Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

No one spoke.

“All right then,” Cabrillo said. “Good luck, Max.”

Hanley nodded and walked toward a rear door to the hangar.

“George,” Cabrillo said, “you and Spenser can climb in the SUV. We’ll want to give Hanley a few minutes to make contact and some small talk, then we need to make the approach.”

Adams nodded and motioned to Spenser to climb in the passenger seat of the Chevrolet.

THE software billionaire was drinking tea with coconut milk and smoking a thin cheroot. The intrigue of the event had caught up to him and, a few minutes before, he had retired to the rear compartment of the 737 to change into all black clothing. His success in the software industry, a condition of luck and timing more than skill and ability, had over the years allowed his ego to swell into dangerous proportions. He was beginning to believe his own hype. At this instant, with the drugs and sex wearing off and the nicotine and caffeine increasing, he was beginning to think he was a secret agent. The heist, followed by the payoff, and then absconding with the goods. He was already thinking about the fun he would have relaying the story to his friends.

HANLEY walked over to the Macau taxi and climbed into the backseat. The taxi rolled around the edge of the main terminal, then back down toward the 737. Once it was close to the ramp, Hanley ordered the driver to slow, then sound the horn.

The billionaire heard the sound and glanced out a window of the jet. Seeing Talbot in the rear of the taxi, he walked forward toward the open cabin door, then stood at the top of the ramp. Hanley climbed from the rear of the taxi. The billionaire motioned for him to climb the ramp.

Hanley started up the steps.

At that exact instant, Juan Cabrillo picked up a portable radio and pushed Talk.

“Flyswatter,” he said, “how you holding up?”

Larry King was perched inside the scooped intake of the hangar’s air-conditioning system. The rain was occasionally blowing inside the shaft, but at least he had something over his head. “I stopped by the Oregon after the party,” King said, “and picked up a thermos of tomato soup, a waterproof cover for the nightscope and some depleted uranium rounds. I’m in tall cotton.”

Cabrillo was always appreciative of King’s professionalism. The Corporation could parachute him into a barren wasteland with a few packaged meals and his rifle, and within hours he would have found a nest and lined up his shots. Then he would patiently wait until his special services were needed or not, without complaint. Since Cabrillo had access to the operatives’ personal records, he knew that King was also the owner of a piano bar in Sedona, Arizona. It had been odd the single time Cabrillo had traveled through the area and caught King at work—not only had the sniper been dressed in a black tuxedo instead of camouflaged sniper clothes, but he’d sung mainly love songs and ballads in a sweet melodious voice.

“How’s the reception, Larry?” Cabrillo asked.

“The parabolic is distorted some by the droplets on the glass,” King admitted. “But I can make out some of what’s being said.”

“You know to call if something big happens.”

“Yes, sir,” King said, staring through the nightscope and touching the earpiece to the microphone. “Hanley just made his greetings.”

Monica Crabtree was on the far end of the hangar, staring out a crack in the door. “Mr. Hanley just walked inside,” she said across the space of the hangar.

“Come on in out of the rain, Michael,” King heard the billionaire say.

Hanley passed Gunderson in the aisle as he followed the billionaire. He touched the middle finger of his left hand to his eyebrow, as if to wipe away a droplet. Gunderson brushed his chin in reply.

“Have a seat,” the billionaire said as they reached a conference table in a compartment in the front section of the 737.

Hanley slid into a seat and stared at the man.

“I couldn’t tell you what was happening over the telephone,” the billionaire said. “But the Buddha that you bid on for me has come up for sale once again.”

“That’s quick,” Hanley said.

The billionaire nodded but offered nothing more. “Your voice sounds rough. Can I offer you something?”

“The rain and the air on the commercial flights I’ve been taking,” Hanley said. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

The billionaire pushed a button and Gunderson appeared.

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“Could you bring Mr. Talbot some tea with lemon and honey?”

“And for you, sir?”