Free Golden Buddha by Clive Cussler Page B

terminal, then entered the grounds of the A-Ma Temple. The temple was the oldest in Macau, dating from the fourteenth century, and it sat on a densely wooded hill with a view of the water. The complex held a total of five shrines linked by winding pebbled paths. The smell of incense was in the air as Spenser climbed from the limousine and walked to the armored car. At just that instant, someone lit a coil firecracker to chase away the evil spirits. He instinctively ducked, staring up at the driver’s open window.
    â€œYou okay, sir?” the driver asked.
    â€œYes,” Spenser said sheepishly, rising again to his full height. “I need to step inside for a moment. If you will just wait here.”
    The driver nodded and Spenser walked up the path.
    Entering the A-Ma Temple, Spenser walked to a rear room he knew the leader of the monks used as an office, and knocked on the door. The door opened, and a shaven-headed man dressed in a yellow robe stood smiling.
    â€œMr. Spenser,” he said, “you’ve come for your crate.”
    â€œYes,” Spenser said.
    The monk rang a bell and two more monks appeared from another room.
    â€œMr. Spenser is here for the crate I spoke about,” the head monk told them. “He’ll explain what to do.”
    A large donation to the temple had ensured that his decoy would remain here until needed. A well-placed lie would solve the rest.
    â€œI have a gilded Buddha outside I’d like to display for a time,” Spenser said, smiling at the monk. “Do you have a space to put it?”
    â€œCertainly,” the monk said. “Bring it inside.”
    Twenty minutes later the switch had taken place. The Golden Buddha was now hiding in plain sight. Thirty minutes and less than a mile away, the armored car made its final delivery of the day. After the guards were dispatched, Spenser stood with the Macau billionaire, staring at the object.
    â€œIt’s more than I could have hoped for,” the billionaire said.
    But less than you think, Spenser thought. “I’m glad you like it.”
    â€œNow we celebrate,” the billionaire said, smiling.
    Silver platters of delicacies littered the long cherrywood table in the palatial dining room of the man’s estate. Spenser had passed on the monkey meat, as well as the sea urchin, and settled on poultry in a peanut sauce. Still, the spicy side dishes were wreaking havoc with his travel-weary stomach, and he just wished the night would end.
    Spenser sat at the far end of the table, the owner at the head. A total of six concubines were seated, three to a side, in the middle. After a dessert of wild berry mousse, cigars and cognac, the man rose from his seat.
    â€œShall we take a soak, Winston?” he said, “and allow the ladies to do their job?”
    The man had no idea he would possess the faux Golden Buddha for less than a week.
    And Winston Spenser had no way to know he had less than a fortnight to live.

5
    L ANGSTON Overholt IV sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. His hips rested in a tall leather chair sideways to the desk. In his hand was a black racquetball paddle, its handle wrapped with white cloth tape stained by sweat. Slowly and methodically, he hit a black rubber ball two feet in the air and then back down to the racquet. Every fourth hit, he flipped the racquet over to change sides. The rhythmic action helped him think.
    Overholt was thin without being scrawny, more lean and sinewy than bony. One hundred and sixty-five pounds graced his six-foot-one-inch frame, with skin stretched tight over muscles that were long and squared rather than rounded and plump. His face was handsome in a rugged way, rectangular in shape, with hard edges abounding. His hair was blond, with just a touch of gray starting to appear at the temples, and he had it trimmed every two weeks at the CIA barbershop inside the compound.
    Overholt was a runner.
    He’d started the practice as a senior