Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“Four minutes to flyby,” said Murphy.

Every eye turned to the big clock above the window. No one spoke, all waiting in anticipation. Time dragged as the second hand on the clock seemed to take forever to make a sweep. Finally, Murphy spoke mechanically. “Missile passed two hundred yards over and between the hostiles.”

“Did they get the message?” asked Cabrillo, a slight tone of apprehension in his voice.

There was a long pause, and then, “They’re turning for home,” Murphy reported happily. “Two Cubans who are very lucky men indeed.”

“Also smart enough to recognize a no-win situation.”

“Indeed,” Linda said with a broad smile.

“No blood on our hands this day,” Cabrillo said with an obvious sigh of relief. He leaned over in his chair and spoke to the computer. “Slow to cruise speed.”

The clandestine operation was almost complete, the contract fulfilled. The Oregon and her crew of executives did not consider themselves lucky. Their achievement had come from a combination of special skills, expertise, intelligence and precise planning. Now, except for a technician to watch over the command center and the navigation systems, everyone could relax; some headed for their state-rooms for well-deserved sleep, while others congregated in the ship’s dining room to snack and wind down.

Cabrillo retired to his teak-paneled cabin and removed a packet from a safe under the carpet mounted in the deck. It was their next contract. He pulled out the contents, studied them for nearly an hour, and then began planning the initial levels of tactics and strategy.

Two and a half days later, the Oregon sailed into the port of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and discharged the Cuban exiles. Before the sun set, the remarkable ship and its strange crew of corporate officials were once again at sea on a course toward their next assignment. Before it was through, they would steal a priceless artifact, return a divine leader to power and free a nation. But when the Oregon left port, Cabrillo was not on board. He was winging his way east against a rising sun.

2

THE burgundy Falcon 2000EX left Heathrow at just after six in the morning, arriving in Geneva around half past nine Swiss time. The jet aircraft cruised at Mach.80 with a 4,650-mile range; it cost $24 million. Winston Spenser was its sole occupant.

After arriving at Geneva International Airport in Cointrin, Spenser was met by a chauffeured Rolls-Royce that delivered him to the hotel. There, he was immediately taken to a suite without having to register. Once in his room, Spenser took a few minutes to freshen up. Standing in front of the beveled-edge mirror, he stared at his image. Spenser’s nose was long and patrician, his eyes pale blue and distant and his skin in need of a tan. Neither his cheeks nor his chin were very defined. Truth be told, his image always appeared to be slightly out of focus, as if lacking character. His was not the face of a man others would follow. It was the face of a high-priced minion.

When he finished his examination, he placed his expensive cologne back in a Burberry toiletry bag, then left the room to get a mid-morning meal. The art auction he was in Geneva for was due to start soon.

“WILL Mr. Spenser require anything else?” the waiter asked.

Spenser stared for a moment at the remains of his meal and said, “No, I think that will be all.”

The waiter nodded, removed the plates, then took a brush from his apron and whisked up the few crumbs on the table. Then he silently retreated. No bill was presented, no money changed hands. The cost of the breakfast and the gratuity would appear on the room charge, which Spenser would never see.

In the far corner of the dining room, Michael Talbot stared toward Spenser. Talbot, an art dealer from San Francisco, had crossed paths with Spenser before. Three times in the last year the stodgy Britisher had outbid Talbot’s clients, for Spenser’s own clients seemed to have unlimited resources.

Talbot could only hope today would be different.

Spenser was dressed in a gray suit over a sweater vest, a blue polka-dot bow tie around his neck. His black laceup leather shoes were highly polished, as were his fingernails, and his neatly styled short hair was flecked with gray, as befitted his age, which Talbot estimated at close to sixty years.

Once, when Talbot had been in London on business, he’d tried to visit Spenser’s shop. There was no telephone number available, the small stone building had had no name outside, and aside from an unobtrusive video camera above the buzzer, it could have been suspended in time from a hundred years before. Talbot had pushed the buzzer twice, but no one had answered.

Spenser sensed Talbot staring his way but only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of the other seven men Spenser had determined had an interest in the artifact he’d come to purchase, the American would probably bid the highest. Talbot’s buyer was a Silicon Valley software billionaire with a penchant for Asian art and argumentation. The billionaire’s belligerency could only help Spenser. The man’s ego might take him beyond his set price, but as the competition stiffened, he traditionally became angry and dropped out. The new rich are so predictable, Spenser thought. He rose to return to his room. The auction was not until 1 P.M.

“LOT thirty-seven,” the auctioneer said with reverence, “the Golden Buddha.”

A large mahogany crate was wheeled onto the podium and the auctioneer reached for the clasp holding the door closed.

The audience of bidders was small. This was a highly secret auction and the invitations had only gone out to the select few who could afford to pay for art masterworks with somewhat shady histories.

Spenser had yet to bid on anything. Lot twenty-one, a Degas bronze that he knew had been stolen out of a museum twelve years ago, had appealed to him, but the bidding had gone higher than his South American client had authorized him to pay. More and more, Spenser was weaning himself away from clients on a budget, even if the stop price ran into the millions. The auction today was the first step in his plan for retirement. The auctioneer opened the door to the crate at the same time that Spenser pushed a button on the miniaturized satellite telephone in his vest pocket. He spoke into the tiny microphone clasped to his lapel.

“Please tell your employer they have the object on display,” he said to an aide thousands of miles away.

“He asks if it is everything you’d hoped,” the aide asked.

Spenser stared at the massive gold statue as a hush fell over the crowd.

“Everything and more,” Spenser said quietly.