential offices in Moscow. Outside,

a spring storm was finally exhausting itself after dumping nearly a foot

of wet snow on the capital city. Soon the first flowers would pop their

heads from the soil. Then it would all turn green.

"How much are we talking about?" Putin asked.

"Billions," the ambassador said.

"And the structure?"

"As you know," the ambassador said, taking another sip, "this is

not a United States government operation. For all intents and purposes, 'i

you will be making the agreements with a separate company that we

subcontract with."

"But they work for you?" Putin asked.

"Not on paper," the ambassador said, "but we have used them in

the past."

"Give me some details," Putin said as he rose to stoke the fire with

a poker. "I'd like to know with whom I'm getting into bed."

"They call themselves the Corporation," the ambassador noted quietly.

"They handle things of a sensitive nature for us and other countries.

The company has specialized skills, huge amounts of funding and an

unparalleled reputation for integrity."

"They can be trusted?" Putin asked.

"You may consider their word their bond," the ambassador confirmed.

"Who runs this Corporation?" Putin asked.

"A man named Juan Cabrillo," the ambassador answered.

"And when do I meet this Juan Cabrillo?" Putin said, turning from

the fire, placing the poker back in the rack and sliding into the armchair.

"He will be in Moscow late this evening," the ambassador said.

"Good," Putin said. "I welcome the chance to hear him out."

The ambassador finished the small glass of vodka and waved away

Putin's attempt to refill it. "Now," he said, "how much hassle are you

getting from the Chinese?"

"Enough," the Russian president admitted, "but not more than we

can handle."

"If you need to," the ambassador asked, "are you ready to go in?"

Putin pointed to a folder of papers on the table. "There is the plan.

In less than twenty-four hours, we can cross the Tarim Basin in a

lightning-fast raid and reach the border of Tibet."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," the ambassador said.

"If I have to order that approach," Putin said, "I want your president

on paper supporting that move. There is no other way."

"We don't think you'll need to do that," the ambassador said. "It

won't go that far."

"Just know," Putin said, "if we stand up--he does too."

"I'll let him know," the ambassador said.

THEY APPEARED OUT of nowhere," the head of Chinese state

security said.

Chinese president Hu Jintao stared at the man with barely concealed

contempt.

"Five hundred Buddhist monks just materialized out of the mist in

People's Park in downtown Beijing?" Jintao said. "That's some magic."

The man sat mute. There was nothing to say.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

325

"And they are chanting and calling for Tibetan freedom?"

"Yes, sir," the man from state security said.

"When was the last time we were faced with a Tibetan protest?"

Jintao asked.

"In Beijing?" the man said. "It's been over a decade--and then it

was tiny and easily dispersed."

"And this one?"

"It's growing by the minute," the man admitted.

"I've got a massive Russian war exercise on the border with Mongolia,

Tibetan separatists in downtown Beijing, and I'm not sure what's

going on in Macau province. This spring is not coming up with fresh-smelling

flowers."

"Do you want me to order troops to disperse the protesters?" the

head of state security asked.

"Absolutely not," Jintao said. "Our world standing still has not

been repaired from Tiananmen Square, and that was in 1989. We take

action against peaceful Buddhist monks, the repercussions will reverberate

for decades."

"Then do nothing?"

"For now," Jintao said, "until we figure out what is happening."

WHERE ARE WE at on this thing?" the president of the United

States asked.

"Off the record, sir?" the Director of Central Intelligence asked.

"I did not sneak you into the White House through the underground

tunnel so that I could discuss it tonight on Larry King, Director. Yes,

completely off the record."

"It's progressing perfectly," the DCI noted. "And we are shielded

behind an armor of deniability that couldn't be penetrated with an

antitank round."

"How soon before you need me to do my thing?" the president

asked.

"Tomorrow," the DCI said, "if all goes according to plan."

"Then," the president said, rising, "you make sure it does."

"Yes, Mr. President," the DCI said as the president walked through

the door and down the hall to a state dinner that was already in progress.

THE OREGON WAS flying across the water. The schedule called for

the ship to stop in Ho Chi Minh City. Once there, the operatives

that would be needed in Tibet would be off-loaded and flown in a C-130

northwest to Bhutan. Then the Oregon would continue on, passing

Singapore. Traversing the Strait of Malacca, the vessel would race north

into the Bay of Bengal, arriving off Bangladesh on Easter Day.

That was the closest to Tibet that the Oregon would ever be.

No one in the Corporation enjoyed it when the Oregon and her

battery of electronics and firepower were far from the operation. The ship was the lifeline to the crew, their home away from home, their

anchor in the stormy sea of intrigue where they operated.

Ross and Kasim were doing their best to smooth the difficulty.

"I've tested the satellite uplink," Kasim said. "The Oregon will

have command-and-control capability. Everyone will be reachable either

by radio or secure telephone."

Ross glanced up from her computer screen. "I'm programming the

drones. We have two. That's less than I would like, but they're just so

damn expensive."

"Who will fly them?" Kasim asked.

"They will need to be operated from within three hundred miles,"

she noted. "Thimbu or inside Tibet itself."

Kasim nodded.

She scanned a sheet of paper that listed crew qualifications. "Four

of us are trained in the operation. You, me, Lincoln and Jones."

"Lincoln would stand out in Tibet like a debutante at a. tractor

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

327

pull," Kasim noted. "If he operates the drone, at least he'll be hidden

inside a tent. If I were you, I'd recommend to Hanley he get the job."

Ross nodded her head in agreement. "He's good," she said, "and

the drones are critical--they will be our only eyes in the sky. If Lincoln

can keep them over station above Lhasa Airport, the control room here

can watch the action unfolding."

"What have the Chinese got in Tibet to shoot them down?" Kasim

asked.

Ross glanced at the sheet listing Chinese defenses that had been

recently smuggled out of Tibet by the underground freedom movement.

"Some old antiaircraft guns and one ten-year-old missile defense battery.

Around Gonggar Airport near Lhasa there's not much," she said. "Looks

like a couple of cargo planes, some helicopters, and rifles carried by the

troops."

"I'd make a note to Hanley to target the antiaircraft guns for early

destruction," Kasim said, "then have Lincoln fly only one drone at a

time."

"That's what I was thinking," Ross said. "If he flies high, he can

scan the entire city, plus keep the bird out of sight of riflemen."

"Makes sense," Kasim said.

"What do you find for radio and television transmitters?"

"There is one television," Kasim said, "and a pair of radios. We

need quickly to gain control of both so we can keep the Tibetan people

alerted."

"What's the report say?" Ross said. "Will they rally against the

Chinese when the time comes?"

"We think so," Kasim said, "and God help the Chinese when they

do."

"The Dungkart" Ross said.

"Tibetan for blackbirds with red beaks," Kasim said. "The fighting

arm of the Tibetan underground."

Ross glanced at the sheet holding the assembled intelligence. "When

it is time, we will feed on the carcasses of the oppressors and the beaks

will be red with blood and the day will be black with death."

"Brings a chill to my spine," Kasim said.

"And I thought," Ross said, "we had the air conditioning too cold."

ONE FLOOR BELOW where Ross and Kasim were planning, Mark

Murphy was in the armory. Munitions and crates were piled to

one side, and Sam Pryor and Cliff Hornsby were slowly moving them

toward the elevator to be taken to an upper storage area where they

would be off-loaded in Da Nang. On each crate to be used, Murphy

attached a red-taped sticker. Then the contents were labeled with a felt-tipped

pen. He was singing a ditty while he worked.

"I'm a gonna blow some stuff up tomorrow," he said. "Gonna blow

me up some stuff."

Pryor wiped his forehead with a handkerchief before bending down

to lift another crate to carry to the elevator. "Shoot, Murph," he said,

"you packing enough C-6?"

"You can't have too much," Murphy said, smiling, "at least in my

opinion. Heck, it doesn't spoil and you never know what might come up."

"You got enough here to blow up an Egyptian pyramid," Hornsby

said, walking into the room after placing his crate in the elevator, "and

enough mines to register shock waves on a seismograph."

"Those are for the airport," Murphy said. "You don't want the

Chinese to be able to land troops, do you?"

"Land?" Pryor said. "You use all these, there won't be an airport."

"I have other plans for some of them," Murphy said.

"I've got the feeling you're looking forward to this," Hornsby said.

Murphy started singing again as he walked over to crates of Stinger

missiles and began to attach the red tags. Letting loose a long whistle,

he finished with the sound of a blast.

Hornsby and Pryor carried crates out the door and headed for the

elevator.

"I'd sure hate to have him mad at me," Pryor said.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

329

THE ANTONOV WAS less than a hundred miles from Da Nang,

heading due west. At its current speed, the plane would touch

down in about forty minutes, or just around 4:30 p.m. local time. The

biplane, although slow, had performed flawlessly. Gunderson balanced

the yoke with his knees and reached into the air and stretched.

"This baby's a peach," he said to Cabrillo.

"After this mission is completed, you can check into buying one for

the company, if you think we'll use it enough," Cabrillo said.

"Take the wings off and we could probably fit it into a forty-foot

shipping container," Gunderson said. "If we had Murphy mount a fire

cannon out the door, we'd have a hell of a gunship."

For the last hour Cabrillo had been checking arrangements with the Oregon over his secure telephone. The last call from Hanley had placed

the Gulfstream G550 on final approach to Da Nang airfield. Cabrillo

was nodding at Gunderson's comment when his telephone buzzed again.

"The Gulfstream's on the ground and refueled," Hanley told him.

"The pilot is setting the course now. I contacted General Siphondon in

Laos and received permission for you to cross through their airspace."

"How is the general?" Cabrillo asked.

"His usual self," Hanley said. "Dropping hints about a classic car

he'd like."

"At least he's upfront about his wants," Cabrillo said. "And an old-car

fetish I can understand. What is it he's after?"

"Hemi Roadrunner convertible," Hanley said. "Apparently some

Air America pilot had one shipped over to use during the war. The

general was only a kid then, but it stuck in his mind."

"Any around?"

"I've got Keith Lowden in Colorado checking out the market," Hanley

said. "He'll get back to us when he knows what's available."

"Excellent," Cabrillo said. "Now what about Thailand and Myan-mar?"

"All cleared," Hanley said, "so it'll be a straight shot to India."

"C-130?"

"She's due to leave Bhutan and touch down in Da Nang just after

eight p.m."

"Do you have the team ready?" Cabrillo asked.

"They'll be ready by the time the Oregon reaches port," Hanley

said.

"This is a tight timetable," Cabrillo said, "and we only have one

shot at this."

"No do-overs," Hanley said quietly.

"No do-overs," Cabrillo agreed.

IN NORTHERN INDIA at Little Lhasa, the oracle was deep in a trance.

The Dalai Lama sat to one side as the man spun and danced. From

time to time the oracle would race over to a sheet of rice paper and

scribble notes furiously, then return to his ritualistic motions. A

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CLIVE CUSSLER

strange animal-like sound seeped from his vocal cords and drops of

sweat flew through the air.

At last he collapsed in a heap on the floor and his helpers removed

the headpiece and robes.

The Dalai Lama picked up a wooden bowl filled with water, dampened

a sheep's skin, then stepped over, bent down, and began to wash

the sweat from the aging man.

"You did well," he said in a soothing voice. "There is much information

written on the sheets."

The oracle allowed the Dalai Lama to drip some water into his

mouth. He swished it around and spit it to the side. "I saw bloodshed

and fighting," he said quietly. "Much bloodshed."

"Let us pray not," the Dalai Lama said.

"But there was a second way," the oracle said. "I think that is what

I wrote."

"Bring some tea and tsampa," the Dalai Lama ordered an aide, who

rushed out of the room.

Twelve minutes later, the oracle and the Dalai Lama were sitting

around a table in the great room. The Tibetan tea, flavored with salt

and butter, as well as the tsampa, roasted barley flour usually mixed

with milk or yogurt, had brought the color back to the oracle's cheeks.

Where only moments before he had seemed aged and weak, he now

appeared animated and in control.

"Your Holiness," he said eagerly, "shall we see what I received?" {

"Please," the Dalai Lama said.

The oracle stared at the sheets of rice paper. The letters were in an

ancient script only he and a few others could read. He read them

through twice, then smiled at the Dalai Lama.

"Is someone from the west coming to see you?" the oracle asked.

"Yes," the Dalai Lama said, "later this evening."

"Here is what you tell him," the oracle said.

Thirty minutes later, the Dalai Lama nodded and smiled at the or- > acle.

GOLDEN BUDDHA     331

"I will have my aides prepare notes to buttress our argument," he

said, "and thank you."

Rising from the chair, the oracle walked unsteadily from the room.

LANGSTON OVERHOLT WAS using a borrowed office in a far corner

of the compound at Little Lhasa. He was speaking on a secure line

to the director of Central Intelligence in hushed tones.

"I didn't order that," he said. "I simply don't have the apparatus in

China to pull it off."

"The estimates from our people on the ground place the number at

five hundred and growing," the DCI noted.

"I'll ask the contractor," Overholt said, "but it may just be a lucky

break."

"Whatever the case," the DCI said, "reports say the Chinese are

paying close attention to the protests."

"What about the Mongolians?" Overholt asked.

"I had a secret meeting with their ambassador," the DCI said.

"They'll play it either way."

"What did that cost?" Overholt asked.

"Don't ask," the DCI said, "but suffice it to say the United States'

strategic reserves of tungsten and molybdenum won't need replenishing

for some time."

"That gives us choices for the contractor to offer to the Russians,"

Overholt said.

"As soon as he meets with them, I need to know what they have

decided," the DCI told him.

"No matter what the time," Overholt said.

UNDERSON COULD NOT believe the lift the pair of wings gave

the Antonov. Though he and the others had been flying the plane

"Day or night," the DCI said before disconnecting.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

333

for nearly eight hours, this was the first time he had needed to land.

Lining up to land, he floated the Antonov down to the runway like a

feather fluttering to the floor. Halfway down the length of the runway,

Gunderson realized he'd need to force the plane to the ground. Moving

the yoke forward, he felt the wheels finally touch.

"Sorry about that, boss," he said, pointing out the window at the

Gulf stream on the far end of the runway. "She floats like a butterfly.

I'll taxi us back over to the Gulfstream."

Cabrillo nodded and unsnapped the seat belt. Walking into the

cargo area, he began to collect his things. Lifting the stack of bearer

bonds, he placed them all in his bag, then thought better of that. He j

turned his head toward the cockpit.

"Do you have to take the plane back south again?" he asked Gunderson.

"No, sir," Gunderson said, slowing as he approached the Gulf-stream.

"Gannon worked it out--the company will pick it up here. The

ladies are boarding the Oregon, and I'm flying north on the C-130 as

soon as it arrives."

Cabrillo began to count the pile. When he finished, he spoke again.

"I'm leaving you a pile," he said to everyone. "Give them to Hanley

when he arrives. Tell him I took the rest north--I may need them to

grease some wheels."

Gunderson stopped the Antonov, then reached for the checklist for

postflight. "Okay, boss," he said as he started through the steps to shut

down the engine. Michaels was unlatching the door while Pilston stood

off to the side.

"You have some time to kill until the Oregon arrives," Cabrillo said.

"You'll have guards from the Vietnamese air force, but I'd stay close.

Hanley will make payment to their general when he arrives, so you

shouldn't have to deal with much."

"Will they take us to a bathroom?" Michaels asked.

"I'm sure they will," Cabrillo said as he walked for the door, "but

one at a time, please. And whatever you do, don't let anyone know you

have that stack of bonds."

"You got it, boss," Gunderson said.

Cabrillo stopped at the door for a second. "Ladies, Tiny," he said,

smiling, "I'll see you soon."

Then he stepped off the Antonov and began walking to the Gulf-stream.

The pilot and copilot were standing next to the open door. The

pilot smiled at Cabrillo and motioned for the step.

"We're ready for you, sir," he said. "Welcome aboard."

"There's a box on the biplane," Cabrillo said. "Get some help and

haul it aboard."

Cabrillo walked up the ramp, made his way to a seat, and then

waited while the pilots got the crate loaded inside, shut the door, and

started the engines. Two minutes later, they were airborne. The Gulf-stream

was still climbing to cruising altitude when they crossed over the

mountains of Laos.

IN NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA, General Alexander Kernetsikov was staring

at a large chalkboard inside a hangar at the airport. Troops and

material continued to pour into the area at a rate of deployment seldom

seen in times of peace. There were thousands of details to attend to, but

there was one that bothered Kernetsikov the most.

"Have we received an answer yet?" he said to his aide. "If this is a

go, I need to know which fork to take at Barnaul. We either violate

Kazakhstan and enter China near Tacheng, or we need to move the

troops into Mongolia, take the road toward Altaj and cross over the

mountains there, then sweep quickly across the plains and pass Lop

Nur."

The aide stared at the general. Lop Nur was the home of the Chinese

nuclear test base and he imagined it would be heavily defended. The

other route featured mountains that were still covered in snow. It was

like choosing between a root canal and ripping off a toenail.

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

335

"There's been no communication, General," the aide said, "including whether this is not merely an exercise in fast deployment and war

planning."

"It's just a feeling," the general said quietly, "but I think that before ":

this is over, we'll be crossing the mountains like Hannibal."

