Golden Buddha (19 page)

Stanley Ho was walking through the tent in a daze. He was feeling strange, but he had no idea why. Spotting Candace across the tent, he began to make his way toward her.

“Okay, everyone, we go in sixty seconds,” Hanley ordered.

“I hear sirens,” King reported, “and they are growing closer.”

“Monica,” Hanley said, “are you hearing?”

Crabtree turned to where she knew the camera was in the keyboard and winked.

“Now,” Hanley said.

Crabtree bit down on a packet she had taken from her purse and slipped it inside her mouth. Ho was a few feet away and she stumbled toward him with foam seeping from the edges of her mouth. She grabbed him around his neck and held tight.

“Go ahead, Murph,” Hanley ordered.

Murphy slipped his hand inside his pocket and hit the trigger. Almost instantly there was a series of explosions like fireworks. The outside lights and those inside the tent went dark.

“We're a go for switch,” Hanley said.

At exactly that instant, Barrett and Pryor slid one of the speaker boxes off the cart and opened a back door. A gold-painted plaster Buddha replica slipped onto the ground. At the same time, Reinholt flipped the edge of the tent over the Buddha on display. Several potted plants placed in the Y inside the tent shielded the guards from anyone who might be watching.

“All dark on the western front,” King said as he scanned the ground through the pale green light of a night scope.

“Anyone moving?” Hanley asked.

King swept across the grounds, then down the hillside.

“There's an unmarked police car with a portable light on the roof proceeding along Avenida Republica. He's three hundred and fifty yards distant.”

“Can you hit at that distance?” Hanley asked.

“Oh ye of little faith,” King said. “It's a car, not a bug. I doubt I can hit the driver's nose, but you never know.”

“Just a tire, Larry,” Hanley said.

“Hold on,” King said.

Supporting the rifle on a branch, he regulated his breathing, then waited until the police car was in his field of fire. He was in an almost Zen state of concentration. When the target appeared, it was as if it were in slow motion. King squeezed the trigger, then willed the bullet to run true. Inside the rifle, the firing pin hit the shell primer and sparked, the gunpowder burned and propelled the shell out of the cartridge and sent it spinning through the rifling inside the barrel. Leaving the end of the barrel and passing through the noise suppressor, the slug started down the hill in a straight line toward the target.

“Shit,” Po said as his front tire shredded. He slowed down and climbed out of the squad car, leaving the door open. Looking back onto the sidewalk, he tried to see what he had hit. There was nothing visible, but that didn't mean anything. He stared up the hill to his intended destination, then decided the hill was too steep to climb. Po slid back into the driver's seat and reached for the radio.

“Target has stopped and he's calling for help,” King said.

“Good job,” Hanley said.

Hanley was watching the monitors, but without lights there was little to see. He stared at his watch, then glanced at the schedule of actions. Thirty seconds passed. King continued to scan the grounds. A few of the kitchen workers had popped out from inside and were clustered around the rear door. He swiveled his scope to the front of the house and noticed that the front gate to the driveway had opened automatically when the power was cut. Ten seconds.

“Have you sighted the charge on the fireworks display?” Hanley asked.

“Got it,” King said.

“Protect your eyes after the shot,” Hanley said.

“I'll switch back to regular sights,” King agreed.

“We go in five, four, three, two, one.”

King squeezed the trigger and hit the explosive packet Murphy had laid in place hours earlier. The fireworks exploded with a roar. Roman candles streaked skyward and the large mortarlike devices began to spew forth in belches. There was shrieking and thumping sounds as the fireworks began to discharge. King rubbed his eyes and stared at the now-lit-up scene.

Three flickers from a flashlight at the front of the tent caught his attention.

“I have a signal the switch has been made,” King noted.

“Signal the helicopter,” Hanley said to one of the operators.

“She's having a seizure,” Ho shouted.

Monica Crabtree hung on to Ho's neck and rolled her eyes back in her head. A doctor Ho knew was dancing on one of the tables nearby, but he didn't respond to Ho's request to come over. At just that instant, Barrett walked over.

“This woman is sick,” Ho said.

