Текст книги "Golden Buddha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

5

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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 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?”

6

THE Oregonswept 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 Oregonamidships, 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. 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.

AT the same time the Oregonwas 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 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.”

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.

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 Oregonwould 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.

7

JUAN 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 jalapeño 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.”

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.”

WHEN the Oregonhad 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 Oregonwas 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.

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.

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.

8

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 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.

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. 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.”

“FULL stop,” Hanley ordered.

The Oregonhad 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.

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 Oregondelivering 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.