The aide nodded. Every good officer under whom he had served had \ a strong sense of history. He just hoped the general was wrong--facing

off with the Chinese, even with the firepower they had amassed, was

not a welcome thought.

IN BEIJING, GENERAL Tudeng Quing was offering President Jintao

a possible solution.

"If we pull all but two thousand troops out of Tibet, concentrating

those left only in Lhasa, we could divert the rest to Urumqi in the Xinjiang

Province. They could be in place starting tomorrow."

"How many?" Jintao asked.

"Say a thousand by plane in the next few hours," Quing said. "The

tanks and armored carriers have a nine-hundred-mile journey. Running

them full out at forty miles an hour with refueling and such, they could

be in place tomorrow this time."

"We don't have any troops closer?" Jintao asked.

"Airborne, we can bring them in from anywhere," Quing noted.

"It's the armor we need--other than Tibet, the closest armored division

we require is almost twice that distance away, and the trip is over

rougher terrain. My aides have calculated three or four days minimum."

Jintao sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he turned

to Legchog Raidi Zhuren, the chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region,

who had so far remained quiet.

"Will two thousand troops give you a sufficient level of security until

we can replace your armor in four or five days?" Jintao asked.

"Mr. President," Zhuren said. "Tibet has been quiet for years--I

don't see that changing any time soon. Now, if I may be excused, I

should be leaving for my return to Tibet."

Jintao turned to General Quing. "Order it done."

Next, Jintao turned to the Chinese ambassador to Russia.

"You," he said loudly, "figure out what the Russians have planned.

If they are planning to annex Mongolia, let them know we won't stand

for that. The Mongols conquered us once--I'm not going to give them

a chance to try it again."

Within two hours of the meeting, the first Chinese transport planes

began to land at Lhasa Airport and began ferrying troops north to Xinjiang

Province. In the haste to counter the Russian threat, the organization

of the Chinese army in Tibet would suffer. Junior officers would

be placed in charge of partially staffed battalions. Weapons and ammunition

would be depleted. The mission and purpose would be compromised.

CABRILLO WAS NAPPING in the rear of the Gulfstream when his

secure telephone buzzed.

"Go ahead," he said, instantly awake.

"It's me," Overholt said, "with good news. The NSA just called the

DCI, who called me. The Russian bluff is working. Transport planes

are leaving the airport in Lhasa and hauling troops north. In addition,

a column of tanks has just left the city and they're traveling at breakneck

speed. Everyone said it's looking up so far."

Cabrillo glanced at his watch. "I'll be there in about an hour or so.

Are we all set up for the meeting?"

"It's all taken care of," Overholt said.

"Good," Cabrillo said. "If we reach an agreement there, I'll continue

north."

"You really think you can sell everybody on this idea?" Overholt

asked.

ll

336

CLIVE CUSSLER

"This mission's like an onion," Cabrillo said. "Every time I peel

back a layer, there's a layer underneath."

"That's not the half of it," Overholt said. "The Dalai Lama has a

new plan."

"I can't wait," Cabrillo said.

"I think you're going to like it," Overholt told him.

THE OREGON DOCKED off Ho Chi Minh City. The team that

would enter Tibet was transported by shore boat to land. Then

they were driven in a Vietnamese air force truck to the airport, where

the C-130 sat waiting. The total Corporation force would number a

baker's dozen.

Six men--Seng, Murphy, Reyes, King, Meadows and Kasim-- would be tasked with the offensive operations. They would link up with

the Dungkar already inside the country and direct them in the proper

targets to hit first. Crabtree and Gannon, who were already in Bhutan

awaiting the team's arrival, would handle supply and logistics. Adams

and Gunderson would fly, while Lincoln was in charge of setting up

and operating the Predator drones. Huxley was tasked with setting up

a medical facility to treat anyone wounded or injured.

The thirteenth member was Cabrillo. He would arrive after he finished

his pair of meetings.

338

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GOLDEN BUDDHA

339

To the untrained, the mission looked like suicide: a dozen or so

against a force that was close to two thousand. Odds of one hundred

and fifty-plus to one. It looked like a bloodbath in the making. A trained

observer, however, would be praying for the Chinese troops. First, one

had to consider the Dungkar, the shadowy underground Chinese opposition

thought to number in the thousands in Lhasa. When unleashed,

the Dungkar would burn with a fever that only comes when fighting an

enemy on home soil. Second was the element of surprise. The Chinese

were not planning for a concentrated and expertly executed coup d'etat

in the next twenty-four hours. The third was the most basic. It is almost

a certainty that a well-planned offense will defeat an unplanned defense

every single time.

That was where the Corporation excelled.

Already, most of the Chinese forces inside Tibet were heading north

in a helter-skelter deployment that had left little time for planning and

even less for preparation. The troops left around Lhasa were not the

cream of the crop; they were the leftovers--the administration clerks,

mechanics and painters, plodders and planners. The officers were not

combat trained, would not be knowledgeable about their individual soldiers'

strengths and weaknesses, and would lack a complete picture of

where all the parts fit together.

Right now in Tibet, the army was a jigsaw puzzle without a design.

KASIM WALKED FROM the truck and approached the C-130 radio

operator. "What have you got from inside?" he asked.

"We have another plane circling out of sight of the Chinese deployment,

capturing their signals and bouncing them here," the operator

said. "Right now, most of the communications pertain to laying fuel

dumps on the road north. The tanks are outrunning the fuel supply."

"Have you heard from the tail?" Kasim asked.

The operator, a Chinese American formerly employed by the Defense

Intelligence Agency and now attached to the CIA proprietary air

line

supplying the C-130, scanned his notes. "As of nineteen thirty Zulu

time, the rear of the convoy had passed through Naggu."

"They're making good time," Kasim noted. "At this speed, they will

pass through Amdo before eleven p.m. and then another two hours or

so and they will make the border with Tsinghai Province."

The operator stared at a classified satellite photograph and compared

it with a detailed Defense Mapping Agency map. "The pass at

Basatongwula Shan will slow them some; it's riddled with steep mountains

and tight turns. The altitude is almost sixty-one hundred meters."

"Twenty thousand feet," Kasim said. "That's high. The border's

about two hundred fifty miles from Lhasa," Kasim noted, "and our

reports state these are the older Type Fifty-nine tanks. That gives them

a range of two hundred seventy miles on a tank of diesel, or about a

hundred more if they have the external fuel tanks mounted."

The operator nodded. "I've been watching the progress. The Type

Fifty-nine on a road can top out around fifty kilometers an hour or

thirty-plus miles an hour. Normally, however, they cruise at something

like twenty miles an hour."

"What are you saying?" Kasim asked.

The operator smiled and reached for a pack of cigarettes. He tapped

one from the pack, lit it with a Zippo lighter, then took a drag. Blowing

out the smoke, he answered.

"What I'm saying is that these boys are running at nearly full speed

no matter what the cost in fuel usage. They will need to stop in Amdo

and fill the tanks so they can make the pass. Then they'll have a run

downhill that will take them to Kekexili for the next stop."

"So when they reach there sometime around breakfast Easter day,"

Kasim said, "they will be four hundred miles from Lhasa, with a twenty-thousand-foot

pass in between them and us."

"Sounds about right," the operator said.

"Thanks for the help," Kasim said.

A line of Vietnamese air force airmen carried the last of the crates

aboard the C-130. Hanley stood off to the side, talking to the Vietnam

340   CLIVECUSSLER

ese general in charge of the arrangements. Kasim watched as Hanley

handed the man an envelope, then the two shared a laugh. Hanley shook

the general's hand, then walked over to the C-130.

"Mr. Hanley," Kasim said, "I have a plan."

THE GULFSTREAM G550 carrying Cabrillo and the Golden Buddha

landed at Amritsar, India, and Cabrillo and the icon were flown

in a helicopter the rest of the way to Little Lhasa, near Dharamsala in

the northern Himachal Pradesh region of northern India.

The aide quickly ushered him in to his meeting with the Dalai Lama.

"Your Holiness," Cabrillo said as he entered and bowed his head

slightly.

The Dalai Lama stood silently, staring at Cabrillo for a full minute.

Then he smiled.

"You are a good man," he said at last. "Langston told me--but I

needed to be sure for myself."

"Thank you, sir," Cabrillo said. "These are the papers that we recovered

from inside the Buddha," he said, handing them to the Dalai

Lama's aide. "I'll need them transcribed before my meeting with the

Russians."

"Copy them and translate them into English," the Dalai Lama ordered

his aide. "Mr. Cabrillo will need to leave again shortly."

The Dalai Lama motioned to a long couch, where Overholt was

already seated. Cabrillo sat on the end and the Dalai Lama slipped

between the two men. "So explain the plan," he said.

"I believe the Russians will support your bid to regain your country.

They will offer the muscle to deter the Chinese from making an assault

once we gain control of Lhasa, in return for the rights to develop what

you claim those documents represent: the vast oil reserves of the Himalayas."

"Their location's known only to us," said the Dalai Lama. "In those

341

GOLDEN BUDDHA

documents. So--your president got them to the border by offering them

the aid package," the Dalai Lama said, "but to fight, they need more."

"Exactly," Cabrillo said.

"And you?" the Dalai Lama asked. "Your company? What were

you hired to do?"

"We were hired to steal the Golden Buddha and to pave the way

for your return. Once you are back inside Tibet, our obligation would,

by the contract wording, end."

"So I would be left--how do you say it?--high and dry," the Dalai

Lama said.

"Hard to say," Cabrillo admitted, "and this has bothered me and

my associates."

"Why?" the Dalai Lama said. "Are you not mercenaries? Once your

obligation is over, don't you just blend into the night?"

Cabrillo thought for a minute how to answer this question. He

paused and thought as the Dalai Lama waited. "It's a little more complex

than that, Your Holiness. If we did what we did just for money,

we would have all retired by now. It's more involved than that. In the

past, most of us worked for one government agency or another, and we

were compelled by Congress, or public opinion, to do things we knew

or felt were wrong. We don't do those things anymore. We were formed

to make a profit, that's for sure, but as much as we like the money, we

are also cognizant of the chances that arise for us to somehow right the

wrongs of others."

"You are speaking of Karma," the Dalai Lama said. "Something I

am most aware of."

Cabrillo nodded. "We have decided that to leave you alone to fight

the Chinese would be wrong. The solution came to us when we realized

the significance of the papers inside the Golden Buddha."

"And I assume your company will profit from such a deal?" the

Dalai Lama asked.

"Is that bad?" Cabrillo asked.

"Not necessarily," the Dalai Lama said, "but explain more."

342

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDENBUDDHA

343

Ten minutes later, Cabrillo was finished.

"I'm impressed," the Dalai Lama said, "now let me explain mine."

Another five minutes passed as the Dalai Lama spoke.

"Brilliant," Cabrillo said when the Dalai Lama had finished.

"Thank you," the Dalai Lama said, "but to sway the vote will take

funds--will you bear the cost?"

"We made a little money on a side deal," Cabrillo said, thinking of

the $100 million in bearer bonds. "So the costs are not a problem."

Overholt had remained silent as the two spoke. Now he interjected.

"If you can pull this off," he said eagerly, "the president will kiss you."

"Mr. Cabrillo," the Dalai Lama said, "this gives us both an opportunity

to keep the bloodshed down, while at the same time offering our

actions a legitimacy that is indisputable. If you can make this happen,

I will agree to your deal as offered."

"Thank you, Your Holiness," Cabrillo said.

"Good luck, Mr. Cabrillo," the Dalai Lama said. "May Buddha

bless your mission."

After a short meeting with Overholt, Cabrillo collected the translated

pages and maps, then climbed back in the helicopter and was flown back to Amritsar. President Putin had been promised the meeting would

be worth the effort. Cabrillo would not fail to deliver.

JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, the C-130 carrying the members from the

Corporation landed in Thimbu, Bhutan, and the plane was surrounded

by a dozen Philippine Special Forces soldiers. Off to the side,

the eight Bell 212 helicopters were aligned in a row, with ten feet separating

each ship.

A large domed hangar was nearby, with the door open and light

spilling out onto the runway. Carl Gannon walked from inside and

extended his hand to Eddie Seng. "They tell me you're in charge until

the chairman arrives," he said. "Let me show you around."

The others followed Seng and Gannon inside the hangar. "I've man

aged

to scrounge up radios and have established a link with the Oregon," he said, pointing to a wooden table with a computer and a

stack of papers. "The latest data is on top."

Alongside the table were several corkboards displaying maps of Tibet,

satellite weather images and other documents. A chalkboard was

erected on an easel, where Seng could make notes and draw the plans,

as well as a large plastic-covered map showing the city of Lhasa that

was taped to a piece of plywood and sat atop another table.

Off to the side, milling around an area with a large coffeepot, small

refrigerator, and cardboard boxes containing food, were the eighteen

mercenary pilots. Murphy made his way to the coffee, poured a cup

and greeted an old friend. "Gurt," he said, "you old dog."

Gurt, a mid-fifties blond-haired man with a crew cut and a gold

tooth in front, smiled.

"Murphy," he said, flashing the tooth, "I thought this might be

something you'd be involved in. It had the smell of a Corporation operation."

The men continued visiting while Seng flipped through the information

Gannon had amassed. Five minutes later, he called everyone to

sit in the rows of folding wooden chairs arranged in front of the boards.

The pilots ambled over and took seats behind the Corporation crew.

Seng glanced at the assembled group before speaking.

"For those of you who don't know me," he said easily, "my name

is Eddie, Seng. Please call me Seng and not Eddie so there is no confusion.

I will be commander in charge of this operation until the time that

our chairman, Juan Cabrillo, arrives in the theater."

The group nodded.

"The breakdown of flight operation will be as follows. Six of the

helicopters will be tasked with offensive operations, one for the chairman

when he arrives, one for medical. We will draw the assignments

out of a hat on who is assigned to what, to be fair. Each of the helicopters

will carry one member of our team, and the pilots will be required

to fly this person anywhere he requests. Gentlemen, we will

I

344

CLIVE CUSSLER

potentially be under fire and in harm's way for the next twenty-four to

forty-eight hours. If this is not what you signed up for, let me know

now so you can be replaced. If not, I want you to understand that as

pilots you will be answering to the team member aboard. If you hesitate

or refuse to comply with a request, you will be replaced by one of our

team that is qualified in helicopter operations, and you will forfeit your

second half payment. Any questions?"

Gurt raised his hand. "When do we receive our first half?"

"Ah ... a real pilot," Seng said, "The answer is, as soon as we are

finished here. Everyone okay with that?"

Heads nodded.

"If you have personal property or letters to loved ones or wish us

to transfer the funds to another party if something happens to you,"

Seng noted, "please see either Gannon or Crabtree."

Gannon and Crabtree raised their hands.

"Now, are there any other business matters before I explain the

operation?"

The hangar was silent.

"Good, then," Seng said. "Here's the plan."

THE GULFSTREAM G550 was at forty-one thousand feet racing toward

Moscow as Cabrillo talked over a secure satellite telephone

to the Oregon. "Go over them again," he said as he scrawled notes on

a yellow pad. "Okay, I've got them."

The line was silent as Cabrillo studied the list.

"And Halpert set up the main corporate entity in Andorra."

"Correct," Hanley said.

"Lucky break," Cabrillo said, "but then, by looking at this list, the

Dalai Lama is a lucky one too. If this had been scheduled last year, I

don't know if we could have pulled it off."

"Isn't that the truth?" Hanley said.

"Here's how I see it," Cabrillo said. "Of the fifteen members of the

I

GOLDEN BUDDHA     345

United Nations Security Council, we have three of the five permanent

members: the United States, the United Kingdom and Russia. China is

obviously not going to vote our way, and France is currently trying to

sell whatever they can to the Chinese, so they'll probably vote with them

so as not to upset any deals they have in progress. The remaining ten

will be tricky--we need to pull six out of the ten to give us the nine we

need for the resolution. Let me go over it with you. Afghanistan we're

not going to get--even with the U.S. involvement a few years ago, there

are still too many pockets of anti-Buddhist revolutionaries for their leaders

to risk voting with us. Sweden is and will always be pacifistic, at

least at the start, as will Canada. Cuba receives too much aid from

China to risk voting our way, not to mention they almost always vote

the opposite of the U.S."

"Sounds about right," Hanley said.

"That leaves us Brunei, Laos, Qatar, Andorra, Kiribati and Tuvalu."

"Correct," Hanley said.

"It's blind luck that we have two tiny South Pacific nations on the

Security Council at the same time," Cabrillo said.

"It's like a couple of years ago, when Cameroon and Guinea were

both members at the same time," Hanley said. "It happens."

"Each country in the United Nations has one vote," Cabrillo said,

"but this is the first time I really considered the impact."

"Same here," Hanley said.

Cabrillo thought for a moment. "I know the emir of Qatar," he

said. "If we offer him a favor later, he'll order his people to vote the

way we want. What have we got coming up?"

Hanley thought for a moment. "Nothing right now, but that can

change. The last time he went in with us, he made something like eighty

million. If we call in the past favor and dangle something ahead, you

got the vote."

"You're right," Cabrillo said. "I'll take care of dealing with him."

"Good," Hanley said. "Laos should be easy. They're Buddhist, and

the general wants his car."

346

CLIVE CUSSLER

"Offer him several," Cabrillo said.

"Where are we funding this from?" Hanley asked.

"We're going to try to use around half of the hundred million windfall

for everything."

