Golden Buddha

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.

“Winston,” Ho said, smiling, “it’s good to see you, but you’re a little late—the insurance adjuster was already here.”

“Sorry,” Spenser said, “I was running late.”

Spenser tried to keep moving along, but Ho reached out and took him by the arm.

“That’s all right,” Ho said. “It seems your timing is perfect.”

Ho pointed to the staircase.

Spenser’s stomach did a backflip. The Golden Buddha, strapped to a dolly like a patient in a mental ward, was descending the stairs, being helped down by the guards from Redman Security.

“I’ve decided to display my newest treasure,” Ho said, “so all the guests can share in the glory. Don’t worry, I’ll let everyone who asks know who helped me handle the acquisition.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Spenser’s mind. None of them were good.

“Sir…,” Spenser began to say. But the line was moving along and Ho was already preparing to greet the next guest. “I don’t think…”

“I’ll talk to you when we are outside,” Ho said quietly as he turned to shake a couple’s hands.

“AT the rear door,” Hanley said, pointing to a screen. He flipped a switch on the communication console, then spoke into a microphone.

“Juan, the Buddha is being wheeled outside.”

On one of the screens, Cabrillo could be seen inside the tent checking the connection to his keyboard. He raised his head and made a signal that he understood. Ross walked over to the front of the tents as the Buddha was wheeled up, then supervised the placement near the fountain.

The target of all the planning and preparation was now in plain sight.

CHIEF Inspector of the Macau Constabulary Sung Rhee watched the statue from his place on the lawn near the rear door of the mansion. Rhee had known Stanley Ho since before he’d become wealthy. He was an acquaintance, not a friend. The first ship Ho had owned, the start of his shipping fortune, had been a constant thorn in Rhee’s side.

The chief inspector had been a mere detective at that time, assigned to vice and smuggling, and he had become convinced Ho was moving drugs with the ship. Rhee had just never been able to catch him in the act. Ho’s fortune had grown fast, and the chief inspector knew what that usually denoted—the problem was that as the shipowner’s fortune had swelled, so had his power. Twice in the past decade Rhee had been ordered away from Ho’s activities when he was close to amassing enough evidence to bring charges. Now Rhee was beginning to understand that as Ho legitimized his holdings, he probably never would pay the price for his past shady dealings.

Rhee had been invited to the party in an unofficial capacity—window dressing for the guests.

Like the mayor, the ambassadors of various countries, and the minor royalty who were present, Rhee was here today to add to the theme of legitimacy Ho so desperately craved.

He was a prop—but that didn’t make the police officer inside him take leave. He stared at the chunk of gold and tried to decide how, if it was up to him, he would steal it. Rhee stared around the grounds, trying to imagine an escape route. The wall surrounding the grounds almost insisted on a departure through the main gate. The fact that the object was being placed out in the open actually helped the security. It would almost certainly always be in view of someone. He glanced around again, then shook his head slightly.

Rhee concluded theft was not a problem and went inside for some shrimp puffs.

A dark green Mercedes-Benz limousine pulled up to the gate and the driver was waved through. Tom Reyes, the driver, swung around on the circular driveway and positioned the passenger door near the front door of the mansion. He then climbed out and opened the door to the rear compartment and helped the occupant out.

Once Crabtree was standing alongside the limousine, Reyes raced to the front door and said to the butler, “This is Princess Aalborg of Denmark.”

The butler stood aside as she swept into the foyer in a rustle of satin and lace, then walked toward Ho, who was now standing alone.

“Princess Aalborg,” Reyes announced from two steps behind.

Ho bent over and lightly kissed the proffered hand, then raised his head and smiled. “I’m honored to have you visit my humble home.”

“Charmed,” Monica Crabtree said in a bizarre accent.

Ho snapped his fingers and a waiter instantly appeared. “May I offer you a libation?”

“Champagne with a strawberry would be nice,” Crabtree said.

Ho motioned to the waiter, who scurried off.

“Jeeves,” Crabtree said to the driver, “I’ll be fine now—you may take your leave.”

Reyes backed away a distance, then turned and walked toward the front door. Moving the limousine away from the front of the mansion, Reyes parked in a spot near the garage and climbed out. Then he walked around to the front of the limousine, tilted back his cap and lit a cigarette.

