"That we can do," Ross said, "but people will still be able to use cell phones."

I.

The hours pa.s.sed as the planning continued. The party was less than thirty hours away.

LIKE A WHIRLING dervish, the oracle began to shake and parade about.

The Palace of Exile in India was much smaller than Potala, but it served the same purpose. Home to the Dalai Lama and his advisors, it featured a temple, sleeping rooms and a large stone-floored meeting room, where the Dalai Lama was sitting on a throne chair now, watching.

The oracle was dressed in his ceremonial robes, topped by one of golden silk, its interwoven designs of yellow, green, blue and red encircling a mirror on the chest surrounded by amethyst and turquoise stones. A harness held small flags and banners, and the entire outfit weighed nearly eighty pounds. As soon as the oracle had been dressed and entered a trance, his a.s.sistants had placed a heavy metal-and-leather helmet upon his head and cinched it tight.

Had the aging oracle not been possessed by a spirit outside his own, the weight of the helmet and robes would have been too much for him to bear. Instead, once the oracle reached his deep state, the weight seemed to be lifted and he hopped about like an astronaut walking on the surface of the moon. He exploded in motion. Arms akimbo, he danced like a praying mantis from one side of the room to the other.

Strange guttural sounds radiated from somewhere deep inside his body, while his left hand flashed a heavy silver-plated sword in a figure-eight pattern.

Then he stopped in front of the throne chair and shook his entire body like a dog after a swim.

Once the oracle became motionless, the Dalai Lama spoke.

"Is it time to go home?" he asked.

The oracle spoke in a voice unlike his own. "The Dalai Lama returns, but to a smaller Tibet."

102.

"The oracle explains," the Dalai Lama said.

A backflip, a flapping of arms, a stillness again.

"The north holds the key," the oracle said loudly. "We give the aggressors the land that once held Mongols, then they will go."

"Can we trust the Westerners?" the Dalai Lama asked.

The oracle bent his knees and strutted around in a circle. When facing the Dalai Lama again, he spoke. "We will soon have something they want; our gift of this will help strengthen the friendship. Our power is returning--our home is near."

Then all at once, as if a gust of wind had blown the skeleton from his body, the oracle collapsed on the ground in a heap. His a.s.sistants ran over and untied the helmet, then began to remove the sweat-soaked robes. They began to bathe the oracle with cool water, but it was almost an hour before he opened his eyes again.

o NLINE," THE CORPORATION technician whispered.

On board the Oregon, a radio operator adjusted his receiver.

The sound of a maid came through his headset. He flipped a switch to a recorder, then keyed his microphone.

"Okay," he said, "we're recording."

Climbing down from the tree, the technician gathered up the limbs he had trimmed, then spent the next few hours working on the bushes.

When he had finished the job and loaded the rented truck with the debris, it was just past lunchtime. Walking around to the service entrance, he handed a bill to the manager of the mansion. Then he walked back to the truck and drove away.

Back on the Oregon, the radio operator monitored the conversation in the mansion and made notes on a yellow pad. Nothing much was happening, but that might change at any moment.

104.

105.

BELOWDECKS IN THE Magic Shop, the band was rehearsing. Kevin Nixon motioned for them to stop, then adjusted the control panel.

"All right," he said, "from the top again."

Murphy started strumming his guitar, and the opening bars of the Creedence Clearwater Revival song "Fortunate Son" filled the shop. The rest of the band added their parts. Halpert's voice was surprisingly good.

After being washed through the computer, it was hard to tell his rendition from the original. His moves were good as well--unlike those of most of the band.

Cabrillo on the keyboards came off as Liberace on methamphetamines.

Kasim moved like Buddy Rich in a neck brace. Lincoln was slightly better--he kept his eyes closed and strummed the ba.s.s guitar and managed to tap his foot in time; the problem was that his hands were so large it looked like he was not moving his fingers. Nixon waited until the song was finished.

"It's not bad," he admitted, "but I have some videotapes of live bands and I suggest you men watch them so you can work on your ch.o.r.eography."

Three hours later, the band was as ready as they would ever be.

THIS WAS THE part of her job Iselda loved best--the last-minute nagging details.

She reached in her handbag and found a pack of thin brown cheroots.

Unlike most smokers who stuck to a single brand, Iselda stocked her bag with three or four different kinds. She selected her poison depending on many factors. The aching in her lungs, the rawness of her throat, the amount of nicotine needed for the job. Menthols for that minty fresh buzz; thin cigars when she needed a boost; long, thin, brightly tipped tools when she needed to punctuate a conversation by using the burning sticks like a maestro's baton. She fired up the cheroot and took a drag.

"I specifically requested glacier ice for the c.o.c.ktails," she screamed at the caterer, "not the round highball cubes."

"You asked for both," the caterer said, "but the glacier ice has yet to arrive."

"You'll have it here?" she asked.

"It's in the warehouse, Iselda," the man said patiently. "We didn't want it to melt."

Iselda stared across the tent to where a worker was adjusting the devices that made clouds of smoke from dry ice.

"We need more smoke than that," she shouted, then quickly walked across to the row of machines and began to berate the worker.

After a few minutes of adjustment, the man flipped the machine on again. Clouds of dense, cold gas billowed from the machine, then began to settle on the floor.

"Good, good," Iselda said. "Now make sure we have plenty of dry ice."

A technician was adjusting the light display and she raced in that direction.

ON BOARD THE Oregon, the technician monitoring conversations in the mansion made a note on the yellow pad, then reached for the shipboard communication microphone.

"Chairman Cabrillo," he said, "I think you need to come up here."