"Easy come easy go," Hanley said. "Brunei should be ours. The

country is fifteen percent Buddhist and the sultan can't risk alienating

his constituents."

"Plus we saved his brother's life a couple of years ago," Cabrillo

added.

"Andorra," Hanley said, "what about them?"

"Good thing Halpert set up the new company there," Cabrillo said.

"What's their GDP?"

Hanley scanned through an almanac and found the information.

"It's around one point two billion."

"Once the oil comes online," Cabrillo noted, "we'll be bringing another

twenty percent to the table. If someone explains that to their ambassador,

he'd be stupid not to see his way to giving us their vote.

Money talks--plus this is the right thing to do, anyway."

"I agree," Hanley said.

"That just leaves the little guys," Cabrillo said. "Kiribati and Tuvalu."

"Kiribati's GDP is sixty million," Hanley said. "Tuvalu's is even

less. It's something like eight million split up over ten thousand citizens.

Put two to a room, and one of the major Las Vegas hotels could house

the entire country."

Cabrillo was silent for a moment.

"Call Lowden in Colorado and have him start buying cars for the

general. Next, send Halpert to Andorra to explain the impact our company

will have on their economy. I'll take care of the emir of Qatar and

the sultan of Brunei."

"And the little guys?"

"Truitt's free, isn't he?" asked Cabrillo.

GOLDEN BUDDHA "Yes, he is."

"Get him on a jet with a stack of bearer bonds."

"You want him to buy the votes?" Hanley asked

"Exactly."

347

GOLDEN BUDDHA

349

THE STORM THAT brought the torrential rains to Macau had

turned into spring snow by the time it crossed Russia. Had it not

been night, Cabrillo would have seen that Moscow was covered in a

wet blanket of white that rounded the edges of buildings and quieted

the sounds. Peering from the windows of the Gulfstream as the pilots

shut down the engines, he could see a trio of black Zil limousines with

police escorts front and rear. Holding a fax that had arrived from Overholt

only minutes before, he slid the document into the file and then

unbuckled his seat belt and rose. The copilot was unlatching the door

as he walked forward.

"Do you men need anything?" Cabrillo asked.

"I think we're okay, boss," the copilot said. "We'll just refuel and

await your return."

Cabrillo nodded and waited as the step was lowered. "Wish me

luck," he said as he stepped down onto the snow-covered tarmac.

A tall man in a thick, dark blue wool coat was standing a few feet

from the Gulfstream. His head was covered by a fur Cossack cap and

his breath made puffs of mist as he exhaled. He approached Cabrillo

while removing a glove and offered his hand. Cabrillo shook it, then

the man motioned to the middle limousine.

"I'm Sergei Makelikov," the man said as the driver opened the door,

"special assistant to President Putin."

Cabrillo followed the man into the rear of the limousine. "Juan

Cabrillo, chairman of the Corporation."

The door was closed, and a few seconds later the police cars started

away from the Gulfstream followed by the trio of limousines. "The

president is very interested in hearing what you have to say," Makelikov

noted. "May I offer you a drink, perhaps vodka, or some coffee?"

"Coffee, please," Cabrillo said.

Makelikov reached for a silver-plated thermal carafe and poured the

contents into a red mug with the crest of the Russian republic on the

side. He handed it to Cabrillo.

"How was your flight?"

The streets were deserted at this late hour. The procession roared

down the road toward central Moscow, followed by a cloud of snowflakes.

Cabrillo sipped the coffee.

"No problems," Cabrillo said, smiling.

"Cuban cigar?" Makelikov asked.

"Don't mind if I do," Cabrillo said as he selected one from the box

Makelikov held.

Trimming the end with a tool from inside the box, Cabrillo leaned

over for a light from Makelikov. "We'll be there shortly," the Russian

noted. "In the meantime, perhaps you would like to hear some music."

He motioned to a CD player and a stack of discs. They were all

jazz.

"I see you know my taste in music," Cabrillo said.

"We know a lot about you," Makelikov said easily, "and that is

why President Putin is staying up late to see you."

350

CLIVE CUSSLER

Cabrillo nodded and smiled. "Great cigar."

Makelikov lit one and puffed. "It is, isn't it?"

Cabrillo slid a CD into the player and the men relaxed and listened.

Fourteen minutes later the procession slid to a stop in front of a

row of town houses near Gorky Park. Makelikov waited until the driver

opened the door, then he stepped out onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

"One of the president's hideaways," he said as Cabrillo climbed out.

"We can talk here in private."

The two men headed up the walkway to the steps and climbed up

to the door, where Makelikov nodded at a Russian army sergeant. He

saluted and swung the door open. Makelikov and Cabrillo walked inside.

"Mr. President," Makelikov said loudly, "your visitor has arrived."

"I'm in the living room," a voice said from a room to the right.

"Let me take your coat," Makelikov said, helping Cabrillo out of

his overcoat. "Go on in--I'll join you in a few minutes."

Cabrillo walked into the living room. The room was fitted and furnished like the library of an expensive gentleman's club. Dark wood

paneling, the walls were covered with paintings of hunting scenes and

birds. Along the right wall was a fireplace containing a roaring wood

fire. A pair of high-backed red leather chairs framed the fireplace, with

a couch just behind them closer to the door. A thick red carpet atop

the inlaid wood floors led almost to the fireplace hearth. Two brass

lamps on each side of the couch cast pools of light in the otherwise dark

room. President Putin's back was to Cabrillo as he stoked the fire. Finishing,

he stood up and turned.

"Mr. Cabrillo," he said, smiling, "come in and have a seat."

Cabrillo slid into the red leather chair to the left of the fireplace,

while Putin took the right.

"Back when I was with the KGB, I had quite a file on you," Putin

said.

"And me you," Cabrillo said in Russian.

GOLDEN BUDDHA     351

Putin nodded, then looked directly into Cabrillo's eyes. "Your Russian

is much better than my English."

"Thank you, sir," Cabrillo said.

Putin nodded. "I assume you have done a recent psychological profile

on me," he said. "Did it hazard a guess as to how I would respond?"

"It doesn't take a team of psychologists," Cabrillo said, "to know

you'll say yes."

"Then why don't you tell me what I'm agreeing to," Putin said,

smiling.

Cabrillo nodded, then opened the file he had brought. "Sir," he said,

"we've been commissioned to put the Dalai Lama back in power. We

think we've worked out a solution that can benefit everyone. We just

need some Russian muscle."

"Explain," Putin said.

Cabrillo handed over the document Overholt had faxed to the Gulf-stream.

"This is a classified satellite image of potential oil reserves inside

Tibet. We recently recovered ancient documents that list thousands of

oil seeps in the northern region."

"From the Golden Buddha that your company stole in Macau?"

Putin asked.

"Your intelligence is good," Cabrillo said.

Putin studied the image and nodded. "Yes, it is," he said.

"The preliminary estimates place the reserves in the neighborhood

of fifty billion barrels."

"That's an expensive neighborhood," Putin said. "About half of the

reserves in Kuwait, or around five percent of the world's known reserves."

"It's potentially an elephant field," Cabrillo agreed. "Even if it is

less, we believe it is definitely larger than the field on the north slope of

Alaska."

"That would put it in the top twenty of all known fields," Putin

noted.

"Exactly, sir," Cabrillo said.

352

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

353

"However, right now, the Chinese have control of the field and they

don't even know of its existence," Putin said, "so you want us to remove

them from Tibet."

"Not exactly, sir," Cabrillo said. "What we are proposing is that

Russia join in a consortium to develop the field. Fifty percent to Tibet, .

forty percent to your country."

"And the other ten percent?"

"The other ten percent will be owned by my company," Cabrillo

said, "for putting it all together."

"Nice tip," Putin said, smiling, "but you are asking me to commit

my forces for a profit. As soon as the casualties start pouring in, my

citizens will smell a rat."

Cabrillo nodded slowly. Then he set the hook.

"Then we make a deal with China," he said easily. "Jintao wants

out anyway--his economy is tanking and his increasing oil imports are

accelerating his problems. You make a diplomatic mission to China and

offer him half of the production at a cost of fifteen dollars a barrel for

the next ten years, and I think he'll take it and back down."

Putin laughed. "Brilliant."

"There's one more thing," Cabrillo said slowly.

"Yes?"

"We need your UN vote in the Security Council meeting Monday,"

Cabrillo said.

"You're going to legitimize the coup?" Putin asked.

"We think we can pull the votes," Cabrillo agreed.

"A lot could go wrong," Putin said, "but it could work. What exactly

would Russia need to do to participate?"

"First we need your troops to enter Mongolia," Cabrillo said. "I

understand the Mongolian government would okay the incursion. That

draws the Chinese farther from Tibet. Second, I would need as many

crack paratroops as you can field to enter the country as soon as the

Dalai Lama returns and we stabilize the situation. The Dalai Lama has

agreed to invite Russia to provide security until the situation stabilizes.

The invitation will be announced to the world community, so the fallout

other than from China should be small. Third, we need you to make

the diplomatic approach to China with the oil offer--it has been made

clear to me the United States wants no direct involvement in the liberation

of Tibet."

"I have spoken to your president," Putin said. "He mentioned the

need for secrecy."

"Good," Cabrillo said. "Next, I need that vote in the UN. If we can

hold off the Chinese until the vote comes in and the peacekeepers arrive,

then the Russian troops will be relieved."

Putin rose from the chair and stoked the fire. "So Russia invests no

money, only muscle."

"The company that will develop the oilfield has already been

formed," Cabrillo said. "All I need is your signature on this document

that has already been signed by the Dalai Lama, and your word you

will do what we have discussed, and we can proceed."

Makelikov entered the room just as Putin placed the stoker back in

the rack. He stepped over to Cabrillo, took the document and read it

quickly.

"Sergei," he said, "bring me a pen."

I'LL SWAP YOU," Gurt said to one of the other mercenary pilots,

"if you don't mind."

"What did you draw?" the other pilot asked.

"Medevac," Gurt said.

"I'll gladly switch," the pilot said. "Mine looks to be the most dangerous

mission."

"I've worked with Murphy before," Gurt said. "Plus I have more

high-altitude flying time than you. I don't mind."

"Be my guest," the pilot said. "Flying a load of explosives north is

not my idea of a good time."

"I'll make sure it's okay with Seng," Gurt said, walking off.

354

CLIVE CUSSLER

THE FASTEST WAY to get you there," Hanley said, "is to drop you

in Singapore, then have you flown by jet to Vanuatu. From there

we'll switch you to a turboprop STOL that can land at the smaller

airfields on Kiribati and Tuvalu."

Truitt nodded.

"We need those votes," Hanley said quietly. "Do whatever it takes

to make that happen."

"Not to worry," Truitt said. "Even if it takes a river of grease, by

Monday vote time they will be ours."

Later that night, the Oregon passed the breakwater and entered the

port, and Truitt boarded the waiting jet for the nine-hour flight to the

South Pacific. He would arrive on Easter morning.

THE ZIL LIMOUSINE slid to a stop in front of the Gulfstream

G550. Cabrillo climbed out, clutching a folder containing the documents,

and made his way up the ramp without hesitating. The copilot

immediately retracted the ramp and fastened the door. Then he shouted

toward the cockpit.

"We're good to go."

Instantly, the pilot engaged the igniters, and a few seconds later the

jet engines began to spool up. Cabrillo made his way to a seat and

fastened the belt as the copilot started for the cockpit.

"We received your telephone call, sir," the copilot said over his

shoulder as he slid into his seat. "The course is all plotted and we've

received preliminary clearance."

"What's the distance?" Cabrillo asked.

"Straight through, it's about thirty-four hundred miles," the copilot

said. "The winds are favorable, so we estimate six hours' flight time."

356   CLIVECUSSLER

The Gulfstream started taxiing toward the runway.

"Easter morning seven a.m.," Cabrillo said.

"That's the plan, sir," the copilot said.

SOMETIMES IT ALL comes down to a few. A few minutes, a few

strokes of luck, a few people.

At this instant, it was two. Murphy and Gurt. Two men, one helicopter

with extra fuel pods and a load of explosives would form the

advance team for the liberation of Tibet.

They lifted off just after 4 a.m. under the waning light of a quarter

moon.

Once Gurt had the Bell 212 at an altitude of one thousand feet above

ground level and in a steady forward flight, he spoke into the headset.

"Our mission," he said, "seems fairly impossible."

"Is it the altitude of the pass?" Murphy asked. "Or the lack of fuel

for the return flight that concerns you the most?"

"Neither," Gurt said. "It's missing Sunday service and the chicken

dinner afterward."

Murphy reached behind his seat and retrieved a small pack. Unzipping

it, he removed a single can and a small blue-covered book. "Spam

and a Bible," he said.

"Excellent," Gurt noted. "I can proceed, then."

"Will there be anything else?" Murphy asked.

"Only one more thing," Gurt said.

"What's that?"

"Keep your eyes ori the road," Gurt said. "I don't want to get lost."

"Not to worry," Murphy said. "The Oregon is running the com mand and control. This operation will run like a well-oiled sewing ma chine."    i

"I would have felt better," Gurt said, pointing out a herd of deer

underneath that were lit by the moon, "had you said like a computer."

GOLDEN BUDDHA     357

Murphy was staring at the instruments. "We're a little hot," he said.

"Take it down a notch."

Gurt made the adjustment. They continued north.

AT ABOUT THE same instant that the Bell 212 carrying Murphy

and Gurt crossed into Tibetan airspace, Briktin Gampo was steering

the two-and-a-half-ton truck along a rutted dirt road. Locating the

spot his Dungkar cell leader had marked, he slowed and pulled to a

stop.

Gampo was on the flats just below Basatongwula Shan in an open

meadow ringed by stunted trees. Climbing from the truck, he walked

around to the rear and removed several metal tubes and felt them. They

were cold to the touch. Remembering what he had been told, Gampo

pulled a small fuel oil stove from the rear, moved a distance away, then

erected the legs. Once the stove was assembled, he removed some tent

poles and slid them inside an off-white canvas tent and hoisted the apparatus

into the air. Once the tent was secure, he lit the stove, brought

the tubes inside to keep them warm, then went back to the rear of the

truck and removed a radio, a folding chair and a fur to cover himself

while he waited.

Then he switched on the radio and began to listen.

Outside the tent, thousands of stars flickered against the black sea

of deep space. A cold wind blew down from the mountain. Gampo

pulled the fur closer around his neck until the tent warmed. Then he

patiently waited for the hours to pass.

ON THE OREGON, Hanley was staring at the wall of flat-screen

monitors. Suddenly, the satellite feed of the Russian troop concentration

near Novosibirsk began to display a thermal image of tanks

being started. At the same instant, the secure telephone began to ring.

"We're a go," Cabrillo said.

358

CLIVE CUSSLER

"I have confirmation over the satellite," Hanley told him. "The Russian

tanks are warming."

"Link my computer to the Oregon's data banks," Cabrillo ordered.

"I want to monitor the situation from here until I arrive."

Hanley nodded to Stone, who typed in commands on his computer

keyboard.

"Signal's going out," Stone said a minute later.

In the Gulfstream G550, Cabrillo stared at his laptop. Suddenly the

screen erupted with a burst of light, then went dark, then slowly began

to glow again. The screen split into six separate blocks, each duplicating

what Hanley was seeing.

"I've got it," Cabrillo said.

"Mr. Chairman," Hanley said, "call the ball."

"Proceed as planned," Cabrillo said, "and link me up with Seng."

"You got it," Hanley said.

EDDIE SENG WAS pacing back and forth inside the hangar in

Thimbu, Bhutan. Occasionally he would return to the table where

the computer screen showed the pulsing red dot that marked the progress

of the helicopter carrying Murphy and Gurt. Then he would walk

around the hangar again like a caged lion.

He answered his telephone before the second ring.

"Eddie," Cabrillo said, "we're a go."

"Yes, sir," Seng said. "We have a team already flying north--I took

the liberty, knowing we could call them back if necessary."

"Good job," Cabrillo said. "Max?"

"I'm on the three-way," Hanley said from the Oregon. "Send Seng the latest data showing the airport near Lhasa."

"It's being transmitted now."

Seng walked over to the printer. A few seconds later, it began to

spit out documents.

"It's coming across now," Seng noted.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

359

«<

«>

"Okay," Cabrillo said, "you have your playbook and the latest intelligence.

"

;'Yes, sir," Seng said.

"Now go take Gonggar Airport," Cabrillo said.

"You got it, boss," Seng said eagerly.

FIVE A.M. THE early-morning hours when drunks sweat and nightmares

grow ugly.

A cold wind was blowing across the runway at Gonggar Airport,

located fifty-nine miles from Lhasa. A pair of Chinese transport planes

sat on the far end of the runway along with three helicopters. The other

Chinese aircraft inside Tibet had been called north in support of the

tank column.

Gonggar Airport was as deserted as a cemetery on a weekday.

A single janitor swept the chipped concrete floor in the crude main

terminal. Taking a break to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette, he stepped

outside and stood where a wall shielded him from the wind. The limited

troops on duty at the airport were sleeping. They were not due to rise

for another hour.

A sound came up the valley. It was a whoosh, like a well-thrown

football. Then a stark white-colored craft raced past at thirty feet above

the tarmac. The strange object sped to the end of the airport, then made

an arcing turn and lined up for a pass. Suddenly, twin streams of fire

erupted from the sides and a pair of missiles streaked toward the parked

transport planes.

