Golden Buddha

11

THE Dalai Lama walked down the steps of the jet in Jalandhar, in the Punjab province of India, into an unusually hot day. Despite his forty-five years in exile in India, he had never learned to adjust to the weather. His Holiness was a man from the mountains and he missed snow and cold temperatures. He sniffed the air for the slightest smell from the glaciers far to the north. Instead of snow and pine trees, his nose was assaulted by fumes from the trucks passing by the airport on the traffic-packed highway.

He smiled anyway and gave thanks.

“Looks like my transportation is here,” he said to Overholt, who had joined him on the tarmac.

A large, single-engine Cessna Caravan was nearby, with a pilot doing a walk-around.

“Very good, Your Holiness,” Overholt said.

“As soon as I return, I will meet with my advisors and the oracle,” the Dalai Lama said, staring directly into Overholt’s eyes. “If they agree and you can ensure me no bloodshed, then I will agree to the plan we have designed.”

“Thank you, Your Holiness.”

The Dalai Lama began to walk toward the Cessna, then stopped and turned around. “I will pray for your father and for you,” he said quietly, “and pray this all works out.”

Overholt simply smiled as the Dalai Lama turned and walked over to the steps, then climbed into the Cessna for the rest of his journey. As soon as he was seated, the Dalai Lama turned to one of his assistants.

“As soon as we arrive in Little Lhasa, I will need the trunk containing the Golden Buddha documents brought to my office.”

The assistant scribbled notes on a small pad.

“Then I will need to see my doctor,” he said quietly. “There is something wrong with my physical shell.”

“As ordered, Your Holiness,” the aide said, “I shall do.”

The pilot started the engine on the Cessna and ran through his checks. Four minutes later he was rolling toward a runway, and a few minutes after that he was airborne. Overholt stood on the tarmac and watched as the Cessna lifted off the ground and made a climbing turn to the right. The Caravan was just a speck against the backdrop of the white cloud cover before he turned to the pilot of the Falcon.

“Mind if I catch a ride back to Santa Monica with you?” he asked.

“We’re going that way anyway, sir,” the pilot said. “Might as well tag along.”

OVERHOLT had a quality that was often overlooked in successful spies. He could sleep anywhere. By the time the jet stopped for fuel in Taiwan, the several hours of sleep had renewed his vigor. As the plane was being fueled, he walked a distance away and unfolded his portable telephone, then dialed a number from memory.

Bouncing off a satellite, the signal arrived in the Marshall Islands in the Pacific, then was redirected toward the ultimate destination. The signal was scrambled and untraceable and there was no way to determine where the receiving party was actually located. The voice answered with an extension number.

“2524.”

“Juan,” he said quietly, “this is Langston.”

“Qué pasa, amigo,” Cabrillo said.

“Everything still looks good,” Overholt said. “How is your crew coming?”

“We’re ten by ten,” Cabrillo said.

“Good,” Overholt said.

“Looks like there’s a little side deal here for us to grab,” Cabrillo said. “I trust there’s no problem with that?”

“As long as there’s no blowback,” Overholt said. “Your company’s dealings are none of my concern.”

“Excellent,” Cabrillo said. “If it works out as planned, there will be no need to bill you for travel expenses.”

“Money’s not a problem, old friend; this is coming from the top,” Overholt said, “but time is—make this happen for me before Easter.”

“That’s why we get the big money, Lang”—Cabrillo laughed—“because we’re so damn prompt. You’ll have what you need, you have my word.”

“That’s what I love about you,” Overholt said, “your complete lack of ego.”

“I’ll call you when it’s done,” Cabrillo said.

“Just don’t let me read about it.”

Overholt disconnected, slid the telephone into his pocket, then did a series of stretching exercises before climbing back aboard the jet. Twenty-four hours later, he boarded a military transport plane from Southern California to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. There he was met by the CIA car service and transported to headquarters.

