Along with the few other passengers at this late hour, he made his way up the slight rise, then into a door marked Visitor. Handing over his passport, he waited as his entry into Macau was approved. Ten minutes later, he walked from the building and hailed a cab. Then he flipped open a satellite telephone and checked his e-mail.

BACK on the Oregon, Max Hanley was catching a catnap. His feet were propped up on a desk in the control room and his head slumped to one side in his chair. One of the operators touched his shoulder and he was instantly awake.

“Sir,” the operator said, “I think we have a problem.”

Hanley rubbed his face, then rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Someone flagged just passed through Macau immigration.”

The Corporation maintained a large database on their computers. Over the years, the names of many people had been entered. Whenever any of them cropped up on any of the numerous systems the Corporation hacked into, the information was examined and analyzed. Hanley took a sip of coffee and then read the sheet of paper the operator handed to him.

“We considered that possibility,” Hanley said quietly, “and now he’s here.”

NIXON walked over to Spenser, aimed at his head and pushed the button.

Then he stared at the image in the digital camera.

“Can you grow facial hair?” Cabrillo asked.

“It’s sparse,” Spenser admitted.

“What have we got,” Cabrillo asked Nixon, “to make him look different?”

Nixon walked over to the bench and rustled through a box of disguises. “We’ve got hair, makeup and prosthetic mouthpieces. How far do you want to go?”

“It’s the new you,” Cabrillo said. “Where are you planning to hide?”

Spenser considered the question. On the one hand, he was not interested in having anyone know his ultimate destination—on the other hand, from what he had seen so far, these people would probably find out anyway.

“I was thinking South America,” Spenser said.

Cabrillo nodded. “Go with a light tan, medium matching mustache, nothing big, and slightly longer hair,” he said to Nixon, who nodded and began removing items from the box.

“I know from your file you don’t speak Spanish or Portuguese, so if I were you I’d try Uruguay or Paraguay, where your British accent won’t stand out as much.”

Crabtree walked over. “Why don’t you have Kevin make him a Canadian?”

Cabrillo nodded. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “You do the switch for us and we will build you a new identity. You become a Canadian who immigrated to Paraguay a few years ago and hold citizenship. We’ll give you a flat one million U.S. dollars to start over and a plane ticket from Hong Kong to Asuncion. What you do then is up to you and luck.”

“The authorities will stop me if I try to leave Hong Kong with a million cash,” Spenser said, feeling hope.

“We’ll take care of that,” Cabrillo said. “Now pick a name.”

Nixon walked over and began to apply the disguise.

“Norman McDonald,” Spenser said.

“Norm McDonald it is,” Cabrillo agreed.

TINY Gunderson was watching the customs officials walk through the 737 when his digital communicator vibrated. He removed it from his pocket and stared at the readout. Memorizing the message, he erased it and slid the device back in his pocket. The customs agents walked to where Gunderson was standing, then signed a sheet of paper and handed it to the pilot.

“We’ll move to the fuel ramp now,” the pilot said to the officials, who nodded and walked out the door and down the ramp. The ramp was retracted and the operator drove it away.

“Close the door,” the pilot said to Gunderson. Then he steered down the wet runway.

Thirty minutes later, the 737 was refueled and parked in a large hangar only yards from where Cabrillo and his team were waiting. The software billionaire dialed his satellite telephone.

HORNSBY, Meadows and Jones stopped to catch their breath. All along the walls of the storm sewer, metal and tile pipes were funneling water into the main line. There were eight inches of water on the floor of the main sewer and it was dotted with cigarette butts, scraps of paper and the refuse from the world above their heads.

“We’re gaining an inch every few minutes,” Meadows said.

Hornsby was staring at the blueprint under the light of his miner’s helmet. He traced the route and stared at his compass. “I don’t think the water is rising that fast,” he said, “but it is cause for concern.”

Jones stared around the crowded space. He didn’t like being in confined spaces and he wanted out as soon as possible. “Which way do we go, Horny?”

“We take the left passage,” Hornsby said.

INSIDE the control room on the Oregon, Max Hanley was staring at a weather radar image. A cell of clouds, the center an angry red color, was situated in the water between Hong Kong and Macau. “Show the movement,” he said to an operator.

The man entered commands into the computer and the image moved in a slow, sweeping wave to the west. At the present speed, the storm center would pass over Macau around four A.M. Sometime during breakfast, the trailing edge would reach the Chinese mainland and the weather would clear. Between now and then, there would be only rain.

“Eddie,” Hanley said, “I’m going to need you to take a team into the tunnel.”

Eddie Seng was the Corporation go-to guy. He had served in marine RECON, had spearheaded more than a few Corporation projects and had an innate knack for making good out of bad. So far, Cabrillo and Hanley had kept him on the sidelines in this operation. He was their reserve man in case of unforeseen circumstances, and he was itching to get in the game.

“I’ll need a couple of Zodiac boats, and a method of locating the men if the water keeps rising,” Seng said.

“Murphy, Kasim and Huxley,” Hanley said quickly. “I’ll have the boats prepped and the equipment arranged. You assemble the team and meet me back here.”

Seng walked quickly from the control room.

“NO comment,” Sung Rhee said, slamming down the telephone.

The reporters for the local newspapers had gotten wind something was happening—they just did not know what. The hospital was filled with guests from Ho’s party, but as the drug wore off they were leaving one by one. Food poisoning was mentioned as the source of the guests’ discomfort, but the cover story was flimsy and someone would soon pierce through that lie. The kidnappings were being investigated; reporters with police scanners had ensured that. The theft at the A-Ma Temple, the burning Peugeot, the fire at the parade—all were being investigated by reporters. Only Stanley Ho’s house was sealed from them. Once he had cleared the house, he had locked the doors to outsiders. Once morning came, Rhee would be compelled to comment.

Just then his telephone rang again.

“The wreckage of the float is cooling, but we have yet to get close enough to inspect for remains,” Detective Po said. “But my guess is they burned up in the conflagration.”

“Was the float being observed the entire time?” Rhee asked.

“Yes, sir,” Po said.

“Then find me some teeth,” Rhee said, “and melted gold.”

“Yes, sir.”

Po stared at the firemen who were still spraying water over the twisted mess of metal. Within the hour, he should be able to inspect the wreckage. In the meantime, Ho’s theft would take center stage. Somewhere in Macau was another Golden Buddha. And Po intended to find it.

“OUR deal was cash,” Spenser said in answer to Cabrillo’s question.