The Predator had found her prey.

IN THE HANGAR in Bhutan, Lincoln stared at the image from the

Predator's onboard cameras. Steering the Predator into another arcing

turn, he lined up in front of the helicopters and flicked the trigger.

Then he made another turn to see the results.

360

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

361

The cargo planes were ablaze. The helicopters would join them in a

second.

At the same instant, 160 yards from the edge of the field, nearly one

hundred Dungkar troops slid out from under white tarps that blended

with the snow on the ground. Screaming a war cry, they raced toward

the terminal. Dressed in black robes with ceremonial knives in their belts

and handguns and rifles that had been smuggled into the country only

days before, they swarmed like locusts into predetermined positions.

>From the south came the thumping sound of seven helicopters approaching.

As the helicopter carrying Seng popped up to the plateau, he could

see the fires from the Predator's attack burning bright in the early morning.

Then, as if a divine light was making its way to earth, a series of

red light sticks began to flicker on the tarmac. The Dungkar were sending

the message it was safe to land.

"Land inside the box," Seng said to the pilot.

"Will do," the pilot said, starting his descent.

Seconds after the helicopter landed, Seng climbed from the front

while King made his way from the rear. Seng quickly walked to the

terminal, where he met up with the leader of the Dungkar. At the same

time, King motioned to the troops for help, and then began to unload

crates of rifles and ammunition from the cargo area.

"What have you got?" Seng asked the man, who was no more than

thirty.

"The hangars over there," the man said, pointing, "contain one

fighter plane, one cargo plane and a pair of attack helicopters. The hangar

next door must be for repairs--there is a helicopter disassembled

and the fuselage of an observation plane with the engine removed."

Cabrillo had asked the Dalai Lama to make sure the Dungkar officers

he picked were able to speak English. There was no time for his

team to learn Tibetan and less time for misunderstanding.

"Where did you go to school?" Seng asked.

"Arizona State, sir," the man said eagerly. "Go, Sun Devils."

"Good," Seng said. "I'm sure you're glad to be home--now, let's

see if we can keep it that way. First, I want a couple of your men to

work with the guy coming in on that helicopter." He pointed to another

Bell, just touching down twenty yards away. "We need to rig these

buildings with charges to burn them if necessary."

"I'll put a dozen of my best men on it," the man said eagerly.

"How many Chinese have you captured?" Seng asked.

"Less than a dozen, sir," the man said. "One of mine dead--two of

theirs."

The airport was a bedlam of activity. The fires burned at the far end

of the field against the tapestry of the early morning, and the sound of

the landing helicopters added a surreal element to the quiet air. All at

once, solitude had become a salvo.

"Listen carefully," Seng said to the leader of the Dungkar forces,

"this comes from the Dalai Lama himself. There will be no brutality or

mistreatment of the prisoners--make sure your men know this clearly.

Once this is all said and done, we're returning whatever prisoners we

capture to China--my company doesn't want to hear of any atrocities

whatsoever. This is a coup d'etat, not an ethnic cleansing. Are we clear

on that?"

"Company, sir?" the man asked. "Aren't you United States troops?"

"We're from the States," Seng said, "at least most of us, but we are

a private firm now working under the direction of your leader. If you

and the other Dungkar do what we order, in the next twenty-four to

forty-eight hours, there will be a free Tibet once again."

"You've done this sort of thing before?" the man asked in amazement.

"There's no time for chitchat," Seng snapped. "You all do exactly

what you're ordered and this will go as smoothly as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Seng said. "Bring the highest-ranking prisoner to the main

terminal and have him seated in a chair and guarded. We'll be setting

362

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

363

up operations there in the next several minutes--then I want to speak

to him."

The man shouted orders in Tibetan. The Dungkar soldiers lined up

in rows. He explained what Seng had relayed, then ordered six sergeants

to the forefront. Then one group led by a sergeant went off to round

up the prisoners. Another split off to the helicopter Kasim had left.

"Hali," Seng shouted, "take these men and wire the other hangars

to blow if we need to."

Kasim motioned to the troops and raced back to the helicopter.

The Bell that had carried Seng and King to the airfield was now

unloaded. King motioned for it to lift off. The pilot ascended to one

thousand feet over the field and then began to fly in large lazy circles.

Two more touched down, and Crabtree and Gannon climbed out.

"What's your name?" Seng shouted to the leader of the Dungkar. "Rimpoche, Pache Rimpoche."

Gannon and Crabtree raced over.

"Carl," Seng said, "this is General Rimpoche. Tell him what you

need."

Gannon walked a few feet away to where they could hear better

and explained. Rimpoche summoned a sergeant and a dozen men raced

off.

"I need the supplies unloaded and taken inside," Crabtree said to

Seng, who pointed to Rimpoche.

"General Rimpoche," he said, motioning to the man, "will take care

of it."

Seng undipped a portable radio from his belt and switched it on,

then spoke.

"Airport is under our control," he said to Hanley on the Oregon. "What do you see?"

Hanley studied the satellite image on the screen before answering.

"No troop movement yet--but if they do come, it will be from the road

that enters from the east. There is what looks like a bridge about three-

quarters

of a mile toward Lhasa. Control that, and you'll be able to

make a stand if necessary."

"No planes or helicopter activity?" Seng asked.

"None," Hanley said. "Anything not on the ground there is far to

the north. Even if they called them back now, you have an hour or so."

"Good," Seng said as Meadows walked up. "Reach me by portable

if the situation changes."

"We're on full alert," Hanley said. "It all comes down to the next

few hours."

Seng clipped the radio back on his belt and turned to Meadows.

"Bob, take fifty troops and your weaponry down that road," he said,

pointing. "There's a bridge we need to control."

"Who's in charge from their side?" Meadows asked.

"General Rimpoche," Seng said, pointing to the man.

At that instant, three trucks slowly drove in front of the terminal

and were motioned to stop by Gannon. At the same time, Tom Reyes

walked over.

"General?" Seng shouted.

Rimpoche approached. "Yes?"

"I need four of your best men, crack shots and fearless."

Rimpoche turned and shouted out names to the cluster of troops.

Four men emerged from the crowd. Not one of the men was over five

feet six. Dripping wet, not one of them could have weighed over 150

pounds.

"Do any of them speak English?" Seng asked.

"All of them do a little," Rimpoche said.

"Tell them this," Seng said. "They will be going into Lhasa with

two of my men to capture a very important man. They need to do exactly what my men tell them--without hesitation."

Rimpoche translated.

As soon as he had finished, the four men shouted "Huh" and

stomped one foot on the tarmac.

"You have your file?" Seng asked Reyes.

364

CLIVE CUSSLER

"Yes, sir," Reyes said.

King was a short distance away, removing a long black case from a

crate. "Okay, Larry," Seng shouted, "you and Tom can go do your

thing."

Holding a set of night-vision goggles, King walked over. "Let's do

it," he said.

Reyes motioned to the four Tibetans, who were eagerly waiting.

"We're going to grab someone, and we're going to do it with a minimum

of shooting--do you men understand?"

"I speak fair English," one of the soldiers said. "I'll translate."

He reiterated what Reyes had said, then turned. "Which helicopter?"

"This way," Reyes said, leading them back to the helicopter he had

just climbed off. King followed the four Tibetans, and once they were

seated inside, the helicopter lifted off and headed into the center of

town.

"Who are they after?" Rimpoche asked.

"The chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region, Legchog Zhuren."

The last helicopter was on the ground, and Huxley walked over.

"This is our medical officer," Seng said to Rimpoche. "Poll your

troops and see if any of your men have any experience as doctors or

nurses--if so, we need them to work with Julia here. Right now, however,

we need that helicopter unloaded and the contents carried inside

the terminal. Ms. Huxley will be setting up a field hospital immediately.

If any of your men were injured or wounded, she'll treat them shortly."

Rimpoche shouted orders and men raced to the helicopter to unload.

Adams and Gunderson were standing to the side, waiting for Seng to

finish. He turned and smiled.

"You two go see what the Chinese have that we can use," Seng said.

"I need to interrogate a prisoner."

The two pilots ambled off toward the hangars. Seng walked inside

to where a Chinese air force lieutenant was sitting in a chair in the

middle of the terminal with four fierce-looking Tibetan soldiers surrounding

him.

DAMN NICE SCENERY," Murphy noted, glancing out the window.

"Like Alaska on steroids."

Gurt was watching the altitude gauge as they climbed higher toward

the imposing ridge of mountains just ahead. The sun had yet to peek

over the horizon, but her coming was heralded by the pink glow being

cast over the rugged terrain.

"We could probably claim the helicopter altitude record," Gurt said.

"I don't think so," Murphy said. "Some guy went to twenty-four

thousand feet a couple of years ago to perform a Himalayan rescue."

"I read about that," Gurt said, "but that was in a Bell 206. And it

had special rotor blades."

"You sound a little worried," Murphy said.

"Not worried," Gurt said, "just apprehensive."

He pointed out the front windshield at the wall approaching. The

trees were petering out as they drew nearer. Now there was only the

366

CLIVE CUSSLER

black and gray of rocks streaked with tendrils of snow and ice that

dripped down the sides of the imposing mountain like rivulets of ice

cream on a child's hand. A gust of wind buffeted the helicopter, blowing

it sideways. Clouds started to appear around the Bell. Gurt stared at

the gauge again. '

It read eighteen thousand feet and climbing.

THE HELICOPTER CARRYING Reyes, King and the Dungkar forces

came in twenty feet above the ground and approached Lhasa from

the south. The sound from the Lhasa River helped cover the noise

as the pilot landed on a small spit of sand in the river just east of what

the Chinese referred to as Dream Island, formerly an idyllic picnic spot

now replaced by tacky Chinese shops and karaoke bars.

"Unload the crates," Reyes shouted to the Dungkar.

As soon as the crates were unloaded and King had exited, they all ]

raced a short distance away and crouched down to avoid the blast of

sand from the rotor wash as the helicopter quickly lifted off and raced

downriver. Once the helicopter was out of sound and sight, Reyes |

opened a small satchel and removed a parabolic dish for listening.

Quickly switching it on, he listened for the sound of alarms in the city.

He heard only the sound of the river.

Nodding, he whispered to one of the Tibetans, "Look."

Prying a crate open, he pointed. It was a box of Tibetan flags, which

had long ago been banned by the Chinese oppressors. The flags featured

a snow lion with red and blue rays. The man bent down and touched

the pile gingerly, and when he rose to look at Reyes, his eyes were filled

with tears.

"We need to carry all these crates across the river," Reyes said to

the Tibetan, "and stash them. Then you and the others need to follow

me and King to Zhuren's house."

"Yes," the Tibetan said eagerly.

"We'll need one of you to guard the flags and one man to go with

GOLDEN BUDDHA

367

Mr. King. The other two of you," Reyes said quietly, "will enter the

house with me."

The Tibetan nodded, then began to whisper orders to his men.

Five minutes later, they were all safely across the river and walking

toward the Barkhor area of Lhasa. King and his Tibetan helper peeled

away from the group and made their way to the tallest building near

the home of the Chinese government official. The streets were empty

except for a few Tibetan merchants who were sweeping the square in

preparation of setting up shop. Taking the steps two at a time, King

and his helper made their way to the rooftop, where they took up position.

Once he was in place, King reached into his bag, removed a small

bottle of oxygen, and then took a few deep breaths. He then offered the

bottle to the Tibetan, who smiled but shook his head no. Then he

scanned the area through his scope.

The home of Legchog Zhuren was an ornate affair whose front faced

south onto Barkhor Square. Just to the east of the house lay the Jok-hang,

a temple built sometime in the seventh century. The Jokhang, the

most revered religious building in Lhasa, featured dozens of statues, a

variety of gold artwork and some thirty chapels.

King watched as Reyes passed in front of the Jokhang. He stopped

for a second and raised a closed fist into the air. Then Reyes, followed

by two Tibetans, made his way down an alley between the temple and

the chairman's house and passed out of view.

King pushed the button on a silver-plated stopwatch, set the time

for one minute, and watched.

When the stopwatch read fifteen seconds, King reached into his

satchel and removed a hollowed-out ram's horn and handed it to the

Tibetan.

"When I say," he told him, "start blowing, and don't stop until I

tell you to, or we're dead."

The man nodded eagerly and took the horn. King took another

breath of oxygen and checked the stopwatch. Five seconds. He glanced

at the guards patrolling the walkway outside Zhuren's house. There

368

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

369

were two outside the wrought-iron gate, two more just outside the front

door sitting on chairs. He lined up his shots.

"Now," he said loudly.

The horn erupted with the sound of a cat under a vacuum cleaner.

Like wraiths appearing above a graveyard, the square was suddenly

filled with four dozen Dungkar warriors. They had posed as shopkeepers

and early-morning walkers, and had hidden inside drums containing

spices and seeds. They screamed war cries and raced toward the gate

leading up to the chairman's home. On the front porch, one of the

guards was rousted from a half sleep by the sound of the horn and the

approaching horde. He stood up and reached for a bell near the front

door. But before he could reach it to sound the alarm, he heard a sharp

crack. As if in a dream, he stared in amazement as his hand and arm

from the elbow dropped onto the porch.

Then he screamed as blood erupted from the stump like a geyser.

At the same time, the Dungkar reached the pair of guards outside

the gate; they were dead before they could comprehend what was happening,

their throats slit like pigs at slaughter.

Swiveling around, the front-door guard stared in horror at the advancing Dungkar. His partner started to speak, but a second later his

head was blown off his shoulders. It landed on the porch with a thud,

the lips still straining to answer a signal from an impulse now dead.

The first Dungkar raced up the steps with his sword held in front. The

guard tried to reach for his handgun, but with no hand he had no

chance.

The sword ran through his middle and pinned him to the wooden

door like some macabre Christmas wreath. He mouthed a few words

before dying, but only blood seeped from inside. The force of the guard

slamming into the door burst the lock.

The door swung open and the Dungkar raced inside.

AROUND THE REAR of the house the scene was less violent. The

single guard at the door off the kitchen had been asleep. His dereliction

of duty would save his life. Reyes crept up, hit him with a stun

gun, then had one of the Tibetans bind his mouth, wrists and legs with

duct tape before he had a chance to do anything. Then Reyes popped

open the lock with a pick and made his way inside. He and the Tibetans

were halfway up the stairs leading to Zhuren's bedroom before the horn

sounded.

Then Reyes saw them.

There were three unarmed men at the top of the landing. He reached

for his holstered .40 handgun, but before he could snap off a round, a

Tibetan houseboy appeared from behind and lopped a leather garrote

over the men's heads and pulled tight. Their heads slammed together,

then their legs began to kick as the houseboy tightened the cord. Reyes

motioned for one of the men following to help, then raced past to Zhuren's

door. Stopping for a second to line himself up, he slammed his

polished black boot at a point just above the doorknob. The door burst

open and he stepped inside. The man in the bed slowly started to rise

while rubbing his eyes, then he reached toward the nightstand. Reyes

fired a round into the headboard above the man's head and the room

filled with the smell of spent gunpowder.

"I wouldn't," Reyes said, "if I were you."

''T" CAN'T SEE much," Gurt admitted.

The clouds had closed in as they neared the top of the pass.

Snow and sleet raked across the windshield of the Bell. The 212 was

slowly ascending, but barely making any forward movement at all. They

were flying blind on the edge of the helicopter's performance envelope.

"I've got a road," Murphy suddenly shouted, "on the port side."

Gurt spotted the black stripe against the white background. A movement

of vehicles across the terrain had displaced most of the snow,

leaving only dirt and rock.

370

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

371

"What's that?" Gurt said, straining to see.

"I think it's a column of tanks," Murphy said.

"I'll go to one side," Gurt said, "and stay in the cloud cover."

Along the side of the road, a Chinese tank commander was watching

several of his soldiers repair a tread that had come loose. He heard the

helicopter in the distance, so he climbed inside and called his superior

on the radio.

"No idea," his superior reported, "but you'd better find out what

it is."

Popping his head out of the hatch, the tank commander shouted

down to his men, then he began to pass rifles out of the hatch. Two

minutes later, the soldiers were hiking up the road away from their

disabled tank.

THERE'S THE CREST," Murphy shouted. "Find a spot to touch

down."

Gurt played with the collective, but at this altitude he had little

control. "Hold on," he shouted.

The landing was more a controlled crash than a touchdown. The

212 came down hard on the skids, but they held. Murphy was already

unsnapping his safety harness.

"Driver," he said, smiling, "just keep her running--I'll only be a

minute."

Opening the door, he stepped out and a few feet back and opened

the cargo door. Then he removed a pair of snowshoes, which he attached

to his feet. Pulling another coat over the one he was already

wearing, he began to dig in a crate, placing the items he needed into a

backpack.

"Hold down the fort," he shouted to the front of the helicopter.

"I'm going to set the charges."

Gurt nodded, then watched as Murphy disappeared into the blowing

snow. Then he began to play with his radio. He found little to hear, so

he switched back to the regular frequency.

SHERPA, SHERPA, SHERPA, this is the Oregon, over."

In the control room, Eric Stone looked at Hanley with worry.

"That's the fifth time, nothing."

"Sherpa, Sherpa, Sherpa, this is the Oregon, over."

