Golden Buddha Part 48

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 390 391.

later discovery that the one Friday had recovered was fake just added to his rage.

After the Chinese navy had realized that the cargo s.h.i.+p 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-pa.s.senger truck to scour Lhasa, the Chinese military officers were beginning to realize the gravity of the situation. They started to a.s.semble 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 s.e.x. 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 p.r.i.c.k, so I think we'll bypa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed.

"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.

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 cl.u.s.ter 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 a.s.s-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 ma.s.sive 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 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sport 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 b.u.mp, the feeling of the brakes slowing the aircraft to a crawl, 396 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 s.p.a.cious 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 princ.i.p.als 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."

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 pa.s.s 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.

IN WAs.h.i.+NGTON, 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 Was.h.i.+ngton, and the president had been preparing for bed when he had been summoned. He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a blue T-s.h.i.+rt. He was drinking a gla.s.s of orange juice.

He stared at Overholt, then grinned. "You must know I stay up late and watch Sat.u.r.day 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."