Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“Can we trust the Westerners?” the Dalai Lama asked.

The oracle bent his knees and strutted around in a circle. When facing the Dalai Lama again, he spoke. “We will soon have something they want; our gift of this will help strengthen the friendship. Our power is returning—our home is near.”

Then all at once, as if a gust of wind had blown the skeleton from his body, the oracle collapsed on the ground in a heap. His assistants ran over and untied the helmet, then began to remove the sweat-soaked robes. They began to bathe the oracle with cool water, but it was almost an hour before he opened his eyes again.

13

“ONLINE,” the corporation technician whispered.

On board the Oregon, a radio operator adjusted his receiver. The sound of a maid came through his headset. He flipped a switch to a recorder, then keyed his microphone.

“Okay,” he said, “we’re recording.”

Climbing down from the tree, the technician gathered up the limbs he had trimmed, then spent the next few hours working on the bushes. When he had finished the job and loaded the rented truck with the debris, it was just past lunchtime. Walking around to the service entrance, he handed a bill to the manager of the mansion. Then he walked back to the truck and drove away.

Back on the Oregon, the radio operator monitored the conversation in the mansion and made notes on a yellow pad. Nothing much was happening, but that might change at any moment.

BELOWDECKS in the Magic Shop, the band was rehearsing. Kevin Nixon motioned for them to stop, then adjusted the control panel.

“All right,” he said, “from the top again.”

Murphy started strumming his guitar, and the opening bars of the Creedence Clearwater Revival song “Fortunate Son” filled the shop. The rest of the band added their parts. Halpert’s voice was surprisingly good. After being washed through the computer, it was hard to tell his rendition from the original. His moves were good as well—unlike those of most of the band.

Cabrillo on the keyboards came off as Liberace on methamphetamines. Kasim moved like Buddy Rich in a neck brace. Lincoln was slightly better—he kept his eyes closed and strummed the bass guitar and managed to tap his foot in time; the problem was that his hands were so large it looked like he was not moving his fingers. Nixon waited until the song was finished.

“It’s not bad,” he admitted, “but I have some videotapes of live bands and I suggest you men watch them so you can work on your choreography.”

Three hours later, the band was as ready as they would ever be.

THIS was the part of her job Iselda loved best—the last-minute nagging details.

She reached in her handbag and found a pack of thin brown cheroots. Unlike most smokers who stuck to a single brand, Iselda stocked her bag with three or four different kinds. She selected her poison depending on many factors. The aching in her lungs, the rawness of her throat, the amount of nicotine needed for the job. Menthols for that minty fresh buzz; thin cigars when she needed a boost; long, thin, brightly tipped tools when she needed to punctuate a conversation by using the burning sticks like a maestro’s baton. She fired up the cheroot and took a drag.

“I specifically requested glacier ice for the cocktails,” she screamed at the caterer, “not the round highball cubes.”

“You asked for both,” the caterer said, “but the glacier ice has yet to arrive.”

“You’ll have it here?” she asked.

“It’s in the warehouse, Iselda,” the man said patiently. “We didn’t want it to melt.”

Iselda stared across the tent to where a worker was adjusting the devices that made clouds of smoke from dry ice.

“We need more smoke than that,” she shouted, then quickly walked across to the row of machines and began to berate the worker.

After a few minutes of adjustment, the man flipped the machine on again. Clouds of dense, cold gas billowed from the machine, then began to settle on the floor.

“Good, good,” Iselda said. “Now make sure we have plenty of dry ice.”

A technician was adjusting the light display and she raced in that direction.

ON board the Oregon, the technician monitoring conversations in the mansion made a note on the yellow pad, then reached for the shipboard communication microphone.

“Chairman Cabrillo,” he said, “I think you need to come up here.”

THE limousine slowed outside the gate leading to the runway at the San Jose, California, airport. A guard with a holstered weapon stood blocking the way. The driver rolled down his window.

“New security regulations,” he said. “There’s no more driving onto the tarmac.”