“I’ve seen what I need to see,” one of the motorcyclists said.
“I agree,” said the other.
SIX Chinese valets awaited the first of the guests. After showing their invitations to the guard, they pulled through the gate, drove up the circular drive, then climbed from their cars near the front door of the mansion.
The sun was slowly dipping in the west and the view from the mansion was an expanse of sea lit with the golden hues of a waning sun. Spenser climbed from the rear of his limousine and stared at the scene. He was dressed in a black tuxedo that hid the pools of sweat under his arms. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the foyer.
Juan Cabrillo rolled down the window of the van and handed the guard a slip of paper.
“Park over by the garages,” the guard said, “then unload your equipment and wheel it around back.”
Cabrillo nodded. When the gate opened, he drove around to the garages, then backed the van up near the edge of the lawn.
“Showtime,” he said.
And the band climbed from the van and began shuttling equipment to the rear of the house.
Cabrillo walked around to the rear of the house, seeking Ross. He saw her in the distance talking on a cell phone. Several people were standing nearby.
“We’re The Minutemen,” he said when she had disconnected.
“Good,” Ross said. “The bandstand is over there.”
“We have some large speakers,” Cabrillo said, “that we’ll need some help moving.”
“Let me summon some help.”
“We like to take care of our equipment ourselves,” Cabrillo said. “We just need some carts.”
Ross nodded and turned to one of the caterers.
“This is the leader of the band,” she said. “He needs to borrow a few of the carts you use to move the tables.”
The man nodded and motioned to Cabrillo. “Right this way.”
Mark Murphy stood on the bandstand and surveyed the surroundings. Three large tents were erected, forming a Y with the band at the far end. The bandstand was slightly elevated from the ground, and to the rear the back of the tent had slits that opened to provide access. Electrical cables to power their speakers and lights stretched out under the tent. He sat his guitar down and poked through the slit in the back. Forty feet behind the rear of the tent was part of the wall that formed the boundary of the house. To the right side of the Y portion of the tent, some thirty yards away, was the rear wall of the mansion and the doors leading to the kitchens and inside. He began to walk the perimeter of the tent.
At the front, or top, of the Y were the entrances for the guests. In the opening between the legs of the Y there was a portable fountain and a small wooden platform that was currently empty. Murphy continued around the other side, examining the way the tents were fastened to the ground. There were large metal stakes on the edges with guy wires running farther out onto the lawn, where they were staked into the earth. He stared up. Long metal poles, two per each section of the three separate tents, poked through the tops. He found a slit in the tent and walked over to one of the poles. The bases sat on plastic holders.
Murphy figured it wouldn’t take much to bring it all down.
Ho was making his way back to the mansion when he stopped in his tracks.
Several longhaired men were approaching the tent, but that didn’t concern him. What did concern him was the lady that was following. Ho pivoted on his heel and walked over.
“I’m Stanley Ho,” he said, smiling. “I’m your host.”
“I’m Candace,” Julia Huxley said.
Ho’s eyes were riveted on Huxley’s ample assets. “I find this hard to believe,” Ho said, “but I don’t remember meeting you before.”
“I’m with the band,” Candace said, smiling wickedly. “At least I came with them.”
“Performer?” Ho asked.
“In many ways,” Candace said, smiling.
Ho was beginning to get the feeling that if he played his cards right, he might get lucky.
“I need to go inside and greet my guests,” Ho said quickly as he saw Iselda approaching from the corner of his eye. “Perhaps we could talk later.”
He turned and moved toward the back door of the mansion.
“Mr. Ho,” Ross shouted after him, “I think we have the placement figured out.”
“Just take care of it,” Ho said over his shoulder.
Ross passed by Huxley. “Slut,” she whispered.
“Lesbian,” Huxley replied.
MAX Hanley was sitting in a leather chair in the command center of the Oregon.
“Okay, people,” he said to the trio of operators that remained, “we’re a go. Display from the tree,” Hanley ordered.
The image from the tiny camera in the tree filled one of the screens in the control room. Hanley could see Cabrillo rolling a cart containing several long speaker boxes across the lawn. Ross had just passed Huxley and was now turning to go back toward the tent. Murphy popped out from the side of one of the tents. As if on cue, he turned to the tree and smiled.
“Larry,” Hanley said, “all okay.”
Larry King was the Corporation member hiding in the tree. He adjusted his sniper rifle and then pushed the tiny microphone over his voice box and answered.
“How’s the picture, boss?”
“Looks good,” Hanley said. “You holding up?”
King had been forced to take his position above the party sometime just after 3 A.M. He’d been in his perch over twelve hours already. There was a good chance he’d need to remain there almost that long again.
“I did six days once in Indonesia,” King said. “This is a piece of cake.”
“Have you dialed in your fields of fire?” Hanley asked, already knowing the answer.
“About a thousand times, boss,” King said, swatting away a fly on his arm.
King was a U.S. Army–trained sniper. If Hanley gave the order, he could lob a dozen shots onto the grounds in about as long as it took to sneeze. Hanley hoped it wouldn’t come down to that—but if one of the crew was in trouble and there was no other choice, King was the great equalizer.
“Stand by, Larry,” Hanley said. “We’ll call you if we need you.”
“Affirmative,” King said as he continued to scan the grounds through his scope.
“Try the inside of the tent,” Hanley ordered.
An image filled the screen from a camera that was inserted in the body of Cabrillo’s electric keyboard. The image was slightly off.
“Juan,” Hanley said.
Cabrillo was pushing the cart around the side of the tent, but he could hear through his tiny earpiece.
“You’ll need to adjust your keyboard slightly to the right. We’re missing a little of the left side of the tent.”
Cabrillo made a slight nod to confirm.
“Go to the van,” Hanley ordered.
Another picture flicked onto a separate screen that was split in half. The cameras had been attached to the van’s folding mirrors. They were showing a pretty good view of most of the front of the house. Lincoln was removing a box from the back of the van.
“Frankie,” Hanley said.
Franklin Lincoln moved out of the back of the van and stared into one of the rearview mirrors as if he were fixing his hair.
“Try to leave the van where it is,” Hanley said. “You guys got lucky and placed it where we have a good field of view.”
Lincoln made an okay sign at the mirror.
“Okay, men,” Hanley said to the operators, “we’re the eyes and ears, so be alert.”
19
WINSTON Spenser walked into the mansion, snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and slurped down half of the flute before approaching the receiving line. Stanley Ho was beaming and shaking hands with each guest that passed. Ahead of Spenser were an Australian couple who were just being greeted, and directly in front of him was the local Portuguese consular agent. Spenser waited patiently, finishing the first glass of champagne and summoning the waiter for another, then took his place in front of Ho.