Golden Buddha

“They aboard the amphibian?”

“Nope,” Hanley said. “It was still too far south to get here in time.”

“So we secured another seaplane?” Cabrillo asked.

“Ga

Cabrillo sipped his coffee while Truitt swiveled his head and stared back at him.

“You’re yankingme off?” Cabrillo said.

“Sorry, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said. “It was the only way you could make your flight out of Vietnam on time.”

“And the Buddha?”

“He’ll go first,” Hanley noted.

“Why,” Cabrillo said, “do I always end up in these situations?”

“The money?” Truitt said, smiling.

“Or the thrill of victory?” said Hanley.

ON board the Antonov, Gunderson was brushing his teeth and washing his face. Spitting out the window, he rubbed the washcloth across the stubble on his cheeks. Once he had finished, he walked forward and motioned to Pilston. “Why don’t you let me take over.”

Pilston slid out of the pilot’s seat and Gunderson climbed aboard.

“How’d our rookie do?” he asked Michaels.

“She’s not a bad pilot,” Michaels noted. “I had her do most of the flying while I napped.”

Gunderson smiled and turned back to stare at Pilston. “Be sure and log the hours,” he told her. “When you have two hundred you can apply for a commercial license. Our last operative who certified got a five-thousand-dollar bonus from Cabrillo.”

“This old beast is a smooth flying plane,” Pilston said. “Slow as a slug but as stable as a table.”

“How far out are we?” Gunderson asked Michaels.

Michaels stared at the GPS and examined her marks in the charts, then did a couple of calculations in the flight computer. “Twenty-four minutes, give or take.”

“Have you maintained radio silence?”

“As we pla

Gunderson adjusted the mixture to the engine and watched the gauges a few seconds. Satisfied all was okay, he spoke again. “Tracy, can you pour me a cup of coffee? It’s time to call the mother ship.”

Pilston unscrewed the cup off the thermos, put a piece of folded duct tape on the bottom, then poured a cup and handed it to Gunderson. He sipped the hot liquid, then set the cup down on a flat surface, where it stuck. Then he reached for the radio, adjusted the frequency, and spoke.

“Tiny calling the chairman of the board, you out there?”

A few seconds passed before an answer came. “This is control, go ahead.”

“The ladies and I,” Tiny said, “will be there in a few minutes to hook you on board.”

“We have you on the scope,” Cabrillo said. “You should be seeing us shortly.”

“What’s the drill?” Gunderson asked.

“You’ll have two yanks,” Cabrillo said. “The first is the object—remember it’s heavy.”

“We have a cargo slide with a belt, but the door to this old bird is on the side,” Gunderson said. “My plan was to winch whatever we were taking aboard close, then do some fancy flying to get the load aboard.”

Back on the Oregon, Cabrillo shook his head in amazement. “Don’t try that on the second load.”

“Why’s that, boss?”

“Because the second load is me.”

Michaels was staring out the window. A speck that was the Oregoncame into view.

“I have a visual,” she said.

“We have you in sight,” Gunderson said, “and we’ll take it easy bringing you aboard, Mr. Chairman, don’t you worry.”

“I’m going topside to strap up,” Cabrillo said. “Is there anything else you need?”

Gunderson looked at Pilston and Michaels, who shook their heads no.

“Maybe just some ham-and-cheese sandwiches,” Gunderson said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Cabrillo said.

“We’re descending now,” Gunderson said. “See you in a few.”

CABRILLO opened the door and walked into the Magic Shop. Nixon had the Golden Buddha on a small table and was waving a small electronic radar device across the belly. He stared at a monitor and shook his head.

“There’s a space there, boss,” Nixon said to Cabrillo, “but I’ll be damned if I can figure out the access.”

Cabrillo stood thinking for a moment, then turned to Nixon. “Hand me a heat gun,” he said.

Nixon walked over to the tool bench and removed a heat gun from a peg, attached an extension cord, then dragged it over to the Golden Buddha. Cabrillo flicked the switch on and started to heat the Buddha’s belly.

“What are you thinking, boss?” Nixon asked over the roar of the heat gun.

“People always want to rub Buddha’s belly for good luck,” Cabrillo said. “Rub something enough and you make heat.”

Nixon reached over and touched the golden belly. It was becoming warm, like human skin.

Cabrillo stared at the icon, then turned to Nixon. “Get me a single-edge razor blade,” he said.

Nixon walked to the workbench, found a box of razor blades, grabbed them, then walked back, peeling the paper off one of the blades.

“There,” Cabrillo said. “There’s a crack forming.”

Nixon slid the blade into the tiny gap.

“Slide in another,” Cabrillo said, “and begin to wedge off the belly plate.”

Minutes passed as the gap widened. As it did, Cabrillo diverted the heat under the plate, which heated the glue applied centuries before. At last the crack was large enough that a hand could fit inside. Cabrillo handed Nixon the heat gun, slid his fingers inside the crack, then gently pried back the plate while Nixon continued heating the yak’s-hoof glue.

Slowly the plate peeled back. Then, all at once, it came off in Cabrillo’s hand.

He stared through the opening into an i

Nixon looked at Cabrillo and smiled. “What now, boss?”

“We copy them,” Cabrillo said quietly, “and put them back.”

SUNG Rhee was in the center of a maelstrom of angry people. The admiral from the Chinese navy had called Beijing to report the damage to his ships, the two billion aires had both returned with teams of attorneys, and his assistant had just called to report that the mayor of Macau was downstairs and on his way up.

And then his telephone rang.

“I told you,” he told his receptionist, “no interruptions.”

“President Hu Jintao’s office is calling.”

“Put him through,” Rhee said, motioning with his hand to clear his office. “Put him through.”

A few seconds later, a voice said, “President Jintao is on the line.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Rhee said.

“Good morning, Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said quietly. “I understand you had a bit of trouble last night.”

Rhee began to sweat. “A…a minor theft,” he stammered. “Nothing we can’t handle, Mr. President.”

“Mr. Rhee. We’ve received calls this morning from the United States embassy, the head of the Chinese navy, and the vice president of Greece wanting to know why one of his ships was illegally stopped and boarded on your orders. That does not sound like a minor theftto me.”

“There…has been some trouble here,” Rhee admitted.

The telephone was silent for a few seconds. “Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said coldly, “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Right now, from the start.”

Slowly, Rhee began speaking.

GUNDERSON started a long lumbering turn around the Oregon. As he stared out the cockpit window, he could see a large balloon do a fast inflate, then head up in the air, towing a line.

On the stern deck of the Oregon, Kevin Nixon checked the straps around the crate containing the Golden Buddha again. The three-pronged hook was duct-taped to the crate and would be used to yank Cabrillo aboard if they were successful getting the icon aboard the Antonov. Hanley stood off to the side, checking the fit on the harness that wrapped around Cabrillo’s chest and upper thighs. Satisfied it was properly attached, he snapped a smaller bag containing the sandwiches to one side of the harness.