Clive Cussler: Golden Buddha

Not until the Oregon was twenty miles out to sea did a general in Cuban security put two and two together and deduce that the sudden departure of the ship and the escape of the Santa Ursula prisoners were somehow tied together. He ordered missiles fired at the fleeing ship, but by the time the word filtered down through the sluggish command, the Oregon was out of acceptable range.

He then ordered jets from the Cuban air force to intercept and sink the mystery ship before it reached the protection of a United States Coast Guard cutter. It could not possibly escape, he thought, as he sat back, lit a cigar and contentedly puffed a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. Seventy miles away, two geriatric MiGs were sent aloft and set a course toward the Oregon as directed by Cuban radar.

CABRILLO didn’t need to study a chart to see that sailing around the tip of Cuba from Santiago through the Windward Passage and then northwest to Miami was little more than a suicide run. For nearly six hundred miles, the Oregon would be less than fifty miles from the Cuban coast, a voyage in a shooting gallery. His safest option was to set a course southwest around the southern tip of Haiti and then almost due west to Puerto Rico, which was a territory under the U.S. flag. There he could unload his passengers, where they would be safe and cared for at proper medical facilities before being flown to Florida.

“Two unidentified aircraft closing,” announced Linda.

“I have them,” Murphy announced, hunched over a console with enhanced radar screens and an array of knobs and switches.

“Can you identify?” asked Linda.

“Computer reads them as a pair of MiG-27s.”

“How far out?” Cabrillo probed.

“Sixty miles and closing,” Murphy answered. “Poor beggars don’t know what they’re in for.”

Cabrillo turned to his communications expert, Hali Kasim. “Try and raise them in Spanish. Warn them we have surface-to-air missiles on board and will knock them out of the sky if they show any sign of hostility.”

Kasim didn’t have to speak Spanish to deliver the warning. He merely ordered the computer to translate his message over his radio, which was tuned to twenty different frequencies.

After a couple of minutes he shook his head. “They are receiving, but not responding.”

“They think we’re bluffing,” said Linda.

“Keep trying.” Then to Murphy: “What’s the range of their missiles?”

“According to specs, they’re carrying short-range rockets with a range of ten miles.”

Cabrillo looked solemn. “If they don’t break off within thirty miles, take them out. Better yet, launch one of ours. Then manually guide it for a close flyby.”

Murphy made the necessary calculations and pressed a red button. “Missile on its way.”

An audible swoosh swept the command center as a rocket lifted from an opening in the foredeck and swept into the sky. They all watched on the monitors as it raced to the northwest and soon disappeared.

“Four minutes to flyby,” said Murphy.

Every eye turned to the big clock above the window. No one spoke, all waiting in anticipation. Time dragged as the second hand on the clock seemed to take forever to make a sweep. Finally, Murphy spoke mechanically. “Missile passed two hundred yards over and between the hostiles.”

“Did they get the message?” asked Cabrillo, a slight tone of apprehension in his voice.

There was a long pause, and then, “They’re turning for home,” Murphy reported happily. “Two Cubans who are very lucky men indeed.”

“Also smart enough to recognize a no-win situation.”

“Indeed,” Linda said with a broad smile.

“No blood on our hands this day,” Cabrillo said with an obvious sigh of relief. He leaned over in his chair and spoke to the computer. “Slow to cruise speed.”

The clandestine operation was almost complete, the contract fulfilled. The Oregon and her crew of executives did not consider themselves lucky. Their achievement had come from a combination of special skills, expertise, intelligence and precise planning. Now, except for a technician to watch over the command center and the navigation systems, everyone could relax; some headed for their state-rooms for well-deserved sleep, while others congregated in the ship’s dining room to snack and wind down.

Cabrillo retired to his teak-paneled cabin and removed a packet from a safe under the carpet mounted in the deck. It was their next contract. He pulled out the contents, studied them for nearly an hour, and then began planning the initial levels of tactics and strategy.

Two and a half days later, the Oregon sailed into the port of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and discharged the Cuban exiles. Before the sun set, the remarkable ship and its strange crew of corporate officials were once again at sea on a course toward their next assignment. Before it was through, they would steal a priceless artifact, return a divine leader to power and free a nation. But when the Oregon left port, Cabrillo was not on board. He was winging his way east against a rising sun.

2

THE burgundy Falcon 2000EX left Heathrow at just after six in the morning, arriving in Geneva around half past nine Swiss time. The jet aircraft cruised at Mach.80 with a 4,650-mile range; it cost $24 million. Winston Spenser was its sole occupant.

After arriving at Geneva International Airport in Cointrin, Spenser was met by a chauffeured Rolls-Royce that delivered him to the hotel. There, he was immediately taken to a suite without having to register. Once in his room, Spenser took a few minutes to freshen up. Standing in front of the beveled-edge mirror, he stared at his image. Spenser’s nose was long and patrician, his eyes pale blue and distant and his skin in need of a tan. Neither his cheeks nor his chin were very defined. Truth be told, his image always appeared to be slightly out of focus, as if lacking character. His was not the face of a man others would follow. It was the face of a high-priced minion.

When he finished his examination, he placed his expensive cologne back in a Burberry toiletry bag, then left the room to get a mid-morning meal. The art auction he was in Geneva for was due to start soon.

“WILL Mr. Spenser require anything else?” the waiter asked.

Spenser stared for a moment at the remains of his meal and said, “No, I think that will be all.”

The waiter nodded, removed the plates, then took a brush from his apron and whisked up the few crumbs on the table. Then he silently retreated. No bill was presented, no money changed hands. The cost of the breakfast and the gratuity would appear on the room charge, which Spenser would never see.

In the far corner of the dining room, Michael Talbot stared toward Spenser. Talbot, an art dealer from San Francisco, had crossed paths with Spenser before. Three times in the last year the stodgy Britisher had outbid Talbot’s clients, for Spenser’s own clients seemed to have unlimited resources.

Talbot could only hope today would be different.

Spenser was dressed in a gray suit over a sweater vest, a blue polka-dot bow tie around his neck. His black laceup leather shoes were highly polished, as were his fingernails, and his neatly styled short hair was flecked with gray, as befitted his age, which Talbot estimated at close to sixty years.

Once, when Talbot had been in London on business, he’d tried to visit Spenser’s shop. There was no telephone number available, the small stone building had had no name outside, and aside from an unobtrusive video camera above the buzzer, it could have been suspended in time from a hundred years before. Talbot had pushed the buzzer twice, but no one had answered.