"Oregon, this is Sherpa," Gurt answered. "Read you eight by

eight."

There was a two-second delay as the signal bounced off the ionosphere

and down to the ship.

"Where are you?" Hanley said, taking the microphone.

"We're on site," Gurt reported. "Your man just left for the appointment."

"We just intercepted a communication from the bad guys," Hanley

said. "Someone heard you go over and they've been asked to investigate."

"This is not good, Oregon," Gurt said quickly. "I have no way to

reach Murphy and warn him. Plus, it's going to take us some time to

lift off."

"Okay," Hanley said, "we can send a signal to Murph's beeper--

we'll tell him to return to where you are. In the meantime, keep a close

eye for anyone approaching. If they do, you take to the air."

"Send a message to Murphy to withdraw," Hanley said to Stone,

who quickly punched the commands into his keyboard.

"My visibility is around thirty to forty feet," Gurt said, "and I'm

not leaving Murph--no way."

"No, we don't want you to--" Hanley started to say.

"Oregon," Gurt shouted over the radio. "There are Chinese troops

coming through the snow."

Murphy was bent over, placing the charges in the snow, when his

372   CLIVECUSSLER

beeper chirped. He finished attaching the detonation cord, then rose up

and removed the beeper from his pocket.

"Damn," he said, nipping the switch open so the charge could be

remotely detonated. Then he pulled his M-16 around from his back on

its sling and began heading back in the direction of the helicopter.

Gurt reached behind his seat and felt for a handgun in a rack. The

Chinese troops were struggling through the thick snow, making slow

but steady progress toward the Bell. They were holding rifles, but they

had yet to take a shot.

Murphy stumbled along as fast as one could run on snowshoes.

While he ran, he was folding out a grenade launcher. Reaching over his

shoulder into the pack, he removed a rocket-propelled grenade and

started fitting it into the launcher. He was on a sloping ridge, racing

down, when he first caught sight of the Chinese troops. They were

twenty-five feet from the Bell. Murphy estimated his angle and fired a

grenade. It went over the heads of the Chinese troops and exploded.

They flopped on their bellies in the deep snow.

"What the--" Gurt started to say as he turned and saw Murphy

approaching in the distance.

Adding fuel to the turbine, Gurt tried to lift off. Nothing. Murphy

was twenty feet away now and racing toward the helicopter. The first

few Chinese troops began to rise from the snow and shoulder their rifles.

Gurt started firing the handgun from the window. A couple seconds

later, Murphy's M-16 opened up.

Ten feet now. Gurt reached across and opened the copilot's door.

Murphy paused in his firing, removed his pack, placed it gingerly behind

his seat and climbed inside, holding the M-16 in his lap. Gurt was firing

the handgun and fiddling with the collective at the same time.

"Morning," Murphy said when there was a moment of quiet. "Anything

exciting happen while I was away?"

"We have no lift," Gurt said before squeezing off a few rounds. "I'll

need to milk the cyclic to get us off the ground."

373

GOLDEN BUDDHA

The Chinese troops had stopped advancing. Now they were digging

in to make their kill shot.

Murphy slipped between the seats into the rear and yanked open

both cargo doors. "Quit firing and take us up, Gurt. I'll handle these

boys."

Milking the cyclic is bad for helicopters. It consists of jamming the

cyclic from side to side while pumping up and down on the collective.

It can create lift when there is none--but it can also easily cause the

mast that supports the rotor to bump against other parts of the helicopter.

Then you run the risk of a nick or a fracture in the mast.

Lose the mast and you've lost the helicopter.

The firefight had erupted so quickly that the Chinese tank commander

had little time to rally his men. Now that he'd had a few minutes

to prepare and his troops were dug in to the snow, he began to shout

orders that would concentrate the fire in the right direction.

Gurt slammed the cyclic from one side to the other and the 212

began to rise slowly.

Right at that instant, the Chinese commander screamed for his men

to advance, and the front line rose. At the same time, Murphy triggered

the grenade and it left the launcher with a whoosh and a burning smell

that filled the cabin. The round landed six feet in front of the lead soldier

and exploded. Murphy followed that up with a complete clip from the

M-16. He replaced the clip and prepared to fire again.

Just then, Gurt got the Bell off the ground and struggled to turn

away from the firefight.

They were a hundred feet away from the Chinese troops when Murphy blew through the second clip and the bloody snow where the Chinese

troops lay began to fade in the distance. He quickly replaced the

clip, set the M-16 to one side and reached for the remote detonator.

The C-6 erupted with a force equivalent to ten thousand pounds of

TNT. A slab of snow was ripped from the side of the hill and raced

down the slope, covering the Chinese troops. Then the slide raced across

the road with a wall of snow and ice twenty feet high. In sympathy,

374   CLIVE CUSSLER

smaller slides broke loose from the opposite hillside from the shock

wave that trembled through the rock and soil. These slides added another

eight to ten feet to the mess already created. The few Chinese

troops still living after the firefight were buried beneath the wall of

snow.

THE PILOT OF the Gulfstream stared at his navigation screen carefully.

The route he was taking did not allow much margin for

error. He was flying above a small corridor of Indian airspace that jutted

between Bangladesh and Nepal. The surface area was but twenty miles

in width at the smallest point. The land below was hotly contested by

all three countries.

Slowly he steered the Gulfstream in a sweeping turn to the left.

"Sir," he shouted to the rear cabin, "we're through the worst of it."

The Gulfstream was now above the wider strip of land between

Nepal and Bhutan.

"How long until we reach Tibetan airspace?" Cabrillo asked.

The pilot stared at the GPS screen. "Less than five minutes."

Juan Cabrillo should have been bone-tired, but he was not. He

stared out the window at the mountainous terrain below. The rising sun

377

3/6

CLIVE CUSSLER

was blanketed in a glow of pinks and yellows. Tibet was directly ahead.

He reached for the secure telephone and dialed.

JN BEIJING, HU Jintao was awakened early. The actions in Barkhor

Square had not"gone unnoticed. Jintao quickly rose from his bed,

washed his face, and went downstairs, still dressed in his nightclothes.

"What's the situation?" he asked a general without preamble.

"It's all fluid, Mr. President," the general admitted, "but the Russian

tank column has started moving into Mongolia. Their ambassador assures

us the movement is just an exercise between their country and

Russia. However, at the speed they are moving, they could enter China

across the Altai Mountains into the Tarim Basin anytime in the next

few hours."

"What about aircraft?" Jintao asked.

"They have several paratroop units at the staging area inside Russia,"

the general said. "Our satellites have detected transport planes

moving on the tarmac. As of right now, nothing has left the ground."

Jintao turned to the head of foreign relations. "We don't currently

have any dispute with Russia," he said. "What possible reason would

they have to launch an attack on our border?"

"At the moment, our relations are peaceful."

"Most odd," Jintao said.

"The Russian ambassador has asked for a meeting at ten a.m. this

morning," the man added. "The request came overnight through a priority

channel."

"Did he disclose the nature of his request?" Jintao asked.

"No," the foreign relations head said.

Jintao stood quietly for a moment, thinking.

"Mr. President," the general said, "there's more. We just received

reports from the capital of Tibet that a protest has formed in one of thi

main squares inside the city."

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378

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

379

Her, they had yanked a rapid-firing antiaircraft gun from its mount on

the border of Gonggar Airport. Now they were fitting it to the cargo

plane to make a crude gunship. The soldiers worked quickly, as did

those at. the other end of the hangar.

George Adams watched as the Dungkar troops filled the fuel tank

on the attack helicopter. For the last ten minutes, he had climbed around

inside the ship in an effort to determine the controls and weapons systems.

At this instant, he was convinced that he could probably fly the

bird--making the weapons perform as desired was a little iffier.

"Welcome to the Dungkar Air Force," Gunderson said, walking

over. "We fly, you die."

"How's it going over there?" Adams said, smiling.

"I'm not sure," Gunderson admitted. "We have the weapon lodged

in the rear and supported with enough planks to build a barn--if it

doesn't fly out the opposite side the first time we light it up, we should

be okay. How about you?"

"My Chinese is a little rusty," Adams said. "About as rusty as an

iron ship on the bottom of the ocean. But I think I can pilot this beast."

Gunderson nodded. "Let's make a pact, old buddy," he said, smiling.

"What's that?" Adams asked.

"When we get up there," Gunderson said, "let's not shoot each

other down."

He turned and started to walk back to the cargo plane. "Good

luck," he said over his shoulder.

"You too," Adams answered.

Right then the door started to rise, and sunlight and cold air swept

into the hangar. A minute later the attack helicopter was wheeled onto

the tarmac and a motorized cart was attached to the front of the cargo

plane to pull it onto the runway.

BARKHOR SQUARE WAS rapidly filling with Tibetans. The crude

human telegraph system that operates in time of crisis was working

overtime. Four blocks away, a platoon of Chinese soldiers were

attempting to make their way by armored personnel carrier from their

barracks to the square after receiving a call that there was action at the

chairman's home.

Tibetans clogged the streets and the going was slow.

"Piper, Piper, this is Masquerade."

"Masquerade, this is Piper, we read."

"Request immediate extraction," Reyes said. "We have the target."

"State point of extraction, Masquerade."

"Spot one, one, primary, Piper. Spot one three, secondary HH."

"Acknowledge extraction coordinates, Masquerade, they are inbound

in three."

Upon receiving the order, the helicopter that had delivered them to

the river lifted from the ground at a spot ten miles between Lhasa and

Gonggar Airport, where the pilot had been waiting. Once he had the

helicopter in forward flight, the pilot stared at a map listing the extraction

points they had arranged, and glanced at the note he had scribbled

on a pad attached to the clip on his knee. He flew fast and low toward

Barkhor Square.

IN LITTLE LHASA, the Dalai Lama waited inside the communications

room near a bank of radios. In the last few minutes, his network of

spies inside Tibet had begun to report the progress. So far, at least, the

operation appeared to be going flawlessly.

He turned to an aide-de-camp. "Are the preparations completed for

our trip home?" he asked.

"As soon as word comes from Mr. Cabrillo, Your Holiness," he

said. "We can have you there in two hours by jet."

The Dalai Lama thought for a moment. "Once we take off," he

asked, "how long will it be until we are over Tibet?"

380

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

381

"Half an hour," the man noted, "give or take."

"I am going to the temple now to pray," the Dalai Lama said, rising.

"Keep watch on the situation."

"Yes, Your Holiness," the aide said.

CHUCK GUNDERSON WAS helping George Adams strap himself

into the attack helicopter. None of the Chinese helmets inside the

hangar were large enough to fit his head, so he was using his own

personal headset, plugged into the radio for communications. He was

squeezed into the seat like a fat girl in spandex.

"They don't make these for big guys like us," Adams joked.

"You should see mine," Gunderson said. "The Chinese still believe

in quantity over quality. My cockpit looks like I'm back in World War

Two. I keep expecting Glenn Miller music to start playing over the

radio."

"Look at this dashboard," Adams said as Gunderson finished and

stood upright on the ladder. "It's got more metal that a fifty-seven

Chevy."

Just then, Eddie Seng walked over quickly. You need to get airborne

and clear the runway. Cabrillo just called. He's five minutes out."

Gunderson pushed down on the Plexiglas shield over Adams's head

and held it as he fastened it in place. Then he thumped the top and gave

Adams a thumbs-up sign. Climbing back down the ladder, he motioned

for the Tibetan helpers to wheel it out of the way. He began walking

with Seng toward the cargo plane as he heard the igniters in the turbine

engine of the attack helicopter begin to wind up.

"Mr. Seng," Gunderson said, "what's the latest?"

"I interrogated the Chinese lieutenant that was the ranking officer

here," Seng said. "He was not able to get word to Beijing before we

captured his forces."

"So for now," Gunderson said, reaching the door of the cargo plane,

"we don't need to worry about an attack from Chinese fighters from

outside the country?"

"If the Russians do their job and keep the Chinese on their toes,"

Seng said, "your role right now seems to be to provide close air support

for the Dungkar forces."

"I'll do what I can," Gunderson said, climbing into the side door of

the cargo plane.

"Good," Seng said, patting the side of the plane. "Now get to

work--the boss is coming."

At just that second, Adams pulled the collective and the Chinese

helicopter lifted from the ground. The helicopter wobbled a little as

Adams fought to get the feel, then it moved forward, broke through the

ground effect, and headed in the direction of Lhasa.

Gunderson walked up the slope to the cockpit, slid into his seat,

then began the engine-starting procedure. Once the pair of engines were

running smoothly, he glanced back to the four Dungkar soldiers manning

the gun in the rear.

"Okay, men," he shouted over the noise of the engines, "I'll tell you

when and where to direct the fire. For right now, we're just taking a

little flight."

That sounded simple enough--but not one of the Tibetans had ever

been inside a plane before.

ON BOARD THE Oregon, Hanley stood above the microphone and

talked in a clear voice.

"I just sent word to your contact," he said. "Watch for red strobes

as your signal."

"Same spot as we had first planned?" Murphy asked.

"Yes," Hanley said. "Now as far as Gurt is concerned, we talked

to Huxley. You need to apply direct pressure to the wound as soon as

possible."

"Do you have us on satellite surveillance?" Murphy asked.

CLIVE CUSSLER

"Yes," Hanley said, staring at the screen. "You're about five minutes

from the rendezvous point."

"We'll report back once we land," Murphy said.

The radio went dead. Hanley dialed Seng and waited while it rang.

BRIKTIN GAMPO CHECKED to make sure the strobes were flashing,

then stared up at the sky. The clouds were low, almost a fog, but

from second to second they would shift, revealing patches of open air.

In the distance he could hear a helicopter approaching. He walked back

inside, stirred a pot of tea on the stove, then went back out to await

the arrival.

"I see one," Murphy said, pointing.

In the last few minutes, Gurt's face had turned ashen. Murphy could

see beads of sweat on his forehead, and his hand controlling the helicopter

was shaking.

"Hold on," Murphy said, "we're almost there."

"I'm starting to see black on the edges of my eyes," Gurt said. "You

might need to guide me on where to land."

THE SOUND OF the cargo plane lifting off was loud. Eddie Seng

was forced to yell into the telephone. "How bad is it?" he asked

Hanley.

"We don't know," Hanley said, "but we should dispatch someone

now--the flight north takes a couple of hours. If the support is not

needed, we can call it back."

"Got it," Seng said.

Then he walked toward the makeshift clinic to see if Huxley had

found anyone trained in nursing to fly along. Five minutes later, he had

a helicopter refueled, a Tibetan soldier with a limited nursing background,

and supplies in the air.

GOLDEN BUDDHA

383

* *

YOU'RE CLOSE ENOUGH, Gurt," Murphy said, "and you're about

twelve feet above the ground."

Gurt started to descend, then vomited across the dashboard of the

Bell. "In case I can't, when that gauge reads green," he said, wiping the

sleeve of his flight suit across his mouth, "flick these three switches

down. That will shut down the turbines."

Six feet above the ground in a slow descent, Gurt paused and hovered

for a second, then took her the rest of the way to the ground. As

soon as the helicopter settled on the skids, he slumped over in the harness

and sat unmoving.

Murphy started to unsnap him from the belt as he waited for the

helicopter to cool, then turned the engines off and waited for the rotor

to stop spinning. Then he quickly climbed from his seat and raced

around to the pilot's door. With Gampo's help, they carried Gurt inside

the tent.

Then Murphy began to cut off his flight suit with a knife.

The cloth was saturated by blood and the wound was still leaking.

SIR," THE PILOT of the Gulfstream said, "we're on final approach."

Cabrillo stared out the window. Smoke was still rising from the

burning wreckage at the far end of Gonggar Airport. The sun was over

the horizon and he could just catch sight of Lhasa sixty miles distant.

Staring up the aisle, through the open cockpit door and out the windshield,

he could see a lumbering silver plane some seventy feet above

the runway climbing out and away. On the ground were several trucks

driving down the road away from the airfield.

They were a hundred feet above the runway and two hundred yards

downwind. Two minutes later, the tires touched the tarmac with a

384

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

385

squeal. The pilot taxied off the runway near the terminal and stopped.

The turbines were still spinning when Cabrillo climbed out.

CHAIRMAN ZHUREN HAD tape across his eyes and his wrists were

taped behind his back. The dark-haired man that had burst into

his bedroom was pulling him quickly along. Zhuren could hear a noisy

crowd of people nearby. Then distant gunfire rang out from a few blocks

away.

The thumping of a distant helicopter grew louder.

King watched through the scope as Reyes led Zhuren through the

crowd. He could see Reyes ordering the Dungkar soldiers with him to

clear the people away from the landing zone. Turning, he glanced from

his perch a few blocks away to where the armored personnel carriers

were approaching. Crowds of Tibetans were trying to stop them but

they were being felled by bursts of machine-gun fire. The lead APC was

coming down a narrow street, with Tibetans fleeing from the front. He

watched as it ran over the fallen body of a Tibetan freedom fighter. It

flattened the body like a frog on a train track.

Reaching into his bag, he removed a belt of ammunition containing

armor-piercing rounds and slid them into the .50. The helicopter was

just about to touch down when he started firing.

Ten shots in seven seconds. Ten more for good measure.

The lead APC ground to a halt. The ones to the rear stopped also.

