Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

Finishing the snifter, he motioned to a passing waiter for a refill. Then he turned to one of the guests seated next to him.

“Excellent band.”

“They truly are,” Crabtree replied.

TWO hundred and twenty-seven miles from Macau, in the South China Sea, the burgundy jet was passing over Tungsha Island, inbound for landing. The software billionaire walked forward, fastening a sash around his black silk kimono.

“The ladies are tired,” he said with a barely hidden trace of pride. “Could you prepare pitchers of coffee, orange juice and some pastries and take them to the rear?”

“Immediately,” the blond-haired man said, leaping to his feet.

Continuing forward, the billionaire knocked on the cockpit door.

The copilot opened the door. “Sir?” he asked.

“How far out are we?”

“Less than half an hour,” the copilot said, glancing at his navigational chart.

“Have you arranged for refueling?”

“All taken care of, sir,” the pilot said, turning his head toward the cockpit door.

Passing through the galley, the billionaire could smell the coffee brewing. “About a half hour and we’ll be on the ground,” he said as he passed.

The blond-haired man waited until he was gone, then removed a digital pager from his belt and pushed a few buttons. Then he winked at the other flight attendant and resumed his preparations.

THE trio of Redman Security officers glanced up as the band was finishing the last song in the first set. Then Sam Pryor turned toward a camera and touched his nose.

Back on the Oregon, Max Hanley reached for a microphone.

“Julia,” he said, “you can start now.”

Huxley slipped from behind the speaker wall and motioned to Halpert. Cabrillo, Lincoln and Murphy began to remove a few speakers from the bank behind them. Ho walked over.

“You have two more sets,” he said.

“We have some electrical glitches,” Cabrillo told him. “Three of the tower speakers aren’t working. Don’t worry—they haven’t worked yet and we sound all right.”

“Do you want me to take them back to the truck?” Huxley asked.

“That’s part of your job,” Halpert said.

Ho stared at Huxley. The thought of his suicide blonde becoming sweaty disturbed him.

“I’ll have one of the guards give you a hand,” Ho said. “Miss Candace asked earlier if she might have a tour of my home.”

“Okay, Mr. Ho,” Cabrillo said. “We’ll move them around to the front of the tent, then have one of the guards help us put them in the van.”

“Whatever,” Ho said. “Now, Candy—may I show you my home?”

ROSS motioned to the caterer. “Before the second set, Mr. Ho wants to make a special toast.”

“The passion fruit punch?” the caterer said.

“Correct,” Ross said.

“Just before the main meal is served?”