Clive Cussler: Golden Buddha

Spenser was still humming when a side door onto the sidewalk swung open and a garrote was slipped over his head and he gagged over his verse.

With lightning speed the triad killed and dragged Spenser inside a garden at the rear of a home facing the street. The occupants of the home were out of town, but that was of little matter to the killer—had they been unfortunate enough to be home, he would have killed them too.

Four days passed before the remains of Spenser’s body were found. It was minus the hands and the head, but the arms had been carefully folded across his chest and the Canadian passport tucked into his belt.

44

TRUITT stared at the water as the turboprop made a final approach for landing at the Kiribati capital city of Tarawa. The water was a light sapphire color, with coral reefs clearly visible beneath the surface. Fishermen in small canoes and outboard-motored crafts plied the waters, while a black-hulled tramp steamer was tied alongside the dock at the main port.

It looked like a scene out of South Pacific .

The plane was not crowded, just Truitt, a single chubby male islander who had yet to stop smiling, and a load of cargo in the rear. The inside of the cabin smelled like salt, sand and the aroma of light mold that seemed to permeate everything in the tropics. It was hot inside the plane, and humid, and Truitt dabbed a handkerchief to his forehead.

The pilot lined up for a landing on the dirt strip, then eased the plane down.

A bump, the feeling of the brakes slowing the aircraft to a crawl, then a slow taxi to the concrete-block terminal building. Truitt watched out the window as the plane stopped in front of the terminal, then felt a rush of humid, flower-scented air as the pilot walked back and lowered the door. The islander climbed down first and walked toward a woman holding a pair of smiling children in her arms, while Truitt grabbed his overnight bag from the seat behind. Then he rose and walked down the steps. The presidents of Kiribati and Tuvalu were waiting.

THE attorney hired by Halpert sat on the rear deck of the spacious mountain chalet. In the distance, across a meadow with a stone fence marking the borders and a haystack leaving no doubt as to the purpose of the land, a dark-haired man adjusted a portable propane-fueled heater, then sat down in a chair across the table.

Marc Forne Molne, the head of government of Andorra, was kindly but direct.

“You may relay to your principals that I sincerely appreciate the investment in my country—we always welcome finding a home for fine companies. However, the simple fact is this: Even if they had not chosen to base their operations here, our vote would have gone toward a free Tibet.”

Molne rose again and adjusted the flame higher. “Opposition against tyranny and oppression is an Andorran legacy.”

Molne brushed a drop of water from his hands. “You tell your men they have our vote. And you also tell them if they need anything else, they need but ask.”

The attorney rose from his chair. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I will report back to them immediately.”

Molne motioned with his hand and a butler appeared out of nowhere.

“Show this man to my office,” he ordered. “He needs to use the telephone.”

TWO hours later, Truitt had forged an agreement. A pair of trusts, one for each nation. Because the population of Kiribati was just over 84,000, they received $8.4 million. Tuvalu, with a population of 10,867, received $1.1 million. Another $5.5 million was dedicated for development of eco-tourism on the two chains of islands. To promote tourism, the two countries decided on a series of small island resorts where the natives would act as guides, scuba-diving masters and overseers.

The planned stilt homes would be self-service. The tourists could clean their own rooms.

Truitt caught the last flight out on Easter day.

HANLEY was staring at a satellite image of Tibet as he spoke on the telephone.

“You’re sure, Murph?” he asked. “He’s fit to fly?”

“It was like magic,” Murphy said over the secure line. “Gurt looks better than before he was shot. He’s outside doing repairs on the chopper as we speak.”

“Hold on,” Hanley said from the Oregon . “I’ll call off the cavalry.”

Reaching for a scrambled radio, he called the rescue helicopter. “Stop where you are,” Hanley said, “and wait. If my fuel calculations are correct, you should have more than half tanks right now. Wait until you see the other Bell pass nearby, then follow her home to Gonggar.”

“Understand,” the pilot answered. “What’s the ETA?”

“They’re about an hour away,” Hanley noted, “but I’ll monitor the situation and report to you when they are near.”

“We’re touching down now,” the pilot said, “and standing by.”

IN Washington, D.C., hands-off was becoming handson.

Langston Overholt sat in a room off the Oval Office, waiting for the president to reappear. Truitt had notified Hanley of his successful mission. Hanley had faxed the details to Cabrillo in Tibet. Once that was done, he had telephoned Overholt and reported the news.

Overholt then made his way to the White House to report to the president.

“For someone who was supposed to be outside the loop,” the president said, entering the room, “I’m as wrapped up in this as a kitten in a yarn ball.”

It was early morning in Washington, and the president had been preparing for bed when he had been summoned. He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a blue T-shirt. He was drinking a glass of orange juice.

He stared at Overholt, then grinned. “You must know I stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live .”

“Don’t all politicians, sir?” Overholt asked.

“Probably,” the president said. “It was always the rumor that it cost Gerald Ford the election.”

“How did it go, sir?” Overholt asked.

“Qatar was a gimme,” he said easily. “Me and Mr. al Thani are old friends. Brunei was not such a pushover. The sultan needed a few concessions—I gave them, and he agreed.”

“I’m sorry we needed to involve you, sir,” Overholt said. “But the contractors were short of both men and time.”

“Have you got the last vote?” the president asked. “Is Laos in the bag?”

Overholt glanced at his watch before answering. “Not yet, sir,” he said, “but we will have it in about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll instruct the ambassador to the United Nations to call for a special vote in the morning,” the president said. “If your guys can hold down the fort for six hours or so, we’re home free.”

“I’ll notify them immediately, sir,” Overholt said, rising.

“Good,” the president said. “Then I’m going to catch a few hours of shut-eye.”

A Secret Service agent led Overholt down the elevator and into the secret tunnel. Twenty minutes later he was in his car and on his way back to Langley.

THE white 747 cargo plane slowed to a stop at the end of the runway in Vientiane, then taxied over to a parking area and shut down the engines. Once everything was shut down, the pilot began the process of raising the entire nose cone in the air, opening up the immense cargo area. Once the nose was in the air, cargo ramps were attached to a slot in the open front of the fuselage.

Then, one by one, cars were driven out onto the tarmac.

The first was a lime-green Plymouth Superbird with a hemi-engine. The second, a 1970 Ford Mustang Boss 302 in yellow with the shaker hood, rear slats over the window and the quarter-mile clock in the dashboard. The third was a 1967 Pontiac GTO convertible, red with a black interior, red-line tires and air conditioning. The last was a 1967 Corvette in Greenwood green, with the factory speed package and locking rear differential.