The China Dogs

by Sam Masters

  Ghost finds himself staring at her for the first time. She hadn’t been wearing makeup when they met at the robbery and her hair was scraggy. Now her lightly powdered skin showcases beautiful cheekbones and she looks like a shimmering pixie. “I, er—like to patronize up-and-coming artists.” He waves a hand toward the paintings. “For obvious reasons I tend to go for the more vibrant and unusual works.” He walks her toward a horseshoe of white sofas. “Would you like a drink?”

  “I would. What you got?”

  “I’ve chilled some champagne. Unless you’d prefer something else?”

  “Hard for a girl to say no to champagne.”

  “And you look lovely.” He blurts it out and disappears into the kitchen.

  “Lovely?” She smiles as she weighs up the word. She can’t ever recall being called that before.

  Hot. Sexy. Even beautiful. But never lovely.

  She takes advantage of the fact that he’s not in the room and shouts through to him, “The driver called you Mr. Ghost.”

  “Ah, yeah. Lots of people call me that.”

  “You don’t mind? I thought it was kinda rude.”

  “Stopped minding a very long time back. As a cop you get called a lot worse.”

  While he’s gone she walks to the window and looks out at Miami’s illuminated cityscape. Music starts to seep into the room from hidden speakers, the unmistakable crackle and hiss of an old vinyl record, something classical and smooth that she doesn’t recognize.

  He reappears, looking every inch a high-class waiter as he balances a round silver tray bearing two crystal flutes of champagne on one outstretched hand. “It’s a seven-year-old Taittinger. I visited the vineyard a few years ago and it reminds me of a wonderful French summer.”

  She takes a glass and tastes it. The fizz tingles sensuously across her lips and tongue, then melts in her mouth like a gossamer-thin wafer of honey.

  “Okay?”

  “Very okay.” She lets the flute dangle between her fingers, enjoying the pleasure of its coolness in her warm hand. “So, surprise time is over—where exactly are we going to eat, Lieutenant?”

  “Here,” he says as though he’s already told her. “Well, upstairs, to be precise.”

  23

  Presidential Residence, Beijing

  As the long day draws to a close, Xian Sheng sits alone in the dimmed light of his study and pours a shot of whiskey. It’s a sixty-four-year-old Macallan malt, one of only four hundred in existence, distilled in five sherry butts made from Spanish and American oak and given to him by President Molton as a gesture of friendship, a thank-you for the dog they now call Emperor.

  Around the decanter’s neck is a handwritten message: Everyone eats and drinks, only a few appreciate what they taste. The quotation is apt but incorrect. It comes from the Confucian classic The Doctrine of the Mean and should read: “Everyone eats and drinks: yet only a few appreciate the taste of food.” He sips the liquor and forgives the mistake.

  It is undoubtedly the best malt he has ever tasted.

  Not worth the $60,000 a shot he is told it sometimes sells for, but still exceptionally good.

  As he sips he knows that tomorrow General Zhang will come to him, his ambition shining like a new medal, and demand that he push China closer to war by green-lighting a total deployment of the Project Nian weapons. He has already given the go-ahead for some selective strikes—a show of strength to the Americans—but he realizes it is not enough. Zhang is an all-or-nothing soldier. Crush and conquer the enemy so they can never rebuild, so they live in fear of the victor for the rest of their days.

  But Xian has serious doubts.

  Doubts that this newfound biological warfare can be as widely controllable and effective as he is being told. Doubts that the new arsenal of money and technology is really better than the old one of nuclear missiles and diplomacy. Even the greenest of hunters understands that if you wound a big animal and don’t kill it, then unless you retreat, it will destroy you. And America is a big animal.

  He sips again on the Macallan and thinks about Zhang. He is a great warrior. A distinguished soldier. But he is an untrustworthy brute and a sadist. It would be disastrous for China should he ever realize his dreams of becoming President.

  Then there is the problem of momentum.

  Zhang has momentum.

  Momentum and the backing of powerful members within the party. For him to hesitate now would be seen as a sign of cowardice, not wisdom. Nian has been many years in development and is long past the point when it can be further delayed or once more revised.

  Xian finishes the whiskey and recaps the elegant Lalique decanter. About now the man who gave it to him will be flying out of Beijing, talking with his advisors, trying to make sense of how a visit that was supposed to strengthen ties between nations has instead concluded with grave threats against his people. Threats that are already being enforced.

  On Xian’s desk is a photograph of his family. His wife Suyin and their one child, Umbigo. They are pictured on the slopes of Dragon Bone Hill in Zhoukoudian, one of the oldest and most important places on earth. The area’s ancient caves contain skulls and human remains that date back more than a quarter of a million years.