“Monica is safely inside,” Hanley reported to Cabrillo.

TWILIGHT fell over the grounds with a light breeze that brought the smell of the sea. A few miles away, at the staging area for the parade, the engines of the lead floats came to life. The marching band that was the first group to walk the route began to assemble in orderly rows, awaiting the signal to begin. Macau began to settle in for the night, and in the high-rises in the city center and along the waterfront, lights began to flicker on. Out to sea, the navigation lights of the ships approaching port began to be visible, and the scattering of airplanes both inbound and outbound appeared as light specks in the distant sky.

All of the guests had arrived and the front lawn of the mansion looked like a luxury car dealership. There were Jaguars and BMWs, a single Lamborghini, a pair of Ferraris. Twelve limousines, a lone armored Humvee and an old Rolls-Royce crowded the lawn. On the wall along the road, the security cameras swept back and forth, but no more cars approached and the guard tired of watching the monitor.

So no one noticed when a pair of motorcycles drove slowly past.

If someone had, and they were knowledgeable, they might have noticed that one of the motorcycle’s sidecars had been enlarged and reinforced. The modifications were barely perceptible, but if you looked closely, you could see that there was a heavy-duty training wheel underneath, and that the passenger seat had been removed and made into a cargo compartment. The motorcycles continued north to the stop sign, then turned left and headed in the direction of the Inner Port. The bikers had an appointment to keep in a place not too far distant.

THE band was performing a sound check. The wall of speakers behind the bandstand lent an air of full-on rock concert, but the actual sound coming out of them was less than one would have thought. Unless someone was standing directly in front of the speaker wall, he’d have no way to tell that many of the speakers were not functioning. Some were hollow shells, others held items that would be needed for the operation.

Ross walked over and spoke to Cabrillo.

“The first set starts at seven,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Cabrillo stared at the players, then at the crowd that was still milling about the tent, some seated, more still flitting from table to table. “I’ll put the background music on in a second. That should signal we’re about to begin.”

He walked over to the main console and adjusted a switch. At the sound of the music, the crowd began to make their way to their assigned seats. Stanley Ho was standing just inside one of the tents on the left side of the Y. He was attempting to regale Huxley with stories of his vast wealth and power.

“I love the Buddha,” Huxley said, smiling. “Perhaps you have some other artwork you could show me later.”

“I’d be glad to,” Ho said. “In fact, there are many pieces in my upper office that might interest you. Maybe we could slip away later and take a look.”

“I’d like that,” Huxley said.

Ho nodded greedily. He was already imagining the possibilities the suicide blonde might offer his libido—if he needed to ignore his guests for the opportunity, so be it.

“I need to go to the front and make my introductions now,” Ho said, “but we can meet later.”

Huxley smiled and slinked away. Ho walked through the crowd, stopping at various tables to glad-hand his guests. A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the bandstand.

“I’m Stanley Ho,” he said to Halpert. “Might I use your microphone to make an introduction?”

Halpert handed his microphone to Ho, who tapped the top to be sure it was working.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

The crowd quieted down.

“I’d like to welcome you to my Good Friday party.”

The crowd clapped.

“I hope that you are finding the food and drink to your liking.”

Another round of applause.

“I hope each of you has a chance to view my latest acquisition, a good-luck charm. I have displayed the piece at the entrance to the tent. Like another we honor tonight, he signifies enlightenment and spirituality and that is the theme of this evening’s festivities. Now, if we could take a second to remember those that have sacrificed themselves for our freedoms.”

The crowd was silent.

“Thank you,” Ho said a few moments later. “We will have fireworks and light displays tonight, as well as an excellent band straight from California in the United States. Please join me in welcoming the Minutemen.”

He handed the microphone back to Halpert. At the same time, the lights in the tent began to dim until a single spotlight illuminated Halpert’s back, which was turned from the crowd. The band keyed their instruments and the opening notes of the Eagles song “Already Gone” began pulsing through the crowd.

Halpert swung around and began to belt out the lyrics.

MORE than any one thing, the key to a successful robbery is stealth. The pair of men on the motorcycles knew this and they moved quietly through the AMa Temple toward their target. The tourists had gone home for the night and most of the monks were in the dining hall partaking of their simple evening meal. The side room where their target stood was dimly lit, and the men, who were dressed in black clothes and face masks, blended into the air like whispery goblins.

