Golden Buddha by Clive Cussler Page B

the Dalai Lama would take a small plane the rest of the way to Little Lhasa, his exile home in northern India.
    Once the jet reached cruising altitude, Overholt continued the conversation.
    â€œYour father was a friend of mine,” the Dalai Lama said quietly, “so I’ve listened carefully to your proposal. But you have yet to explain how we make the Chinese simply hand back my country. You know I cannot agree to this if there will be bloodshed.”
    â€œThe president feels if we enlist the Russians’ help, the threat of war might make the Chinese back down. Their economy is in a pinch right now—the cost to occupy your country is starting to mount.”
    â€œSo you believe the financial motive is sufficient?” the Dalai Lama asked.
    â€œIt might help if you offered them the Golden Buddha,” Overholt said, saving his silver bullet for the last.
    The Dalai Lama smiled. “Like your father, you are a fine man, Langston, but in this case your information is faulty. The Golden Buddha was stolen when I went into exile. The government-in-exile no longer has it to offer.”
    The sun was finally appearing over the horizon and it illuminated the wings on the Falcon jet in a golden glow. To the rear of the plane a steward was preparing a light breakfast of juice and muffins. The time had come for Overholt to show his hand.
    â€œThe United States has a plan to liberate the Golden Buddha,” he said. “We should have it in a few days.”
    The Dalai Lama’s smile became a grin. “I must say that is very unexpected news. Now I can see why you have flown halfway around the world with me.”
    Overholt smiled and nodded. “So you think the Chinese will accept the icon as payment when combined with the threat of war?”
    The Dalai Lama shook his head. “No, my CIA friend, I do not. The true secret of the Golden Buddha is inside…a secret the Chinese would pay dearly for.”

10
    E XITING the bridge, Truitt steered the van through the cloverleaf. The thousand-room Hotel Lisboa and casino was to the right as they drove west on Avenida Dr. Mario Soares. To the right, the Bank of China soared into the air, a pink granite-and-glass structure whose top levels allowed the occupants a view across the border into China.
    â€œFor anticapitalists, they build a nice bank,” Meadows said quietly.
    No one replied; they were enamored with the scenery. Central Macau was a strange mishmash of new and old, European and Asian, traditional and modern. Truitt reached Rua da Praia Grande and turned left.
    â€œFrom what I’m told, this used to be a beautiful drive,” Truitt said, “until construction started on the Nam Van Lakes Reclamation Project.”
    The road was clogged with construction trucks, cement mixers and piles of materials.
    Driving farther, the road became Avenida da Republica and skirted Nam Van Lake.
    â€œThat’s the governor’s residence,” Truitt said, pointing up the hill. “I’m taking us the long way around the tip of the peninsula so you can see the geography. The hill north of the governor’s residence is named Penha. This one on the end is Barra Hill. Our target is between the two, on a street named Estrada da Penha.”
    Angling left on the road, they climbed a rise until the van reached Estrada de D. Joao Paulino. Turning a quick right, they drove a few yards and made another sharp right onto Estrada da Penha, which formed a wavy U shape around the top of the hill until it met back up with Joao Paulino.
    The van passed the bottom of the U and was halfway up the side when Truitt slowed. “Thar she blows.”
    â€œShe” was a mansion, an old elegant structure worthy of a landed family. A tall stone wall encircled the grounds, broken only by a wrought-iron gate and the creeping growth of ivy. Giant, perfectly placed trees, planted generations past, studded the expanse of emerald grass. As the van