  History is important to Xian. Reading it, learning from it, making it.

  As he heads to bed he thinks about tomorrow and how historians of the future will judge the momentous decision he is about to make.

  24

  Historic District, Miami

  “Dinner is upstairs?” Zoe takes a sip of champagne and looks untrustingly at Ghost. “That’s a little presumptuous, isn’t it?”

  He smiles at her and puts his own glass down. “I mean on the roof.” He walks toward the patio doors, “Come and have a look.”

  She follows him out onto the large balcony and glances at the glitteringly beautiful view of Miami. Ghost disappears down the side of the terrace and takes a metal spiral up onto a helipad.

  “Wow.” Zoe is pleasantly surprised by a large spread of artificial lawn fringed by potted palms and the sound of music wafting over the rooftop.

  “I called in some favors,” explains the cop.

  At the center of the covered helipad is a round table covered in crisp white linen and cream leather chairs. In the middle of the table is an arrangement of cut white and pink roses and a silver candlestick.

  Zoe laughs as she approaches the laid place settings. “Please tell me this isn’t white china.”

  “Actually it is.” He walks toward her. “Fine bone china from England. Victorian, to be precise.”

  “Bone china? Why is it called that?” She picks up a charger plate and inspects it.

  “Because it’s a kind of porcelain made from about fifty percent bone ash.”

  “Yuk.” She puts the plate down. “What’s the music? I know it’s Liszt but can’t place the movement.”

  “It’s Ayako Shinozaki’s interpretation of Liebesträum.” He pulls back a chair for her and lets her settle before seating himself opposite her. “Would you like something more modern?”

  “No. I’m very happy to sit and drink champagne and listen to harp music on a grassed-over helipad.” She picks up her champagne flute by the delicate spindle, “I toast your wild and beautiful taste.”

  “Here’s to things wild and beautiful—and long may I be around them.” He clinks his glass gently against hers.

  Zoe notices his eyes never leave hers as they toast and drink. His stare is mesmeric but unthreatening.

  A small dark-haired man of about Zoe’s age appears from the stairs and distracts her. He’s wearing a waiter’s white shirt, black vest, black trousers, and is carrying two plates of food.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant.” He smiles at Zoe. “Welcome, ma’am, to the roof of the world. I hope you both enjoy the food.”

  “Thanks
, Benny,” Ghost says, then makes the introductions. “Benny, this is Zoe Speed from New York City via Maryland. Zoe, this is Benny Clark, Miami via Mexico and Los Angeles. Benny normally does pizza delivery but took the night off specially to help out. I’m very grateful Benny.”

  “My pleasure, Detective.” He nods and walks away.

  Ghost waits until he is out of earshot before adding, “Our ‘waiter’ used to run with a bad crowd. Before the pizza job he used to deliver more lucrative takeouts, namely crack and dope. To stay out of prison he turned C.I. Now he runs straighter than a train on the Nullarbor Plain.” He points his fork at her starter of raw fish and vegetables seasoned in spices and marinated in vinegar. “How’s the ceviche?”

  She nods as she chews and listens. “It’s good. Benny is an excellent cook.”

  He doesn’t even think about telling her that Benny can’t boil water and that he’d made both the classic Miami appetizer and the main course of New York strip steaks, marinated for the past three hours in his own unique recipe. “Yes he is, surprisingly so.”

  She takes another sip of champagne. “Do you know what Liebesträum means?”

  “Yes. It’s German. It means Dreams of Love.”

  She listens to the ripple of notes and it makes her think of video she shot of soft summer rain breaking the stillness of a lily strewn pond. “You’re very cultured—for a cop.”

  He laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should. It was meant to be. Cops are supposed to be gritty, earthy, grubby, and hard, but you—you have a gentleness.” She realizes she may have accidentally insulted him. “Hey, I’m not saying you can’t be a tough guy—I mean, I saw you out on the street with the robber and you handled yourself good. I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” He’s amused by her awkwardness. “As a kid I retreated into books and music. Until I became big enough and skilled enough to fight, knowledge was my chosen weapon of self-defense. Still is, given the chance.”

  “So you’re a thinker?”

  “Try to be.”

  “I’m more impulsive. Go with the moment. Roll with how you feel.”

  He leans closer and holds her eyes. “And how do you feel tonight? Out here, with this strange man in the middle of this strange and hopefully pleasant moment?”

