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.
Monica Crabtree was on the secure line to the Oregon. She made notes on a sheet of paper, then disconnected. “Mr. Chairman,” she said, “I think you should see this.”
Nixon was doing layout on Spenser’s new documents. Once he had the basic package together, he entered a command and they were sent through the lines to the Oregon, where there was a store of blank passports, immigration documents and blank credit cards. Someone on board would print up the material and deliver it to the hangar.
Cabrillo stared at the notes and handed them back to Crabtree. “Shred them.”
TOM Reyes was driving at breakneck speed, with Franklin Lincoln in the passenger seat. Lincoln stared at the cab dispatch records, then out the windshield once again. “There were three cabs dispatched to the ferry dock, numbers twelve, one twenty-one, and forty-two.”
“I’ve been listening to the scanner,” Reyes said. “Forty-two has already dropped its fare at the Hotel Lisboa, and number twelve is heading along the New Road. He must be on number one twenty-one. He called the dispatcher to report that he was inbound to the Hyatt Regency on Taipa, then he was supposed to wait for his fare and take him onward.”
Reyes steered onto the bridge leading to Taipa. “Call Hanley and explain the situation.”
Lincoln turned on his radio and reported to the control room.
“Give me a minute or so,” Hanley said.
“Access the Hyatt computer and search for this name,” he said, handing Eric Stone, an operator, the sheet of paper, “and get me a room.”
Stone’s hands danced over the keyboard; a second later he turned to Hanley.
“What timing,” Stone said. “He’s just now checking in.”
Stone waited until the data filled the screen. “Room twenty-two fourteen,” he said.
“Hyatt Regency, room twenty-two fourteen,” Hanley said to Lincoln, “and grab him fast—if he asked the cab to wait, he’s headed for the airport soon.”
“Got it,” Lincoln said. “Then what?”
“Bring him here.”
Reyes steered up the driveway to the Hyatt Regency.
“Room number twenty-two fourteen,” Lincoln said. “We grab him and bring him to the Oregon.”
Reyes stopped the car and slid it into Park. “You got any money?”
“Sure, what for?” Lincoln asked.
“There’s the cab,” Reyes said, pointing. “Pay him off and tell him to leave. Then meet me on the twenty-second floor.”
MICHAEL Talbot paid the bellman, then closed the door. He was due at the airport any minute, but he was grimy and decided on a quick shower. Undressing, he walked into the bathroom and adjusted the shower.
Tom Reyes reached into his wallet and removed a universal key card. Then he slid it through the slot and waited until the light went green. Then he slowly opened the door. At first, he thought no one was in the room, then he heard the shower running. Reyes started to close the door but heard the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall. He peered out and saw Lincoln. Reyes touched his finger to his lips, then motioned Lincoln inside.
“BARRETT,” Hanley said, “are you cross-trained in the Magic Shop?”
“I’ve worked it before,” Barrett said.
“Go down there and warm up the latex machine.”
“You’ve got it, boss,” Barrett said, walking quickly out of the control room.
TALBOT was toweling himself off and trying to decide what he would wear. He stepped from the bathroom and into the bedroom. A large black man was sitting at his table, and the image so surprised him that his mind was unable to process the discovery for a second.
Then, from the side of the door, he felt a hand around his mouth. He was thrown facedown on the bed, his eyes pressed tight against the bedspread. Next, he was quickly gagged and blindfolded, and his arms and legs secured with plastic ties.
Earplugs were slipped into his ears. He could not hear Reyes tell Lincoln, “I’ll go find a room service cart. You stay here.”
Lincoln nodded and flipped on the television. Their prisoner was not going anywhere. He lay trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, not moving a muscle. Eight minutes later, Lincoln and Reyes had snuck him out a back entrance of the hotel, then brought the car around and slid him onto the backseat.
“I’m hungry,” Reyes said as he reached over to place the car in Drive.
“Man,” Lincoln said, “you always say that.”
25
AT the same instant that Reyes and Lincoln were pulling alongside the Oregonand parking, Max Hanley was checking a device in the Magic Shop. In the background, on one of the numerous workbenches, the machine that heated liquid latex beeped to signal it was at operating temperature, then automatically went to standby.
Hanley turned and stared at the latex machine, then diverted his eyes back to the small box in his hand. “Okay,” Hanley said to Barrett, “let’s try it again.”
“Testing, one, two, three,” Barrett said. “The brown cow jumped over the red moon, four score and seven years ago our—”
“That’s fine,” Hanley said, cutting him off.
He stared at the small box, then placed it to his throat and repeated what Barrett had said. Staring at a computer screen displaying a series of bar graphs, he noted the discrepancy and adjusted a series of tiny stainless-steel screws on the rear of the box with an optometrist’s screwdriver. “Go again.”
“I did not have sex with that woman, Miss Lewinsky,” Barrett said. “Read my lips, no new taxes. Out of respect for the family, I will not answer that question, la de dah.”
“Hold on,” Hanley said.
He repeated Barrett’s ramblings while staring at the screen. Barrett watched and raised an eyebrow. His voice was coming from Hanley’s mouth. It was both eerie and amazing.
“My mother couldn’t tell the difference,” he said.