Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“How’s the picture, boss?”

“Looks good,” Hanley said. “You holding up?”

King had been forced to take his position above the party sometime just after 3 A.M. He’d been in his perch over twelve hours already. There was a good chance he’d need to remain there almost that long again.

“I did six days once in Indonesia,” King said. “This is a piece of cake.”

“Have you dialed in your fields of fire?” Hanley asked, already knowing the answer.

“About a thousand times, boss,” King said, swatting away a fly on his arm.

King was a U.S. Army–trained sniper. If Hanley gave the order, he could lob a dozen shots onto the grounds in about as long as it took to sneeze. Hanley hoped it wouldn’t come down to that—but if one of the crew was in trouble and there was no other choice, King was the great equalizer.

“Stand by, Larry,” Hanley said. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

“Affirmative,” King said as he continued to scan the grounds through his scope.

“Try the inside of the tent,” Hanley ordered.

An image filled the screen from a camera that was inserted in the body of Cabrillo’s electric keyboard. The image was slightly off.

“Juan,” Hanley said.

Cabrillo was pushing the cart around the side of the tent, but he could hear through his tiny earpiece.

“You’ll need to adjust your keyboard slightly to the right. We’re missing a little of the left side of the tent.”

Cabrillo made a slight nod to confirm.

“Go to the van,” Hanley ordered.

Another picture flicked onto a separate screen that was split in half. The cameras had been attached to the van’s folding mirrors. They were showing a pretty good view of most of the front of the house. Lincoln was removing a box from the back of the van.

“Frankie,” Hanley said.

Franklin Lincoln moved out of the back of the van and stared into one of the rearview mirrors as if he were fixing his hair.

“Try to leave the van where it is,” Hanley said. “You guys got lucky and placed it where we have a good field of view.”

Lincoln made an okay sign at the mirror.

“Okay, men,” Hanley said to the operators, “we’re the eyes and ears, so be alert.”

19

WINSTON Spenser walked into the mansion, snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and slurped down half of the flute before approaching the receiving line. Stanley Ho was beaming and shaking hands with each guest that passed. Ahead of Spenser were an Australian couple who were just being greeted, and directly in front of him was the local Portuguese consular agent. Spenser waited patiently, finishing the first glass of champagne and summoning the waiter for another, then took his place in front of Ho.

“Winston,” Ho said, smiling, “it’s good to see you, but you’re a little late—the insurance adjuster was already here.”

“Sorry,” Spenser said, “I was running late.”

Spenser tried to keep moving along, but Ho reached out and took him by the arm.

“That’s all right,” Ho said. “It seems your timing is perfect.”

Ho pointed to the staircase.

Spenser’s stomach did a backflip. The Golden Buddha, strapped to a dolly like a patient in a mental ward, was descending the stairs, being helped down by the guards from Redman Security.