“I specifically requested glacier ice for the cocktails,” she screamed at the caterer, “not the round highball cubes.”

“You asked for both,” the caterer said, “but the glacier ice has yet to arrive.”

“You’ll have it here?” she asked.

“It’s in the warehouse, Iselda,” the man said patiently. “We didn’t want it to melt.”

Iselda stared across the tent to where a worker was adjusting the devices that made clouds of smoke from dry ice.

“We need more smoke than that,” she shouted, then quickly walked across to the row of machines and began to berate the worker.

After a few minutes of adjustment, the man flipped the machine on again. Clouds of dense, cold gas billowed from the machine, then began to settle on the floor.

“Good, good,” Iselda said. “Now make sure we have plenty of dry ice.”

A technician was adjusting the light display and she raced in that direction.

ON board the Oregon, the technician monitoring conversations in the mansion made a note on the yellow pad, then reached for the shipboard communication microphone.

“Chairman Cabrillo,” he said, “I think you need to come up here.”

THE limousine slowed outside the gate leading to the runway at the San Jose, California, airport. A guard with a holstered weapon stood blocking the way. The driver rolled down his window.

“New security regulations,” he said. “There’s no more driving onto the tarmac.”

The software billionaire had rolled down his window as well. This was an unwelcome inconvenience. Intolerable, in fact.

“Wait a minute, now,” he shouted from the rear. “We’ve driven out to my plane for years.”

“Not anymore,” the guard noted.

“Do you know who I am?” the billionaire said pompously.

“No idea,” the guard admitted, “but I do know who I am—I’m the guy that’s ordering you to turn away from the gate now.”

With nothing else to say, the limousine driver backed up and steered toward the terminal, then parked in front and waited for his employer to climb out. The encounter put his boss in a foul mood and he could hear him muttering as he carried the bags a safe distance behind.

“Good God,” the billionaire said, “for what I pay for hangar space, you’d think I’d get some service.”

As they approached the door leading out to the taxiway, a smattering of expensive jets sat awaiting their owners. There were a trio of Gulfstreams, a Citation or two, a half dozen King Airs, and a single burgundy behemoth that looked like it belonged to a regional airline.

The software billionaire was big on appearances.

If the rich had private jets—he wanted a large one. An airplane that screamed success and excess like a dog collar made from diamonds. The billionaire’s choice was a Boeing 737. The aircraft was fitted with a single-lane bowling alley, a hot tub and a bedroom bigger than many homes. It was fitted with a large-screen television, advance communications equipment, and a chef trained at the Cordon Bleu. The pair of dancers he had ordered from the service were already aboard. The entertainment for his flight was a California blonde and a redhead who bore a striking resemblance to a young Ann-Margret.

The billionaire wanted some way to pass the time on the long flight.

He burst through the door leading outside without waiting for his driver with the luggage, then made his way over to the 737. Then he walked up the ramp and inside.

“Ladies,” he shouted, “front and center.”

Thirteen minutes later, they were airborne.

INSIDE the Oregon, the technician was entering commands in the computer when Cabrillo opened the door and walked inside.

“What have you got?” he said without preamble.

“Ho just had a telephone conversation with an insurance adjuster who is coming out to the mansion to inspect the Buddha.”

“Damn,” Cabrillo said, reaching for the microphone. “Max, you better get up to communications, we’ve got a problem.”

While the technician continued to trace the source of the call, Cabrillo paced the control room.

Hanley arrived a few minutes later. “What is it, Juan?”

“Ho has an insurance adjuster coming out to inspect the Golden Buddha.”

“When?” Hanley asked.

“Four p.m.”

The technician hit a button and a printer spit out a sheet.

“Here’s the location of the call, boss,” he said. “I have it overlaid on a map of Macau.”

“We need to come up with a plan,” Cabrillo said, “posthaste.”

WINSTON Spenser was juggling chain saws.

Only his long stint as a customer of the bank had earned him an increase on his business line of credit, but the manager had made it clear he wanted the balance paid down in no less than seventy-two hours. His credit cards were at their limits, and calls had already come into his office in London, inquiring about the situation. For all intents and purposes, Spenser was, at this instant, in dire financial straits. As soon as the deal with the billionaire went down, he would be as flush as he had ever dreamed—right now, however, he could not afford an airplane ticket home.

All he had to do tomorrow was remove the Buddha, transfer it to the airport and receive his ill-gotten gain. Then he’d charter a jet and fly off into the sunset with his fortune. By the time his customer in Macau realized he’d been duped, he’d be long gone.

14

JUAN Cabrillo sat at the table in his stateroom and studied the folder for the third time.

In nine minutes, the hands of the clock would pass twelve and it would officially be Good Friday. Game day. There was always a fair amount of luck combined with flexibility when the Corporation launched an operation. The key was to minimize surprises through rigorous planning, and always have a backup plan in place.

At this, the Corporation excelled.

The only problem was the object itself. The Golden Buddha was not a microchip that could be slipped into a pocket or sewn into clothing. It was a heavy object the size of a man that required effort to move and stealth to conceal. Any way you cut the cake, the movement of the icon would require men and machines to transport it to a safe place.

The mere size and weight of the Golden Buddha made that a condition.

Then there were the players themselves. The art dealer, Ho; the people at the party; the Chinese authorities; and now the insurance appraiser. Any one of them could throw a wrench into the works, and the stakes and timing were such that retreating and regrouping was not an option.

Cabrillo hated operations where a clear path of retreat was not available.

People could be captured, injured or killed when the plan was to execute the operation at all costs. The last time the Corporation had sustained losses was the operation in Hong Kong, where Cabrillo had lost his leg and others had been killed. Since then, he had consciously avoided ultra-high-risk assignments. The Golden Buddha assignment had started out fitting the lower-risk profile, but it was becoming more and more dangerous as time passed.

Just pregame jitters, Cabrillo thought as he closed the folder. Sometime tonight, they would have the Buddha and begin the process of transferring it back to the Dalai Lama. A few more days and the Corporation would be cashiered, out of the loop and sailing away to another part of the globe.

WINSTON Spenser gulped Glenmorangie whiskey like it was ginger ale.

Spenser’s brilliant plan of deceit had hit a speed bump that had ripped off the oil pan, and now it was leaking its fluid onto the ground. Ho had called earlier in the evening and his words had been an ice pick to the brain.