The guard grabbed Crabtree and slid her to the ground. The inside of the tent was chaos, the music was blaring, but in the dim light no one noticed the band had left the stage. Ho's head was spinning and he was having trouble concentrating. The guard placed his lips over Crabtree's.

“No tongue, please,” Crabtree whispered.

Faking CPR, the guard turned to Ho. “This woman is dying.”

“Call for help,” Ho said.

The guard reached for the radio on his belt and called for an ambulance.

“Juan,” Hanley said, “the bird is inbound.”

“Time to pull out,” Cabrillo said to his team. “Round everyone up.”

Reinholt and Pryor were rolling the cart containing the false-bottomed speakers over the lawn to the far side of the heliport. Once the cart was positioned, they removed green light bars from their pockets and bent them in half. The chemical reaction made the tubes glow and they spread them in a crude circle so the helicopter pilot would know where to land.

The scene inside the tent was absolutely chaotic. People were singing, howling, dancing and prancing. Sung Rhee was groping a woman at his table, the mayor of Macau was drinking the water out of the table arrangement.

Only Winston Spenser seemed composed. When his stomach was upset, he was sensitive to fruit juice. He had faked the toast and was beginning to see something was terribly wrong. Right then, he felt a prick on his neck. A second later, his head slumped over on the table.

 

T
HE
traffic opened up for a second and the police car racing along the Inner Port Road managed to make some headway. In the distance, the officer managed to glimpse the motorcycles making a turn onto Calcada da Barra. Pushing the gas pedal to the floor, he raced after the retreating pair of motorcycles.

“I have them in sight,” he shouted over the radio. “They're northwest on Calcada.”

The man aboard the motorcycle carrying the Buddha glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the police car approaching. He waved his hand in the air and the second motorcyclist turned his head. Dropping back a little, he waited until the police car was right behind him. Then he reached over and tripped a lever on his sidecar.

S
TANLEY
Ho's meticulously planned party had deteriorated into a bacchanalia.

Juan Cabrillo walked over to where Ho was standing next to the prone Crabtree. Ho was in a daze. There were so many things happening, his drug-addled brain could not comprehend them all. A few moments ago, the lesbian party planner had come to him and said that she could not figure out how to restore the lights inside the tent and offered to have some workers raise some of the side panels to allow the scant natural moonlight to filter inside. It was now a little brighter inside the tent, but many of the guests had started wandering outside onto the lawn.

“Sir,” the security guard said, “the roads are choked with traffic and the ambulances can't get through. They recommended an air evacuation.”

Ho stared down. A minor member of a royal family expiring at his party would definitely put a crimp in his social aspirations.

“Do it,” Ho said through the fog in his brain.

“I already did,” the guard admitted, “but we have another problem.”

That was all Ho needed.

“What is it?”

“There's another guest slumped over,” the guard said, pointing toward Spenser.

“Have him taken out, too,” Ho said.

Juan Cabrillo spoke. “Mr. Ho. Some of my band is feeling queasy. We indulged in some of the appetizers and I think something was bad. I'd recommend we end this party and have the guests seek medical attention immediately.”

The entire affair was collapsing before Ho's eyes.

“The band wants to leave,” Cabrillo said. “We're going to pull our van around to the rear and load up our equipment.”

“I need the P.A. system to make an announcement,” Ho said.

“We already broke it down,” Cabrillo told him, “but we have a portable megaphone we can let you use. I'll go get it from the van.”

Ho turned to the security guard. “Who is watching the Buddha?”

“The other two guards,” he said. “I'd recommend we place it back inside.”

“Take it to my office,” Ho ordered.

The sound of an approaching helicopter grew louder.

The guard reached for his walkie-talkie and ordered the Buddha to be moved upstairs. Then he reached down and lifted Crabtree and cradled her in his arms. He started walking out of the tent toward the landing zone. Cabrillo raced across the grounds to the van. Once inside, he adjusted the outside mirror and stared into the camera.

“We're collecting the props,” he said as he twisted the key and started the engine.

 

O
N
the
Oregon
, Max Hanley was watching the unfolding scene with amazement.

The two distinct groups were obvious. The Corporation members were moving about in a blur of motion and action, while the rest of the party seemed caught in a haze of indecision and disbelief. The element of chaos in the surroundings was complete. It was almost time to stoke the fires of escape.

