Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“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.”