Overholt asked, “Are you ready to return?”
“Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “very much so.”
“Good,” Overholt said, “it will be tomorrow.”
“Did your people recover the Golden Buddha?”
“They did,” Overholt said, nodding.
“And have they found the compartment yet?”
“They’re still working on it, Your Holiness.”
The Dalai Lama nodded and smiled. “They’ll figure it out. And then they’ll know what to do with what they find.” He paused. “Hard to believe,” the Dalai Lama said, “that something my people have owned all along shall be our salvation.”
“We’re not home free yet, Your Holiness,” Overholt said.
The Dalai Lama smiled and considered this for a few moments. “No, Mr. Overholt, we’re not—but we will be. Greed is what brought the Chinese to my country. And greed again will set us free.”
Overholt nodded silently.
“Life is a circle,” the Dalai Lama said, “and someday you will see that.”
Overholt smiled as the Dalai Lama began to walk toward the door.
“Now,” he said kindly, “let my people feed you. You must be hungry from your long journey.”
The two men walked out of the room toward a destiny determined by an obscure ship manned by mercenaries.
AT 11 A.M. local time, the Oregonexited the fog bank. In front of the advancing storm, the weather was perfect, a calm before the storm. The sky was azure blue and the seas were as flat and reflective as a mirror. In the hours since leaving Macau, the Oregonhad made good time. The ship was off Hainan Island in international waters. At the current rate of speed, the vessel would pass along Singapore tomorrow at noon local time. After turning and traveling through the Strait of Malacca and heading north, she was due to arrive high in the Bay of Bengal off Bangladesh sometime around 2 P.M. Sunday.
By then, if all went according to plan, the Dalai Lama would be in power again, and the Corporation would make its exit with no one ever the wiser.
Juan Cabrillo woke in his stateroom, then showered and dressed.
Leaving his suite, he walked along the gangways toward the control room, then stopped and opened the door. Max Hanley was asleep in his chair, but he sat upright as soon as Cabrillo entered. Hanley rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured two cups.
Handing one to Cabrillo, he asked, “Feel better?”
“Amazing what a little rest will do,” Cabrillo said, taking the cup.
“Richard?” Hanley asked.
Truitt turned from the screen he was studying. “I’m okay,” he said.
“What’s the score?” Cabrillo asked without further preamble.
Hanley walked back to his chair and motioned for Cabrillo to sit. Then he pointed at a screen that showed a red line from Ho Chi Minh City directly toward the Oregon. “That line is Gunderson and his team. They will be arriving in about a half hour to pick you up.”
“They aboard the amphibian?”
“Nope,” Hanley said. “It was still too far south to get here in time.”
“So we secured another seaplane?” Cabrillo asked.
“Gannon pulled out all the stops,” Hanley told him, “but there were none available.”
Cabrillo sipped his coffee while Truitt swiveled his head and stared back at him.
“You’re yankingme off?” Cabrillo said.
“Sorry, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said. “It was the only way you could make your flight out of Vietnam on time.”
“And the Buddha?”
“He’ll go first,” Hanley noted.
“Why,” Cabrillo said, “do I always end up in these situations?”
“The money?” Truitt said, smiling.
“Or the thrill of victory?” said Hanley.
ON board the Antonov, Gunderson was brushing his teeth and washing his face. Spitting out the window, he rubbed the washcloth across the stubble on his cheeks. Once he had finished, he walked forward and motioned to Pilston. “Why don’t you let me take over.”
Pilston slid out of the pilot’s seat and Gunderson climbed aboard.
“How’d our rookie do?” he asked Michaels.
“She’s not a bad pilot,” Michaels noted. “I had her do most of the flying while I napped.”
Gunderson smiled and turned back to stare at Pilston. “Be sure and log the hours,” he told her. “When you have two hundred you can apply for a commercial license. Our last operative who certified got a five-thousand-dollar bonus from Cabrillo.”
“This old beast is a smooth flying plane,” Pilston said. “Slow as a slug but as stable as a table.”
“How far out are we?” Gunderson asked Michaels.
Michaels stared at the GPS and examined her marks in the charts, then did a couple of calculations in the flight computer. “Twenty-four minutes, give or take.”
“Have you maintained radio silence?”
“As we planned,” Michaels replied.
Gunderson adjusted the mixture to the engine and watched the gauges a few seconds. Satisfied all was okay, he spoke again. “Tracy, can you pour me a cup of coffee? It’s time to call the mother ship.”
Pilston unscrewed the cup off the thermos, put a piece of folded duct tape on the bottom, then poured a cup and handed it to Gunderson. He sipped the hot liquid, then set the cup down on a flat surface, where it stuck. Then he reached for the radio, adjusted the frequency, and spoke.
“Tiny calling the chairman of the board, you out there?”
A few seconds passed before an answer came. “This is control, go ahead.”
“The ladies and I,” Tiny said, “will be there in a few minutes to hook you on board.”
“We have you on the scope,” Cabrillo said. “You should be seeing us shortly.”
“What’s the drill?” Gunderson asked.
“You’ll have two yanks,” Cabrillo said. “The first is the object—remember it’s heavy.”
“We have a cargo slide with a belt, but the door to this old bird is on the side,” Gunderson said. “My plan was to winch whatever we were taking aboard close, then do some fancy flying to get the load aboard.”
Back on the Oregon, Cabrillo shook his head in amazement. “Don’t try that on the second load.”
“Why’s that, boss?”
“Because the second load is me.”
Michaels was staring out the window. A speck that was the Oregoncame into view.
“I have a visual,” she said.
“We have you in sight,” Gunderson said, “and we’ll take it easy bringing you aboard, Mr. Chairman, don’t you worry.”
“I’m going topside to strap up,” Cabrillo said. “Is there anything else you need?”
Gunderson looked at Pilston and Michaels, who shook their heads no.
“Maybe just some ham-and-cheese sandwiches,” Gunderson said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cabrillo said.
“We’re descending now,” Gunderson said. “See you in a few.”
CABRILLO opened the door and walked into the Magic Shop. Nixon had the Golden Buddha on a small table and was waving a small electronic radar device across the belly. He stared at a monitor and shook his head.
“There’s a space there, boss,” Nixon said to Cabrillo, “but I’ll be damned if I can figure out the access.”
Cabrillo stood thinking for a moment, then turned to Nixon. “Hand me a heat gun,” he said.
Nixon walked over to the tool bench and removed a heat gun from a peg, attached an extension cord, then dragged it over to the Golden Buddha. Cabrillo flicked the switch on and started to heat the Buddha’s belly.
“What are you thinking, boss?” Nixon asked over the roar of the heat gun.
“People always want to rub Buddha’s belly for good luck,” Cabrillo said. “Rub something enough and you make heat.”
Nixon reached over and touched the golden belly. It was becoming warm, like human skin.