“Murph, Lincoln, Halpert,” Hanley said, “Juan's coming around with the van. Load up fast and make your way to the front of the mansion.”

He saw the waves of acknowledgment.

“Ross, dispose of the punch and the doctored appetizers left on the tables.”

“Larry,” Hanley asked, “what do you see?”

“The policeman is leaning against the front of his car, waiting for help. I think we can count him out for now. One of the guards has just left the tent, carrying Monica. He's making his way to extraction point one.” King scanned the grounds with the scope. “Two of the guards are wheeling the faux Buddha toward the rear door as I speak.”

“Good,” Hanley said, “everything is in play. You can make your egress anytime you deem fit. If you make your way along the wall and wait by the street, I'll have Juan slow the van down as he passes.”

“Understand,” King said.

He began to break down the rifle and fit it into its case. Once that was done, he climbed down to the edge of the wall and began to make his way west.

“Who haven't we used?” Hanley asked one of the operators, who stared quickly at the list of participants.

“Truitt,” the operator replied.

“Where's Julia?”

“Last we saw her, she was going back inside the tent,” the operator said. “But since the chairman broke down the keyboard set, we've lost the camera inside.”

“Dick,” Hanley said, “if you can hear me, signal someone in our team.”

Cabrillo pulled the van to the rear of the tent. It had been slow going with all the people wandering the grounds. He slid the van into Park and opened the door. Truitt appeared at the rear of the tent and motioned to the camera in the van's mirror.

“Dick, I need you to find Julia,” Hanley said. “She immobilized the art dealer. Carry him to the landing zone, then I want the two of you to exit via Crabtree's limousine.”

Truitt gave the camera a thumbs-up and raced away.

The members of the team were tossing the remaining speakers and electronics into the rear of the van. Out over Nam Van Lakes, the landing lights of the helicopter were visible and growing brighter. The thumping of the rotor blades increased as the helicopter drew near.

Inside the tent it was pandemonium. Truitt found Huxley talking to Ho, who seemed unable to move from where he stood. Too much was happening, his brain could not put it all into place.

“The megaphone,” he said in a daze. “I have to warn the guests.”

“Who has it?” Truitt asked Ho.

“The band,” Ho said. “The band said they had one.”

“I just saw them at the rear of the tent,” Truitt said. “You should go there.”

Ho raced off.

Truitt reached over and whispered in Huxley's ear, “Where's the art dealer?”

Huxley led him over, and she and Truitt carried Spenser out onto the grounds.

The helicopter pilot slowed his forward speed and initiated a hover. The Eurocopter EC-350 that the Corporation had leased was a sweet machine—it hung in the air with little input from the controls. Reaching to the radio on the control panel, the pilot changed the radio frequency.

“I'm waiting,” he said to the
Oregon
.

“What do you see?” Hanley asked.

The pilot flicked on his landing lights.

“I have two people carrying a body to the zone,” the pilot said. “Everything else is in place.”

“As soon as they reach the zone, touch down,” Hanley said, “but watch for another party who will be arriving. We'll need four to get the object aboard.”

“Tom?” Hanley said.

Crabtree's limousine driver was behind the wheel of the car. He flashed his lights.

“I have a car flashing their lights,” the pilot said.

“Drive onto the lawn and park near the landing zone. Then load the helicopter.”

The lights flashed again and the limousine began moving.

“He heard you,” the pilot said.

Hanley was pacing back and forth. There were several carefully timed actions occurring. As long as everyone followed the plan, the team would be out in a few more minutes. This was what the Corporation called Critical Time. The time when it could all go to hell in seconds.

“Juan's waving,” one of the operators said, pointing to a monitor.

Just then, Ho wandered over.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Cabrillo turned and smoothed his hair back. “Just checking my hair.”

Ho nodded. “You said you had a megaphone I could use?”

Cabrillo nodded and reached between the seats, removed the megaphone and handed it to Ho.

“It's battery operated,” he said. “Just flick that switch.”

Ho flicked it on. “Testing.”

It worked. He stared into the van, where the rest of the band members were sprawled across the seats and atop the cases of equipment.

