“Murphy,” Hanley said, shaking his head, “he’d drive a thumbtack with a sledgehammer.”

Nixon turned on an exhaust vent, then slid his leg over the motorcycle and poked the kick starter. The machine roared to life and settled into an idle. Shutting it off, he moved toward the second motorcycle and repeated the process. The hours passed as the pair of men checked then double-checked the equipment.

AT the same instant, closer to the stern, Mark Murphy was in the armory. The room had a bench containing reloading equipment and rows of drawers containing ammunition, charges, timers and fuses. Along the walls were a series of recessed cases that housed automatic weapons, rifles and handguns. The room smelled of gunpowder, metal and oil.

Parts of a U.S. Army M-16 sat atop a piece of cloth on the bench. Murphy pushed the button on a digital timer, then reached for the stock and began to assemble the weapon. A minute later, he pushed the timer again, then raised his hands in the air. One minute and four seconds—he was slow today. Walking over to an ammunition drawer, he began to remove banana clips and load them with different types of ordnance.

“God, I love my job,” he said aloud.

THE van was entering the bridge leading from Macau to Taipa.

“The Minutemen,” Cabrillo said. “Where did you come up with that name?”

“It couldbe construed as an homage to Paul Revere and the revolutionary way,” Truitt said, laughing.

“Wouldn’t that be Paul Revere and The Raiders?” Jones said.

“But in fact,” Truitt continued, “it’s the name of the band that was already hired.”

“Won’t it be crowded when two bands show up?” Ross asked.

“It would be, but the real Minutemen, a California cover band doing a tour of the Far East, was detained in Bangkok after a two-week stint in the Phuket bars. Apparently a customs official found a joint in the drummer’s shaving kit.”

“Planted?” Cabrillo asked.

“Had to,” Truitt noted. “The Minutemen are probably the only band in these parts that are clean—they met one another in a twelve-step group.”

“The boys sound all right,” Meadows said. “You can’t fault someone who’s turned his life around—we shouldn’t let them rot in a Thailand prison.”

“Not to worry, the customs official is on our payroll,” Truitt said. “There’s no record of the stop. One of our people in California made contact with their management company and explained the situation, and we upgraded them to first class for the flight home since the Macau gig was the last one on the tour. Right now, the Minutemen are convinced they were critically helpful in the war on terrorism—as per our standard cover story.”

The van rolled onto Taipa and started across the island.

“I just have one question,” Cabrillo said. “Which one of us is the lead singer?”

11

THE Dalai Lama walked down the steps of the jet in Jalandhar, in the Punjab province of India, into an unusually hot day. Despite his forty-five years in exile in India, he had never learned to adjust to the weather. His Holiness was a man from the mountains and he missed snow and cold temperatures. He sniffed the air for the slightest smell from the glaciers far to the north. Instead of snow and pine trees, his nose was assaulted by fumes from the trucks passing by the airport on the traffic-packed highway.

He smiled anyway and gave thanks.

“Looks like my transportation is here,” he said to Overholt, who had joined him on the tarmac.

A large, single-engine Cessna Caravan was nearby, with a pilot doing a walk-around.

“Very good, Your Holiness,” Overholt said.

“As soon as I return, I will meet with my advisors and the oracle,” the Dalai Lama said, staring directly into Overholt’s eyes. “If they agree and you can ensure me no bloodshed, then I will agree to the plan we have designed.”

“Thank you, Your Holiness.”

The Dalai Lama began to walk toward the Cessna, then stopped and turned around. “I will pray for your father and for you,” he said quietly, “and pray this all works out.”

Overholt simply smiled as the Dalai Lama turned and walked over to the steps, then climbed into the Cessna for the rest of his journey. As soon as he was seated, the Dalai Lama turned to one of his assistants.

“As soon as we arrive in Little Lhasa, I will need the trunk containing the Golden Buddha documents brought to my office.”

The assistant scribbled notes on a small pad.

“Then I will need to see my doctor,” he said quietly. “There is something wrong with my physical shell.”

“As ordered, Your Holiness,” the aide said, “I shall do.”

The pilot started the engine on the Cessna and ran through his checks. Four minutes later he was rolling toward a runway, and a few minutes after that he was airborne. Overholt stood on the tarmac and watched as the Cessna lifted off the ground and made a climbing turn to the right. The Caravan was just a speck against the backdrop of the white cloud cover before he turned to the pilot of the Falcon.

“Mind if I catch a ride back to Santa Monica with you?” he asked.

“We’re going that way anyway, sir,” the pilot said. “Might as well tag along.”

OVERHOLT had a quality that was often overlooked in successful spies. He could sleep anywhere. By the time the jet stopped for fuel in Taiwan, the several hours of sleep had renewed his vigor. As the plane was being fueled, he walked a distance away and unfolded his portable telephone, then dialed a number from memory.

Bouncing off a satellite, the signal arrived in the Marshall Islands in the Pacific, then was redirected toward the ultimate destination. The signal was scrambled and untraceable and there was no way to determine where the receiving party was actually located. The voice answered with an extension number.

“2524.”

“Juan,” he said quietly, “this is Langston.”

“Qué pasa, amigo,”Cabrillo said.

“Everything still looks good,” Overholt said. “How is your crew coming?”

“We’re ten by ten,” Cabrillo said.

“Good,” Overholt said.

“Looks like there’s a little side deal here for us to grab,” Cabrillo said. “I trust there’s no problem with that?”

“As long as there’s no blowback,” Overholt said. “Your company’s dealings are none of my concern.”

“Excellent,” Cabrillo said. “If it works out as planned, there will be no need to bill you for travel expenses.”

“Money’s not a problem, old friend; this is coming from the top,” Overholt said, “but time is—make this happen for me before Easter.”

“That’s why we get the big money, Lang”—Cabrillo laughed—“because we’re so damn prompt. You’ll have what you need, you have my word.”

“That’s what I love about you,” Overholt said, “your complete lack of ego.”

“I’ll call you when it’s done,” Cabrillo said.

“Just don’t let me read about it.”

Overholt disconnected, slid the telephone into his pocket, then did a series of stretching exercises before climbing back aboard the jet. Twenty-four hours later, he boarded a military transport plane from Southern California to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. There he was met by the CIA car service and transported to headquarters.

AT the mansion on Estrada da Penha, preparations for the party were moving at a blistering pace. One truck after another rolled through the gates, then parked and unloaded their contents. Three large yellow-and-white-striped canvas tents were quickly erected on the grounds, with portable air-conditioning units to make the tents more comfortable. They were followed by a pair of large portable fountains with spotlights that would shoot colored streams of water twenty feet into the air; red carpets for the guests to walk across; sound equipment; a baby grand piano for the musician who would play during the cocktail hour; parrots, doves and peacocks; and tables, chairs and linens.