Текст книги "Golden Buddha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

20

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.

“Sir,” the security guard said, “the roads are choked with traffic and the ambulances can’t get through. They recommended an air evacuation.”

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.

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.

“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.

“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. 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 is 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 Pryor 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 faltered. 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. Cabrillo’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.

21

ONCE the lever was pulled back, the cargo inside the sidecar of the motorcycle began sliding down a chute and spilling onto the road. The small metal orbs were about the size of marbles but were shaped like children’s jacks. The difference with these jacks was that the dozen points sticking out were razor-sharp. They bounced off the asphalt and spread across the road.

The motorcycle accelerated away as the police car hit the patch of metal shards.

The two front tires exploded, followed a second later by the rears. The police car careened out of control as the officer fought with the wheel, while at the same time stomping on the brakes. The police car slid hard to the left, slammed into a newspaper rack, then into a telephone pole just beyond the rack. A microsecond later, the air bag deployed and slammed the policeman back against the seat. By the time 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.

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 headquarters. “I want a countrywide bulletin issued. If anyone sees the 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?”

“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 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 with the door open. A police officer would find it there in less than ten 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 Oregonwas 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.”

“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.

“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.

THE boat slid alongside the Oregonand 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 a switch on a nearby bulkhead. Slowly the Scarab rose from the water. Once it was clear of the upper deck, he pushed another button that rotated the davits around so the Scarab was over the deck. The entire 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.