“There he is,” one man whispered.

The man was pushing a heavy-duty dolly stolen from a rental store the previous night. He wheeled it over, examined the artifact, then waited while his partner closed the door on the wooden crate and tilted it so the other man could slide the dolly underneath. After securing it with straps, they began to make their way toward the door.

WINSTON Spenser was past wine and into cognac. He was pleasantly buzzed and beginning to feel that he might just accomplish his goal. He glanced at his watch. He had some time before he needed to slip away and meet the armored-car company at the temple. Then he would make his way to the airport and consummate the sale with the software billionaire.

By first light, he’d be on his way away from here, then he’d take a break from all the drinking.

Finishing the snifter, he motioned to a passing waiter for a refill. Then he turned to one of the guests seated next to him.

“Excellent band.”

“They truly are,” Crabtree replied.

TWO hundred and twenty-seven miles from Macau, in the South China Sea, the burgundy jet was passing over Tungsha Island, inbound for landing. The software billionaire walked forward, fastening a sash around his black silk kimono.

“The ladies are tired,” he said with a barely hidden trace of pride. “Could you prepare pitchers of coffee, orange juice and some pastries and take them to the rear?”

“Immediately,” the blond-haired man said, leaping to his feet.

Continuing forward, the billionaire knocked on the cockpit door.

The copilot opened the door. “Sir?” he asked.

“How far out are we?”

“Less than half an hour,” the copilot said, glancing at his navigational chart.

“Have you arranged for refueling?”

“All taken care of, sir,” the pilot said, turning his head toward the cockpit door.

Passing through the galley, the billionaire could smell the coffee brewing. “About a half hour and we’ll be on the ground,” he said as he passed.

The blond-haired man waited until he was gone, then removed a digital pager from his belt and pushed a few buttons. Then he winked at the other flight attendant and resumed his preparations.

THE trio of Redman Security officers glanced up as the band was finishing the last song in the first set. Then Sam Pryor turned toward a camera and touched his nose.

Back on the Oregon, Max Hanley reached for a microphone.

“Julia,” he said, “you can start now.”

Huxley slipped from behind the speaker wall and motioned to Halpert. Cabrillo, Lincoln and Murphy began to remove a few speakers from the bank behind them. Ho walked over.

“You have two more sets,” he said.

“We have some electrical glitches,” Cabrillo told him. “Three of the tower speakers aren’t working. Don’t worry—they haven’t worked yet and we sound all right.”

“Do you want me to take them back to the truck?” Huxley asked.

“That’s part of your job,” Halpert said.

Ho stared at Huxley. The thought of his suicide blonde becoming sweaty disturbed him.

“I’ll have one of the guards give you a hand,” Ho said. “Miss Candace asked earlier if she might have a tour of my home.”

“Okay, Mr. Ho,” Cabrillo said. “We’ll move them around to the front of the tent, then have one of the guards help us put them in the van.”

“Whatever,” Ho said. “Now, Candy—may I show you my home?”

ROSS motioned to the caterer. “Before the second set, Mr. Ho wants to make a special toast.”

“The passion fruit punch?” the caterer said.

“Correct,” Ross said.

“Just before the main meal is served?”

“That’s the plan.”

“I’ll go ahead and ice down the punch then,” the caterer said.

“You look busy here,” Ross said, “I’ll take care of the punch.”

When the chef had his back turned, Ross removed the flask of liquid and broke the seal. The viscous fluid was a strange blue green with flecks of what looked like powdered silver. She swirled it around then poured it into the vat. Taking a wooden spoon, she stirred the mixture and added a block of ice.

The caterer was on the far end of the kitchen, talking to the chef. Ross called across the room.

“Have the punch transferred to the crystal pitchers and taken into the tent,” she said. “Then order the waiters to begin serving.”

The caterer waved a hand in reply and Ross walked back outside.

“SIGNAL from Ross,” Larry King said.

On board the Oregon, Hanley was watching the monitors. “We saw it too, Larry.”

Hanley zoomed in on the Buddha; Reinholt, Pryor and Barrett were standing in a delta formation around the object, while to the left three large speaker stacks sat on carts awaiting removal.

