“For anticapitalists, they build a nice bank,” Meadows said quietly.

No one replied; they were enamored with the scenery. Central Macau was a strange mishmash of new and old, European and Asian, traditional and modern. Truitt reached Rua da Praia Grande and turned left.

“From what I’m told, this used to be a beautiful drive,” Truitt said, “until construction started on the Nam Van Lakes Reclamation Project.”

The road was clogged with construction trucks, cement mixers and piles of materials.

Driving farther, the road became Avenida da Republica and skirted Nam Van Lake.

“That’s the governor’s residence,” Truitt said, pointing up the hill. “I’m taking us the long way around the tip of the peninsula so you can see the geography. The hill north of the governor’s residence is named Penha. This one on the end is Barra Hill. Our target is between the two, on a street named Estrada da Penha.”

Angling left on the road, they climbed a rise until the van reached Estrada de D. Joao Paulino. Turning a quick right, they drove a few yards and made another sharp right onto Estrada da Penha, which formed a wavy U shape around the top of the hill until it met back up with Joao Paulino.

The van passed the bottom of the U and was halfway up the side when Truitt slowed. “Thar she blows.”

“She” was a mansion, an old elegant structure worthy of a landed family. A tall stone wall encircled the grounds, broken only by a wrought-iron gate and the creeping growth of ivy. Giant, perfectly placed trees, planted generations past, studded the expanse of emerald grass. As the van rolled past, a croquet field was visible off to the side. Farther to the right, down a cobblestone driveway, was a two-story garage building, where a handyman was soaping down a Mercedes-Benz limousine.

The mansion looked like a wealthy nineteenth-century shipowner could live there now; the only compromise for the times was the series of security cameras atop the stone wall fronting the street.

“There are six cameras strategically located around the grounds.”

The van was approaching the junction with Joao Paulino, and Truitt slowed before commenting.

“That wouldcomplicate things,” Truitt said, as he slowed for the stop sign, “except for one thing I failed to mention.”

“What’s that?” Cabrillo asked.

“Our target is throwing a huge party,” Truitt said as he steered the van left, “and we’re booked as the entertainment.”

Truitt took the scenic way back, past the temple and along the waterfront.

“WELL?” the software billionaire asked pointedly.

One thousand dollars to the Stanford scientist had procured his services; a call to the president of the university reminding him of past donations had opened up the full use of the laboratory.

“The date shows thirteenth century, but for me to give you a more accurate estimate of the area from which it was mined, I’ll have to melt half of your sample.”

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“It’s going to take me thirty or forty-five minutes,” the scientist said, already growing weary of the billionaire’s rude manner. “Why don’t you head to the cafeteria and grab something to drink?”

“Do they have Chai tea?” the billionaire said.

“No,” the scientist said wearily, “but there’s a Starbucks on the commons that does.”

After giving him directions to the Starbucks, he waited until the man walked out and closed the door to the laboratory.

“Idiot,” the scientist said.

Then he walked over to a small kiln and slid the metal plate holding the shaving of gold inside. After it melted, he placed the sample inside a computer-powered sampler that would give a breakdown of the percentages of the other metals present. By comparing the ratios with known ores already mined, the scientist could determine the general area where the gold had been mined.

As he waited for the machine to perform its magic, the scientist read a skiing magazine. Twenty minutes later, the machine stopped.

THE president of the United States was sitting in an Adirondack chair behind the main house at Camp David, Maryland. The president of Russia sat across from him, a wooden table separating the two.

Though not visible, $2 billion in foreign aid was on the table.

“How does it sound, Vlad?” the president asked.

“You know I’ve never been a big fan of the Chinese,” the Russian president said, “but the foreign aid is only a bandage. My country’s factories need orders for our economy to mend itself.”

The president nodded. “The biggest-ticket items in my budget are always the military planes and ships. The Taiwanese have got a shopping list a mile long. What if I could steer some of that business your way?”

The Russian president smiled. “You are a crafty one,” he said. “You’ve managed to give me what my country needs while at the same time pitting us against the Chinese, who as you well know make an enemy of anyone who befriends Taiwan.”

The president rose from the chair and stretched. “Now, Vlad,” he said, “isn’t that the nucleus of negotiation—to give both sides what they want?”

“I think,” the Russian president said, rising, “we may just have a deal.”

“Good, then,” the president said, motioning toward the dining hall. “What do you say we go see what kind of pie the chef has in the oven?”

“THE gold was mined somewhere in the area of Burma,” the scientist said when the billionaire returned, clutching a paper cup of tea.

“Can you be more specific?”

“South of the twenty-degrees latitude line, which means southern Vietnam, Laos, Thailand or Burma. I can try to pin it down more, but it will take time.”

The billionaire sipped the tea, then shook his head back and forth. “Don’t bother, you said the magic word.”

The billionaire started toward the door while at the same time removing a cellular telephone from his belt. “Bring the car around,” he said to the driver. Then he disconnected and reached for the door.

“Do you want your gold back?” the scientist shouted across the laboratory.

“Keep it,” the billionaire shouted. “I’ve got a lot more where that came from.”

“You’re most generous,” the scientist muttered as he scraped the sample from the now-cool plate and slid it into the envelope with the other.

Carrying the envelope over to his desk, he tossed it into the top drawer. Then he walked to the door, shut off the lights, and locked the door to the laboratory behind him. A few minutes later, he was tooling across campus on his moped, still shaking his head at the strange encounter.

INSIDE a storage hold on the lower level of the Oregon, Hanley was standing with Kevin Nixon, staring at a collection of wheeled conveyances.

“For certain, we should have a couple of the motorcycles and at least one of the all-terrain vehicles prepared,” Hanley said.

Nixon nodded, then walked over to one of the motorcycles. Since the last time it had been used, it had been cleaned and oiled. All the tools used by the Corporation were kept in a constant state of readiness—it was one of the easiest ways to ensure success.

“I’ll go ahead and test run everything,” Nixon said. “Want me to fabricate Macau license plates for each?”

“Sounds good,” Hanley said. “Just standard tags, nothing diplomatic.”

Nixon stared at the clipboard with the sheet of paper Cabrillo had prepared earlier. “Looks like Ross wants earpiece communications for the ground operators, with a secondary channel to reach the ship.”

“Make sure the batteries are charged, and check everything out,” Hanley said. “I’ll break out a repeater we can place on Barra Hill so we’re not using local channels.”

“Better place a beacon up there, too,” Nixon said, glancing at the clipboard. “Murphy wants a fixed targeting point if he needs to loose a missile.”