Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“We take the left passage,” Hornsby said.

INSIDE the control room on the Oregon, Max Hanley was staring at a weather radar image. A cell of clouds, the center an angry red color, was situated in the water between Hong Kong and Macau. “Show the movement,” he said to an operator.

The man entered commands into the computer and the image moved in a slow, sweeping wave to the west. At the present speed, the storm center would pass over Macau around four A.M. Sometime during breakfast, the trailing edge would reach the Chinese mainland and the weather would clear. Between now and then, there would be only rain.

“Eddie,” Hanley said, “I’m going to need you to take a team into the tunnel.”

Eddie Seng was the Corporation go-to guy. He had served in marine RECON, had spearheaded more than a few Corporation projects and had an innate knack for making good out of bad. So far, Cabrillo and Hanley had kept him on the sidelines in this operation. He was their reserve man in case of unforeseen circumstances, and he was itching to get in the game.

“I’ll need a couple of Zodiac boats, and a method of locating the men if the water keeps rising,” Seng said.

“Murphy, Kasim and Huxley,” Hanley said quickly. “I’ll have the boats prepped and the equipment arranged. You assemble the team and meet me back here.”

Seng walked quickly from the control room.

“NO comment,” Sung Rhee said, slamming down the telephone.

The reporters for the local newspapers had gotten wind something was happening—they just did not know what. The hospital was filled with guests from Ho’s party, but as the drug wore off they were leaving one by one. Food poisoning was mentioned as the source of the guests’ discomfort, but the cover story was flimsy and someone would soon pierce through that lie. The kidnappings were being investigated; reporters with police scanners had ensured that. The theft at the A-Ma Temple, the burning Peugeot, the fire at the parade—all were being investigated by reporters. Only Stanley Ho’s house was sealed from them. Once he had cleared the house, he had locked the doors to outsiders. Once morning came, Rhee would be compelled to comment.

Just then his telephone rang again.

“The wreckage of the float is cooling, but we have yet to get close enough to inspect for remains,” Detective Po said. “But my guess is they burned up in the conflagration.”

“Was the float being observed the entire time?” Rhee asked.

“Yes, sir,” Po said.

“Then find me some teeth,” Rhee said, “and melted gold.”

“Yes, sir.”

Po stared at the firemen who were still spraying water over the twisted mess of metal. Within the hour, he should be able to inspect the wreckage. In the meantime, Ho’s theft would take center stage. Somewhere in Macau was another Golden Buddha. And Po intended to find it.

“OUR deal was cash,” Spenser said in answer to Cabrillo’s question.

Monica Crabtree was on the secure line to the Oregon. She made notes on a sheet of paper, then disconnected. “Mr. Chairman,” she said, “I think you should see this.”

Nixon was doing layout on Spenser’s new documents. Once he had the basic package together, he entered a command and they were sent through the lines to the Oregon, where there was a store of blank passports, immigration documents and blank credit cards. Someone on board would print up the material and deliver it to the hangar.

Cabrillo stared at the notes and handed them back to Crabtree. “Shred them.”

TOM Reyes was driving at breakneck speed, with Franklin Lincoln in the passenger seat. Lincoln stared at the cab dispatch records, then out the windshield once again. “There were three cabs dispatched to the ferry dock, numbers twelve, one twenty-one, and forty-two.”

“I’ve been listening to the scanner,” Reyes said. “Forty-two has already dropped its fare at the Hotel Lisboa, and number twelve is heading along the New Road. He must be on number one twenty-one. He called the dispatcher to report that he was inbound to the Hyatt Regency on Taipa, then he was supposed to wait for his fare and take him onward.”

Reyes steered onto the bridge leading to Taipa. “Call Hanley and explain the situation.”

Lincoln turned on his radio and reported to the control room.

“Give me a minute or so,” Hanley said.

“Access the Hyatt computer and search for this name,” he said, handing Eric Stone, an operator, the sheet of paper, “and get me a room.”

Stone’s hands danced over the keyboard; a second later he turned to Hanley.

“What timing,” Stone said. “He’s just now checking in.”

Stone waited until the data filled the screen. “Room twenty-two fourteen,” he said.