THE full fury of the storm descended on Macau only a few minutes after Gunderson and the 737 cut a wide arc out over the South China Sea to head south. Inside the storm sewer, the waters were rising faster now, and the rafts holding the Golden Buddha and his three liberators hurtled faster toward salvation or destruction.
Prior to reaching each junction, one of the men would climb off the raft and drag the rear rope to slow the raft with the Golden Buddha. Then he would push the side of the raft toward the proper channel and let the current do the rest. The randomly spaced overhead pipes that drained into the main sewer were running full now, and each time the rafts passed under the spray some of the water made it into the floors of the rafts. The men were using their hats to bail out the buildup, but as each mile passed the effort was becoming harder and harder.
Hornsby stared at the blueprint carefully. “We’ve passed the halfway point,” he said, “but if we make the same rate of progress and the water continues to rise at the current pace, by the time we reach the exit to the Inner Harbor the water will be almost at the top of the pipe.”
“The Oregonwill have sent help by now,” Jones said, “and they will have a copy of the blueprints.”
Meadows wiped some water from his forehead before speaking. “That doesn’t change the problems we face. It just places more people in harm’s way.”
Hornsby was standing in water up to his waist, pushing the raft with the Buddha to the left with his hip. Once the raft entered the other stream and started to move, he rolled back inside the following raft. “Not only that,” he said, “if the pace continues when we doreach the Inner Harbor— ifwe do—it will be at first light and then we risk detection.”
Hornsby turned his head. He could see Jones grinning in the dim light from his faltering hard-hat lamp. Then he spoke.
“We’re the Corporation,” Jones said quietly. “We’re always one step ahead.”
The trio of men nodded as the pair of rafts hurtled faster in the growing current toward a rendezvous with a rescuing force that was fighting problems of their own.
THE four-stroke outboard on the Zodiac being driven by Mark Murphy was blasting water out of its jet drive. The current was running stronger every few feet, but the powerful engine was propelling the craft forward in spite of the strong stream running against the bow. To the middle of the inflatable, Hali Kasim was unscrewing the tubular metal top that supported a canvas sun awning and the electronics sensors to gain a few feet of needed clearance. Finishing the job, he stacked the last of the pipes inside the Zodiac and turned to Murphy.
“Maximum headroom,” he said. “Now hit the gas. If we don’t meet up with the other team and tow them out of here soon, we’re all going to be swimming.”
Murphy advanced the throttle and steered around a bend. For lights he used a handheld spotlight; for navigation, a portable GPS unit held between his knees. “Find the air horn,” Murphy said to Kasim. “I have a feeling we’ll need it soon.”
SHEETS of rain washed from east to west as Rick Barrett steered the Scarab close to the southernmost strip of man-made land that comprised the Macau airport. Barrett was wearing a bright yellow rain suit that should have made him stand out, but in the dark of night and the pouring rain, he and the Scarab were virtually invisible. He listened for a sound in his earpiece but heard only static.
Scanning the shoreline with a pair of night-vision binoculars, he began to fear the worst.
“WHAT do you mean?” Po shouted in anger.
The head of the Macau Public Works Department was far from happy himself. He’d been awakened from a sound sleep and ordered to make his way to his office to locate the blueprints of the storm sewer system. Once there, he had been unable to find the documents.
“I mean that they are gone,” the man told Po. “Deleted from the computers, and the hard copies removed from the office.”
“Are you certain?” Po asked.
“I have had the entire night shift searching,” the man said. “Nothing is left.”
“So we have no way to know for certain where the water exits into the bay?” Po asked.
“We don’t have a map of it,” the man agreed, “but there is one way to tell.”
“Well,” Po said, “how?”
“Pour some dye into a drain,” the man said. “Then see where it goes.”
Po turned to one of the patrolmen nearby. “Find a hardware store,” he said quickly, “and buy me a dozen gallons of paint.”
Then he stared down the manhole. There was no use entering the maze; the rats would be flushed from the hole by the water, and, when they were, Po would be waiting. He smiled at the thought, but failed to notice a man standing some ten feet distant in the entryway of an all-night café. The man touched his ear to adjust his earpiece, then walked inside the restaurant.
THE billionaire slid the Chevrolet into park. There was really no other choice. To his front, three police cars were blocking the road. The officers were standing behind their vehicles with pistols drawn. To the rear were more cars and an armored personnel carrier that was being used as a temporary command post. Inside the APC, Sung Rhee peered through a gun port at the stopped truck. Reaching for a microphone, he spoke over the P.A. system.
“You are surrounded,” he said. “Step slowly from the vehicle with your hands above your head.”
Then he turned to one of the officers driving the APC. “Light him with the spotlight.”
The man flicked a switch and a four-million-candlelight-powered spotlight turned night into day. Rhee watched as the driver’s door slowly opened. Then a man dressed entirely in black stepped onto the wet pavement and took a few steps away from the truck.
“Stop,” Rhee ordered.
The man stopped dead in his tracks.
“Keep your hands in the air,” Rhee ordered. “If you are the only occupant of the vehicle, wave your left arm slowly.”
The man’s left arm moved back and forth.
“Take six steps into the direction of the light.”
The man complied.
“Now lay down knees-first, then belly-down, on the road.”
The man eased himself down until his entire body was prone on the wet road.
“Two officers forward,” Rhee said, “and restrain the suspect.”
A pair of officers approached from behind the police cars to the front and slowly made their way over to the man. With one covering, the other man bent down and handcuffed the suspect’s hands behind his back. Then he yanked him to his feet.
“I’m an American,” the billionaire said, “and I demand to see the ambassador.”
Rhee waited as the rear door of the APC was lowered, then he stepped out into the rain and walked over to the Chevrolet. After first flashing a light inside to verify the other seats were empty, he scanned the rear storage area and caught sight of the Buddha. Flipping open the rear gate, he glanced at the six-foot-tall chunk of gold. Then he reached for his cell phone.
THE limousine carrying Hanley was just pulling up in front of the Oregon. “Wipe it carefully and get rid of it,” he said to Crabtree. “You come with me.”
Spenser followed Hanley as he bounded up the gangplank. Once on the deck of the ship, he motioned for Spenser to follow him inside and started in the direction of the control room. Opening the door, he nodded at Eric Stone.
“Call for a guard for Spenser here.”
Stone spoke over a microphone.
“Where’s the chairman?” Hanley said next.
Stone pointed to a screen that showed a flashing light almost at the end of the airport island and a second separate light a few yards distant. “There,” Stone said, pointing. “The other is Barrett doing extraction.”