Golden Buddha (8 page)

C
HUCK
“Tiny” Gunderson was dining on sausage and slabs of cheddar cheese as he steered the Citation X and watched the mountains that lay below. Gunderson carried nearly 280 pounds on his six-feet-four frame and had played tackle at the University of Wisconsin before graduating and getting recruited by the Defense Intelligence Agency. Gunderson's experience with the DIA had enhanced his love of flying, which he'd transferred into his job later in the private sector. Right now, however, Gunderson was wishing he could have a bottle of beer with his lunch. Instead, he finished a warm bottle of Blenheim's ginger ale to wash it all down. Checking the gauges every few minutes, he found them all in the green.

“Mr. Citation is happy,” he said as he patted the automatic control switch and checked his course.

Spenser made his way forward to the cockpit, knocked on the door and opened it. “Has your company made arrangements with the armored car to meet us at the airport in Macau?”

“Don't worry,” Gunderson said. “They've taken care of everything.”

 

T
HE
Port of Aomen was bustling. Sampans and trading barges shared the sea-lanes with modern cargo ships and a few high-performance pleasure crafts. The wind was blowing from land to sea, and the smell of wood cooking fires on mainland China mixed with the scent of spices being off-loaded. Twelve miles out in the South China Sea, and only minutes from landing, Gunderson received clearance for final approach.

Spenser stared at the Golden Buddha strapped down on the floor across the aisle.

 

A
T
the same instant, Juan Cabrillo was enjoying an espresso after a meal of chateaubriand, mixed vegetables, a cheese plate and baked Alaska for dessert. He held a napkin to his mouth as he talked from the head table in the ship's dining salon.

“We have a man on the ground in Macau,” he said. “He'll arrange transportation once we have acquired the Buddha.”

“What's his plan?” Hanley asked.

“He's not sure yet,” Cabrillo admitted, “but he always comes up with something.”

Seng was next to speak.

“I've retrieved detailed maps of the port, streets and entire city,” Seng said. “Both the port and the airport are less than a mile from where we believe the Golden Buddha will be taken.”

“That's a good twist of luck,” Linda Ross said.

“The entire country's only seven square miles,” Seng said.

“Are we planning to anchor offshore?” Mark Murphy asked.

Cabrillo simply nodded.

“Then I need GPS numbers for the entire country,” Murphy noted, “just in case.”

Another hour would pass as the corporate officers hashed out details.

 

“O
M,”
the man said quietly, “om.”

The man who would benefit the most from the return of the Golden Buddha had no idea of the maelstrom of activity surrounding him. He was meditating in a tranquil rock garden outside a home in Beverly Hills, California. Now nearing seventy years old, he seemed not to age as did ordinary men. Instead, the passage of time had simply molded him into a more complete human being.

In 1959, the Chinese forced him to flee his own country for India. In 1989, he'd received the Nobel Peace Prize for his continued work toward the nonviolent freeing of his homeland. In a world where a hundred-year-old house was considered historic, this man was believed to be the fourteenth incarnation of an ancient spiritual leader.

At this instant, the Dalai Lama was traveling on the winds of his mind back to home.

 

W
INSTON
Spenser was tired and irritable. He had not had any rest since leaving London, and the dreariness of travel and his age were catching up to him. Once the Citation X had rolled to a stop on the far end of the field, he waited while the pilot made his way to the door and extended the stairs. Then he climbed out. The armored car was only feet away, with the rear doors open. To each side of the vehicle was a guard in black uniform with a holstered weapon. They looked about as friendly as a lynch mob. One of the men approached.

“Where's the object?” he asked directly.

“In a crate inside the main cabin,” Spenser said.

The man motioned to his partner, who walked over.

At just that instant, Gunderson climbed down the stairs.

“Who are you?” one of the guards asked.

“I'm the pilot.”

“Back in the cockpit until we're finished.”