“Where's Candace?” Ho asked. His head was starting to clear. That was dangerous.

“We are going to meet her around front,” Cabrillo said as he climbed into the driver's seat. “Now I need to get my people to the hospital.”

“Tell her she can stay if she wants,” Ho said.

“I'll mention it,” Cabrillo said as he twisted the key, then placed the van in gear and slowly began to steer through the crowd.

Ho wandered back into the tent. He was thinking clearer now. The megaphone was not that powerful, but if he could find a spot above the crowd they would probably be able to hear his warning. His office—his office was on the top floor.

The helicopter pilot touched down and Truitt opened the rear door.

Then Truitt, Barrett, Reyes and Huxley struggled to slide the crate inside the cargo area. Once the Golden Buddha was safely stowed, they laid Spenser on the floor and helped Crabtree inside. Truitt slid the door closed, then slapped it twice to signal the pilot to lift off. Then they bent over and protected their faces from the rotor wash as the Eurocopter lifted back into the air.

Once the helicopter was safely away, Reyes stood up.

“I'm supposed to give you guys a ride,” he said easily.

At that instant, Reinholt and Pryor had just reached the bottom stair. They opened the front door and walked out onto the driveway. The door had only been shut a few seconds before Ho raced to the first step and headed up to his office.

“What's the playlist?” Hanley asked an operator.

“The helicopter has Crabtree; the limo contains Reyes, Barrett, Truitt, and Huxley, with Reyes driving. Cabrillo has the band inside the van.” The operator pointed to the screen. “They are just past the end of the tent and will be on the driveway momentarily.”

“Where's Ross?”

“There, on the grounds,” the operator said, pointing.

The van containing the band was passing and she came into view. A few minutes before, Ross had ordered the waiters to dump all the cups of punch, then she wheeled the cart containing the pitchers outside and tipped it over.

“Linda,” Hanley ordered, “go to your car now! I want you out of there.”

Ross began walking quickly to the front.

“Who else?” Hanley asked.

“King is on the wall awaiting extraction, the other two guards should be in front now and that's it,” the operator noted.

“Is the van full?” Hanley said to Cabrillo.

Cabrillo mouthed yes in the mirror.

The van rolled onto the drive, with the Mercedes-Benz limousine directly to the rear. Ross followed the retreating motorcade. She reached the Peugeot and started the engine.

“Slow at the front door and tell the guards they will be catching a ride with Ross,” Hanley said to Cabrillo, who acknowledged the instruction.

A second later, he slowed the van and explained, then continued down the driveway toward the gate. The first team was almost off the property.

Stanley Ho opened the door to his office. He started toward the window to warn the guests, then stopped dead in his tracks.

Cabrillo made it out the gate and turned right.

“Slow along the corner of the wall,” Hanley ordered. “The King is coming.”

The limousine was not far behind the van; it slowed at the gate to turn at the same instant Ross pulled up at the front door, and Reinholt and Pryor climbed inside the Peugeot. She steered toward the gate.

“Close the gate,” Ho screamed.

“The electricity's out,” the guard said. “The gates are locked open.”

“You need to stop anyone from leaving,” Ho shouted.

Ross was twenty feet from the gate when the guard burst from the guard shack, fumbling with his holster. Ross never hesitated, never faltered. She steered toward the guard and hit the gas. At the same second the guard was making a life-and-death choice, Cabrillo heard a thump as Larry King jumped from the wall and landed on the roof of the van. Sliding off the roof, still holding the case containing his sniper rifle, he opened the passenger door, tossed the case between the seats, and climbed into Halpert's lap. The limousine passed the stopped van, and then blew through the stop sign at the end of the street.

The front gate guard could not get his weapon out of the holster. As the Peugeot accelerated toward him, he could only jump out of the way. Ross blew through the gate at nearly fifty miles an hour, then stomped on the brakes and twisted the wheel to the stops.

The Peugeot slid around in a hard right turn. Ross hit the gas. Cabrillo's van was moving again. He raced through the stop sign and turned right, following the limousine, just as the guard made it to the middle of the street in front of the mansion and removed his sidearm. Sighting down the barrel, he began to squeeze off rounds.