Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

THE band was assembled in the conference room on the Oregon. Hanley and Cabrillo were walking them through their last-minute instructions.

“As you know, we have three more men inside,” Cabrillo said, “posing as security, so we don’t need to worry about getting it down to ground level. It should already be there.”

“That’s a plus,” Franklin noted.

“So the actual removal from the site has become easier,” Hanley said, “but we have the added problem of more witnesses.”

“That means we almost certainly need to drug the guests,” Kasim noted.

“It’s beginning to look that way,” Cabrillo admitted.

“The playlist features three sets,” Hanley continued. “That gives us two breaks between sets when you, as members of the band, can move freely about. Watch the chairman for the lead and be flexible—this entire caper is still unfolding.”

“Do we have the plane waiting to receive the icon after the theft?” Halpert asked.

“Arranged,” Cabrillo said. “A plane is inbound as we speak.”

“When’s the extraction scheduled?” Monica asked.

“Ten minutes before midnight, tonight,” Hanley said.

“The Oregon sails away from here sometime tomorrow,” Cabrillo said, “no matter what the outcome. So let’s just do our jobs and take our leave.”

“A little richer for the effort,” Murphy said, smiling.

“That’s the idea,” Cabrillo agreed.

THIN tendrils of richly scented incense smoke wafted toward the ceiling in the A-Ma Temple.

A scattering of tourists filed through the public areas and left offerings at the foot of various Buddhas. They walked on the pebbled paths, sat on the carved wooden benches on the grounds and stared at the sea in reflection. It was a place of tranquillity; a port of serenity in a storm of confusion and haste.

Winston Spenser was not feeling calm.

Fear gripped him. The Golden Buddha was laughing at him—of that he was sure. The calm gaze and unmoving solidness made him uneasy. Spenser dreamed of when he would be rid of the curse and collect his money. He could see it in his mind. The armored-car company picking up the icon again and delivering it to the software billionaire’s plane. The crates of money he would receive.

He rose from the bench in the main temple, then walked out the door and down the hillside to his waiting limousine. The parking lot was half empty. Most of the people in Macau were preparing for the parade and tonight’s parties. A pair of motorcycles sat off to one side under a tree. Spenser didn’t notice them—he was wrapped up in his own certain failure. Climbing in the rear of the limousine, he gave the driver directions. A few moments later the limousine rolled out of the lot.

“I’ve seen what I need to see,” one of the motorcyclists said.

“I agree,” said the other.

SIX Chinese valets awaited the first of the guests. After showing their invitations to the guard, they pulled through the gate, drove up the circular drive, then climbed from their cars near the front door of the mansion.

The sun was slowly dipping in the west and the view from the mansion was an expanse of sea lit with the golden hues of a waning sun. Spenser climbed from the rear of his limousine and stared at the scene. He was dressed in a black tuxedo that hid the pools of sweat under his arms. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the foyer.

Juan Cabrillo rolled down the window of the van and handed the guard a slip of paper.

“Park over by the garages,” the guard said, “then unload your equipment and wheel it around back.”

Cabrillo nodded. When the gate opened, he drove around to the garages, then backed the van up near the edge of the lawn.

“Showtime,” he said.

And the band climbed from the van and began shuttling equipment to the rear of the house.

Cabrillo walked around to the rear of the house, seeking Ross. He saw her in the distance talking on a cell phone. Several people were standing nearby.

“We’re The Minutemen,” he said when she had disconnected.