“As soon as Ho makes his toast and the band resumes, we can begin the extraction,” Hanley said. “Did anyone see where Ho went?”

“He headed inside with Huxley,” King noted.

“I’ve got him on audio in the upper office,” one of the operators on the Oregon said.

“Put him on speaker,” Hanley ordered.

“It’s a Manet,” Ho was saying.

“I always get Monet and Manet confused,” Huxley said. “But then, art is not my strong suit.”

“What exactly is your strong suit?” Ho asked.

Just then, Hanley keyed the tiny earpiece in Huxley’s ear. “Julia,” he whispered, “you need to have Ho get back to the tent and make the toast now.”

“It’s something I need to show you, not tell you,” Candace purred, “but it takes some time. Once the band starts the next set and my boyfriend is busy, I’d feel a lot safer.”

“Safer is good,” Ho said.

Huxley walked over to Ho and rubbed her ample assets against his side.

“I’ll quickly go make the toast,” he said with a growing need.

“I need to make an appearance, too,” Huxley said, “then we’ll have plenty of time.”

Ho motioned to the door and the pair started out of the office.

INSIDE the tent, the waiters were clearing away the appetizers. Then they began to pour the punch from crystal pitchers into small glass cups at each setting. Most of the guests had returned to their seats by the time Ho walked through the center of the tent toward the stage. Snagging a cup of punch from a passing waiter, he continued toward the stage.

Mark Murphy was setting the last of the charges around the perimeter of the grounds and tent. He pocketed a small remote trigger, then walked around to the rear of the stage. Juan Cabrillo was standing off to one side of the stage, staring at the crowd. Crabtree had her large purse on the floor next to her and she moved her foot to make sure it was at her feet. Kasim, Lincoln and Halpert stood off to one side, awaiting their cues. At the front of the tent, the trio from Redman Security paced nervously.

Ho walked over to Cabrillo. “Is the P.A. system on?”

“Just a second,” Cabrillo said as he flicked a switch. “Okay, sir.”

Ho tapped the microphone to see that it was working.

THE monk walked out from the dining room, then stopped in his tracks. There was a banner with Arabic writing stretched across the alcove where the Golden Buddha had been placed—but the massive golden icon was nowhere to be seen. He raced back to the dining room to alert the others. A dozen monks in yellow robes entered the main temple. After appraising the situation, the head of the monks walked into the office and lifted up the telephone.

“Why don’t they make dollies with brakes?” one of the motorcyclists said as he dug in his heels to slow the descent down the hill outside the temple.

The other man was in front of the dolly, trying to slow Buddha down, but the loose soil was not allowing him much purchase and he was sliding downhill fast.

“Drop it down and dig in the rear,” he whispered.

With more of a slide than a controlled descent, they reached the bottom of the hill. Once they had regained control of the dolly, they quickly wheeled it over to the motorcycle sidecar and cut the straps. The man at the front lowered the door on the sidecar.

“Let’s get him in,” he said.

At just that instant, a gong on the grounds of the temple started sounding.

“Damn,” the first man said as the two wrestled the chunk of metal into the sidecar, “I figured we’d at least be out of the parking lot before someone caught on.”

“I’ll strap him down,” the second man said. “You start your engine.”

The man climbed aboard the motorcycle and pushed the starter. The engine roared to life. The second man finished with securing the Buddha and walked over to his motorcycle and started the engine. Looking up the hill, he caught a glimpse of several monks starting down, and he beeped his horn. The first man turned his head and, upon seeing the monks stumbling down the hill, reached for the clutch, then toed the motorcycle into gear. He twisted the throttle and began driving out of the parking lot.

“AGAIN,” Ho said, “thank you all for coming. Before I make a toast, let’s give a round of applause to the Minutemen.”

The crowd clapped.

“Now,” Ho said, “if you will all raise your glasses.”

He paused.

“To peace and prosperity on this holy day,” he said.

“Let us all remember the sacrifices the few have made so that the many may find peace.”

Ho tipped the glass cup to his lips and took a drink. The crowd followed suit.

“The dinner will be served now,” Ho said, “and in a second the band will begin again.”

“THE potion is in,” Hanley said to everyone listening, “we move in five minutes.”