THE LIMOUSINE SLOWED outside the gate leading to the runway at the San Jose, California, airport. A guard with a bolstered weapon stood blocking the way. The driver rolled down his window.

"New security regulations," he said. "There's no more driving onto the tarmac."

106.

The software billionaire had rolled down his window as well. This was an unwelcome inconvenience. Intolerable, in fact.

"Wait a minute, now," he shouted from the rear. "We've driven out to my plane for years."

"Not anymore," the guard noted.

"Do you know who I am?" the billionaire said pompously.

"No idea," the guard admitted, "but I do know who I am--I'm the guy that's ordering you to turn away from the gate now."

With nothing else to say, the limousine driver backed up and steered toward the terminal, then parked in front and waited for his employer to climb out. The encounter put his boss in a foul mood and he could hear him muttering as he carried the bags a safe distance behind.

"Good G.o.d," the billionaire said, "for what I pay for hangar s.p.a.ce, you'd think I'd get some service."

As they approached the door leading out to the taxiway, a smattering of expensive jets sat awaiting their owners. There were a trio of Gulfstreams, a Citation or two, a half dozen King Airs, and a single burgundy behemoth that looked like it belonged to a regional airline.

The software billionaire was big on appearances.

If the rich had private jets--he wanted a large one. An airplane that

screamed success and excess like a dog collar made from diamonds. The billionaire's choice was a Boeing 737. The aircraft was fitted with a l single-lane bowling alley, a hot tub and a bedroom bigger than many homes. It was fitted with a large-screen television, advance communications equipment, and a chef trained at the Cordon Bleu. The pair of dancers he had ordered from the service were already aboard. The entertainment for his flight was a California blonde and a redhead who bore a striking resemblance to a young Ann-Margret.

The billionaire wanted some way to pa.s.s the time on the long flight.

He burst through the door leading outside without waiting for his driver with the luggage, then made his way over to the 737. Then he walked up the ramp and inside.

107.

"Ladies," he shouted, "front and center."

Thirteen minutes later, they were airborne.

INSIDE THE OREGON, the technician was entering commands in the computer when Cabrillo opened the door and walked inside.

"What have you got?" he said without preamble.

"Ho just had a telephone conversation with an insurance adjuster who is coming out to the mansion to inspect the Buddha."

"d.a.m.n," Cabrillo said, reaching for the microphone. "Max, you better get up to communications, we've got a problem."

While the technician continued to trace the source of the call, Cabrillo paced the control room.

Hanley arrived a few minutes later. "What is it, Juan?" '

"Ho has an insurance adjuster coming out to inspect the Golden Buddha."

"When?" Hanley asked.

"Four p.m."

The technician hit a b.u.t.ton and a printer spit out a sheet.

"Here's the location of the call, boss," he said. "I have it overlaid on a map of Macau."

"We need to come up with a plan," Cabrillo said, "posthaste."

WINSTON SPENSER WAS juggling chain saws.

Only his long stint as a customer of the bank had earned him an increase on his business line of credit, but the manager had made it clear he wanted the balance paid down in no less than seventy-two hours. His credit cards were at their limits, and calls had already come into his office in London, inquiring about the situation. For all intents and purposes, Spenser was, at this instant, in dire financial straits. As soon as the deal with the billionaire went down, he would be as flush 108 as he had ever dreamed--right now, however, he could not afford an airplane ticket home.

All he had to do tomorrow was remove the Buddha, transfer it to the airport and receive his ill-gotten gain. Then he'd charter a jet and fly off into the sunset with his fortune. By the time his customer in Macau realized he'd been duped, he'd be long gone.

J.

JUAN CABRILLO SAT at the table in his stateroom and studied the folder for the third time.

In nine minutes, the hands of the clock would pa.s.s twelve and it would officially be Good Friday. Game day. There was always a fair amount of luck combined with flexibility when the Corporation launched an operation. The key was to minimize surprises through rigorous planning, and always have a backup plan in place.

At this, the Corporation excelled.

The only problem was the object itself. The Golden Buddha was not a microchip that could be slipped into a pocket or sewn into clothing.

It was a heavy object the size of a man that required effort to move and stealth to conceal. Any way you cut the cake, the movement of the icon would require men and machines to transport it to a safe place.

The mere size and weight of the Golden Buddha made that a condition.

no 111.

Then there were the players themselves. The art dealer, Ho; the people at the party; the Chinese authorities; and now the insurance appraiser.

Any one of them could throw a wrench into the works, and the stakes and timing were such that retreating and regrouping was not an option.

Cabrillo hated operations where a clear path of retreat was not available.

People could be captured, injured or killed when the plan was to execute the operation at all costs. The last time the Corporation had -]

sustained losses was the operation in Hong Kong, where Cabrillo had

lost his leg and others had been killed. Since then, he had consciously

avoided ultra-high-risk a.s.signments. The Golden Buddha a.s.signment i had started out fitting the lower-risk profile, but it was becoming more and more dangerous as time pa.s.sed.

Just pregame jitters, Cabrillo thought as he closed the folder. Sometime tonight, they would have the Buddha and begin the process of transferring it back to the Dalai Lama. A few more days and the Corporation would be cashiered, out of the loop and sailing away to another part of the globe.

WINSTON SPENSER GULPED Glenmorangie whiskey like it was ginger ale.

Spenser's brilliant plan of deceit had hit a speed b.u.mp that had ripped off the oil pan, and now it was leaking its fluid onto the ground.

Ho had called earlier in the evening and his words had been an ice pick to the brain.