by Sam Masters
“What?” She looks distinctly pissed.
“There’s an emergency at the beach on Key Biscayne.”
She gets to her feet. “What kind of emergency?”
He sees no harm in saying. “Some dog has gone crazy. Killed a girl. I don’t think anyone else has been hurt.”
The photojournalist inside her surfaces. “Can I tag along?”
“Not a good idea.” He shoots her a disapproving look as he goes to the counter to settle the check. “There will be enough ghouls down there without me bringing more.” He turns to a small, dark-haired guy in his late fifties. “Muchas gracias, Angelo.”
Zoe stands stunned by the insult.
Walton puts down an extra twenty. “Could you please call a cab for the lady? It shouldn’t cost more than ten to fifteen to get her to her friend’s.”
“Sure. No problem.” Angelo takes the bill and turns to Zoe as he reaches for a phone. “You ready to go now, lady?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” She watches Walton leave without even saying goodbye. “Not big on manners, is he?”
Angelo looks up and smiles as the door bangs shut. “Ghost? Ghost is a perfect gentleman—until you piss him off. Then you’d better watch out.”
11
G20 Meeting, Beijing
The twenty leaders of the largest economies in the world stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the stage of the conference hall. They shake hands vigorously and smile perfectly for the official end of summit photographs.
Between them, they control a staggering eighty percent of the world’s trade. Along with their finance ministers and bank governors, they are what make the world’s businesses tick.
At the center of the shot are the three most powerful men on the planet. Clint Molton, President of the United States; Xian Sheng, head of the People’s Republic of China; and Vladimir Stanislaw, leader of the Government of the Russian Federation.
When the last click of the cameras has been taken, Molton and Xian retire to a guarded side room for a very private discussion.
They settle in soft executive chairs made from caramel-colored leather, and the American gets the niceties out of the way: “Sheryl and I want to thank you again for your wonderful gift. The kids adore the dog. He’s already very much one of the family.”
Xian Sheng seems pleased. “I am very glad to hear this. May you enjoy many years of happiness together.” He looks down at the rich, rigid grain of the heavy mahogany table that separates them and seems to study it for a moment. When he raises his head, the warmth has gone from his eyes. “Mr. President, your words at the close of the summit today gave Chinese people little comfort. Your debt to my country is more than two trillion dollars—and it is rising all the time. Yet all you speak of is the need for more trade and more expansion.”
Molton leans forward. “I hope you understand, we have to generate greater revenues and profit overseas to service our debts. Either that or we face a currency devaluation and further downgrading of our credit status. My words, Mr. Xian, were about ambition and optimism, vital qualities as we all strive for growth.”
“Words are not enough. And the interest you pay on loans is also not enough. We are no longer confident you can settle what you owe.”
Molton leans back in his chair. “The United States has always honored its debts, and always will.”
There is an awkward pause.
The Chinese leader runs his hands slowly over his slick black hair, then delivers the lines he’s been rehearsing for days. “Mr. President—I have a proposition for you. A radical but practical one.”
“I’m always open to offers, sir.”
“China wants to waive your debts. Forget them completely. Treat the money as a real investment in your country and help the United States grow.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Molton smiles diplomatically. “Why do I suspect this isn’t the altruistic offer it seems?”
“In return for our two trillion dollars of loans and the interest payable on them—we want to own ten percent of America.”
Molton smiles—he isn’t sure he’s heard the Chinese leader correctly. “I’m sorry, what exactly do you mean?”
“Think of United States like a company. A company in big trouble. Think of China like an angel investor. Angel gives two trillion dollars to help the troubled company. In return, United States pays us ten percent of all future taxes raised—in perpetuity, forever.”
“I know what in perpetuity means. And the answer is no. The whole idea is as ludicrous and insulting to me as it would be to the American people.” Molton gets to his feet to leave. “Thank you again for your hospitality, here in Beijing. We already have a signed and executed financial arrangement and we intend to honor it, as must the Chinese government.”
Xian doesn’t rise. “Mr. President, United States’s foreign debts are fourteen trillion dollars—that is now bigger than the United States’s annual revenues. China has enough influence in Asia and across the world—especially with our friends in Russia—to control almost half of your debt holders. Maybe more. You should take China’s offer now at ten percent, or in the near future you will be forced to accept a not so generous offer.”
Molton is almost at the door, “What did you just say?” He strides back to the table; fully aware his manners have gone. “Only, I’m really hoping I misheard you, because that sounded a whole lot like a threat to me.”
Xian finally gets to his feet. He stays perfectly calm in the shadow of a man almost twice his size. “It was no threat, Mr. President—it is a promise. We have the power to save your economy or ruin it. You have the power to choose.”
Molton glares at him, then turns and storms out.
The leader of the People’s Republic of China calmly sits again. With a steady hand he pours a glass of water.
Before he finishes his first sip, the door is opened by General Zhang. “It went as I predicted?”
Xian puts his glass down. “Yes, you were right. Molton is deaf to my words and has chosen the path of ultimate actions. You must speak with Director Jackson before he leaves in the morning and intimate what terrible repercussions follow in the President’s wake.”
