Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

Hornsby climbed down the ladder a few feet, then reached up and slid the manhole cover back in place. He flicked a tiny switch on the lapel of his thin jacket and spoke.

“We’re armed and the door closed,” he said. “Give me ten seconds to reach the bottom.”

“Got it,” Hanley said.

Hornsby reached the bottom of the ladder and stared at the crate containing the Golden Buddha. “So what have you guys been up to?” he asked.

Hanley pushed a button and increased the flow of gas to the dragon’s mouth. A flame shot forty feet forward and the crowd backed away. Then he pushed the button to ignite the charge. A small explosion ripped into the side of the metal tank containing the aluminum powder. It began to burn with a hot white light. Almost instantly the fabric covering of the float ignited and began to bu

rn. In a few seconds, the float was a maelstrom, with flames reaching twenty feet into the air.

“We need fire and rescue,” one of the officers said, giving the address.

Then he stared at the firestorm, waiting for a pair of men to run screaming forth.

But no one emerged from the glowing pile.

THE white Chevrolet SUV pulled to the side of the road and Cabrillo climbed into the front seat. The helicopter pilot, George Adams, pulled away from the curb.

“Gorgeous George,” he said, “any problems?”

Adams looked like a poster child for the American way. He had a chiseled jaw, short brown hair parted to one side, and a smile that could sell toothpaste. Strangely enough, in spite of his looks, he was almost without ego. Married to his high school sweetheart, he had been an army warrant officer before joining the Corporation.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Monica?” Cabrillo said, turning to the rear seat.

“No, boss,” she said. “Our guest is still out of it, however.”

Cabrillo stared at Spenser slumped against the window. Then back to the rear compartment, where the speaker frame holding the fake Buddha was sitting.

“Did the folding ramp work?” he asked Adams.

“Like a dream,” Adams said. “We just adjusted the legs to the same height as the helicopter floor, then pushed the package across on the wheels.”

“Good. We’ve rented part of a small hangar at the airport,” he said to Adams. “We need to go there now.”

Adams nodded and steered the Chevrolet back toward the bridge.

23

A light rain began falling over Macau. Sung Rhee and Ling Po were standing on the front porch of the mansion staring toward the city. Po disconnected his cellular telephone and turned to Rhee. Down the hill, near the Maritime Museum, the lights from the fire trucks that had extinguished the burning Peugeot were still visible. To the right, along the parade route, a column of smoke lit by the city lights was visible from the burning float.

“Whoever’s stealing Buddhas tonight, they’re well trained and well funded,” Po said to Rhee.

Rhee’s mind was back to normal. And he was as mad as a Doberman. It was bad enough that some team of thieves was using his city as a playground—it was worse that he had been made part of the heist.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “they still have to spirit the icons out of the country.”

“I have men at the airport and patrolling the waters,” Po said, “and the border into China has been alerted to be on the lookout. They won’t be able to leave Macau, that’s for sure.”

“All of the suspects except the British art dealer are American,” Rhee said. “Did you pull up the list of tourist visas?”

“The tourism authority is closed for the night,” Po admitted, “but I’ll have someone there first thing in the morning.”

“These guys are professionals,” Rhee said quietly. “They won’t hang around. By the time we get the list and begin to question all the Americans, they will be long gone.”

Po’s telephone rang and he unfolded it and pushed the button.