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〃Is that the bisque？〃 she asked。
〃Yes； ma'am；〃 the Chinese chef answered。
Strutting over to the stove； she removed the lid and smelled。 〃Spoon； please。〃
The chef handed her a spoon and she tasted the soup。
〃Seems light on the lobster；〃 she said。
〃I'll add more；〃 the chef said。
〃Good； good；〃 Ross said。 〃If Mr。 Ho needs me； I'll be out back。 Let me know when you bake the first shrimp puffsI want to sample them。〃
〃Very good；〃 the chef said as Ross headed through the rear door leading to the grounds。
As soon as she was spotted leaving the house； the caterer in charge of the libations walked toward her。 He paused and stared。
〃You look particularly lovely today； Miss Iselda；〃 he said。
〃Flattery will get you zilch；〃 Ross said。 〃Do you have everything ready？〃
〃Except for that one thing we spoke about yesterday；〃 the caterer said。
Damn； Ross thought。
〃What thing？〃 Ross said。 〃I can't be expected to remember everything。〃
〃The glacier ice；〃 the caterer said。 〃It will be here in another hour or so。〃
〃Good； good；〃 Ross said。 〃Now make sure all the glassware is polished。〃
She hurried away to where a chef with an electric chain saw was cutting an ice sculpture。
The caterer shook his head at the exchange。 Her demeanor was the same； but the caterer could swear that the mole on Iselda's cheek was a few inches lower。 He banished the thought and went to check the glasses。
Ross crushed her cigarette out under her high heel。 Her head was spinning from all the smoking； and she paused and took a few deep breaths。 〃More detail on the wings；〃 she said to the chef； who nodded and continued working。 A tall man walked past carrying several stacked chairs。 He smiled and winked。
High in a hickory tree on the property； a Corporation employee dressed in a ghillie suit that blended into the leaves keyed a microphone and spoke。
〃Linda's in and working；〃 he said quietly。
STANLEY HO WAS standing in his top…floor office staring down at the party preparations。 He had seen Iselda walk onto the yard； but the last thing he wanted to do was talk to her。 The butch Portuguese woman annoyed Hoshe was good at what she did； but she took herself much too seriously。 This was a party； after all； not a Broadway musical。 From past experience； Ho realized that a few hours from now most of the guests he had invited would be so inebriated that if he served rat as an entree； most wouldn't even notice。
Ho was more concerned by the insurance adjuster who was due to arrive。
That and the fact that on the history of the Golden Buddha he had missioned； the historian had noted that the icon supposedly had a secret storage partment Ho had yet to find。 It was a minor detail； but it bugged him nonetheless。 The insurance adjuster was apparently an expert in ancient Asian art。 Ho figured he'd question him when he arrived and see if he could supply the answer。
If not； Spenser would be here soon and Ho could ask him about it。
RICHARD TRUITT DROVE the rental car carefully up Praia Grande JL Vjo the gate of the mansion； then stopped。 Rolling down the window； he handed the guard his invitation。
〃Let me call the house；〃 the guard said。
Dialing Ho's extension； the guard waited。
〃Mr。 Ho；〃 the guard said； 〃there's a Mr。 Samuelson from the insurance pany here。〃
That wasn't who he'd been dealing with； Ho thought。
〃Go ahead and let him in；〃 Ho said； 〃and have him wait downstairs。〃
Then he hung up and dialed another number。
〃Go on in；〃 the guard said。 〃Park by the garage and wait downstairs。〃
Ho tapped his finger on the desk while the telephone rang。
〃Lassiter residence；〃 a voice with a Cantonese accent answered。
〃This is Stanley Ho。 Is Mr。 Lassiter available？〃
〃Mr。 Lassiter sick；〃 the voice said。 〃Doctor ing soon。〃
〃Did he leave any message if I called？〃 Ho asked。
〃Hold on；〃 the voice said。
Ho waited a few minutes； then a croaking voice came on the line。
〃Sorry； old bean；〃 the voice sputtered； 〃I've taken ill。 A Mr。 Samuelson from our main office was in town。 He'll keep the appointment as scheduled。〃
Lassiter didn't sound anything like himself； Ho thought。 Whatever he'd caught sounded serious。 〃He's here now；〃 Ho said。
〃Don't worry； Mr。 Ho；〃 the voice said； hacking； 〃he's very knowledgeable； an expert on ancient Asian art。〃
〃I hope you feel better soon；〃 Ho said。
The sound of a phlegmy coughing fit erupted that lasted for almost a minute。
〃Me； too；〃 the voice said； 〃and I hope I can view the Golden Buddha very soon。〃
Ho hung up the telephone and rose to walk downstairs。
On the Oregon； the operator disconnected the line and turned to the man who had portrayed Lassiter。
〃For a chef；〃 he said quietly； 〃you make a hell of a spy。〃
WINSTON SPENSER WAS not wired for a life of crime and deceit。 At this instant； he was vomiting into the toilet in his hotel room。 Someone might argue it was all the booze from the night before； but in fact it was the tension that was ripping his guts apart。 The tension that es from living a lie； from being wrapped in deceit； from doing what one knows is wrong。 By now there was nothing but bile risingany food he had ingested was long gone； any liquor left was in his pores。
Spenser reached up； grabbed a hand towel； then wiped the corners of his mouth。
Rising from the floor； he stared at his image in the mirror。 His eyes were red and bloodshot and his skin pallor a ghastly gray。 The tension he was feeling was revealed by the muscles in his face。 They twitched and popped like a kernel of popcorn in a sizzling pan。 He reached up to dab a tear from the corner of his left eye； but his hand was shaking。
He supported one hand with the other and finished the task。 Then he climbed into the shower to try and sweat out the fear。
RICHARD TRUITT STOOD in the living room； waiting。 He stared around the room and tried to form a picture of his target。 If Truitt was to guess； he figured the man who resided here was self…made and had only recently bee affluent。 He based this judgment on the furnishings and general decor。 The pieces in the room were expensive enough； they just had no soul。 And they were arranged in a fashion favoring flash over fort。 The possessions of old money always contained a storythe story Truitt was seeing was of objects bought in bulk to fill a space and give a picture of the occupant that was neither real nor imaginative。
There was a stuffed lion； but Truitt doubted the owner had stalked and shot the animal himself。 A few paintings from contemporary artists like Picasso； but the paintings were far from the artists' best works。
Truitt imagined they had been bought for image value。 Guests without foundation or substance would be rightly impressed。 An ancient coat of armor that to Truitt's eye appeared to be a reproduction 。。。 a French Louis XVI…style couch that looked about as fortable to sit on as a bed of nails。
〃Mr。 Samuelson；〃 a voice said from the staircase。
Truitt turned to see who was speaking。
The man was small。 Five and a half feet tall and slight of build。 His hair was jet black and styled like a 1970s California hustler。 The mouth