“All dark on the western front,” King said as he scanned the ground through the pale green light of a night scope.

“Anyone moving?” Hanley asked.

King swept across the grounds, then down the hillside.

“There’s an unmarked police car with a portable light on the roof proceeding along Avenida Republica. He’s three hundred and fifty yards distant.”

“Can you hit at that distance?” Hanley asked.

“Oh ye of little faith,” King said. “It’s a car, not a bug. I doubt I can hit the driver’s nose, but you never know.”

“Just a tire, Larry,” Hanley said.

“Hold on,” King said.

Supporting the rifle on a branch, he regulated his breathing, then waited until the police car was in his field of fire. He was in an almost Zen state of concentration. When the target appeared, it was as if it were in slow motion. King squeezed the trigger, then willed the bullet to run true. Inside the rifle, the firing pin hit the shell primer and sparked, the gunpowder burned and propelled the shell out of the cartridge and sent it spinning through the rifling inside the barrel. Leaving the end of the barrel and passing through the noise suppressor, the slug started down the hill in a straight line toward the target.

“Shit,” Po said as his front tire shredded. He slowed down and climbed out of the squad car, leaving the door open. Looking back onto the sidewalk, he tried to see what he had hit. There was nothing visible, but that didn’t mean anything. He stared up the hill to his intended destination, then decided the hill was too steep to climb. Po slid back into the driver’s seat and reached for the radio.

“Target has stopped and he’s calling for help,” King said.

“Good job,” Hanley said.

Hanley was watching the monitors, but without lights there was little to see. He stared at his watch, then glanced at the schedule of actions. Thirty seconds passed. King continued to scan the grounds. A few of the kitchen workers had popped out from inside and were clustered around the rear door. He swiveled his scope to the front of the house and noticed that the front gate to the driveway had opened automatically when the power was cut. Ten seconds.

“Have you sighted the charge on the fireworks display?” Hanley asked.

“Got it,” King said.

“Protect your eyes after the shot,” Hanley said.

“I’ll switch back to regular sights,” King agreed.

“We go in five, four, three, two, one.”

King squeezed the trigger and hit the explosive packet Murphy had laid in place hours earlier. The fireworks exploded with a roar. Roman candles streaked skyward and the large mortarlike devices began to spew forth in belches. There was shrieking and thumping sounds as the fireworks began to discharge. King rubbed his eyes and stared at the now-lit-up scene.

Three flickers from a flashlight at the front of the tent caught his attention.

“I have a signal the switch has been made,” King noted.

“Signal the helicopter,” Hanley said to one of the operators.

“She’s having a seizure,” Ho shouted.

Monica Crabtree hung on to Ho’s neck and rolled her eyes back in her head. A doctor Ho knew was dancing on one of the tables nearby, but he didn’t respond to Ho’s request to come over. At just that instant, Barrett walked over.

“This woman is sick,” Ho said.

The guard grabbed Crabtree and slid her to the ground. The inside of the tent was chaos, the music was blaring, but in the dim light no one noticed the band had left the stage. Ho’s head was spinning and he was having trouble concentrating. The guard placed his lips over Crabtree’s.

“No tongue, please,” Crabtree whispered.

Faking CPR, the guard turned to Ho. “This woman is dying.”

“Call for help,” Ho said.

The guard reached for the radio on his belt and called for an ambulance.

“Juan,” Hanley said, “the bird is inbound.”

“Time to pull out,” Cabrillo said to his team. “Round everyone up.”

Reinholt and Pryor were rolling the cart containing the false-bottomed speakers over the lawn to the far side of the heliport. Once the cart was positioned, they removed green light bars from their pockets and bent them in half. The chemical reaction made the tubes glow and they spread them in a crude circle so the helicopter pilot would know where to land.

The scene inside the tent was absolutely chaotic. People were singing, howling, dancing and prancing. Sung Rhee was groping a woman at his table, the mayor of Macau was drinking the water out of the table arrangement.

Only Winston Spenser seemed composed. When his stomach was upset, he was sensitive to fruit juice. He had faked the toast and was beginning to see something was terribly wrong. Right then, he felt a prick on his neck. A second later, his head slumped over on the table.

THE traffic opened up for a second and the police car racing along the Inner Port Road managed to make some headway. In the distance, the officer managed to glimpse the motorcycles making a turn onto Calcada da Barra. Pushing the gas pedal to the floor, he raced after the retreating pair of motorcycles.

“I have them in sight,” he shouted over the radio. “They’re northwest on Calcada.”

The man aboard the motorcycle carrying the Buddha glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the police car approaching. He waved his hand in the air and the second motorcyclist turned his head. Dropping back a little, he waited until the police car was right behind him. Then he reached over and tripped a lever on his sidecar.

20

STANLEY Ho’s meticulously planned party had deteriorated into a bacchanalia.

Juan Cabrillo walked over to where Ho was standing next to the prone Crabtree. Ho was in a daze. There were so many things happening, his drug-addled brain could not comprehend them all. A few moments ago, the lesbian party planner had come to him and said that she could not figure out how to restore the lights inside the tent and offered to have some workers raise some of the side panels to allow the scant natural moonlight to filter inside. It was now a little brighter inside the tent, but many of the guests had started wandering outside onto the lawn.

“Sir,” the security guard said, “the roads are choked with traffic and the ambulances can’t get through. They recommended an air evacuation.”

Ho stared down. A minor member of a royal family expiring at his party would definitely put a crimp in his social aspirations.

“Do it,” Ho said through the fog in his brain.

“I already did,” the guard admitted, “but we have another problem.”

That was all Ho needed.

“What is it?”

“There’s another guest slumped over,” the guard said, pointing toward Spenser.

“Have him taken out, too,” Ho said.

Juan Cabrillo spoke. “Mr. Ho. Some of my band is feeling queasy. We indulged in some of the appetizers and I think something was bad. I’d recommend we end this party and have the guests seek medical attention immediately.”

The entire affair was collapsing before Ho’s eyes.

“The band wants to leave,” Cabrillo said. “We’re going to pull our van around to the rear and load up our equipment.”

“I need the P.A. system to make an announcement,” Ho said.

“We already broke it down,” Cabrillo told him, “but we have a portable megaphone we can let you use. I’ll go get it from the van.”

Ho turned to the security guard. “Who is watching the Buddha?”

“The other two guards,” he said. “I’d recommend we place it back inside.”

“Take it to my office,” Ho ordered.

The sound of an approaching helicopter grew louder.