Sometimes, if you know where to look, a person can realize that life is a well-orchestrated ballet. If one is in tune, seemingly unrelated events begin to reveal themselves. If there were someone high above the party, what he would see right now would be two distinctly different groups. The people from the Corporation began to move like pieces on a chessboard, while those who were part of the party seemed to act as a single unit.

Sung Rhee tried to focus his eyes, but the view of the inside of the tent was ebbing and flowing. Specks of blue dotted the far edges of his peripheral vision. Then he saw what he thought was a yellow-and-red weasel out of the corner of his eye, but when he moved his head, it was gone. At just that instant, his cellular telephone rang.

“Rhee.”

“I can barely hear you, sir,” one of his detectives said.

Rhee stared at the tiny telephone. He was holding it a foot from his mouth, as if unable to gauge distances. He tried to move it to the proper place, but he slammed it into his temple.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Better. Sir, we just received a call from the head abbot at the A-Ma Temple. They report that a pair of men has just stolen a large golden Buddha they had on display.”

Rhee thought for a second. The Buddha was right outside the tent.

“That’s all right,” Rhee said, “I saw our friend earlier.”

“What are you talking about, sir?”

Rhee stared at the floral arrangement in the center of the table. The head of a tiny horse appeared and spoke in a British accent. Take me for a ride, it said.

“Listen, you,” Rhee said, “my horse is here.”

“Sir,” the detective said, “I’m coming over there right away.”

Rhee dropped the telephone and turned to the person next to him.

“See my horse?”

The person was a troll and he was speaking in a language Rhee could not understand.

OVER the roar of the motorcycle engine, a siren came from just over the hill. The two men shut off the engines and listened. The sound neither grew louder nor diminished.

“Good,” the first man said, “they’re stuck in traffic, just like we planned.”

“Let’s do it,” the second man said.

They started their engines and roared away.

DETECTIVE Ling Po was screaming into the radio as he raced toward the mansion. He was a half mile away when the traffic ground to a stop.

“Can anyone reach the temple?” he shouted.

The units reported in one at a time. Only the car along the Inner Port Road was making any progress.

“We have a pair of men on motorcycles that have stolen a large gold Buddha,” he said as he beeped his horn. “Has anyone seen them pass?”

The reports were negative.

Po steered his squad car onto the sidewalk and, blaring his horn, continued on.

THE band was performing the Thin Lizzie song “The Boys Are Back in Town.”

On the Oregon, Hanley was watching the monitors in alarm. They had expected some unusual behavior once the potion was administered, but what he was seeing was chaos. A crowd of guests in tuxedos and evening dresses had suddenly filled the dance floor, and several of the ladies were shedding their clothes.

Stanley Ho was walking through the tent in a daze. He was feeling strange, but he had no idea why. Spotting Candace across the tent, he began to make his way toward her.

“Okay, everyone, we go in sixty seconds,” Hanley ordered.

“I hear sirens,” King reported, “and they are growing closer.”

“Monica,” Hanley said, “are you hearing?”

Crabtree turned to where she knew the camera was in the keyboard and winked.

“Now,” Hanley said.

Crabtree bit down on a packet she had taken from her purse and slipped it inside her mouth. Ho was a few feet away and she stumbled toward him with foam seeping from the edges of her mouth. She grabbed him around his neck and held tight.

“Go ahead, Murph,” Hanley ordered.

Murphy slipped his hand inside his pocket and hit the trigger. Almost instantly there was a series of explosions like fireworks. The outside lights and those inside the tent went dark.

“We’re a go for switch,” Hanley said.

At exactly that instant, Barrett and Pryor slid one of the speaker boxes off the cart and opened a back door. A gold-painted plaster Buddha replica slipped onto the ground. At the same time, Reinholt flipped the edge of the tent over the Buddha on display. Several potted plants placed in the Y inside the tent shielded the guards from anyone who might be watching.

“All dark on the western front,” King said as he scanned the ground through the pale green light of a night scope.

“Anyone moving?” Hanley asked.

King swept across the grounds, then down the hillside.

“There’s an unmarked police car with a portable light on the roof proceeding along Avenida Republica. He’s three hundred and fifty yards distant.”

“Can you hit at that distance?” Hanley asked.

“Oh ye of little faith,” King said. “It’s a car, not a bug. I doubt I can hit the driver’s nose, but you never know.”

