Golden Buddha

17

WINSTON Spenser was not wired for a life of crime and deceit. At this instant, he was vomiting into the toilet in his hotel room. Someone might argue it was all the booze from the night before, but in fact it was the tension that was ripping his guts apart. The tension that comes from living a lie, from being wrapped in deceit, from doing what one knows is wrong. By now there was nothing but bile rising—any food he had ingested was long gone, any liquor left was in his pores.

Spenser reached up, grabbed a hand towel, then wiped the corners of his mouth.

Rising from the floor, he stared at his image in the mirror. His eyes were red and bloodshot and his skin pallor a ghastly gray. The tension he was feeling was revealed by the muscles in his face. They twitched and popped like a kernel of popcorn in a sizzling pan. He reached up to dab a tear from the corner of his left eye, but his hand was shaking. He supported one hand with the other and finished the task. Then he climbed into the shower to try and sweat out the fear.

RICHARD Truitt stood in the living room, waiting. He stared around the room and tried to form a picture of his target. If Truitt was to guess, he figured the man who resided here was self-made and had only recently become affluent. He based this judgment on the furnishings and general décor. The pieces in the room were expensive enough, they just had no soul. And they were arranged in a fashion favoring flash over comfort. The possessions of old money always contained a story—the story Truitt was seeing was of objects bought in bulk to fill a space and give a picture of the occupant that was neither real nor imaginative.

There was a stuffed lion, but Truitt doubted the owner had stalked and shot the animal himself. A few paintings from contemporary artists like Picasso, but the paintings were far from the artists’ best works. Truitt imagined they had been bought for image value. Guests without foundation or substance would be rightly impressed. An ancient coat of armor that to Truitt’s eye appeared to be a reproduction…a French Louis XVI–style couch that looked about as comfortable to sit on as a bed of nails.

“Mr. Samuelson,” a voice said from the staircase.

Truitt turned to see who was speaking.

The man was small. Five and a half feet tall and slight of build. His hair was jet black and styled like a 1970s California hustler. The mouth was small, with teeth that held a certain feral rage. Although Truitt imagined the man was smiling to be friendly, the effect from his grin made Truitt want to reach for his wallet to see if it was safe.

“I’m Stanley Ho,” the man said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and extending his hand.

The stage was set and Truitt became the actor.

“Paul Samuelson,” he said, extending a slightly limp wrist for a handshake. “The home office asked me to take over for Mr. Lassiter, who has unfortunately been stricken with a bug.”

Truitt’s version of Samuelson was coming across as a light-in-the-loafers Michael Caine.

“I trust you’re familiar with this type of sculpture?”

“Oh, yes,” Truitt gushed. “I did graduate studies in Asian art. It’s one of my favorite forms.”

Ho motioned to the stairs, then led the way up. “The object is known as the Golden Buddha. Are you in any way familiar with the piece?”

They rounded the first leg of the stairs and crossed the landing to the second flight.

“I’m afraid not,” Truitt said breathlessly. “Has it ever been displayed?”

“No,” Ho said quickly. “It has been part of a private collection for decades.”

“Then I shall examine it with an eye for comparison to the other pieces I am familiar with.”

They had exited the second flight and were winding their way around to the last set of stairs.

“You have a beautiful home,” Truitt lied. “The staircases are mahogany, are they not?”

“Yes,” Ho said, pausing at the door to his office to scan a card that unlocked the door. “From Brazil and hand fitted without nails or screws.”

Ho opened the door and stepped aside.

“How lovely,” Truitt said. He stared across the office to where the Golden Buddha sat. “But nowhere near as lovely as this.”

Truitt walked over to the Buddha, followed by Ho.

“Magnificent,” Truitt said easily. “May I touch it?”

“Please,” Ho said.

The insurance adjuster was acting just as Ho had hoped. Equal parts respect and sublimation. There was a good chance the appraisal would be in his favor. If it was not to his liking, Ho was sure he could bully the agent into capitulation.

Truitt rubbed his hand over the face of Buddha, then stared into the jeweled eyes. “Might I ask some about the history?”

“He’s from the thirteenth century and from Indochina,” Ho said.

Truitt opened a small leather clutch he had been holding and removed a jeweler’s eyepiece. He placed it over one eye and examined the stones. “Exquisite.”