The sound of the helicopter was loud in Zhuren's ears. He felt himself

being pulled from inside and pushed from outside into a seat, then

he felt someone slide in next to him. He sniffed the air. It was the dark-haired

man, the man who had yanked him from safety into the unknown.

The helicopter lifted off.

"They will hover above us and we'll climb inside," King said to his Dungkar assistant.

"Mr. Sir," the Tibetan said, "can I stay?"

"What's your plan?" King asked.

The Tibetan pointed to where his countrymen were swarming over

the disabled APC.

The helicopter was almost to the rooftop. King reached into his

satchel and removed a black cloth bag. "These are hand grenades," he

said. "Do you know how they work?"

"Pull the metal thing and run?" the Dungkar said, smiling.

"You got it," King said, "but keep your people back when you use

them--these will shred a human like cheese in a grater."

The helicopter was above the rooftop and lowering down. The Tibetan

grabbed the bag and started for the ladder down.

"Thank you, sir," the Dungkar soldier shouted.

"Good luck," King shouted as a pair of hands from inside the helicopter

reached for him and he stepped up onto the skid, then ducked

down and climbed inside.

"How's things?" Reyes shouted after the door was closed and the

helicopter had turned back toward Gonggar Airport.

"You know what they say," King said wearily. "We do more before

lunch than most people do all day."

GOLDEN EUDDHA

387

MR. SENG," CABRILLO said, "excellent job so far."

A cold wind was blowing from the north. It bore the scent

of forests and glaciers, aviation fuel and gunpowder. Cabrillo zipped the

leather jacket he was wearing tighter around his neck, then reached in

his rear pocket and removed a carefully folded white handkerchief and

dabbed his nose, which was running.

"Thank you, sir," Seng said. "Here's the most current situation report.

Murphy and the contract pilot managed to get the charges placed

and cause the avalanche at the pass. Any Chinese armor is now effectively

immobilized. Even if they decided to ignore the Russian advance

and try to return to Lhasa now, their only route would cost them at

least forty-eight hours of transit time, and that is z/the weather holds."

"Problems with that operation?" Cabrillo asked.

"The contract pilot, one Gurt Guenther, was hit by small-arms fire,"

Seng said. "The extent of his injuries is unknown."

"You've dispatched backup?"

"A relief helicopter with Kasim aboard is en route," Seng said, "but

they made it to the fuel stop and managed to land, so Guenther might

not be too critical. The way it stands now is that if Murphy's team can

fly themselves out, we can call back Kasim."

"Good," Cabrillo said. "We might just need him here."

"Speaking of the weather," Seng said, "we are going to catch a late

spring storm this afternoon, then it will clear for tomorrow and the next

few days. The estimate is two to three inches of snow, and for the

temperature to go below freezing before a slow warming trend."

"The weather has the same impact on us as on the Chinese," Cabrillo

said, "but it is a possible advantage for the Dungkar forces. We'll

score it in Tibet's favor."

>From far in the east came the sound of an approaching helicopter.

Cabrillo stared in the distance and tried to make out which type it was.

"That's one of ours, sir," Seng said. "It contains Reyes, King and

Legchog Zhuren."

"Excellent."

The two men started walking closer to the terminal. Zhuren would

end up there soon enough.

"We have managed to field an attack helicopter liberated from the

Chinese and piloted by Mr. Adams. Also a cargo plane we modified into

a gunship with Gunderson at the controls, as well as the rental Bells

and the Predator."

"An excellent air armada for the newly resurrected Tibetan military,"

Cabrillo said.

"Everything else in the plan has taken place at the correct time," Seng said, "but there is one problem that has arisen. I discovered it when

questioning a captured Chinese lieutenant."

"What?" Cabrillo asked.

"Because the Chinese troops in Tibet have always been outnumbered,"

Seng said, "if they were overrun--and I mean a Broken Arrow

388   CLIVECUSSLER

situation, no hope at all--the plan called for them to gas the Tibetan

rebels with an airborne paralyzing agent."

"The drums must be marked with some symbols," Cabrillo said.

"We'll just call Washington and receive recommendations for how to

disable it."

"That's the problem," Seng said loudly over the sound of the helicopter

hovering to land. "The lieutenant doesn't know where it was

stored. He only knows it exists."

Cabrillo reached into his coat pocket and removed a Cuban cigar.

Biting off the end, he spit the plug to the side, then reached for a Zippo

lighter with the other hand and did a single-hand light. He puffed the

cigar to life before speaking.

"I have a feeling, Mr. Seng, it's going to be a long day."

MURPHY WAS ANGRY. Gampo had left him alone in the tent with

a weak and bleeding Gurt. If this was the way the feared Dung-kar

reacted to blood, they'd lose this war before it ever started. The Oregon was sending help, but even at the fastest cruising speed the Bell

could fly, that would be hours away. Gurt, his friend and fellow warrior,

was growing weaker by the minute. His skin was an ugly gray and he

was drifting in and out of consciousness.

Just then the flap of the tent was pulled back and Gampo entered.

He was carrying a handful of long-bladed grass clippings in one

hand and what looked like a wet dirt clod in the other, and under his

chin was a chunk of meat from some unspecified beast.

"Where the hell did you go?" Murphy said.

"Stir the fire in the stove," Gampo said quietly, setting down the

grass and mud, "then add these to the fire," he added, removing a

leather pouch with powdered minerals inside. "We need a good amount

of smoke inside the tent. Once you have that done," he said, pointing

to the meat, "cook that in with the tea and make me a meat broth."

Murphy stared at Gampo as if he were crazy.

389

GOLDEN BUDDHA

But the Tibetan was already busy cleaning and bandaging Gurt's

wound, so Murphy did as he was told. Two minutes later, the tent was

filled with a smoke that smelled somewhat like cinnamon cloves washed

in lemon. Three more minutes and Gampo stood upright and stared at

Murphy. Then he motioned to help him prop Gurt up. The grass and

mud had dried into a pair of oblong bandages front and rear. They

adhered to his skin like plaster of paris laced with glue. Gurt's eyes

began to flicker open and he drew a few deep breaths.

"Give him the broth of the bear," Gampo said. "I'll go gas up your

flying ship."

JUST ACROSS THE border of Russia and Mongolia, General Alexander

Kernetsikov was breathing deeply of the diesel-smoke-tinged

air. After leaving Novosibirsk, his tank column had blown through the

Altai Region like a top-fueler down a drag strip. Kernetsikov was riding

in the lead tank with his head out of a forward hatch. He was wearing

a helmet with a headset so he could communicate with his other officers,

and a uniform with enough ribbons to decorate a Christmas tree. In his

mouth was an unlit Cuban cigar. In his hand was a GPS that he was

using to track the column's speed.

The distance to the Tibet border was five hundred miles. They were

traveling at thirty-five miles per hour.

Kernetsikov stared overhead as a flight of fighters crisscrossed high

in the air above. Then he called his intelligence officer over the radio to

learn what was new. The weather was due to change to snow sometime

in the next few hours. Other than that, all was the same.

IN MACAU, SUNG Rhee was reaching the end of his patience.

Marcus Friday had learned that his plane had been found and

had ordered it to return to pick him up and fly him out of the city.

Stanley Ho was still angry about the theft of his priceless Buddha. The

390

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

391

later discovery that the one Friday had recovered was fake just added

to his rage.

After the Chinese navy had realized that the cargo ship they had

illegally stopped on the high seas had nothing to do with the incident

in Macau, they had broadened their circle of observation and tracked

the Oregon to Vietnam.

Po had made a few calls to a friend he knew in the Da Nang police

department and learned that a C-130 had left Da Nang for Bhutan. A

few more calls and some wired bribes had led him to a rumor that the

group that had stolen the statue was on their way to Tibet.

Po was a Chinese police officer and Tibet was a Chinese region, so

Po had decided to follow the trail. Flying from Macau to Chengdu, he had

arrived on the last flight in Gonggar yesterday evening. By the time he'd

arrived at the office of the Public Security Bureau, Tibet's police force, it

was closed. So he'd checked into a hotel and waited for morning.

This morning was chaotic in Lhasa, but he'd managed to meet with

the chief of police and requisitioned half a dozen men to help his investigation

before the street fighting escalated. By now, he'd figured out which

of the band members had been the ringleader. The memory of Cabrillo's

face on the tape from the single security camera that had worked had

burned a hole in his brain that only death or insanity would erase.

Po set out to see if he could find his target--he had no idea of the

impending war.

As Po and the other policemen loaded into a large six-passenger

truck to scour Lhasa, the Chinese military officers were beginning to

realize the gravity of the situation. They started to assemble to exert

control over the city and crush the rebel forces.

The Dungkar started their plan in motion as well.

TIME WAS OF the essence and Cabrillo had none to spare. For a

man that had been yanked from sleep, bound and transported

south to the airport under guard, Legchog Zhuren was surprisingly bel

ligerent.

Cabrillo had first tried to appeal to Zhuren's sense of goodness,

asking him just to explain the procedure for the poison gas and where

the stockpiles were located, but Zhuren had spit in his face and puffed

up his chest.

It was obvious that goodness was not a quality Zhuren cherished.

"Tape him," Cabrillo said.

Up until this second, Cabrillo had tried to show respect by allowing

Zhuren to simply sit in the chair in front of him--now it was time to

learn what he needed, and for that the Chinese leader would need to be

secured. Seng and Gannon wrapped his arms and legs with duct tape

and secured him to the chair.

"Prepare the juice," Cabrillo said to Huxley.

"What are you--" Zhuren started to say.

"I asked you nice," Cabrillo said, "to help me save both the Chinese

in Tibet as well as the Tibetan nationals. You didn't seem to want to

cooperate. We have a little serum that will help to loosen your tongue.

Trust me, you'll tell us everything, from your first conscious memory to

the last time you had sex. The only problem is this:

We cannot always get the dosage right. Too much and we erase

your memory like a wet cloth across a chalkboard. Usually we gradually

increase the dosage to try and avoid that--but you're a prick, so I think

we'll bypass that step."

"You're lying," Zhuren said in a voice showing fear.

"Ms. Huxley," Cabrillo said, "twenty cc's in the lieutenant's arm,

please."

Huxley walked over to where the Chinese army lieutenant was still

bound to his chair. She squirted some of the liquid in the air until she

had the correct amount, then with her other hand wiped an alcohol

swab across his upper arm, then plunged the needle into a vein. Cabrillo

watched the second hand of his watch as fifteen seconds passed.

"Name and where you were born, please," Cabrillo said.

The lieutenant rattled off the information like his tongue was on fire.

"What is the total troop strength inside Lhasa?"

392

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

393

"There were eighty-four hundred approximate troops," the lieutenant

said. "Just over six thousand were sent north toward Mongolia.

That leaves around twenty-four hundred. Of those, some two hundred

fifty were sick or injured. The remaining troops are Company S, Company

L--"

"That's enough," Cabrillo said.

"I don't mind," the lieutenant said, smiling. "We have the following

armor. Four T-59--"

"That's fine," Cabrillo said.

Zhuren stared at the lieutenant in horror.

"Ms. Huxley," Cabrillo said slowly. "Prepare one hundred cc's."

Zhuren started talking and it was nearly a half hour before he finished.

Cabrillo was scanning the notes of Zhuren's disclosures. He turned

to Seng, pointed out a spot on the map, and then examined a satellite

photograph of the area.

"I want to lead this one myself," he said slowly. "I'll need a dozen

men, air cover and some way to destroy the gas."

"Sir, I inventoried the hangar," Gannon said. "There were a pair of

fuel-air cluster bombs in the ordnance room."

"That should do it," Cabrillo said.

STANLEY HO MIGHT own a mansion in Macau and bear all the

earmarks of legitimacy, but the fact was that he was really only

one step away from street-level thug. Once he realized that Winston

Spenser had screwed him on the Golden Buddha, his every waking minute

since had been used in scheming to settle the score. It was not just

that Spenser had ripped him off--that was one thing. It was the fact

that he had dealt with Spenser so many times in the past. That Spenser

had smiled in his face, then stabbed him in the back. To Ho, that meant

that Spenser had been toying with him, that all the art dealer's good-

natured

ass-kissing and pandering had been merely a prelude to the big

screw. Ho had been treated like a dupe--and he hated that most of all.

Ho had personally gone down to the Macau immigration office to

bribe the clerk. That had given him a list of everyone who had exited

the country the day after the robbery. With that in hand, it had just

been a case of eliminating all the improbabilities until Ho had gotten

down to just three people. Then he had sent three men hired from the

local triad leader to Singapore, Los Angeles, and Asuncion, Paraguay.

The first two had been washes; the parties had been observed and disqualified

and the men were called back. Ho was starting to think that

maybe he'd need to expand the search, that he had somehow eliminated

Spenser from the first cut by accident. He was beginning to think this

would take longer than he'd planned.

Just then his fax started printing and a picture came across.

Ho was staring at the photograph when his telephone rang.

"Yes or no?" a voice with a rough Chinese accent asked.

Ho stared a second longer, then smiled. "His hands and his head,"

he said quietly. "Pack them in ice and overnight them."

The telephone went dead in his ear.

PARAGUAY IN GENERAL and Asuncion in particular is more European

feeling than South American. The massive stone buildings and

extensive parks with fountains scream Vienna, not Rio. Spenser tossed

some feed purchased from a machine nearby toward the pigeons, then

wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

The fact is, a man who commits a crime is never free--even if it

seems he pulled it off.

The abiding knowledge of his infraction is never far from his mind

and it weighs on his psyche, and holding it inside only makes it worse.

Only the sociopath feels no remorse--the events happened to another,

if they ever happened at all.

Spenser brushed the last of the feed from his hand, watched as the

CLIVE CUSSLER

birds fought over the morsels, then stood up. It was Jate afternoon. He

decided to return to his anonymous hotel and nap before going out for a

Jate dinner. Tomorrow he would start looking for a house to rent and begin

to rebuild his life. Tonight, his plan was to eat, sleep and try to forget.

The art dealer was not a stupid man. He knew Ho would scour the

earth for him.

Right now, however, Spenser was just trying to put that all out of

his mind. He had a few days at least, he thought, before the trail here

might be detected, if it ever was. That would give him time to move out

of the capital into the countryside. There, he would eventually make

friends who could help warn him if people started poking around. And

hide him, if they came too close.

At this instant in time, however, his guard was down and he was

weary. Tomorrow he could worry--tonight he would have a fine Argentine

steak and an entire bottle of red wine. Crossing through the

park, he started down the cobblestone street leading up the hill toward

the hotel.

The sidewalk was deserted,-most

people were taking their midday

break. That gave him comfort. He was humming, "I Left My Heart in

San Francisco" as he strolled along. Halfway up the block, he saw the

awning leading to the street from his hotel.

Spenser was still humming when a side door onto the sidewalk

swung open and a garrote was slipped over his head and he gagged over

his verse.

With lightning speed the triad killed and dragged Spenser inside a

garden at the rear of a home facing the street. The occupants of the

home were out of town, but that was of little matter to the killer--had

they been unfortunate enough to be home, he would have killed them too.

Four days passed before the remains of Spenser's body were found.

It was minus the hands and the head, but the arms had been carefully

folded across his chest and the Canadian passport tucked into his belt.

TRUITT STARED AT the water as the turboprop made a final approach

for landing at the Kiribati capital city of Tarawa. The water

was a light sapphire color, with coral reefs clearly visible beneath

the surface. Fishermen in small canoes and outboard-motored crafts

plied the waters, while a black-hulled tramp steamer was tied alongside

the dock at the main port.

It looked like a scene out of South Pacific.

The plane was not crowded, just Truitt, a single chubby male islander

who had yet to stop smiling, and a load of cargo in the rear. The

inside of the cabin smelled like salt, sand and the aroma of light mold

that seemed to permeate everything in the tropics. It was hot inside the

plane, and humid, and Truitt dabbed a handkerchief to his forehead.

The pilot lined up for a landing on the dirt strip, then eased the

plane down.

A bump, the feeling of the brakes slowing the aircraft to a crawl,

396

CLIVE CUSSLER

I

then a slow taxi to the concrete-block terminal building. Truitt watched

out the window as the plane stopped in front of the terminal, then felt

a rush of humid, flower-scented air as the pilot walked back and lowered

the door. The islander climbed down first and walked toward a woman

holding a pair of smiling children in her arms, while Truitt grabbed his

overnight bag from the seat behind. Then he rose and walked down the

steps. The presidents of Kiribati and Tuvalu were waiting.

THE ATTORNEY HIRED by Halpert sat on the rear deck of the

spacious mountain chalet. In the distance, across a meadow with

a stone fence marking the borders and a haystack leaving no doubt as

to the purpose of the land, a dark-haired man adjusted a portable

propane-fueled heater, then sat down in a chair across the table.

Marc Forne Molne, the head of government of Andorra, was kindly

but direct.

"You may relay to your principals that I sincerely appreciate the

investment in my country--we always welcome finding a home for fine

companies. However, the simple fact is this: Even if they had not chosen

to base their operations here, our vote would have gone toward a free

Tibet."

Molne rose again and adjusted the flame higher. "Opposition

against tyranny and oppression is an Andorran legacy."

Molne brushed a drop of water from his hands. "You tell your men

they have our vote. And you also tell them if they need anything else,

they need but ask."

The attorney rose from his chair. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I will

report back to them immediately."