12
Bill Baggs Park, Miami
By the time Walton gets to the scene, police patrols have sealed off a crescent-shaped area of the beach, south of Cape Florida Park Boulevard. They’ve also closed the park entrances and are searching cars and questioning pedestrians in order to find the owner of the killer dog.
Away from the uniformed cops, two white tents stand out on the now eerily empty sand.
One covers the body of a seventeen-year-old girl just identified as Kathy Morgan, an only child from Richmond Heights out in South Miami.
The other contains the animal that ripped her to pieces.
Walton signs in with a scenes-of-crime officer, passes through the fluttering tape and starts across the beach. A sea breeze tugs his trademark linen suit, and he feels the sun uncomfortably warm on his thin, white hair and his milky, pale skin.
Miami’s blue sky has turned gray and the sea looks slow and sad now, as though it knows what happened and understands it would be wrong to be boisterous at a time like this. Music strikes up in Ghost’s mind. It’s gentler than the Mahler in the Dodge—the achingly painful violin solo at the start of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade with its melancholy flutter of harp strings.
Behind the stylish shades that he almost never removes, his pink pupils scan the scene for clues. He follows the path CSIs have marked across the sand with their iron poles and yellow tape.
The front of the nearest tent opens, and he greets forty-year-old Medical Examiner Gerry Stockman. “Man, this is too beautiful a place to witness an accident as ugly as this.”
“Sure is, Ghost.” Stockman is kitted out in full white Tyvek suit and wears blue rubber gloves—
a testament to his long-standing allergy to latex. “And when you see what’s in here, you may rethink your definition of the word ‘ugly.’ ” He holds back the tent flap. “Look but don’t step in. Forensics hasn’t been here yet.”
The music in the detective’s head is gone now. All he hears is the buzz of flies, drawn to the unexpected feast of violated organs and drying blood. He absorbs the visual brutality, blots up its violence and all the emotional pain he imagines the girl’s family will endure, until the only thing left is the puzzle of what happened. “Where’s the rest of her?”
The M.E. lets the flap fall and points across the sand. “There are flesh and bone fragments spread for twenty to thirty yards, some blood pooling where the dog stopped briefly, and then this mess here, right where it was shot. The thing ripped her limb from limb. Would probably have attacked others if a Ranger hadn’t killed it.”
“Dog shouldn’t have been on the beach in the first place.” Ghost nods toward a sign. “Rangers should have been quicker in acting.”
“Always good to be wise after the event.” Stockman knows the lieutenant of old, Ghost’s lack of tolerance as legendary as his physical appearance. The M.E. takes a slim video camera out of an overall pocket and starts filming. CSIs will shoot comprehensive footage, but he wants his own as well. “The vet is already here. She’s in the other tent.”
Ghost looks out to the waves as he walks away. Sharp lights glint from boats bobbing on the sparkling water. He knows instantly what they are.
Cameras.
When the beaches were shut off, the photojournalists took to the ocean.
Two white-suited CSIs exit the tent he’s heading toward. They open steel cases and unfold sample bags in preparation for the grisly evidence that has to be recovered.
Ghost ducks into the plastic shelter covering the forensic vet.
What he sees stops him in his tracks.
The dog is massive. Much bigger than he’d expected. It has huge legs and a giant square face that looks like it’s been fashioned out of steel.
A plump, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties is on her knees, covered in forensic whites and with a blue mask around her mouth. She looks up at him quizzically. “Sandra Teale, and you are?”
He slides ID out of his jacket, “Lieutenant Walton.”
“You with the Canine Section?”
“No, Special Ops. I’m just the guy in the wrong place at the wrong time—and apparently the one they give all the weird and crappy jobs to.”
She laughs. “Me too.”
He squats alongside her. “Any microchip that will give us the owner’s address?”
“Might well be, but I’ve not had time to run a scanner yet. I’ll do it back at the lab and let you know.”
“Thanks.” He peers quizzically at the animal. “What kind of dog is it?”
“Cross breed—though I’m not sure exactly what has been crossed with what.”
“Mike Tyson and a wolf, by the look of it.”
He dimly recalls a course about dangerous dogs that he attended as a rookie. “That thing has a broad, deep chest and muscular shoulders—aren’t they traits of a pit bull?”
“They are, but this isn’t a pure pit, it’s a mutt. I suspect someone was kenneling pits and then when the breed became regarded as dangerous, they started to cross them with other dogs to try to make them more sellable. It looks part mastiff and part something else—maybe German shepherd.”
Ghost points at a wound. “I need the bullets when you dig them out. Just a formality for when we bring charges.”
“Of course.” Teale puts a gloved finger and thumb around one of the entry holes. “I’ll send the slugs to Ballistics as soon as we get this big guy back to the lab and start our tests.”
“It’s a him?”
“Oh yeah.” She lifts its back leg to prove her point. “Very definitely a him.”
13
Coral Way, Miami
The cab drops Zoe at a small building on a block opposite a Greek restaurant. At the door, she presses a buzzer marked CUNNINGHAM.
