Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“But my failed relationships and credit card bills aren’t?” The attendant grinned.

“Sorry about the intrusion into your privacy. The group I work with has a thing for detail.”

“Sounds like you’re a spy,” the attendant noted.

“Oh, heck no,” the blond-haired man said, “we just work for them.”

“Tax-free income enough so I can retire?”

“Everyone’s dream,” the blond-haired man admitted.

The brunette attendant glanced around the forward cabin. She was really nothing more than a glorified waitress on a restaurant in the sky.

“How can I say no?” she said finally.

“Good,” the blond-haired man said, rising.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I have to go kill the pilot,” the blond-haired man said lightly.

The look on the brunette flight attendant’s face was priceless.

“Just kidding,” the blond-haired man said. “I have to pee. I’m qualified in 737s, but I think Mr. Fabulous would think it odd if I disappeared.”

“Who are you people?” the attendant muttered as the blond-haired man slipped into the lavatory.

“ARE you sure this beast will make it to the border and back??

? Carl Gannon asked.

Gannon was staring at a decrepit old two-and-a-halfton truck parked under a tree alongside a stone building on a side street in Thimbu, Bhutan. Sometime in the past the truck had been painted an olive drab color, but most of the paint was gone and now it showed mostly a light dusting of hairy rust. The two-part windshield was cracked on the passenger side, and all six of the tires were worn past any margin of safety. The hood, which had a strip down the center so the sides could be flipped open to work on the engine, was bent and had been welded more than once. The running boards were wooden slats. The exhaust pipe hung down from the undercarriage and was held in place with rusted wire.

Gannon walked to the rear and stared into the bed. Some of the planks that formed the floor were cracked and some were missing, and the canvas flaps that covered the sides were in roughly the same condition as a World War II pup tent.

“Oh, yes, sir,” the Bhutanese owner said easily. “She has a strong heart.”

Gannon continued his walk around. Climbing onto the passenger running board, he peeked into the cockpit. The long bench seat was worn, with portions of the springs underneath visible, but the few gauges on the dash were not cracked and appeared functional. He climbed down, then walked over to the hood and lifted the passenger side, which he folded up and over. The engine was surprisingly clean. It smelled strongly of thick grease and fresh oil. The belts and hoses, while not new, were serviceable, and the electrical wires and battery looked good. Gannon climbed down.

“Can you start her up?”

The man walked around, opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.

After pulling out the choke, he pumped the gas pedal, then twisted the key. After turning over a few times, the engine roared to life. Smoke drifted out of a rusted hole in the exhaust pipe, but the engine settled into an idle. Gannon listened carefully. There was no tapping from the valves, but he placed his hand over the covers just to be sure. Nothing was amiss.

“Rev her up,” he shouted.

The owner depressed the gas pedal, then left off. He did this four times.

“Okay,” Gannon said, “you can shut her off.”

The owner turned off the engine, pocketed the key, and then climbed from the cockpit. He was small, a shade over five feet tall, with tanned skin and slightly almond-shaped eyes. Smiling at Gannon, he awaited the verdict.

“Do you have spare belts and hoses?”

“I can find some,” the man told him.

Gannon reached into his pocket and removed a wad of bills wrapped with a thick rubber band. Removing the rubber band, he fanned out the bills.