Molne motioned with his hand and a butler appeared out of nowhere.

"Show this man to my office," he ordered. "He needs to use the

telephone."

GOLDEN BUDDHA

397

TWO HOURS LATER, Truitt had forged an agreement. A pair of

trusts, one for each nation. Because the population of Kiribati was

just over 84,000, they received $8.4 million. Tuvalu, with a population

of 10,867, received $1.1 million. Another $5.5 million was dedicated

for development of eco-tourism on the two chains of islands. To promote

tourism, the two countries decided on a series of small island resorts

where the natives would act as guides, scuba-diving masters and

overseers.

The planned stilt homes would be self-service. The tourists could

clean their own rooms.

Truitt caught the last flight out on Easter day.

HANLEY WAS STARING at a satellite image of Tibet as he spoke

on the telephone.

"You're sure, Murph?" he asked. "He's fit to fly?"

"It was like magic," Murphy said over the secure line. "Gurt looks

better than before he was shot. He's outside doing repairs on the chopper

as we speak."

"Hold on," Hanley said from the Oregon. "I'll call off the cavalry."

Reaching for a scrambled radio, he called the rescue helicopter.

"Stop where you are," Hanley said, "and wait. If my fuel calculations

are correct, you should have more than half tanks right now. Wait until

you see the other Bell pass nearby, then follow her home to Gonggar."

"Understand," the pilot answered. "What's the ETA?"

"They're about an hour away," Hanley noted, "but I'll monitor the

situation and report to you when they are near."

"We're touching down now," the pilot said, "and standing by."

GOLDEN BUDDHA "Good," the president said. "Then I

398

CLIVE CUSSLER

IN WASHINGTON, B.C., hands-off was becoming hands-on.

Langston Overholt sat in a room off the Oval Office, waiting for

the president to reappear. Truitt had notified Hanley of his successful

mission. Hanley had faxed the details to Cabrillo in Tibet. Once that

was done, he had telephoned Overholt and reported the news.

Overholt then made his way to the White House to report to the

president.

"For someone who was supposed to be outside the loop," the president

said, entering the room, "I'm as wrapped up in this as a kitten in

a yarn ball."

It was early morning in Washington, and the president had been

preparing for bed when he had been summoned. He was dressed in gray

sweatpants and a blue T-shirt. He was drinking a glass of orange juice.

He stared at Overholt, then grinned. "You must know I stay up late

and watch Saturday Night Live."

"Don't all politicians, sir?" Overholt asked.

"Probably," the president said. "It was always the rumor that it cost

Gerald Ford the election."

"How did it go, sir?" Overholt asked.

"Qatar was a gimme," he said easily. "Me and Mr. al-Thani are old

friends. Brunei was not such a pushover. The sultan needed a few concessions

--I gave them, and he agreed."

"I'm sorry we needed to involve you, sir," Overholt said. "But the

contractors were short of both men and time."

"Have you got the last vote?" the president asked. "Is Laos in the

bag?"

Overholt glanced at his watch before answering. "Not yet, sir," he

said, "but we will have it in about fifteen minutes."

"I'll instruct the ambassador to the United Nations to call for a

special vote in the morning," the president said. "If your guys can hold

down the fort for six hours or so, we're home free."

"I'll notify them immediately, sir," Overholt said, rising.

399

m going to catch a few hours

of shuteye."

A Secret Service agent led Overholt down the elevator and into the

secret tunnel. Twenty minutes later he was in his car and on his way

back to Langley.

THE WHITE 747 cargo plane slowed to a stop at the end of the

runway in Vientiane, then taxied over to a parking area and shut

down the engines. Once everything was shut down, the pilot began the

process of raising the entire nose cone in the air, opening up the immense

cargo area. Once the nose was in the air, cargo ramps were attached to

a slot in the open front of the fuselage.

Then, one by one, cars were driven out onto the tarmac.

The first was a lime-green Plymouth Superbird with a hemi-engine.

The second, a 1971 Ford Mustang Boss 302 in yellow with the shaker

hood, rear slats over the window and the quarter-mile clock in the dashboard.

The third was a 1967 Pontiac GTO convertible, red with a black

interior, red-line tires and air conditioning. The last was a 1967 Corvette

in Greenwood green, with the factory speed package and locking rear

differential.

The man who carefully removed the cars from inside the 747 was

of medium height with thick brown hair. As soon as the last car, the

Corvette, was on the runway, he reached into the glove box, removed

a letter, then climbed out and lit up a Camel filter.

"You must be the general," he said to a man approaching followed

by a dozen soldiers.

"Yes," the general said.

"I'm Keith Lowden," the man said. "I was told to give you this."

The general scanned the letter, folded it and placed it in his rear

pants pocket. "These all original?"

"They are," Lowden said. "The serial numbers all match."

Lowden then motioned to the general to walk over to the Superbird

400

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

401

and started explaining the car, the documentation and the rare options.

By the time Lowden had finished with the second car, the Boss 302, the

general stopped him.

"You want--" he started to say just as Lowden's cell phone rang.

"Sorry," Lowden said as he answered. He listened for a minute, then

turned to the general.

"They want to know if it's a deal," he said, placing his hand over

the telephone.

The general nodded his head in the affirmative.

"He said okay," Lowden said.

A second later he hung up the telephone and turned back to the

general. "Now, what were you about to ask me?"

"I was wondering if you had time to spend the night here in my

country," the general said, "so we might talk about the cars."

"I don't know," Lowden said, smiling. "This country have any

beer?"

"Some of the best," the general said, smiling back.

"Good," Lowden said. " 'Cause you can't talk cars when you're

thirsty."

PO AND HIS team were searching throughout Lhasa, but they had

yet to turn up a single U.S. or European citizen. The six members

of his team were all Tibetan, and Po didn't care for them much. First

of all, like most people, he hated traitors--and any way you sliced it,

Tibetans that worked for the PSB had sold out to the Chinese. In the

second part, the men appeared lazy; they did the questioning in a haphazard

fashion and didn't seem to be committed to finding the people

Po was seeking. Thirdly, for being members of the country's crack police

service, they didn't seem to have much training in police procedures.

Po, for his part, had little choice, so he doubled his own efforts and

hoped for the best.

"^T^HE SON-OF-A-BITCHES," CABRILLO said angrily, "it's like put-.A ting

an atomic bomb in the Vatican."

Zhuren had just given them the site of the poison gas. It was in

Potala, the home of the Dalai Lama, and one of the most sacred of

structures in all of Tibet. The Chinese plan was evil, but ingenious.

Potala sat on a hill outside of town; if one waited until the winds were

right, you could blanket Lhasa in a matter of minutes.

Seng nodded, then reached for his beeping radio. "Go ahead, Oregon," he said.

"Is Cabrillo there with you?"

"Hold on," Seng said, handing him the radio.

"Juan," Hanley said quickly, "we have the votes. All you need to

do is keep it together for another few hours and help will be on the

way."

"What's the latest on the Russians?" Cabrillo asked.

"They're five hours from the Mongolian-Tibetan border," Hanley

said, staring at the large monitor on the wall, "give or take."

"Call and have them slow the tank column down," Cabrillo said.

"If they reach the border before the vote, we could have World War

Three on our hands."

"I'll do it," Hanley said. "Now, what's happening on the ground?"

"I just found out the Chinese have one last trick up their sleeve,"

Cabrillo said. "A doomsday gas."

"Do you know the location and type?" Hanley said.

Cabrillo rattled off the chemical composition.

"We'll get to work here figuring out how to render the gas inert,"

Hanley said.

"Good," Cabrillo said. "That frees me up to pinpoint the exact

location."

"Somehow," Hanley said, "I knew you were going to say that."

GOLDEN BUDDHA

403

The only hope was if the news media could shine the beacon of

truth on China.

If the world could be shown via television that the Tibetans had

overthrown their oppressors on their own and that the control of Tibet

was in the hands of the people and their divine leader the Dalai Lama,

then any bombing by China would be taken for what it was--a senseless

act of brutality. The ensuing worldwide condemnation would be a burden

even China could not bear.

Hanley placed a call to Bhutan and ordered the C-130 to prepare

to evacuate his team.

'/^ LIMBER ONE," MURPHY said, "to Rescue."

THE OREGON WAS surging into the Bay of Bengal in preparation

for the team's extraction. Word of the street fighting in Lhasa had

reached the news media. Television crews, newspaper and magazine reporters,

and radio teams were making final preparations to enter the

country. To maintain the veil of secrecy necessary for the Corporation

to conduct business, they needed to be away from Tibet before the reporters

appeared.

So far the plan had worked like clockwork, but there was still a wild

card to contend with.

The Russian ruse had successfully tied up the Chinese army far to

the north, but the risk now was from the Chinese air force. If Beijing

ordered squadrons of bombers and fighter planes to attack the country,

the results would be catastrophic. The Dungkar forces had limited

means to wage ground-to-air warfare. Carpet bombing of Lhasa would

result in heavy losses.

Gurt was steering the Bell 212 above a mountain plain with

jagged peaks to each side. Several miles in the distance, the rescue helicopter

was visible on the ground. As Murphy watched through his

binoculars, the rotor blade started to spin, then gain speed until it was

just a blur.

"Rescue One," the radio squawked. "We have visual and will follow

along."

Murphy watched as the helicopter lifted into a high hover, then

slowly began to move forward. Passing to one side, Murphy craned his

head to the rear and confirmed they were in formation behind and to

one side.

"How are you feeling?" he said over the intercom to Gurt.

"My shoulder feels like I've been kicked by a mule," he noted, "but

all in all, I'm not doing too bad."

"I'd like to know what Gampo gave you," Murphy said.

"Some ancient Tibetan potion," Gurt said, staring at the gauges. "I

just hope it lasts."

"I spoke to the Oregon," Murphy said. "One of the backup pilots

will fly you back to Bhutan."

f

404   CLIVECUSSLER

"Heck of a deal," Gurt said. "I thought I was a goner."

"Me too, old buddy," Murphy said quietly. "Me too."

FOR THE CHINESE, the battle for Lhasa was all but over. They had

lost the initiative when King stopped the movement of the armored

column. From that point on, the Dungkar forces had been seized by a

rage that showed no boundaries.

Teams under the leadership of General Rimpoche had spread out

through Lhasa, rounding up Chinese troops in their barracks and elsewhere.

The war for the motor pool was bloody, but after forty minutes

of fierce fighting, the Dungkar had taken control.

"This was all the red paint available in town," a Dungkar warrior

said as he slid to a stop inside the fenced yard of the motor pool.

General Rimpoche was sitting in the passenger seat of a Chinese

jeep with a bloody bandage wrapped around his lower leg. A red-hot

chunk of shrapnel from a fragmentary grenade had hit him as he was

leading the last charge in the battle.

"Mark the captured armored personnel carriers and the three remaining

tanks with the Dalai Lama's symbol," he said, coughing, "then

alert our forces that these vehicles are under our control."

The man scurried off to fulfill the request while at the same time his

aide approached.

"I've found a dozen men with at least basic knowledge of how to

drive," the aide said. "We can have the vehicles on the streets of the

city as soon as they are painted."

"Good," Rimpoche said. "We need to show we're in control."

Right at that instant, he heard a helicopter approaching from Gong-gar.

He watched as it passed overhead and headed for Potala.

D

ETECTIVE PO AND his Tibetan underlings had just escaped a

mob of Tibetans intent on capturing them. Po was now on the out

405

GOLDEN BUDDHA

skirts of Lhasa at the east end of the city. More and more he was considering

his mission a failure. Either there was no one answering the

description of the people he sought, or the Tibetans he and his men had

questioned were lying. But the situation went deeper than that. In the

last half hour, Po had felt the tide turn.

More and more he was feeling like the hunted, not the hunter.

His last call to the Public Security Bureau had gone unanswered,

and although it might be a figment of his imagination, he was thinking

the Tibetans assigned to help him had begun eyeing him differently.

Right then, a helicopter flew overhead and slowed to touch down

on the flats below Potala.

"Stop the truck," Po ordered.

The driver slowed and stopped. The helicopter was only two hundred

yards away and the skids had just touched the ground. Straining

to watch with his binoculars, Po waited until the dust from the rotor

wash had cleared and the occupants climbed out. The leader of the

group was wearing a helmet, and he was pointing out a spot on the

palace grounds to the other men who had climbed out. At that instant,

Po saw the man remove a portable telephone from his belt. Then he

removed the helmet to hear.

Po stared through the binoculars. The man's hair was worn in a

short blond crew cut, but his face was familiar. Po watched.

YOU'RE SURE, MAX?" Cabrillo asked.

"I just received confirmation," said Hanley, a thousand miles

away on the Oregon,

"Good, I'm going in," Cabrillo said.

"The media is on their way," Hanley said, "and the Dalai Lama has

already left India. Both are due to arrive in Lhasa in just over an hour.

We need you all out of there posthaste. I've dispatched the C-130 from

Thimbu, and Seng is rounding everyone up. Just get this done--and get

out of there."

406

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDENBUDDHA

407

"All I can say is that you'd better have some beer on board that

plane," Cabrillo said, laughing.

"Bet on it," Hanley said.

THE SMILE. THE smile was the same as that of the man on the

tape. Po slid the binoculars back in the case and turned to the

driver. "To Potala."

F

LY THE CARGO to that level and unload it," Cabrillo said, pointing

to a stark white center section of the palace, "then start

searching. I'll meet you on the courtyard that abuts the taller section."

The Dungkar in charge of the detail nodded.

"I'm going to take the stair and search the lower levels," Cabrillo

said, removing a small portable oxygen tank from inside the helicopter

and strapping it on his back. He attached a nose clip, turned on the

flow of oxygen, then started up the stairs.

A few minutes later, the helicopter lifted off the flats and dropped

off the Dungkar and cargo. Four minutes later, the truck carrying Po

and the Public Security Bureau members slid to a stop at the bottom of

the stairs. Po unholstered his pistol and, followed by the others, started

up the stairs. Cabrillo disappeared out of sight in the first structure

bordering the stairs.

The helicopter, now empty, parked on the flats near the truck.

The pilot noticed the truck and radioed the Oregon.

"It has markings from the Public Security Bureau," he said.

"I'll call Cabrillo," Hanley said, "but I wouldn't worry about it right

now. We're receiving sporadic radar returns here. We have yet to determine

the source. Watch overhead."

I

GEORGE ADAMS HAD stopped and refueled the Chinese attack helicopter

twice. Chuck Gunderson still had half a tank. For the

most part, their mission so far had been quiet. Gunderson had been

called in to monitor the fighting at the motor pool, but the Dungkar had gained control fast enough that they never needed his makeshift

gunship. Adams had yet to locate a clear target to fire upon. In the last

twenty minutes, the situation had changed--other than a few pockets

of small-arms fire in the city, it appeared that Lhasa was now firmly

under Dungkar control. Both men could see the transformation clearly

from the air--the war was almost over.

"Gorgeous George, this is Tiny," Gunderson said over the radio.

"Hey, Chuckie," George said, "you as bored as I am?"

"I'm telling you--" Gunderson started to say.

"This is Climber One," Murphy said. "A trio, meaning three, Chinese

fighters just blew past me and Rescue One. We are fifty miles out

of Lhasa inbound for Gonggar."

"All Corporation members, this is the Oregon," Hanley said. "We

have detected three Chinese fighters inbound from the northern theater.

Assume them as unfriendly. Prepare to take cover. All offensive forces

report in now."

"Predator, ready," Lincoln said from his remote station in Bhutan.

"Attack One, ready," Adams said.

"Gunship One, ready," Gunderson said.

"I'm sorry, people," Hanley said. "They must have slipped in low

under the radar. We now have intermittent returns and expect arrival

in minutes."

The three fighters roared down the canyon from the north toward

Lhasa.

CABRILLO WAS IN a,large prayer room with small rooms to each

side. He was searching each room one at a time, but the going

was slow. Po and his team had made it up the stairs. Po paused outside

v^j^ivri \_> U 5 S -L Ji K.

the door with his pistol in the air and peered inside. Then, seeing no

one, he crept inside. Cabrillo was searching through a large stack of

wooden crates in a storeroom. His attention was focused on locating

the poison gas, so he was unaware that Po and his men were outside.

The crates contained scrolls, old textbooks and documents. Wiping his

hands, he walked out.

Po was standing outside the door with his pistol trained on Cabrillo's

chest. The six members of the Public Security Bureau carried rifles,

which they pointed at him as well.

Cabrillo smiled. "Morning, men," he said easily. "Just changing the

filters in the furnace. This old palace can get a mite drafty when it

snows."

"I'm Detective Ling Po from the Macau Constabulatory, and you're

under arrest for theft and murder."

"Murder?" Cabrillo said quietly. "I didn't kill anyone."

"Your little Buddha theft and the subsequent escape left three Chinese

citizens dead."

"Do you mean when the Chinese navy attacked my boat?" Cabrillo

said. "They started it."

Right at that instant, the first fighter plane passed over Lhasa, and

all hell broke out.

MURPHY'S WARNING GAVE Adams and Gunderson just enough

time to prepare. Adams clung to the side of a mountain west of

Lhasa, pointing his tail boom toward the fighters. Gunderson clung to

the mountains on the east side with the mini-gun ready to fire. The

Predator was in a slow orbit over Gonggar, ready to protect the area.