A tinny voice squawks out of a wall-mounted Intercom. “Hello.”
“Jude, it’s Zoe.”
There’s a howl of excitement, then the muffled thud of feet descending stairs. The brown front door bursts open and a beaming Jude Cunningham bounces out and smothers her in a hug.
“Let me breathe,” jokes Zoe.
“Wow! I can’t believe you’re actually here.” The chubby blonde looks her over, then stares quizzically at the sidewalk near her feet. “Where’s your baggage?”
“Don’t ask. Probably somewhere in Alaska.”
“Come inside and tell me.” She holds the front door and reveals a tidy hallway leading off to four doors and a short flight of stairs to another four. “I was getting worried—your plane landed hours ago.”
“I know.” Zoe starts the climb. “There was a robbery around the corner and I got caught up in it.”
“Oh my God. Anyone hurt?”
“Only the robber.” As an afterthought she adds, “And my Levi’s. I split them.” She lifts a leg to demonstrate.
“Not a good look, sister.” At the top of the stairs, Jude lets her in through an open door to the left. “Here you are—home away from home, for as long as you like.”
“You might live to regret that.” Zoe stares into a bright open room with white walls and a big window. The floors are bare boards sanded and polished to make them look “olde world.” Fresh flowers stand in a fat-belly glass vase on a junk wood dining table with leather benches either side. “It’s nice. You’ve made it really homey.”
“Thanks.” Jude walks her along a short corridor. “Your room’s through here. Barely big enough to fit a cat let alone swing it—but hey, it’s got a new bed and fresh linen.”
“It looks lovely.” Zoe tries to sound convincing.
“It’ll look a whole lot better when we’ve opened a bottle of wine or two.”
They head into the kitchen laughing, and Zoe checks her watch. “Shoot, I didn’t realize it’s so late. Mind if I call my brother Danny in New York? I’ve been trying all day and we keep missing each other. I promised I’d ring when I settled.”
“Sure, the phone’s by the door.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I still got credit on my cell.” She pulls the phone out of her jeans pocket and dials.
Danny’s three years older but is a constant worry for her. He runs with a bad crowd. Always seems to be up to shady stuff. Never wants to talk about what he’s doing or who he’s doing it for.
Zoe virtually brought him up after the family broke apart. Dad ran off with a younger woman and Mom hit the bottle. Almost overnight Zoe became the anchor of her brother’s life. When she moved to Maryland, she half expected him to trail in her wake. It was a relief that he stayed in NYC to live on his own.
His phone trips to voice mail: “This is Danny, I’m busy doing other stuff, leave your details after the beep.”
“Shit.” She kills the call and puts her hand out for the glass of wine that Jude is offering. “God knows what he’s up to. One day that boy’s gonna get himself in big trouble.”
14
The White House, Washington DC
The press corps is lapping it up. America’s First Lady and her gorgeous kids playing on the White House’s famous Rose Garden lawns with a million-dollar Chinese dog, while President Pop is away in Beijing battling with the Asian business bores.
It’s a classic photo opportunity.
And the dog is a wow as well. The Tibetan mastiff practically poses for shots. Tilts his cute head and shakes his thick double coat of fur as the kids hang onto his big neck and all but ride him.
Sheryl Molton gathers the pet and her two children beside a lectern and microphone to say a final few words before disappearing back
inside. “Thank you all for coming. Emperor, Jack, Jane, and myself all hope you managed to get the pictures that you wanted and had as much fun as we did.”
A reporter raises a hand, and when a press aide gives him the nod, he calls out a double-edged question “Jan Bolz, Modern Dog magazine—can you tell us, has Emperor already had all his shots and been microchipped?”
“He has. The President and I are big believers in animal welfare and owner responsibility. He’s up-to-date on all his inoculations and has been chipped and registered—though, as I’m sure you’ll agree, the chance of us losing him are pretty thin.”
The remark draws laughter from across the lawns and even a smile from the Secret Service men standing guard in their suits and shades.
“Anna Arit, Washington Post. Could you tell us, ma’am, are Asian dogs trickier to tame than American ones?”
There’s laughter at the double entendre before the First Lady even starts to answer.
“In my experience, all dogs are tricky to tame. Ask any wife or mom in the country and if she’s got a dog in her life she’ll tell you they’re always out making a mess somewhere.”
More laughter and a ripple of applause fills the gardens.
“Ian McLoughlin, CNN. How is the President getting along with his new foreign friend? Has he already managed to establish himself as its master?”
Sheryl Molton senses the allusions are getting a little too close for comfort. “Hey, for a start, the President knows there’s only one boss in my house, and I can tell you it’s not him or the dog!” She decides to quit while she’s ahead. “Thanks again, folks, I hope you all have a good day.”
The cameras click like crazy as the First Family and Emperor walk away, waving and smiling in the Washington sunshine.
Once back inside the privacy of the West Wing, Sheryl asks herself the same question, and suspects her husband is having a far more difficult time with President Xian than anyone expects.
15
Downtown, Miami
The distraught faces of Kathy Morgan’s parents are still burned in Ghost’s mind as he drives away from work.