“Hey,” Gunderson started to say as the larger of the two men grabbed his arm and shoved him into the cockpit and slammed the door. Then the two men eased the crate onto a roller ramp to the ground. They pushed the crate on the ramp right into the truck. Two men couldn't lift it. Once it was inside, the truck was pulled forward so they could shut the doors. One of the guards was locking the doors when Gunderson reappeared.

“You can be sure this will be reported,” he said to the guard.

But the guard just smiled slightly and walked forward to climb into the passenger seat.

“A-Ma Temple?” the driver said out the window.

“Yes,” Spenser said.

The guard pointed to a dark green Mercedes-Benz limousine parked nearby.

“You're supposed to follow us in that.”

Rolling up the window, the driver placed the armored car in gear and started driving.

Spenser climbed into the limousine and set off in pursuit.

 

T
HE
armored car and the limousine carrying Spenser crossed the Macau-Taipa Bridge, went around the cloverleaf, passed the Hotel Lisboa and headed up Infante D. Henrique until the name changed and the road became San Mo La, or the New Road. On the west end of the island, they reached the intersection of Rua das Lorchas and headed south along the waterfront.

The waterfront was like a scene from an adventure movie. Junks and sampans floated on the water, while the street along the water was crammed with shops displaying everything from plucked chickens to silver opium pipes. Tourists stood snapping pictures while buyers and sellers negotiated prices in the singsong staccato of Cantonese.

At the fork with Rua do Almirante Sergio, the caravan veered slightly left, drove past the bus terminal, then entered the grounds of the A-Ma Temple. The temple was the oldest in Macau, dating from the fourteenth century, and it sat on a densely wooded hill with a view of the water. The complex held a total of five shrines linked by winding pebbled paths. The smell of incense was in the air as Spenser climbed from the limousine and walked to the armored car. At just that instant, someone lit a coil firecracker to chase away the evil spirits. He instinctively ducked, staring up at the driver's open window.

“You okay, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes,” Spenser said sheepishly, rising again to his full height. “I need to step inside for a moment. If you will just wait here.”

The driver nodded and Spenser walked up the path.

Entering the A-Ma Temple, Spenser walked to a rear room he knew the leader of the monks used as an office, and knocked on the door. The door opened, and a shaven-headed man dressed in a yellow robe stood smiling.

“Mr. Spenser,” he said, “you've come for your crate.”

“Yes,” Spenser said.

The monk rang a bell and two more monks appeared from another room.

“Mr. Spenser is here for the crate I spoke about,” the head monk told them. “He'll explain what to do.”

A large donation to the temple had ensured that his decoy would remain here until needed. A well-placed lie would solve the rest.

“I have a gilded Buddha outside I'd like to display for a time,” Spenser said, smiling at the monk. “Do you have a space to put it?”

“Certainly,” the monk said. “Bring it inside.”

Twenty minutes later the switch had taken place. The Golden Buddha was now hiding in plain sight. Thirty minutes and less than a mile away, the armored car made its final delivery of the day. After the guards were dispatched, Spenser stood with the Macau billionaire, staring at the object.

“It's more than I could have hoped for,” the billionaire said.

But less than you think, Spenser thought. “I'm glad you like it.”

“Now we celebrate,” the billionaire said, smiling.

Silver platters of delicacies littered the long cherrywood table in the palatial dining room of the man's estate. Spenser had passed on the monkey meat, as well as the sea urchin, and settled on poultry in a peanut sauce. Still, the spicy side dishes were wreaking havoc with his travel-weary stomach, and he just wished the night would end.

Spenser sat at the far end of the table, the owner at the head. A total of six concubines were seated, three to a side, in the middle. After a dessert of wild berry mousse, cigars and cognac, the man rose from his seat.

“Shall we take a soak, Winston?” he said, “and allow the ladies to do their job?”

The man had no idea he would possess the faux Golden Buddha for less than a week.

