“Is the van full?” Hanley said to Cabrillo.

Cabrillo mouthed yes in the mirror.

The van rolled onto the drive, with the Mercedes-Benz limousine directly to the rear. Ross followed the retreating motorcade. She reached the Peugeot and started the engine.

“Slow at the front door and tell the guards they will be catching a ride with Ross,” Hanley said to Cabrillo, who acknowledged the instruction.

A second later, he slowed the van and explained, then continued down the driveway toward the gate. The first team was almost off the property.

Stanley Ho opened the door to his office. He started toward the window to warn the guests, then stopped dead in his tracks.

Cabrillo made it out the gate and turned right.

“Slow along the corner of the wall,” Hanley ordered. “The King is coming.”

The limousine was not far behind the van; it slowed at the gate to turn at the same instant Ross pulled up at the front door, and Reinholt and Pryor climbed inside the Peugeot. She steered toward the gate.

“Close the gate,” Ho screamed.

“The electricity’s out,” the guard said. “The gates are locked open.”

“You need to stop anyone from leaving,” Ho shouted.

Ross was twenty feet from the gate when the guard burst from the guard shack, fumbling with his holster. Ross never hesitated, never faltered. She steered toward the guard and hit the gas. At the same second the guard was making a life-and-death choice, Cabrillo heard a thump as Larry King jumped from the wall and landed on the roof of the van. Sliding off the roof, still holding the case containing his sniper rifle, he opened the passenger door, tossed the case between the seats, and climbed into Halpert’s lap. The limousine passed the stopped van, and then blew through the stop sign at the end of the street.

The front gate guard could not get his weapon out of the holster. As the Peugeot accelerated toward him, he could only jump out of the way. Ross blew through the gate at nearly fifty miles an hour, then stomped on the brakes and twisted the wheel to the stops.

The Peugeot slid around in a hard right turn. Ross hit the gas. Cabrillo’s van was moving again. He raced through the stop sign and turned right, following the limousine, just as the guard made it to the middle of the street in front of the mansion and removed his sidearm. Sighting down the barrel, he began to squeeze off rounds.

The first hit the left rear taillight, the second and third went wide. The fourth entered the rear window and shattered the rearview mirror at the same instant Ross passed the stop sign and did a left-hand turn toward the water.

21

ONCE the lever was pulled back, the cargo inside the sidecar of the motorcycle began sliding down a chute and spilling onto the road. The small metal orbs were about the size of marbles but were shaped like children’s jacks. The difference with these jacks was that the dozen points sticking out were razor-sharp. They bounced off the asphalt and spread across the road.

The motorcycle accelerated away as the police car hit the patch of metal shards.

The two front tires exploded, followed a second later by the rears. The police car careened out of control as the officer fought with the wheel, while at the same time stomping on the brakes. The police car slid hard to the left, slammed into a newspaper rack, then into a telephone pole just beyond the rack. A microsecond later, the air bag deployed and slammed the policeman back against the seat. By the time the cloud of powder from the airbag inflating cleared, the motorcycles were two blocks away.

After pushing the bag away from his face, the officer reached for the radio. “I’ve crashed and lost them,” he said.

DETECTIVE Ling Po was monitoring the radio inside his unmarked squad car as the tow truck pulled alongside. Headquarters had just reported the robbery at the mansion and Po knew his immediate superior, Sung Rhee, had been scheduled to attend. Po had no idea why Rhee was not already coordinating the efforts to capture the thieves. A few minutes before, he’d heard the report from the officer chasing the motorcyclists who had robbed the A-Ma Temple, and he was beginning to think the two were related. He jumped out of the car and ran over to the tow truck.

“Hook this up fast,” he said, “then tow me up to Estrada da Penha.”

“Right away,” the driver said.

Po reached into his car and removed a portable radio. He continued listening as the driver hooked his car to the rear. A few moments later they were on their way around the hill, then up to the mansion. Eight minutes later, the tow truck stopped on the street outside the wall around the mansion, and Po raced toward the gate. A guard stood in the dark near his shack and Po flashed his badge.

“Detective Ling Po,” he said quickly. “Macau Police.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” the guard said. “Mr. Ho is going crazy.”

“Tell me what happened,” Po said.

The guard related what had occurred. “I got off a few shots,” he said, “but they kept going.”

Po made notes on the vehicles’ descriptions and radioed them in to headquarters. “I want a countrywide bulletin issued. If anyone sees the vehicles, he is to follow them but not make a stop unless he has backup.”

After headquarters had confirmed his request, Po turned to the guard. “Have you seen any other officers here tonight?” he asked. “My boss, a Mr. Rhee, was scheduled to attend.”

“I saw him when he came,” the guard noted. “He hasn’t left.”

Po nodded and raced up the driveway. Cutting across the lawn, he made his way to the front door and flung it open. Stanley Ho was sitting in the front living room on the couch, a portable telephone at his ear. Chief Inspector Rhee was in a chair nearby.

“What happened, sir?” Po asked Rhee.

Rhee rubbed his face before answering. “I think I was drugged—my head is starting to clear, but I’m still having trouble concentrating.”

Po nodded, then listened to Ho on the telephone.

“What do you mean?” he shouted. “We called the emergency number.”

“We have no record of any call,” the operator said.

“We’ll get back to you,” Ho said, disconnecting.

“Who are you?” he asked Po.

“This is Detective Ling Po,” Rhee answered, “one of my best men.”

“Here’s the situation,” Ho said. “A priceless piece of artwork I owned was stolen tonight.”

“What exactly, sir?” Po asked.

“A six-foot-tall solid-gold Buddha figure,” Ho said.

“A similar icon was heisted from the A-Ma Temple earlier tonight,” Po said. “I doubt that is a coincidence.”

“That makes me feel better,” Ho said sarcastically.

“The telephone call you just completed?” Po asked. “What was that about?”

“A guest became ill and we called a helicopter ambulance to take her to the hospital,” Ho said. “Only the hospital has no record of our request.”

“Did you call for the helicopter?”

“No, it was a security guard,” Ho said, “but I was standing right there.”

“I’ll question the guard,” Po said.

“That’s the problem,” Rhee interjected. “The guards are gone.”

“Did you hire them yourself?” Po asked.

“The insurance company supplied them,” Ho admitted.

“Which company?” Po asked.

Ho retrieved a card from his tuxedo and Po dialed the number. After explaining who he was, he grilled the company operator, left his cell phone number, and then hung up.

“She’s calling her boss, Mr. Ho,” Po said, “but she has no record of any contact with you in the last month.”

“That’s nonsense,” Ho said. “They had an underwriter come out here and everything.”