Ho watched as the adjuster examined the Buddha from head to toe. The man seemed competent, so he decided to ask him about the secret storage compartment. “I had a historian dig into it a little and he mentioned that some of these pieces contained an inner chamber.”

“The part of Buddha where there is no ego,” Truitt said quickly, “the void.”

“Then you are familiar with the idea?” Ho said.

“Oh, yes,” Truitt said. He was glad the Corporation had seen fit to provide him with a report on ancient Asian art. The “void” had been part of the study.

“I can’t seem to find one on this piece.”

“Let’s look closer,” Truitt said.

The two men spent the next twenty minutes carefully examining the object, but no secret compartment was found. Truitt decided to use the revelation to his favor.

“Shall we sit for a bit?” he asked Ho.

The men took seats around Ho’s desk.

“What value do you have in mind,” Truitt said, “that you would like our company to underwrite?”

“I was thinking in the neighborhood of two hundred million,” Ho said.

“That’s an expensive neighborhood,” Truitt said, smiling.

Leaning forward, he spilled the contents of his leather clutch on the floor. Scooping down to pick up the contents, he attached a small bug to the bottom of Ho’s desk.

“Silly me,” he said after the bug was attached and the bag placed back on his lap.

“What do you think is the value?” Ho asked.

“The absence of the secret compartment actually adds to the rarity of the piece,” Truitt lied. “It places the age at least a few decades before what I had estimated. The voids date from the twelfth century and later. You may have something here that defies accurate pricing.”

Ho smiled his feral smile. He loved it when he bested someone in a deal, and he was beginning to think he’d outsmarted some of the wisest art collectors in the world. At first, the $200 million he’d paid had seemed like a king’s ransom—now it was looking like he’d bought cheap.

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“I could easily insure it for twice what you are seeking,” Truitt said, “but of course the premiums would reflect the increased value.”

This was going better than Truitt could have hoped—greed had removed Ho’s doubt in his identity. He had come a stranger, but now he was a friend bearing gifts. Cons only work when the mark wants to believe. Ho wanted to believe.

“But…,” Ho said slowly, “if I insured it for more, banks would loan on the increased value.”

“Yes,” Truitt said, “banks tend to follow our lead.”

Ho nodded slowly. “Why don’t you figure the premiums on four hundred million.”

“I would, of course, need to contact our main office for the quotes,” Truitt said, “but I can easily attest to the value.”

Ho sat back in his chair. The realization that he owned a truly priceless work of art was sinking into his soul. Now his ego needed stroking. A stroking that only other rich people could give him.

“I’m having a party today,” he said.

“I saw the preparations,” Truitt said, smiling.

“You, of course, are invited,” Ho said, “but I was thinking of displaying the artifact to my guests. I would feel more comfortable if I had a rider covering the piece until I receive the actual quote. Just something to cover today.”

“You are, of course, thinking of displaying it downstairs,” Truitt said.

Ho wasn’t, but he was now.

“Yes,” Ho said. “Perhaps out on the grounds?”

Truitt nodded. “Let me make a quick call.”

Ho pointed to his telephone, but Truitt whipped out a cell phone and hit the speed dial.

“Samuelson here.”

“Richard, you’re a magnificent bastard,” the voice said. “We have been listening for the last few minutes over the bug. Nice work.”

“I need a quote on a one-day rider to Mr. Ho’s policy to cover a piece of art valued at four hundred million until we can come up with an accurate figure for long-term coverage.”

“La de dah, de dah. All right then,” the operator on the Oregon said, “let me make up a number for you. How about twenty thousand dollars? Or whatever you decide. But I’d take the fee in cash if I was you. Then we can have a party after this is over.”

“I see,” Truitt said, nodding, “so we will require increased security. Hold on a minute.”

Truitt placed his hand over the telephone.

Back on the Oregon, the operator turned to Hanley.

“Truitt’s red-hot today,” he said. “I had not even thought of that angle.”

Ho was waiting for the adjuster to speak.

“The fee for the rider for the day will be eighteen thousand five hundred U.S. But my company is insisting on increased security. Luckily, we have a local firm we use—my office will contact them and have some men out here within the hour, if that’s okay with you.”

“Does the fee include the security detail?” Ho asked.

Truitt thought for a second, but decided not to push.

“The fee includes three security guards, but we will want the fee in cash,” Truitt said seriously.

Ho stood up and walked over to his safe. “Sounds reasonable,” he said.

