Golden Buddha by Clive Cussler

crossed the outer edge of the harbor just after 11 A.M. and picked up the pilot. Several containerized ships leaving port had slowed their progress, and the trip to a mooring buoy in the water just off the main portion of the port had required most of the next hour. The time was just before noon when the vessel was finally secured.
    Cabrillo stood next to Hanley at the helm and stared at the city, which encircled the harbor. The pilot had just left, and he watched the stern of the boat retreating.
    â€œYou don’t think he noticed anything unusual?” Cabrillo asked.
    â€œI think we’re okay,” Hanley answered.
    The Corporation’s previous ship, the Oregon I , had been involved in a sea battle off Hong Kong a few years before, which had resulted in them sinking the Chinese navy vessel Chengdo . If the Chinese officials figured out this was the same crew that had sunk their multimillion-dollar destroyer, they’d all be hung as spies.
    â€œTruitt arranged for us to receive our cover cargo the day after tomorrow,” Cabrillo said, scanning the sheet of paper on a clipboard that listed the operational plans. “You’re going to love this—it’s a load of fireworks bound for Cabo San Lucas.”
    â€œThe Oregon delivering fireworks,” Hanley said quietly. “It seems so fitting.”
    Â 
    T HE executive jet terminal in Honolulu was plush without being ostentatious. It was cool inside, the air conditioning maintaining an even seventy degrees. The smoked-glass windows gave the lobby a clear view of the runways, and Langston Overholt IV passed the time watching a series of private jets appear in the night sky and then touch down and taxi over to the refueling area near private hangars. Overholt never saw the passengers of the jets; they were either met by limousines or large black SUV’s on the tarmac then transferred to their locations, or they stayed aboard while the jets were refueled and continued on their journies. Pilots or copilots came and went—stopping for weather briefings, to use the restrooms, to grab a cup of coffee or a pastry from a pantry to the side of the lobby—but for the most part it was quiet in a mid-evening lull. Overholt rose from the couch, walked over to the pantry and poured a cup of coffee, then was removing a banana from a fruit basket on the table when his telephone vibrated.
    â€œOverholt,” he said quietly.
    â€œSir,” a voice a few thousand miles away said steadily, “tracking reports the target on final approach.”
    â€œThank you,” Overholt said as he disconnected.
    Then he peeled the banana, ate it and walked over to the flight desk. Taking a leather badge cover from the breast pocket of his suit, he flipped it open and handed it to the clerk. The man quickly scanned the golden eagle, then perused the ID card showing Overholt’s picture and title.
    â€œYes, sir,” the clerk said.
    â€œI need to talk to the party on the Falcon you have inbound for landing.”
    The man nodded and reached for a portable radio on his belt. “I’ll notify the ramp and call for a golf cart. Is there anything else you need?”
    Overholt turned and stared out the window. The light mist was turning to rain.
    â€œDo you have an umbrella I can borrow?”
    The clerk was on the radio calling out to the ramp attendants and nodded at Overholt’s request. “You can use mine,” the clerk said, reaching under the counter and handing it across the desk.
    Overholt slipped his hand in his trouser pocket and removed a money clip, then peeled off a fifty. “The CIA would like to buy you dinner tonight,” he said, smiling.
    â€œIs this when you say you were never here?” the clerk said, smiling in turn.
    â€œSomething like that.” Overholt nodded.
    The man pointed to the doors. “Your golf cart is here.”
    Outside the window, the landing lights on the Falcon jet reflected