Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)
“There’s one more thing,” Cabrillo said slowly.
“Yes?”
“We need your UN vote in the Security Council meeting Monday,” Cabrillo said.
“You’re going to legitimize the coup?” Putin asked.
“We think we can pull the votes,” Cabrillo agreed.
“A lot could go wrong,” Putin said, “but it could work. What exactly would Russia need to do to participate?”
“First we need your troops to enter Mongolia,” Cabrillo said. “I understand the Mongolian government would okay the incursion. That draws the Chinese farther from Tibet. Second, I would need as many crack paratroops as you can field to enter the country as soon as the Dalai Lama returns and we stabilize the situation. The Dalai Lama has agreed to invite Russia to provide security until the situation stabilizes. The invitation will be announced to the world community, so the fallout other than from China should be small. Third, we need you to make the diplomatic approach to China with the oil offer—it has been made clear to me the United States wants no direct involvement in the liberation of Tibet.”
“I have spoken to your president,” Putin said. “He mentioned the need for secrecy.”
“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Next, I need that vote in the UN. If we can hold off the Chinese until the vote comes in and the peacekeepers arrive, then the Russian troops will be relieved.”
Putin rose from the chair and stoked the fire. “So Russia invests no money, only muscle.”
“The company that will develop the oilfield has already been formed,” Cabrillo said. “All I need is your signature on this document that has already been signed by the Dalai Lama, and your word you will do what we have discussed, and we can proceed.”
Makelikov entered the room just as Putin placed the stoker back in the rack. He stepped over to Cabrillo, took the document and read it quickly.
“Sergei,” he said, “bring me a pen.”
“I’LL swap you,” Gurt said to one of the other mercenary pilots, “if you don’t mind.”
“What did you draw?” the other pilot asked.
“Medevac,” Gurt said.
“I’ll gladly switch,” the pilot said. “Mine looks to be the most dangerous mission.”
“I’ve worked with Murphy before,” Gurt said. “Plus I have more high-altitude flying time than you. I don’t mind.”
“Be my guest,” the pilot said. “Flying a load of explosives north is not my idea of a good time.”
“I’ll make sure it’s okay with Seng,” Gurt said, walking off.
“THE fastest way to get you there,” Hanley said, “is to drop you in Singapore, then have you flown by jet to Vanuatu. From there we’ll switch you to a turboprop STOL that can land at the smaller airfields on Kiribati and Tuvalu.”
Truitt nodded.
“We need those votes,” Hanley said quietly. “Do whatever it takes to make that happen.”
“Not to worry,” Truitt said. “Even if it takes a river of grease, by Monday vote time they will be ours.”
Later that night, the Oregon passed the breakwater and entered the port, and Truitt boarded the waiting jet for the nine-hour flight to the South Pacific. He would arrive on Easter morning.
40
THE Zil limousine slid to a stop in front of the Gulfstream G550. Cabrillo climbed out, clutching a folder containing the documents, and made his way up the ramp without hesitating. The copilot immediately retracted the ramp and fastened the door. Then he shouted toward the cockpit.
“We’re good to go.”
Instantly, the pilot engaged the igniters, and a few seconds later the jet engines began to spool up. Cabrillo made his way to a seat and fastened the belt as the copilot started for the cockpit.
“We received your telephone call, sir,” the copilot said over his shoulder as he slid into his seat. “The course is all plotted and we’ve received preliminary clearance.”