Truitt smiled—the offer was anything but reasonable, but Ho had no way to know that.

“I’ll tell them,” Truitt said.

Ho began spinning the dial to his safe.

“We have an agreement,” he said to the operator on the Oregon, “but we’ll need the security people here as soon as possible.”

“Damn, you’re good,” the operator said.

“Yes, I am,” Truitt said quietly, then disconnected.

Ho returned with two wrapped stacks of dollars. Each strip read $10,000. Removing fifteen of the hundred-dollar bills from one of the stacks, he handed Truitt the rest. Sliding the stacks of money into his leather clutch, he smiled at Ho.

“Do you have a sheet of paper?”

“What for?” Ho asked.

“I need to write you a receipt,” Truitt said.

HANLEY reached for the telephone and dialed Cabrillo. “Dick Truitt just got us three more men inside the compound, acting as security guards.”

“Excellent,” Cabrillo said, “and there was no problem with the appraisal?”

“He handled it like the pro he is,” Hanley said.

“Have we got security guard uniforms in the Magic Shop?”

“Absolutely,” Hanley said. “I’ll just call Nixon and have him blast off a jazzy patch on the embroidery machine.”

“Get on it,” Cabrillo said quickly, “so we can extract Truitt.”

“Truitt’s been invited to the party,” Hanley said, “unless you want me to order him out.”

“Have him wait until the fake security team arrives,” Cabrillo said. “That way he can verify their identity to Ho. Then have him stick around—I have another job for him.”

“Done,” Hanley said.

Cabrillo disconnected and Hanley dialed the Magic Shop.

“Kevin,” he said, “I need three security guard uniforms with the appropriate badges.”

“Name?”

Hanley thought for a moment before answering.

“Make them Redman Security Services.”

“As in Redford and Newman?”

“You got it,” Hanley said, “The Sting.”

“It will take me twenty minutes or so to make the badges,” Nixon said, “but send the three operatives down right away. I can fit the uniforms while the patches are forming.”

“They will be there shortly,” Hanley said in closing.

Hanley glanced at a clipboard in the control room. Most of the Corporation stockholders were already assigned to functions of operations, extraction or backup. His remaining choices were an assistant chef, Rick Barrett; a propulsion engineer named Sam Pryor; and a middle-aged man who worked in the armory, Gunther Reinholt. None had ever worked on the operations end. But beggars can’t be choosers.

“Get me Reinholt, Pryor and Barrett,” Hanley said to one of the communications operators, “and have them meet me in the Magic Shop.”

The operator began paging the men.

“DON’T worry,” Murphy said to Halpert, “it just smells like marijuana.”

Murphy was waving what looked like an incense stick near the members of the band when Cabrillo walked into the conference room.

“Smells like a Grateful Dead concert in here,” he said.

Murphy walked closer and let the smoke waft over the chairman.

“It’s the little things,” he said with a grin, “that makes the Corporation successful.”

“The real band was sober,” Cabrillo noted.

“But Ho doesn’t know that.”

Cabrillo nodded. “Listen up. Dick Truitt has managed to get three more operatives inside. The men will be dressed as security guards. I’ll have the company name shortly. Be careful, because there might be other guards Ho already hired. Don’t slip up and mistake ours for them.”

Just then, Cabrillo’s telephone rang. He listened then disconnected.

“Redman Security is the name on our guys’ uniforms,” he said to the group.

A moment later Julia Huxley walked into the room.

“Wow,” Kasim said.

Huxley was dressed in a pair of form-fitting leather pants that laced up the side and showed two panels of leg from foot to hip. Her top was a metal-studded vest that barely covered her ample bosom. Around her neck was a strap of leather with a D-shaped hook, and one of her arms was decorated with a flowing tattoo of barbed wire and flower vines. Her hair was teased and coated with hair spray in a wild fashion and her makeup was bold and thickly applied. Five-inch pumps and a dusting of glitter on her exposed skin completed the picture.

“Slutty enough for you boys?” she asked.

“I didn’t know the Magic Shop had such costumes in stock,” Halpert said.

Huxley walked over to Halpert and rubbed herself along his side. As the lead singer, he, of course, was the one who got the girl.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “This is from my own collection.”

Huxley was lying, of course—but then this entire operation was a façade.

“Now, who would argue,” Kasim said, “that America’s not the greatest country in the world?”