Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“Come here,” Adams said, leading him over to a chair alongside a workbench and seating him.

With the help of Kevin Nixon, Cabrillo was erecting the folding ramp to unload the fake speaker case holding the faux Buddha. Nixon had arrived at the hangar several hours earlier and had been busy ever since.

“Is everything ready?” Cabrillo asked.

“Yes, sir,” Nixon said as he grabbed one side of the speaker case.

The two men rolled the case onto the wheeled metal conveyor. When it reached the end, they tilted the case upright, folded the legs of the ramp under, then bent it in half on the hinges and slid it back into the SUV.

“We have the clothes?” Cabrillo inquired.

“I stopped at his hotel room on the way over. His bags were already packed,” Nixon said.

“The best-laid plans,” Cabrillo said, “of mice and men.”

Cabrillo, followed by Nixon, walked over to where Spenser was sitting.

The art dealer stared up at Cabrillo. “You look familiar,” he said slowly.

“We’ve never met,” Cabrillo said coldly, “but I know a lot about you.”

“Who are you people?” Spenser said, shaking his head to clear the fog, “and what do you want from me?”

Adams was standing a few feet from Spenser. While his rugged good looks did not make him appear menacing, Spenser was sure that if he tried to stand, he wouldn’t get far. Cabrillo walked right in front of the art dealer and invaded his space. He stared into Spenser’s eyes and spoke quietly.

“Right about now,” Cabrillo said, “you’re not in a good position, so shut up and listen. A few miles from here, you have one infuriated Asian billionaire who is convinced you bilked him out of a couple of hundred million dollars. And contrary to what you might think, he is not a nice man—he launched his fortune by running drugs for an Asian triad, and though he’s legitimized his actions, he’s still connected. I would guess he’s already made a call, and the entire criminal element of this country is searching for you as we speak.”

“What are you—” Spenser began to say.

“You’re not listening,” Cabrillo said acidly. “We know you switched Buddhas and were just about to resell the icon. If you cooperate, we will give you a chance to run. Otherwise, we’ll do the switch anyway, then phone Ho and tell him where you can be found. As they say, you are out of options.”

Spenser thought wildly for a moment. Without the sale of the Buddha, he was financially ruined. But as soon as word got around about what he had tried here in Macau, his life as an art dealer was finished. His only hope was to change his identity and disappear. Escape to some faraway place and start his life anew. He truly was out of options.

“I can’t run without papers,” he said. “Can you help me there?”

Cabrillo had him and he knew it—now he just needed to reel him into the boat.

“Kevin,” Cabrillo said, “are you linked to the ship?”

“Yes, sir,” Nixon answered.

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Then shoot Mr. Spenser for me.”

“My pleasure,” Nixon said.

THE last ferry from Hong Kong slowed near the dock and the captain began manipulating the thrusters to line the ship up with the dock. On the bow, a man wearing highly polished Cole Haan loafers, a pair of lightweight wool pleated slacks and a silk-and-cotton-blend shirt waited to depart. His hair was longer than usual and wavy, and tucked into his shirt was a cravat of fine silk. If you knew what to look for, the signs of a face-lift were barely visible. But one would need to look close, as it had been an expensive and painstaking operation. Save for the fact that the man was exhausted from the flight from Indonesia to Hong Kong, and the long day he had already faced, you might not have noticed anything odd about him at all.

The man was forty-five but appeared a decade younger.

He watched the deckhands secure the lines. The men were young and fit and he liked that. He liked the ethnic look and enjoyed young men’s passions. In the country where he resided, he tended to seek out companions of Latin descent; there were many where he was from, and luckily they seemed attracted to him as well. Quite honestly, he wished he was home right now, cruising the hilly streets of his city in a quest for love or lust. But he was not. He was thousands of miles from home and he had a job to do. He smiled at one of the deckhands as he walked past, but the man did not return the greeting. Slowly, the ramp on the front of the ferry lowered.

Along with the few other passengers at this late hour, he made his way up the slight rise, then into a door marked Visitor. Handing over his passport, he waited as his entry into Macau was approved. Ten minutes later, he walked fr

om the building and hailed a cab. Then he flipped open a satellite telephone and checked his e-mail.

BACK on the Oregon, Max Hanley was catching a catnap. His feet were propped up on a desk in the control room and his head slumped to one side in his chair. One of the operators touched his shoulder and he was instantly awake.

“Sir,” the operator said, “I think we have a problem.”