Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

Cabrillo smiled and walked over to Murphy. He was dressed in a costume that would make Elton John blush. Murphy raised one of the sequined pockets on the vest and slid two hypodermic needles in covers inside. In the other pocket, he slid an arced carbon-fiber blade that had holes for fingers.

“Your blade is dipped in paralytic agent, too,” he said, spinning Cabrillo around and strapping a small automatic weapon to his lower back. “The bullets are wad cutters. There’s not as much horsepower in the rounds as I like, so be close before you pull the trigger.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Cabrillo said.

Lincoln had already been outfitted, and he stood to one side, playing with his bass guitar.

Cabrillo smiled, then spoke.

“Okay, everybody, we’ll be going in soon,” he said. “Remember the order of operations and make sure you’ve memorized the out. If at any time I give the signal to pull out, make your way to the extraction point. Keep in mind this portion today is only one part of the bigger picture—if this goes haywire, we still have ways of salvaging the operation. There are no bold heroes—only old heroes. The weapons are to be used only if everything goes to hell and one of our people is in danger of losing life or limb. What we want, as always, is an orderly operation where we do our job and return here safe and sound. Any questions?”

The Magic Shop was silent.

“Okay, people,” Cabrillo said, “then give your letters to Julia.”

Medical Officer Julia Huxley hated this part of her job. The letters gave instructions for the lengths of medical care each man wanted if critically injured. They also gave detailed instructions as to the dispersal of the operatives’ funds and other bequests. Whatever was in the letters, Huxley was bound to see it through. She walked around the room collecting the sealed envelopes. When she was done, the room was quiet.

“That always puts a pall over the proceedings,” Murphy said, laughing. “We’re not going in to disable a nuclear warhead. We’re just stealing some gold.”

The sour mood dissipated and they resumed talking.

“We have some time before we need to leave,” Hanley said, “so if you need to eat or whatever, the time is now.”

Everyone filtered out of the room, leaving only Cabrillo and Hanley.

“Meadows and Jones ready?” Cabrillo asked.

“Right on schedule,” Hanley said.

“And the flyboy?”

“Jetting his way here,” Hanley said, “as we speak.”

“Then the fun is about ready to happen.”

A pair of men on motorcycles with sidecars sat on the side of Rua de Lourenco and watched employees from the Macau Public Works Department erecting barricades along the route of the Good Friday parade. The side streets would all be blocked off, but the barricades were wooden sawhorses and would yield to the bumper of a car or the front tire of a motorcycle.

“Let’s ride over to the staging area,” one of the men said.

The other man nodded and pushed his starter button, then placed the cycle in gear and drove up the street. A few blocks away, he slid over to the side of the road and shut off the engine. The street leading out of the staging area was festooned with banners and crepe-paper streamers. Paper lanterns holding candles were placed along the route, waiting to be lit at dusk. Various vendors were setting up shop in handcarts to offer food and drink to those watching the parade, while a street sweeper made a last-minute pass to make sure the street at least started out clean.

“They sure are big on dragons,” said one of the men, pointing to a large line of floats.

There were at least seventy different floats. Ships, stages where musicians would play, sword swallowers and juggling acts. And dragons. Red crepe-paper monstrosities, a blue-and-yellow dragon with a long tail posed in the air.

The floats were built on motorized platforms, then outlined in thick wire and covered with cloth, paper or, in one case, what looked like hammered copper. A single driver perched inside each steered down the route by staring through a small slit in the front of the float. The exhaust from the small internal-combustion engines was vented out the side.

It was quiet now, but by the amount of speakers on the various floats, it was obvious that once the parade got under way there would be a medley of sights and sounds.

“I’m goi

ng to go take a look,” one of the men said as he climbed off the motorcycle and walked over to a nearby float. Lifting the side curtain, he stared at the framework before a policeman walked over and shooed him away.

“Lot of room under there,” he said to his partner as he returned and climbed back into his seat.

Several members of a marching band trudged past, followed by an elephant with a handler sitting atop in a basket chair.

“Hell of a deal,” the second man said quietly, “hell of a deal.”