Текст книги "Golden Buddha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

17

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. He supported one hand with the other and finished the task. Then he climbed into the shower to try and sweat out the fear.

RICHARD Truitt stood in the living room, waiting. He stared 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 décor. 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 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 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 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 Oregonsaid, “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.

“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 me to order him out.”

“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.

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,” Halpert 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 façade.

“Now, who would argue,” Kasim said, “that America’s not the greatest country in the world?”

18

ROSS was checking the smoke machines when Ho walked out 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.

“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.”

“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 Oregonsails 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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

MAX Hanley 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 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.

“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.”