Golden Buddha

“I hope that you are finding the food and drink to your liking.”

Another round of applause.

“I hope each of you has a chance to view my latest acquisition, a good-luck charm. I have displayed the piece at the entrance to the tent. Like another we honor tonight, he signifies enlightenment and spirituality and that is the theme of this evening’s festivities. Now, if we could take a second to remember those that have sacrificed themselves for our freedoms.”

The crowd was silent.

“Thank you,” Ho said a few moments later. “We will have fireworks and light displays tonight, as well as an excellent band straight from California in the United States. Please join me in welcoming the Minutemen.”

He handed the microphone back to Halpert. At the same time, the lights in the tent began to dim until a single spotlight illuminated Halpert’s back, which was turned from the crowd. The band keyed their instruments and the opening notes of the Eagles song “Already Gone” began pulsing through the crowd.

Halpert swung around and began to belt out the lyrics.

MORE than any one thing, the key to a successful robbery is stealth. The pair of men on the motorcycles knew this and they moved quietly through the AMa Temple toward their target. The tourists had gone home for the night and most of the monks were in the dining hall partaking of their simple evening meal. The side room where their target stood was dimly lit, and the men, who were dressed in black clothes and face masks, blended into the air like whispery goblins.

“There he is,” one man whispered.

The man was pushing a heavy-duty dolly stolen from a rental store the previous night. He wheeled it over, examined the artifact, then waited while his partner closed the door on the wooden crate and tilted it so the other man could slide the dolly underneath. After securing it with straps, they began to make their way toward the door.

WINSTON Spenser was past wine and into cognac. He was pleasantly buzzed and begi

By first light, he’d be on his way away from here, then he’d take a break from all the drinking.

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?”

“That’s the plan.”

“I’ll go ahead and ice down the punch then,” the caterer said.

“You look busy here,” Ross said, “I’ll take care of the punch.”

When the chef had his back turned, Ross removed the flask of liquid and broke the seal. The viscous fluid was a strange blue green with flecks of what looked like powdered silver. She swirled it around then poured it into the vat. Taking a wooden spoon, she stirred the mixture and added a block of ice.

The caterer was on the far end of the kitchen, talking to the chef. Ross called across the room.

“Have the punch transferred to the crystal pitchers and taken into the tent,” she said. “Then order the waiters to begin serving.”

The caterer waved a hand in reply and Ross walked back outside.

“SIGNAL from Ross,” Larry King said.

On board the Oregon, Hanley was watching the monitors. “We saw it too, Larry.”

Hanley zoomed in on the Buddha; Reinholt, Pryor and Barrett were standing in a delta formation around the object, while to the left three large speaker stacks sat on carts awaiting removal.

“As soon as Ho makes his toast and the band resumes, we can begin the extraction,” Hanley said. “Did anyone see where Ho went?”

“He headed inside with Huxley,” King noted.

“I’ve got him on audio in the upper office,” one of the operators on the Oregonsaid.

“Put him on speaker,” Hanley ordered.

“It’s a Manet,” Ho was saying.

“I always get Monet and Manet confused,” Huxley said. “But then, art is not my strong suit.”

“What exactly isyour strong suit?” Ho asked.

Just then, Hanley keyed the tiny earpiece in Huxley’s ear. “Julia,” he whispered, “you need to have Ho get back to the tent and make the toast now.”

“It’s something I need to show you, not tell you,” Candace purred, “but it takes some time. Once the band starts the next set and my boyfriend is busy, I’d feel a lot safer.”

“Safer is good,” Ho said.

Huxley walked over to Ho and rubbed her ample assets against his side.

“I’ll quickly go make the toast,” he said with a growing need.

“I need to make an appearance, too,” Huxley said, “then we’ll have plenty of time.”

Ho motioned to the door and the pair started out of the office.

INSIDE the tent, the waiters were clearing away the appetizers. Then they began to pour the punch from crystal pitchers into small glass cups at each setting. Most of the guests had returned to their seats by the time Ho walked through the center of the tent toward the stage. Snagging a cup of punch from a passing waiter, he continued toward the stage.