AT the mansion on Estrada da Penha, preparations for the party were moving at a blistering pace. One truck after another rolled through the gates, then parked and unloaded their contents. Three large yellow-and-white-striped canvas tents were quickly erected on the grounds, with portable air-conditioning units to make the tents more comfortable. They were followed by a pair of large portable fountains with spotlights that would shoot colored streams of water twenty feet into the air; red carpets for the guests to walk across; sound equipment; a baby grand piano for the musician who would play during the cocktail hour; parrots, doves and peacocks; and tables, chairs and linens.

The party planner was a middle-aged Portuguese woman named Iselda, whose black hair was kept in a tight bun on the back of her head. She was chain-smoking thin brown cigarettes with blue satin tips while she screamed orders to the staff.

“These are not the goblets I ordered,” she said as a worker carried a case into the tent and began to unpack them. “I ordered the ones with the gold lip—take these back.”

“Sorry, Miss Iselda,” the Chinese worker said, scanning a sheet. “These are what are on the list.”

“Take them back, take them back,” she said as she furiously puffed away.

A peacock wandered into the tent and made a mess on the floor. Iselda grabbed a straw broom and chased it out onto the grounds.

“Where are the laser lights?” she shouted to no one in particular.

AT exactly that same instant, Stanley Ho, host of the party, was standing in one of his three home offices, this one on the top floor of his house. This was his private sanctuary. None of the staff or assistants were allowed to enter this most private of spaces. The attic room was decorated to Ho’s tastes, which ran to early eclectic. His desk was from an early sailing ship, his television a brand-new plasma screen.

Bookcases lined one wall, but they were not filled with the classy tomes Ho displayed in areas where guests visited; these shelves were filled with pulp spy novels, soft porn featuring damsels in distress, and cheap paperback westerns.

A giant wool rug with a stick-shaped phoenix design that had been woven by a Navajo in Arizona graced the wood floor, while the walls were dotted with framed posters from past and current popular movies. The top of the captain’s desk was a study in disorderliness. Stacks of papers, a metal car model, a cup from Disney World holding pens, and a dusty brass lamp shared the crowded space.

Ho walked over to a small refrigerator shaped like a bank vault and removed a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he took a sip, then stared at the Golden Buddha sitting upright on the floor, the door of its case open.

Ho was trying to decide if he should display his latest prize at the party.

Right then, his private telephone rang. It was the insurance underwriter, who wanted to schedule an appointment. Ho set a time, then went back to staring at his treasure.

“AS long as we don’t lose power,” Kevin Nixon said, “no one should be the wiser.”

“Did you receive their song list?” Cabrillo asked.

“We got it,” Hanley said, handing him the list, “and programmed the songs into the computer.”

“Heavy on the sixties and seventies,” Cabrillo noted, “with a fair amount of guitar riffs.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t change the playlist without arousing suspicion,” Hanley said.

“I’m just worried—if any of the guests happen to be guitar players, they’ll know we’re faking it,” Cabrillo said.

“I rigged the guitar with tiny LED lights that are only visible with special glasses,” Nixon said, smiling. “They’re color-coded for the player’s fingers. All he has to do is place his fingers where the light shows and he should be okay.”

Nixon handed Cabrillo the guitar and a pair of blackframed sunglasses. He slid the strap over his neck and Nixon plugged the guitar into the power source.

“It goes thumb purple, index finger red, then down the fingers, yellow, blue and green,” Nixon said. “Same on the frets. Hold a second and I’ll start the computer.”

Cabrillo slipped on the glasses and waited. Once the lights lit up, he pushed his fingers on the illuminated strings. A crude rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” filled the Magic Shop.

“We won’t win any Grammys,” Cabrillo said when the lights went dark, “but it should get us past any casual scrutiny.”

Hanley walked over to a bench and removed a clear glass bottle containing a pale blue liquid. “There’s one other thing to consider,” he said, smiling. “This stuff came straight from the labs at Fort Dietrich, Maryland. Once we slip some of this into the punch bowl, this party will be kicking.”

“There’s no long-term effects, right?” Cabrillo asked.

“No,” Hanley said, “only short-term. It seems that after a few drops of this elixir, you’ll have the time of your life.”