Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

Nixon slid the blade into the tiny gap.

“Slide in another,” Cabrillo said, “and begin to wedge off the belly plate.”

Minutes passed as the gap widened. As it did, Cabrillo diverted the heat under the plate, which heated the glue applied centuries before. At last the crack was large enough that a hand could fit inside. Cabrillo handed Nixon the heat gun, slid his fingers inside the crack, then gently pried back the plate while Nixon continued heating the yak’s-hoof glue.

Slowly the plate peeled back. Then, all at once, it came off in Cabrillo’s hand.

He stared through the opening into an inner compartment. Inside lay ancient parchments rolled into a tube and secured with a decomposing strip of rawhide. Cabrillo reached in and carefully removed the bundle.

Nixon looked at Cabrillo and smiled. “What now, boss?”

“We copy them,” Cabrillo said quietly, “and put them back.”

SUNG Rhee was in the center of a maelstrom of angry people. The admiral from the Chinese navy had called Beijing to report the damage to his ships, the two billion aires had both returned with teams of attorneys, and his assistant had just called to report that the mayor of Macau was downstairs and on his way up.

And then his telephone rang.

“I told you,” he told his receptionist, “no interruptions.”

“President Hu Jintao’s office is calling.”

“Put him through,” Rhee said, motioning with his hand to clear his office. “Put him through.”

A few seconds later, a voice said, “President Jintao is on the line.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Rhee said.

“Good morning, Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said quietly. “I understand you had a bit of trouble last night.”

Rhee began to sweat. “A…a minor theft,” he stammered. “Nothing we can’t handle, Mr. President.”

“Mr. Rhee. We’ve received calls this morning from the United States embassy, the head of the Chinese navy, and the vice p

resident of Greece wanting to know why one of his ships was illegally stopped and boarded on your orders. That does not sound like a minor theft to me.”

“There…has been some trouble here,” Rhee admitted.

The telephone was silent for a few seconds. “Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said coldly, “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Right now, from the start.”

Slowly, Rhee began speaking.

GUNDERSON started a long lumbering turn around the Oregon. As he stared out the cockpit window, he could see a large balloon do a fast inflate, then head up in the air, towing a line.

On the stern deck of the Oregon, Kevin Nixon checked the straps around the crate containing the Golden Buddha again. The three-pronged hook was duct-taped to the crate and would be used to yank Cabrillo aboard if they were successful getting the icon aboard the Antonov. Hanley stood off to the side, checking the fit on the harness that wrapped around Cabrillo’s chest and upper thighs. Satisfied it was properly attached, he snapped a smaller bag containing the sandwiches to one side of the harness.

“The old Fulton Recovery System,” Cabrillo said. “You’d think with all our funds we’d have found a replacement by now.”

“It’s so rare we’re this far offshore,” Hanley said. “Past the point our amphibian or a helicopter can reach us.”

“You ever ridden one of these?” Cabrillo asked.

“Never had the pleasure,” Hanley said, smiling.

“It feels like a mule kicked you in the ass,” Cabrillo said.

“That’s the least of your worries, the way I see it.”

“How do you figure?” Cabrillo asked.