And Winston Spenser had no way to know he had less than a fortnight to live.

L
ANGSTON
Overholt IV sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. His hips rested in a tall leather chair sideways to the desk. In his hand was a black racquetball paddle, its handle wrapped with white cloth tape stained by sweat. Slowly and methodically, he hit a black rubber ball two feet in the air and then back down to the racquet. Every fourth hit, he flipped the racquet over to change sides. The rhythmic action helped him think.

Overholt was thin without being scrawny, more lean and sinewy than bony. One hundred and sixty-five pounds graced his six-foot-one-inch frame, with skin stretched tight over muscles that were long and squared rather than rounded and plump. His face was handsome in a rugged way, rectangular in shape, with hard edges abounding. His hair was blond, with just a touch of gray starting to appear at the temples, and he had it trimmed every two weeks at the CIA barbershop inside the compound.

Overholt was a runner.

He'd started the practice as a senior in high school, when the craze had swept the country, fueled by the Jim Fixx book
The Complete Runner
. Throughout college and graduate school he'd kept up the practice. Marriage, joining the CIA, divorce and remarriage had not slowed down his obsession. Running was one of the few things that relieved the stress of his job.

Stress was Overholt's other constant.

Since joining the CIA in 1981 fresh out of graduate school, he'd served under six different directors. Now, for the first time in decades, Langston Overholt IV had a chance to make his father's promise to the Dalai Lama a reality, while at the same time repaying his old friend Juan Cabrillo. He was wasting no time in moving his plans forward. Just then, his telephone buzzed.

“Sir,” his assistant said, “it's the DDO, he'd like to meet with you as soon as possible.”

Overholt reached for the phone.

 

T
HE
weather in Washington, D.C., was as hot as Texas asphalt and as steamy as a bowl of green chili. Inside the White House, the air conditioners were set as high as they would go, but they just couldn't drop the temperature below seventy-five degrees. The president's home was aging, and there was just so much adaptation you could make to an old building and still retain the historical structure.

“Has there ever been an official photograph of the president sitting in the Oval Office in a T-shirt?” the president joked.

“I'll check, sir,” said the aide who had just led the CIA director inside.

“Thank you, John,” the president said, dispatching the man.

The president reached across the desk and shook the director's hand as the aide closed the door to leave the men alone. The president motioned for him to be seated.

“These aides I have are sharp as tacks,” the president noted as he sat down, “but short on a sense of humor. The kid's probably checking with the White House historian as we speak.”

“If it was anyone,” the director said, smiling, “I'd guess LBJ.”

When you're seventeen years old and you know the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, the spy game seems pretty cool. When you later become president, you really have a chance to see what happens. Time had not diminished his enthusiasm—the president still found the intelligence game fascinating.

“What have you got for me?” the president asked.

“Tibet,” the director said without preamble.

The president nodded, then adjusted a fan on his desk so that the breeze swept evenly across both men. “Explain.”

The CIA director reached into his briefcase and removed some documents.

Then he laid out the plan.

 

I
N
Beijing, President Hu Jintao was studying documents that showed the true state of the Chinese economy. The picture was grim. The race to modernization had required more and more petroleum, and the Chinese had yet to locate any significant new reserves inside their borders. The situation had not been such a problem a few years earlier, when the price of oil had been at twenty year lows, but with the recent price spike upward, the higher costs were wreaking havoc. Adding to the problem were the Japanese, whose thirst for oil had led to a price competition the Chinese could not hope to win.

Jintao stared out the window. The air was clearer than usual today—a light wind was blowing the smoke from the factories away from central Beijing—but the wind was not so strong as to blow away the soot that had landed on the windowsill. Jintao watched as a sparrow landed on the sill. The bird's tiny feet made tracks in the powder. The bird fluttered around for a few seconds, then stopped and peered in the window and looked directly toward Jintao.

“How would you cut costs?” Jintao said to the bird, “and where do we find oil?”