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 God,” the billionaire said, “for what I pay for hangar space, 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 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 pass 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.
“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.”
“Damn,” 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 button 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 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.