Quite frankly, there was little work for the two men—the Oregonran herself.

THIRTY minutes later—clean and dressed in tan slacks, a starched white shirt and a Bill Blass blazer—Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo was sitting at the large mahogany conference table in the corporate meeting room. Linda Ross was across the table, sipping a Diet Coke. Eddie Seng sat next to Ross, flipping through a stack of papers. Mark Murphy was farther down the table, stroking a throwing knife against a leather strap. Murphy found the action relaxing and he tested the edge against a piece of paper.

“How did the auction go?” Max Hanley asked.

“The target brought two hundred million,” Cabrillo said easily.

“Wow,” Ross said, “that’s a hefty price.”

At the end of the table, in front of a bank of floor-to-ceiling monitors that were currently blank, Michael Halpert turned on a laser pointer, then pressed the remote for the monitors. He waited for Cabrillo, who nodded for him to start.

“The job came from Washington to our lawyer in Vaduz, Liechtenstein: a standard performance contract, half now, half on delivery. Five million of the ten-million-dollar fee has already been received. It was washed through our bank in Vanuatu, then transferred to South Africa and used to purchase gold bullion, as we all agreed.”

“It seems,” Murphy said, shaving off a sliver of paper with the knife, “that after all those machinations, we should just steal the Golden Buddha for ourselves. It would save us a hell of a lot of time and effort. Either way, we end up with the gold.”

“Where’s your corporate pride?” Cabrillo said, smiling, knowing Murphy was joking, but making the point anyway. “We have our reputation to consider. The first time we screw a client, the word would get out. Then what? I haven’t seen any want ads for mercenary sailors lately.”

“You haven’t been looking in the right newspapers,” Seng said, grinning. “Try the Manila Timesor the Bulgarian Bugle.”

“That’s the problem with stealing objects out of history books,” Ross noted. “They’re tough to resell.”

“I know a guy in Greece,” Murphy said, “who would buy the Mona Lisa.”

Cabrillo waved his hands. “All right, back to business.”

A map of the world filled the main monitor, and Halpert pointed to their destination.

“As a crow flies, it’s over ten thousand miles from Puerto Rico to this location,” he noted. “By sea, it’s a lot farther.”

“We’re going to run up the costs just getting there,” Cabrillo said. “Do we have any other jobs lined up in that part of the world after we finish with this?”

“Nothing yet,” Halpert admitted, “but I’m working on it. I did, however, require the lawyer to include a bonus if we deliver the object by a certain date.”

“How much and when?” Cabrillo asked.

“The bonus is another million,” Halpert said. “The date is March thirty-first.”

“Why March thirty-first?” Cabrillo asked.

“Because that’s when they plan to have the leader return to his people.”

“Ah. Good. All right, so we have a total of seven days, three of which will be spent traveling. That gives us four days to break into a secure building, steal a gold artifact that weighs six hundred pounds, then transport it nearly twenty-five hundred miles to a mountain country that most people have only heard about in school.”

Halpert nodded.

“Sounds like fun,” Cabrillo said.

4

CHUCK “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.”

THE 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.

AT 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.

“OM,” 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.

WINSTON 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.