The fighters passed over Lhasa and unleashed their chain guns, killing

scores of Tibetans, then they continued toward the airport. A minute

or so later, the fighters neared Gonggar and the antiaircraft guns opened

fire. Flying through flak, the lead fighter pilot passed over the airport,

then made a sweeping left turn back toward Lhasa. Slowly a helicopter

409

GOLDEN BUDDHA

appeared against the mountain. Then a puff of smoke and a flaming

spear emerged from under the fuselage.

Adams watched the video camera and made adjustments as the missile

streaked toward the fighter. He'd aimed for the main fuselage. What

he hit was a wing. The pilot ejected and Adams saw a chute open.

In a textbook maneuver, the second fighter pilot had broken right.

He was racing back toward Lhasa when a target showed on his radar

scope off his left wing. Before he could react, a Chinese cargo plane

appeared. Confused for a second by the appearance of a seemingly

friendly force, the pilot hesitated firing.

"Open up," Gunderson shouted to the rear.

The Tibetan gunner let loose with a volley that stitched the side of

the fighter like a shotgun blast to the gut of a duck. The man kept firing

even after the plane passed from view.

"I think you got him," Gunderson shouted back. "Hold off."

Gunderson made a sweeping turn and caught a glimpse as the flaming

wreckage spun into a mountain. There was no ejection, no salvation.

As soon as the third fighter realized they were being fired upon, he

made a steep climb straight up in the air. The Predator was hot on his

tail.

"Fire four," Lincoln said over the radio as he blew off all his remaining

missiles at once.

The jet raced into the heavens, but the lighter and smaller missiles

were faster.

The Tibetans on the ground watched as the white contrail from the

jet made a straight line up into the sky. Two sets of twin tendrils of

steam followed. Then, high over Lhasa, a fireball erupted. The three

fighters would fight no more.

GO SEE WHAT that was," Po ordered one of the Tibetans.

The man walked out and stared down at the city, then

410

CLIVE CUSSLER

walked back inside. "Planes attacking," was all he said when he returned.

"That's the Chinese, retaking the city," Po said. "In a few

minutes--"

Just then Cabrillo's telephone rang. So he answered it.

"Excuse me," he said to Po, holding his hand over the receiver.

"Right," Cabrillo said. "Okay, good. No, not yet, there has been a

slight snag. There is a Macau policeman here that's--"

Po slid his pistol in his holster and batted the telephone to the floor.

"You shouldn't have done that," Cabrillo said. "I didn't buy the

extended warranty."

Po was enraged. His control was slipping and he needed it back

now.

On the Oregon, Hanley was still listening to the open line.

"Against the wall," Po said, dragging Cabrillo against a stone wall,

then stepping back.

Cabrillo stood there, the realization of what was happening slowly

dawning.

"What do you think, Po" he spat. "That you're judge, jury and

executioner?"

"Men," Po said, "line up."

The Tibetans formed a firing line, their rifles at their shoulders.

On the Oregon, Eric Stone was next to Hanley, listening in. "Sir," j

he said, "what can we do?"

Hanley raised his hand to quiet him.

"On behalf of the Macau authorities," Po said, "I have heard your

admission of guilt and find you guilty of murder. Your sentence is death

by firing squad, at this time and place."

Stone looked in horror at Hanley, whose face remained impassive.

"Do you have any last words or pleas?" Po asked.

"Yes," Cabrillo said. "I ask that you stop this nonsense immediately

--there is a deadly gas somewhere in this palace, and if I don't find

it soon, we all will die."

golden BUDDHA

411

"Enough of your lies," Po thundered. "Men, prepare to fire."

Cabrillo brushed his hand along his crew-cut hair, then smiled and

winked.

"Fire," Po shouted.

A volley of shots rang out and the prayer room was filled with the

scent of gunpowder.

THERE THEY ARE," the leader of the Dungkar detail said.

Three stainless-steel canisters were marked with Chinese symbols.

The Dungkar erected the apparatus to burn off the gas, then

started to dress in gas masks and rubber gloves. The gas had been right

where Zhuren had said.

"Has anyone seen the American?" the Dungkar leader asked.

The answer came back negative.

"Slowly and carefully start to destroy the gas," the leader said. "I'm

going downstairs to report."

THE SMOKE CLEARED and Cabrillo was still standing.

One of the Public Security Bureau officers reached over and

took Po's handgun from his holster. Then he did a quick pat-down

search to look for other weapons.

"You missed," Cabrillo said, wiping a fleck of blood off his cheek

from where a chip of stone had struck.

Stone looked over at Hanley, who smiled. "The Tibetans are with

us," he explained. "They have been all along."

Stone raised his arms in the air in exasperation. "No one tells me

anything," he said.

Cabrillo was walking over to pick up his telephone when the Dungkar leader burst into the room. He stared at the scene in shock. Against

the far wall was a large outline of a man that had been made by the

412

CLIVE CUSSLER

bullets striking the stone. Five PSB officers were standing with rifles,

while a lone PSB officer was placing another man in handcuffs.

"We found the gas," the Dungkar blurted out. "We're burning it

off now."

Cabrillo bent down and retrieved the telephone. "Max," he said,

"did you hear that?"

"I did, Juan," Hanley said. "Now get the hell out of there."

Cabrillo folded the telephone in half and slid it in his pocket. "Nor-quay,

I assume?" he asked the leader of the PSB officers.

"Yes, sir," the officer answered.

"Assist the Dungkar with the destruction of the gas," Cabrillo said.

"Then secure Potala. General Rimpoche will be in contact with you

soon--thanks for your help."

Norquay nodded.

"To a Free Tibet," Cabrillo shouted.

"To a Free Tibet," the men answered.

Cabrillo began walking toward the door.

"Sir?" Norquay said, "there's just one more thing."

Cabrillo paused.

"What do you want us to do with him?" Norquay said, motioning

to Po.

Cabrillo smiled. "Let him go."

Cabrillo reached for the door handle. "But take his uniform and

papers. He's just too emotional to be a policeman."

Then Cabrillo walked out the door, climbed down the steps and

boarded the helicopter. Five minutes later he was back at Gonggar Airport.

Ten minutes later he and his team were airborne in the C-130.

They passed the fleet of leased helicopters in the air, headed for Bhutan,

and the pilot of the C-130 wagged his wings. The helicopters returned

the good-bye by flicking on their landing lights.

Then the team settled in for the short flight. Soon they'd be back on

the Oregon.

IN BEIJING, NEWS of the events in Tibet was filtering in, and a hurried

meeting was held.

President Jintao was direct. "What are our options?" he asked.

"We could send bombers to hit Lhasa," the head of the Chinese air

force said. "Then ready paratroopers for a later assault."

"But that leaves us short on the Mongolian border," Jintao noted.

"What's the latest intelligence on the Russian movements?"

The head of Chinese intelligence was a short man with a pronounced

belly. He adjusted his glasses before speaking. "The Russian forces are

enough for them to sweep down and flank our troops that are currently

still headed down the pass into Qinghai Province. If they supported their

efforts with air power, we could lose both Qinghai and Xinjiang Provinces,

basically the entire western frontier."

"That would give them control of our secret advanced weapons fa-

414

CLIVE CUSSLER

GOLDEN BUDDHA

415

cilities at Lop Nur, plus a good portion of our space program," Jintao

said wearily.

"I'm afraid so, sir," the head of intelligence noted.

"Okay--" Jintao started to say before his aide rushed into the room

and walked over and whispered in his ear.

"Gentlemen," President Jintao said, "continue discussions--I have

an emergency meeting. The Russian ambassador is insisting we talk and

has arrived ahead of his scheduled meeting."

The Russian ambassador was waiting in an outer office. He rose as

Jintao walked into the room. "Mr. President," he said solicitously, "I

apologize for moving up the time of our meeting, but the president of

my country insisted I see you immediately."

"Do you come bringing a declaration of war?" Jintao asked directly,

motioning the Russian to take a seat on a couch near a window with a

view of the outer gardens.

The Russian ambassador sat on the left end of the couch, Jintao

farther down on the right.

"No, Mr. President," the Russian ambassador said, straightening his

suit pants. "I come with a business offer that can put an end to the

tension between our countries, as well as placing your economy on solid

footing again."

Jintao stared at his watch before answering. "You have five

minutes."

The Russian ambassador explained it all in four.

"So you are convinced you can pull a UN Security Council vote?"

Jintao said after he was through.

"We can," the Russian said.

"What do we get if we go along with the vote?" Jintao asked. "If

China votes to go along."

The Russian ambassador smiled. "World peace?"

"I was thinking of a larger percentage of the field."

Two minutes later, the Russian had his offer.

"Mr. President," he said, "allow me to make a telephone call."

"Tell them I want your armored column stopped immediately," Jintao

said, "confirmed by satellite reconnaissance."

Eight minutes later, the new percentages would be confirmed and

the Russian armored column would grind to a halt. Further negotiations

would continue right up until the UN vote.

AT THE SAME instant the Russian ambassador was calling Moscow,

the C-130 containing the Corporation team was crossing into India.

Off the right wing the jet carrying the Dalai Lama home passed.

The pilot of the jet wagged his wings and the pilot of the C-130 reciprocated.

Less than an hour later, the team reached Calcutta, India, and was

met by the Corporation's amphibious airplane. Within minutes of the

C-130 touching down, the crew was being flown out to the ship.

By sundown on March 31, the Oregon was steaming south in the

Bay of Bengal.

On the deck, Hanley and Cabrillo watched the setting sun.

"I got a call from Overholt after you left Calcutta," Hanley said.

"I'm sure it was the usual," Cabrillo said. "Rah, rah, good job. The

check is in the mail."

"He did mention that, and a wire transfer that Halpert has already

confirmed."

"What else?" Cabrillo asked.

"He has another job for us," Hanley said.

"Where?" Cabrillo asked.

"The land of the midnight sun, Mr. Chairman," Hanley said. "The

Arctic Circle."

Cabrillo sniffed the salt air, then began walking for the hatch inside.

"Come on, you can explain over dinner."

"It had better be dinner and drinks," Hanley said. "I haven't had a

cocktail since Cuba."

"Cuba," Cabrillo said wearily. "Seems like years ago."

GOLDEN BUDDHA

417

EPILOGUE

THERE EXIST SNIPPETS of history etched into the fabric of time

and so perfectly formed that they may never be duplicated. Seemingly

scripted by a power with perfect timing and blessed with scenes

that know no bounds, these moments exist to be captured on film, to

be remembered and cherished for centuries to come.

These snippets do not happen often. They are as rare as the perfect

turn on skis, as delightful as homemade ice cream in the hot sun. They

exist to remind man there is hope. They exist to show promise. They

exist for generations yet unborn.

The Dalai Lama's return to Lhasa was one of these events.

April 1, 2005, dawned with clear skies and no wind. The snowcapped

mountains surrounding the city appeared to be close enough that

one could run his fingertip across the sharp crests. The very air in Lhasa

seemed alive with energy. It filled the lungs of the faithful with a hope

silent for decades and soothed and cooled the fires of war.

"Unbelievable," a reporter for a Los Angeles newspaper said quietly.

It was an image from Shangri-la. Potala Palace was glistening like a

mirage in the mind of a complicated man. The hillside surrounding the

palace was covered with a flowing field of red and blue blooming flowers

that spilled down the hill in a waterfall of color. One thousand Buddhist

monks in yellow robes filled the steps from top to bottom like a colored

strip of DNA molecules. On the lower buildings, parts of the green roofs

were visible, adding contrast, while the white rocks of the structure

seemed to have been scrubbed clean of dirt as a result of the cloak of

oppression being lifted. High overhead a hawk circled lazily on the

warming air.

The chosen one was coming home.

Nearly a mile away, on the large flat meadow below Potala, a monk

stepped over to a six-foot-tall gong suspended from a dark, carved

wooden frame. He glanced at the Dalai Lama, who was sitting atop a

gold gilded throne chair. The throne chair was topped with a fringed

silk awning, supported by wooden poles at the corners and held aloft

by six stout monks who walked in unison with the throne chair.

The six monks chanted a single-word chant and the wood-and-leather

hammer struck the gong.

The sound of the gong filled the air. One, two, until it sounded three

times. And then the procession started forward. The Ngagpa, carrying

the symbolic wheel of life, led the column. Directly behind the Ngagpa

were Tibetan horsemen, their steeds decorated with ceremonial blankets

whose intricate needlepoint depicted scenes from Tibetan history. The

horsemen wove their mounts back and forth in a choreographed display

of precision. In their hands were triangular flags attached to long bronze

staffs that were capped with fluted tops. To the rear of the horsemen

were two dozen archers with bows at parade rest against their shoulders.

They marched in perfect harmony. Next came a dozen porters carrying

cages filled with songbirds that chirped a song of freedom and happiness.

The porters were followed by fifty-five monks from the Dalai

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Lama's home monastery at Namgyal. They chanted in a single voice

and carried in their hands the sacred texts.

Next were more horsemen, four dozen in total, who were also musicians.

They played their flutes and stringed instruments while they

steered their mounts with their knees. The horse-mounted musicians

were followed by monks from the Tsedrung Order, who represented the

government of Tibet, followed by children waving thin, pointed, ornately

colored flags that danced through the air like kites without tails.

To the rear of the children was another group of horsemen with

serious faces, dressed in Tibetan army uniforms of green cloaks and red

hats. They steered their horses a few feet forward, then stopped. A few

more feet, then a pause again. These soldiers carried the Tibetan Seals

of State. Just to the rear of the soldiers carrying the Seals of State were

ten simple monks, barefoot and dressed in yellow robes. The ten monks

were humming loudly.

The Golden Buddha came next. It sat on a plain wagon pulled by a

single horse.

Only a few feet behind the Golden Buddha was the throne chair

containing the Dalai Lama.

Two hundred thousand Tibetans lined the procession route leading

to Potala. They massed on both sides of the cleared path through the

meadow. The day they had prayed and hoped for over these last decades

was finally here--and they allowed their joy to wash across the land.

As soon as the Golden Buddha appeared, the crowd went wild.

A roar erupted, and the faithful prostrated themselves onto the hard

soil, then began to chant as one.

The Dalai Lama began passing through the crowd and witnessed the

tears of joy on the cheeks of the faithful. The sight filled him with happiness,

duty and honor, and it caused him to smile.

Following the throne chair were members of the Dalai Lama's inner

cabinet, the Kasag. Next came the Kusun Depon, the Dalai Lama's bodyguards,

dressed in their black padded suits and carrying their curved

GOLDEN BUDDHA     419

swords. Following the bodyguards was the commander in chief of the

Tibetan army, the Mak-chi, and a platoon of soldiers.

The Mak-chi and the soldiers were dressed in their ceremonial uniforms

consisting of blue trousers and yellow tunics covered in gold

braid. They marched in slow and perfect cadence, with their boots making

a timed thumping sound as they struck the soil. Next were the Dalai

Lama's religious tutors and teachers, as well as family and friends.

At the rear of the procession came a wagon with a tiger in a cage,

followed by a single horseman holding a thirty-foot-tall staff flying the

formerly outlawed Tibetan flag. The parade was both magisterial and

magnificent. It was based on two thousand years of tradition and

strengthened by fifty-five years of exile.

The procession continued toward Potala.

AT THE BASE of the eighty-foot-tall foundation wall of Potala, four

hundred laborers had worked eight hours the night before to build

a series of stone steps leading from the edge of the meadow to the top

of the wall. As soon as the first of the procession reached the lowest

step, they parted to each side, like the flow of water in a stream being

split by a boulder, then took their positions alongside the temporary

stairway.

Once the Golden Buddha reached the base of the steps, the ten

monks walked over, formed a ladder with their arms, then carried the

Buddha up the steps and placed it on the top of the wall. Then they

descended the stairway as the throne chair containing the Dalai Lama slowed and stopped at the base. On a signal from the Dalai Lama, the

monks carrying the throne chair bowed down on their knees, then swiveled

to the side. Holding the throne chair only inches above the ground,

they waited until the Dalai Lama climbed off the chair onto the thick

woven carpet that lay upon the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief as the

weight was removed from the chair, the monks waited until the Dalai

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CLIVE CUSSLER

Lama started up the stairs, then they set the throne chair upon the

ground and rose to their feet.

With a soul seeped in tradition and divinely inspired, the Dalai Lama

ascended the stairway.

Reaching the top, he slowly turned and stared out at the crowd. The

mass of humanity stretched across the meadow and onto the surrounding

hillsides. He bowed his head, then closed his eyes for a moment.

Then he spoke.

"I have missed you," he said simply.

The crowd, so subdued only seconds before, once again erupted into

cheers.

Twenty minutes would pass before it quieted down enough for the

Dalai Lama to speak again.

I

CLIVE CDSSLER'S liie nearly parallels that of his hero Dirk Pitt.

Whether searching for lost aircraft or leading expeditions to find famous

shipwrecks, he has garnered an amazing record of success. With

his NUMA crew of volunteers, Cussler has discovered more than seventy

lost ships of historical significance, including the long-lost

Confederate submarine Hunley. Like Pitt, Cussler collects classic

automobiles. His collection features ninety examples of custom

coachwork, and is one of the finest in the world. Cussler divides

his time between the deserts of Arizona and the mountains of Colorado.

Visit the NDMA* website at

www.nnma.net