“Just a tire, Larry,” Hanley said.

“Hold on,” King said.

Supporting the rifle on a branch, he regulated his breathing, then waited until the police car was in his field of fire. He was in an almost Zen state of concentration. When the target appeared, it was as if it were in slow motion. King squeezed the trigger, then willed the bullet to run true. Inside the rifle, the firing pin hit the shell primer and sparked, the gunpowder burned and propelled the shell out of the cartridge and sent it spinning through the rifling inside the barrel. Leaving the end of the barrel and passing through the noise suppressor, the slug started down the hill in a straight line toward the target.

“Shit,” Po said as his front tire shredded. He slowed down and climbed out of the squad car, leaving the door open. Looking back onto the sidewalk, he tried to see what he had hit. There was nothing visible, but that didn’t mean anything. He stared up the hill to his intended destination, then decided the hill was too steep to climb. Po slid back into the driver’s seat and reached for the radio.

“Target has stopped and he’s calling for help,” King said.

“Good job,” Hanley said.

Hanley was watching the monitors, but without lights there was little to see. He stared at his watch, then glanced at the schedule of actions. Thirty seconds passed. King continued to scan the grounds. A few of the kitchen workers had popped out from inside and were clustered around the rear door. He swiveled his scope to the front of the house and noticed that the front gate to the driveway had opened automatically when the power was cut. Ten seconds.

“Have you sighted the charge on the fireworks display?” Hanley asked.

“Got it,” King said.

“Protect your eyes after the shot,” Hanley said.

“I’ll switch back to regular sights,” King agreed.

“We go in five, four, three, two, one.”

King squeezed the trigger and hit the explosive packet Murphy had laid in place hours earlier. The fireworks exploded with a roar. Roman candles streaked skyward and the large mortarlike devices began to spew forth in belches. There was shrieking and thumping sounds as the fireworks began to discharge. King rubbed his eyes and stared at the now-lit-up scene.

Three flickers from a flashlight at the front of the tent caught his attention.

“I have a signal the switch has been made,” King noted.

“Signal the helicopter,” Hanley said to one of the operators.

“She’s having a seizure,” Ho shouted.

Monica Crabtree hung on to Ho’s neck and rolled her eyes back in her head. A doctor Ho knew was dancing on one of the tables nearby, but he didn’t respond to Ho’s request to come over. At just that instant, Barrett walked over.

“This woman is sick,” Ho said.

The guard grabbed Crabtree and slid her to the ground. The inside of the tent was chaos, the music was blaring, but in the dim light no one noticed the band had left the stage. Ho’s head was spinning and he was having trouble concentrating. The guard placed his lips over Crabtree’s.

“No tongue, please,” Crabtree whispered.

Faking CPR, the guard turned to Ho. “This woman is dying.”

“Call for help,” Ho said.

The guard reached for the radio on his belt and called for an ambulance.

“Juan,” Hanley said, “the bird is inbound.”

“Time to pull out,” Cabrillo said to his team. “Round everyone up.”

Reinholt and Pryor were rolling the cart containing the false-bottomed speakers over the lawn to the far side of the heliport. Once the cart was positioned, they removed green light bars from their pockets and bent them in half. The chemical reaction made the tubes glow and they spread them in a crude circle so the helicopter pilot would know where to land.

The scene inside the tent was absolutely chaotic. People were singing, howling, dancing and prancing. Sung Rhee was groping a woman at his table, the mayor of Macau was drinking the water out of the table arrangement.

Only Winston Spenser seemed composed. When his stomach was upset, he was sensitive to fruit juice. He had faked the toast and was beginning to see something was terribly wrong. Right then, he felt a prick on his neck. A second later, his head slumped over on the table.

THE traffic opened up for a second and the police car racing along the Inner Port Road managed to make some headway. In the distance, the officer managed to glimpse the motorcycles making a turn onto Calcada da Barra. Pushing the gas pedal to the floor, he raced after the retreating pair of motorcycles.

“I have them in sight,” he shouted over the radio. “They’re northwest on Calcada.”

The man aboard the motorcycle carrying the Buddha glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the police car approaching. He waved his hand in the air and the second motorcyclist turned his head. Dropping back a little, he waited until the police car was right behind him. Then he reached over and tripped a lever on his sidecar.