Several members of a marching band trudged past, followed by an elephant with a handler sitting atop in a basket chair.

“Hell of a deal,” the second man said quietly, “hell of a deal.”

RICHARD Truitt stared in the mirror in his hotel room on Avenida de Almeida Ribeiro, then adjusted his tie. Reaching into his shaving kit, he removed a round container and opened it up. Touching his fingertip to the colored contact lens, he placed it over an eye and blinked it into place. After placing the second lens, he stood back and examined the result.

Truitt was pleased and he smiled.

Then he reached into another bag and removed a dental appliance and slid it over his top row of teeth. Now he had a slightly bucktoothed look. Removing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from the bag, he placed them over his ears and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. If it was geek he was seeking, he’d hit the mother lode. All that remained was to grease down his hair and sprinkle a little false dandruff on the collar of his tweed jacket. Perfect.

Walking into the living room of the suite, he removed a document from the out tray in his printer and gave it an examination. It was ornate and pompous in true British fashion. By royal appointment to the queen, said one line. Since 1834, said another. Truitt folded the document and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he turned off the computer and printer and packed it into its case. His bags were already packed and sitting by the door. He returned to the bathroom to gather up his things there, then walked back into the living room and slid them into a side pocket of one of the bags. Then he walked over to the telephone and dialed a number.

“On my way,” he said quietly.

“Good luck,” Cabrillo replied.

Now he just needed to make his way out of the room without being seen.

FOR the most part, Linda Ross was a good-natured and positive person.

That’s what made playing Iselda so much fun. Most people have a bitchy side—they just keep it suppressed. Since the report on Iselda claimed she suppressed the best and not the worst, Ross was playing the opportunity to the hilt. Riding down the elevator to the parking garage, she stepped over to the attendant’s window and frowned. The man raced from the enclosure to bring her car. As Ross waited, she tried to decide what Iselda would tip and decided it was probably nothing.

The attendant pulled up in a dirty Peugeot and opened the door. Ross slid into the driver’s seat and muttered “I’ll get you next time” to the attendant and slammed the door. The inside of the car smelled like a Wisconsin roadhouse at closing time. The carpet was littered with ashes and the ashtray was overflowing. The inside of the windows were covered with a film of nicotine.

“Here we go,” she whispered as she reached into the glove box and removed a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Then she placed the Peugeot into drive and rolled out to the street. Ten minutes later she pulled in front of the mansion and passed her first test.

“Open the gate,” she shouted at the guard, who stared inside and, seeing it was her, pushed a button. “I’m late.”

Parking over to one side of the driveway, she climbed from the car and lit another cigarette.

“Dump my ashtray when you get a chance,” she said to a gardener who walked past.

The man ignored her and continued on. Walking to the front door, she rang the bell, then waited until the butler opened the door.

“Out of my way,” she said as she swept past and headed for where she remembered the kitchen to be from the blueprints she’d memorized. Bursting into the kitchen, she stared at the stove, then turned to one of the chefs Iselda had hired.

“Is that the bisque?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the Chinese chef answered.

Strutting over to the stove, she removed the lid and smelled. “Spoon, please.”

The chef handed her a spoon and she tasted the soup.

“Seems light on the lobster,” she said.

“I’ll add more,” the chef said.

“Good, good,” Ross said. “If Mr. Ho needs me, I’ll be out back. Let me know when you bake the first shrimp puffs—I want to sample them.”

“Very good,” the chef said as Ross headed through the rear door leading to the grounds.

As soon as she was spotted leaving the house, the caterer in charge of the libations walked toward her. He paused and stared.

“You look particularly lovely today, Miss Iselda,” he said.

“Flattery will get you zilch,” Ross said. “Do you have everything ready?”

“Except for that one thing we spoke about yesterday,” the caterer said.

Damn, Ross thought.

“What thing?” Ross said. “I can’t be expected to remember everything.”

“The glacier ice,” the caterer said. “It will be here in another hour or so.”

“Good, good,” Ross said. “Now make sure all the glassware is polished.”

She hurried away to where a chef with an electric chain saw was cutting an ice sculpture.

The caterer shook his head at the exchange. Her demeanor was the same, but the caterer could swear that the mole on Iselda’s cheek was a few inches lower. He banished the thought and went to check the glasses.

Ross crushed her cigarette out under her high heel. Her head was spinning from all the smoking, and she paused and took a few deep breaths. “More detail on the wings,” she said to the chef, who nodded and continued working. A tall man walked past carrying several stacked chairs. He smiled and winked.

High in a hickory tree on the property, a Corporation employee dressed in a ghillie suit that blended into the leaves keyed a microphone and spoke.

“Linda’s in and working,” he said quietly.

STANLEY Ho was standing in his top-floor office staring down at the party preparations. He had seen Iselda walk onto the yard, but the last thing he wanted to do was talk to her. The butch Portuguese woman annoyed Ho—she was good at what she did, but she took herself much too seriously. This was a party, after all, not a Broadway musical. From past experience, Ho realized that a few hours from now most of the guests he had invited would be so inebriated that if he served rat as an entrée, most wouldn’t even notice.

Ho was more concerned by the insurance adjuster who was due to arrive.

That and the fact that on the history of the Golden Buddha he had commissioned, the historian had noted that the icon supposedly had a secret storage compartment Ho had yet to find. It was a minor detail, but it bugged him nonetheless. The insurance adjuster was apparently an expert in ancient Asian art. Ho figured he’d question him when he arrived and see if he could supply the answer.

If not, Spenser would be here soon and Ho could ask him about it.

RICHARD Truitt drove the rental car carefully up Praia Grande to the gate of the mansion, then stopped. Rolling down the window, he handed the guard his invitation.

“Let me call the house,” the guard said.

Dialing Ho’s extension, the guard waited.

“Mr. Ho,” the guard said, “there’s a Mr. Samuelson from the insurance company here.”

That wasn’t who he’d been dealing with, Ho thought.

“Go ahead and let him in,” Ho said, “and have him wait downstairs.”

Then he hung up and dialed another number.

“Go on in,” the guard said. “Park by the garage and wait downstairs.”

Ho tapped his finger on the desk while the telephone rang.

“Lassiter residence,” a voice with a Cantonese accent answered.

“This is Stanley Ho. Is Mr. Lassiter available?”

“Mr. Lassiter sick,” the voice said. “Doctor coming soon.”

“Did he leave any message if I called?” Ho asked.

“Hold on,” the voice said.

Ho waited a few minutes, then a croaking voice came on the line.