“Overholt,” he said quietly.

“Sir,” a voice a few thousand miles away said steadily, “tracking reports the target on final approach.”

“Thank you,” Overholt said as he disconnected.

Then he peeled the banana, ate it and walked over to the flight desk. Taking a leather badge cover from the breast pocket of his suit, he flipped it open and handed it to the clerk. The man quickly scanned the golden eagle, then perused the ID card showing Overholt’s picture and title.

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said.

“I need to talk to the party on the Falcon you have inbound for landing.”

The man nodded and reached for a portable radio on his belt. “I’ll notify the ramp and call for a golf cart. Is there anything else you need?”

Overholt turned and stared out the window. The light mist was turning to rain.

“Do you have an umbrella I can borrow?”

The clerk was on the radio calling out to the ramp attendants and nodded at Overholt’s request. “You can use mine,” the clerk said, reaching under the counter and handing it across the desk.

Overholt slipped his hand in his trouser pocket and removed a money clip, then peeled off a fifty. “The CIA would like to buy you dinner tonight,” he said, smiling.

“Is this when you say you were never here?” the clerk said, smiling in turn.

“Something like that.” Overholt nodded.

The man pointed to the doors. “Your golf cart is here.”

Outside the window, the landing lights on the Falcon jet reflected off the light rain and the wet surface as it lowered onto the runway with a chirp from the tires. A truck with a flashing light bar mounted on the roof raced down an access road in hot pursuit. The truck would lead the jet to the spot for refueling.

Then Overholt could board and ask the Dalai Lama if he was ready for the journey.

9

MACAU is a tiny country consisting of three small islands connected by causeways. The farthest north is Macau, which houses the government buildings; the middle island, Taipa, has a man-made extension for the airport and runways, and is connected to the main body of the island with a pair of roads; and the farthest south island is Coloane. To the north and east of the country is the Chinese mainland, and to the west, across the body of water known as Zhujiang Kou, is Hong Kong.

Formerly a Portuguese colony, the country had reverted to China in 1999 and was administered as a special region similar to Hong Kong. The landmass of Macau is a mere 9.1 square miles, or just under a sixth of the size of Washington, D.C. The population is estimated at around 430,000 people.

The Oregonwas moored off Coloane, and nearest to international waters.

“Dick,” Cabrillo said as he reached the top of the ladder leading from the shore boat to the pier, “how goes it?”

“Mr. Chairman,” Truitt said, “I think all is in order.”

Bob Meadows and Pete Jones, former Navy SEALs and operational specialists, along with security and surveillance expert Linda Ross, followed. Once they were all on the pier, Truitt motioned to the van.

“Let me show you the layout,” Truitt said quietly as they all entered the van.

Truitt steered the van onto the 1.3-mile-long bridge that would take them to Taipa. It was quiet inside the van, the only sound coming from the tires as they periodically crossed over the expansion joints.

“This is Taipa,” Truitt said as the van reached the island. “Two bridges lead to Macau. We’ll take the shorter, which is about a mile and a half long.”

As Truitt steered the van onto the second bridge, Cabrillo stared to the west across the water toward the other bridge and Hong Kong. The road was crowded with trucks carrying cargo from the seaports and air terminal, but the traffic was moving fast.

“Can the authorities seal off the bridges?” he asked.

“There are no gates per se,” Truitt said, “but they could easily station large trucks on the approaches and we’d be in trouble.”

The high-rises on Macau were becoming more visible through the windshield.

“We’re not going to luck out and have the building located along the waterfront?” Linda Ross asked.

“Sorry, Linda,” Truitt said, glancing in the rearview mirror, “his home is on the hillside.”

Cabrillo was staring ahead at the mass of humanity and buildings as the van covered the final hundred yards over the bridge. “So if we’re caught making a run for it…” His voice trailed off.

Truitt slowed the van and turned onto a crowded side street. “That’s the score, boss,” he said quietly.

“How come we never steal things that are hidden in the middle of nowhere?” Meadows asked.

“Because the stuff we’re paid to do never happens in an isolated area,” Jones said, smiling.

LANGSTON Overholt had needed more time with the Dalai Lama to explain his proposal, so he’d made a quick call to Washington, then boarded the Falcon. Flying against the sun had made the night last a long time—it was still dark when they stopped in Manila to refuel. Lifting from the tarmac at Manila International Airport, the pilot set a course skirting Vietnam then over the southernmost strip of Thailand above Hat Yai. Once he passed over Thailand, he’d make a sweeping turn north over the Andaman Sea, stop at Rangoon for more fuel, and then he could make it to Punjab, where the Dalai Lama would take a small plane the rest of the way to Little Lhasa, his exile home in northern India.

Once the jet reached cruising altitude, Overholt continued the conversation.

“Your father was a friend of mine,” the Dalai Lama said quietly, “so I’ve listened carefully to your proposal. But you have yet to explain how we make the Chinese simply hand back my country. You know I cannot agree to this if there will be bloodshed.”

“The president feels if we enlist the Russians’ help, the threat of war might make the Chinese back down. Their economy is in a pinch right now—the cost to occupy your country is starting to mount.”

“So you believe the financial motive is sufficient?” the Dalai Lama asked.

“It might help if you offered them the Golden Buddha,” Overholt said, saving his silver bullet for the last.

The Dalai Lama smiled. “Like your father, you are a fine man, Langston, but in this case your information is faulty. The Golden Buddha was stolen when I went into exile. The government-in-exile no longer has it to offer.”

The sun was finally appearing over the horizon and it illuminated the wings on the Falcon jet in a golden glow. To the rear of the plane a steward was preparing a light breakfast of juice and muffins. The time had come for Overholt to show his hand.

“The United States has a plan to liberate the Golden Buddha,” he said. “We should have it in a few days.”

The Dalai Lama’s smile became a grin. “I must say that is very unexpected news. Now I can see why you have flown halfway around the world with me.”

Overholt smiled and nodded. “So you think the Chinese will accept the icon as payment when combined with the threat of war?”

The Dalai Lama shook his head. “No, my CIA friend, I do not. The true secret of the Golden Buddha is inside…a secret the Chinese would pay dearly for.”

10

EXITING the bridge, Truitt steered the van through the cloverleaf. The thousand-room Hotel Lisboa and casino was to the right as they drove west on Avenida Dr. Mario Soares. To the right, the Bank of China soared into the air, a pink granite-and-glass structure whose top levels allowed the occupants a view across the border into China.