Free Golden Buddha by Clive Cussler Page A

Golden Buddha will be taken.”
    â€œThat’s a good twist of luck,” Linda Ross said.
    â€œThe entire country’s only seven square miles,” Seng said.
    â€œAre we planning to anchor offshore?” Mark Murphy asked.
    Cabrillo simply nodded.
    â€œThen I need GPS numbers for the entire country,” Murphy noted, “just in case.”
    Another hour would pass as the corporate officers hashed out details.
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    â€œO M,” the man said quietly, “om.”
    The man who would benefit the most from the return of the Golden Buddha had no idea of the maelstrom of activity surrounding him. He was meditating in a tranquil rock garden outside a home in Beverly Hills, California. Now nearing seventy years old, he seemed not to age as did ordinary men. Instead, the passage of time had simply molded him into a more complete human being.
    In 1959, the Chinese forced him to flee his own country for India. In 1989, he’d received the Nobel Peace Prize for his continued work toward the nonviolent freeing of his homeland. In a world where a hundred-year-old house was considered historic, this man was believed to be the fourteenth incarnation of an ancient spiritual leader.
    At this instant, the Dalai Lama was traveling on the winds of his mind back to home.
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    W INSTON Spenser was tired and irritable. He had not had any rest since leaving London, and the dreariness of travel and his age were catching up to him. Once the Citation X had rolled to a stop on the far end of the field, he waited while the pilot made his way to the door and extended the stairs. Then he climbed out. The armored car was only feet away, with the rear doors open. To each side of the vehicle was a guard in black uniform with a holstered weapon. They looked about as friendly as a lynch mob. One of the men approached.
    â€œWhere’s the object?” he asked directly.
    â€œIn a crate inside the main cabin,” Spenser said.
    The man motioned to his partner, who walked over.
    At just that instant, Gunderson climbed down the stairs.
    â€œWho are you?” one of the guards asked.
    â€œI’m the pilot.”
    â€œBack in the cockpit until we’re finished.”
    â€œHey,” Gunderson started to say as the larger of the two men grabbed his arm and shoved him into the cockpit and slammed the door. Then the two men eased the crate onto a roller ramp to the ground. They pushed the crate on the ramp right into the truck. Two men couldn’t lift it. Once it was inside, the truck was pulled forward so they could shut the doors. One of the guards was locking the doors when Gunderson reappeared.
    â€œYou can be sure this will be reported,” he said to the guard.
    But the guard just smiled slightly and walked forward to climb into the passenger seat.
    â€œA-Ma Temple?” the driver said out the window.
    â€œYes,” Spenser said.
    The guard pointed to a dark green Mercedes-Benz limousine parked nearby.
    â€œYou’re supposed to follow us in that.”
    Rolling up the window, the driver placed the armored car in gear and started driving.
    Spenser climbed into the limousine and set off in pursuit.
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    T HE armored car and the limousine carrying Spenser crossed the Macau-Taipa Bridge, went around the cloverleaf, passed the Hotel Lisboa and headed up Infante D. Henrique until the name changed and the road became San Mo La, or the New Road. On the west end of the island, they reached the intersection of Rua das Lorchas and headed south along the waterfront.
    The waterfront was like a scene from an adventure movie. Junks and sampans floated on the water, while the street along the water was crammed with shops displaying everything from plucked chickens to silver opium pipes. Tourists stood snapping pictures while buyers and sellers negotiated prices in the singsong staccato of Cantonese.
    At the fork with Rua do Almirante Sergio, the caravan veered slightly left, drove past the bus