“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.”
12
“THE sample checks out,” the software billionaire said over the telephone.
Spenser had dispensed with the voice-alteration equipment, but his words were tinged with a fear that made his upper-crust accent less polished than perplexed.
“Then you are interested?” he said.
“Sure,” the software billionaire said, “but I’ve decided that I want to make the transfer myself. I have the feeling you’re about as trustworthy as a hooker with a crack habit.”
Spenser frowned. His plan of thievery and deceit was unraveling. The costs he had already incurred made a quick sale his only salvation—there was no time to line up another buyer. He was in the worst possible place. He was a seller who needed to sell—with a buyer who was calling the shots.
“Then you need to come here and take delivery,” Spenser said.
“Where’s here?”
“Macau,” Spenser said.
The software billionaire stared at a calendar on his desk. “I’ll be there the evening of Good Friday.”
“I’ll want cash or bearer bonds then,” Spenser said. “No more bank transfer.”
“Fair enough, but don’t try anything, I’m bringing reinforcements.”
“You bring the money,” Spenser said, “and you get the Buddha.”
The billionaire disconnected and Spenser sat quietly for a moment.
He didn’t have long to go.
“MONICA’S a guest,” Cabrillo said as he glanced at the sheet of notes. “For this operation, she’s a minor member of the Danish royal family.”
“It’s all so common,” Crabtree said with a Scandinavian accent.
“You’ll need to fake a speech impediment with that accent,” Hanley said. “Stop by the Magic Shop and we’ll make you a mouth guard that will add a lisp.”
“Great,” Crabtree said, “I get to play a lisping lady-in-waiting.”
“It could be worse,” Cabrillo said. “Linda’s replacing the chain-smoking Portuguese party planner, Iselda.”
“Excellent,” Linda Ross said, laughing. “I finally quit smoking a few years ago and now the Corporation is going to get me hooked again.”