“Whoever’s stealing Buddhas tonight, they’re well trained and well funded,” Po said to Rhee.

Rhee’s mind was back to normal. And he was as mad as a Doberman. It was bad enough that some team of thieves was using his city as a playground—it was worse that he had been made part of the heist.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “they still have to spirit the icons out of the country.”

“I have men at the airport and patrolling the waters,” Po said, “and the border into China has been alerted to be on the lookout. They won’t be able to leave Macau, that’s for sure.”

“All of the suspects except the British art dealer are American,” Rhee said. “Did you pull up the list of tourist visas?”

“The tourism authority is closed for the night,” Po admitted, “but I’ll have someone there first thing in the morning.”

“These guys are professionals,” Rhee said quietly. “They won’t hang around. By the time we get the list and begin to question all the Americans, they will be long gone.”

Po’s telephone rang and he unfolded it and pushed the button.

“Po.”

“The fire reached part of one of the buildings,” an officer at the parade reported, “but the fire department has got that under control. They are hosing down the float as we speak, but the framework is still hot and it melted in onto itself. There is a pile of twisted metal that is still too hot for inspection.”

“Can you see the motorcycles inside the wreckage?”

“It seems they are inside the frame,” the officer said, “but it’s hard to be certain.”

“I’m coming down there,” Po said. “Keep the crowd back and order the rest of the floats to the end of the route. The parade has officially ended.”

“Excellent, sir,” the officer said. “See you shortly.”

Po disconnected and turned to Rhee. “I’m going down to the parade. Would you like to come along, sir?”

Rhee considered this for a moment. “I don’t think so, Ling,” he said. “We’re going to get some flack over this—I think it’s best if I go to headquarters and coordinate efforts there.”

“I understand, sir,” Po said as he started to walk down the driveway.

“You find these men,” Rhee said, “and recover the objects.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Po said.

Then Rhee opened the door to the mansion and went inside to report to the mayor of Macau.

INSIDE the Chevrolet SUV, Juan Cabrillo adjusted his radio and called the Oregon.

“Where are we at, Max?”

There was a slight lag as the scrambled signal was rearranged and delivered.

“The Ross team took a casualty,” Hanley said. “He’s being worked on in the clinic.”

“Report to me as soon as you know more,” Cabrillo said. “What else?”

“The temple team has made it to the catacombs, as planned.”

“I saw the smoke,” Cabrillo said. “No injuries?”

“None,” Hanley said. “So far so good. They are initiating the extraction.”

“What about the others?”

“Most everyone staying in town has reported in,” Hanley said. “King made it back to the boat and is going to direct offensive actions until Murphy returns.”

“Target three?”

“The 737 landed a few moments ago,” Hanley reported. “They should be going through customs as we speak.”

“Our man is still with them?”

“Awaiting instructions.”

“What else?”

“The second leg of the journey is almost ready to activate,” Hanley said. “The way it looks so far, we can deliver the package on time.”

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “We’re almost at the airport.”

Hanley stared at the flashing blip on one of the monitors. “I’ve got you made, Juan.”

“Now all I have to do is collect on our side deal,” Cabrillo said, “and we can be on our way.”

“Good luck, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said.

“Cabrillo out.”

MEADOWS, Jones and Hornsby looked like three tourists on an Arizona mine tour.

They were wearing silver hard hats made from pressed metal, with small battery-operated lamps that spewed beams of light from the front. Hornsby was holding a blueprint that showed the underground drainage systems. The map looked like the tentacles of an octopus. Jones stared overhead as the first drops of water from the rain above filtered down through an aged tile drainpipe in the wall.

“Did the operations plans factor in possible rain?” he asked.

“As long as there isn’t a prolonged shower,” Hornsby noted, “we should be okay.”

“What if there is?” Jones asked.

“That’s not good,” Hornsby admitted.

“So we should get moving,” Meadows said.

“Exactly,” Hornsby said. “But let’s not worry too much—the plan states we can have six hours or so of continuous rain before the drains reach chest-high level.”

“We can be out of here by then,” Jones said.

“That’s the plan,” Hornsby agreed.

The Golden Buddha was resting on the wooden ramp. When Hornsby had entered the storm drain through a side tunnel earlier that evening, he had brought along a bag that contained four rubber-tired wheels that attached to the ramp. It was a crude arrangement, but it would allow the three men to wheel the heavy object along the tunnels. A pair of olive drab ditty bags was atop the crate containing the Golden Buddha; these contained emergency supplies and weapons. The entire affair stood at nearly chest height.

“Here’s where I came in,” Hornsby said. “It’s a shame we can’t leave the same way—it’s only about two hundred yards to the grate. The problem is, when we emerge, we’re right in the middle of town and the police should be everywhere by now.”

Meadows looked to where Hornsby’s finger was pointing. “So which way did the control room route us?”

Hornsby traced the route with his finger.

“That’s a long way,” Jones noted.

“A couple of miles,” Hornsby agreed. “But we come out in a secluded spot alongside the Inner Port, where we can be extracted.”

Meadows wiped the edge of his hard hat to dispel a few drops of water, then walked around behind the Golden Buddha. “You’ve got the map, Horn Dog,” he said. “Why don’t you pull the front strap and navigate. Me and Jonesy will push from the rear.”

Slowly, the three men began trudging along the storm sewer. Outside, the rain grew in intensity. Within the hour, it was a full-fledged monsoon.

LINDA Ross walked into the Oregon’s control room. Max Hanley was pouring a cup of coffee from a pot on a side table. His face was lined with tension and Ross could see he was stressed.

“Reinholt’s rebounding,” she said quietly. “It looked worse than it was. If we keep any infections at bay, he should pull through.”

“Will there be any lasting damage?” Hanley asked as he motioned to the coffee and Ross walked over and poured a cup.

“The top of his ear is gone,” Ross said. “He’ll need plastic surgery to make that right.”

“How’s his attitude?”

“He came out of the stupor once and asked where he was,” Ross said. “When I told him he was on the Oregon, he seemed happy.”

“Propulsion engineers always seem more comfortable on board ship,” Hanley said.

“How’s the rest of the operation going?” Ross asked.

“The actual Golden Buddha is currently in an underground storm sewer,” Hanley said, pointing to a monitor. “That team is making its way to the waterfront.”

“I thought the Buddha was lifted out by helicopter,” Ross said.

“That was the fake,” Hanley said.

“But…,” Ross started to say.

“It was on a need-to-know basis,” Hanley said. “Remember when the chairman arrived by seaplane?”

“Sure,” Ross said. “When we were under way at sea.”

“He had just returned from the art auction where the icon was sold. The Corporation jumped in then—we arranged the shipment to Macau. Gunderson was the pilot. Then a couple of our men met the plane with an armored car—we thought we’d just grab it then. The art dealer had other plans, however. He was planning to screw the owner with a fake, so we just went along with his plan, knowing all the while where the true artifact was hiding.”