  A tingle of excitement runs down her back. “I feel—”

  Her cell phone rings mid-sentence. She looks accusingly at Jude’s borrowed purse hanging over her chair.

  Ghost nods at the bag. “Feel free to take it.”

  She fishes the phone out. It’s jangling rudely with Eminem’s “I Am What I Am” and flashes up a head shot of Danny. “It’s my brother. Excuse me.” She gets up from the table and walks to the edge of the helipad. “Hey, big guy, I’m out on a date. Can I call you back?”

  “Tonight, or in the morning?” He sounds bored.

  It’s a simple question but one that suddenly fills her with panic. It presumes she might be staying the night. A few hours ago, steamy, one-night-stand sex is exactly what she had in mind. But now it seems a bad idea.

  There’s a danger she might get to like this guy. Like him more than she should.

  Staying the night would be a disaster.

  For both of them.

  Come to think of it, staying a moment longer could be a big mistake. “No, Danny, it’s okay. I can talk now.”

  “Hey, it’s not urgent. Later or tomorrow would be fine.”

  She turns around to look at Ghost as she raises her voice in faked alarm. “Oh my God, you poor thing. Listen, don’t worry, I’ll leave now and call you when I’m back at Jude’s. Don’t worry, we can sort it out.”

  She clicks off the phone before her brother can answer and walks back to the table. “I’m real sorry, but I’ve got to go.” She braces herself for the lie. “My brother has problems with depression and I really need to go somewhere private and talk him through it.”

  Ghost takes a beat and looks her over.

  “Sorry, he’s been like this since he was a kid.” She gives a what-else-can-I-do shrug.

  “There’s an office downstairs. You can call from there and I’ll have Benny keep your food warm.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better go.”

  He gets up from his seat and follows her across the helipad. “What did I do wrong, Zoe?” He catches up with her by the stairs. “Did all this freak you out? Did I go too much over the top?”

  “No. No. Not at all. It was—lovely.”

  “Then why are you running off ?”

  “My brother really—”

  He puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t. Please, don’t. I spend all my days being lied to, I can spot one miles away.”

  She gives up her excuse. “It’s me. I’m no good with relationships, and all this fuss, well—it all spells out the fact that you’re the kind of guy who is going to want a relationship.”

  “You’re wrong—”

  She forces out a goodbye smile. “Honestly, I’m doing you a favor by going.”

  He stands between her and the steps. “No you’re not. You’re trying to leave for the reason I was trying not to call you back.”

  The remark throws her. “Which is?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. There’s some kind of connection.” He tries to read her body language but can’t help but be distracted by how beautiful she is. There’s a brightness in her eyes and a sense of vitality that he’s never noticed in any other woman. “It’s not physical, Zoe—it’s more than that. I find you ­fascinating—complex—intriguing and—”

  “Lovely?”

  “Yes, lovely.” He laughs. “But that wasn’t what I was going to say. I was going to say, unique. And I love unique.”

  She steps close to him. Close enough to vaporize the air between them. “If I stay, I’ll break your heart.”

  He takes her face in his hands. “Albino hearts are extraordinarily strong. I’ll take the risk.”

  Zoe doesn’t blink or look away as she kisses him. Softly, then firmly. It doesn’t only feel as unhurried and as exciting as she’d hoped, it feels perfect. Heart-racingly dangerous and yet sure and protective. Like it is the kiss she’s always been searching for.

  25

  North Korea

  Across the 38th parallel runs a corridor of earth 150 miles long and less than three wide.

  It’s all that separates North and South Korea.

  The soldiers staring down gun barrels at each other know this godforsaken patch of space as the DMZ—the Demilitarized Zone.

  It has split the peninsula since a cease-fire in the Korean War half a century ago, and technically the two sides could resume fighting at any moment, as was borne out in 2013 over the North’s repeated nuclear missile testing.

  The DMZ is a bizarre strip of land that contains a village or two, land mines, guards, and regular tourist trips to the Military Arbitration Commission building where the cease-fire was hammered out and where both sides still meet on an almost daily basis to settle operational problems relating to the neutral turf.

  Beneath their feet, and beyond the DMZ, are more than a thousand secret bunkers. Some contain KN-08 missiles and the first of the country’s truly functional ICBMs. Others are merely dummy silos, serving no purpose except to distract America and NATO. Many are filled to the brim with military equipment, arms, and uniforms ready to be picked up in a war against the West or South Korea.

  But a small number—hundreds of feet underground—house the laboratories and test center of Project Nian, a top secret operation started by the North Koreans, sponsored by the Chinese, and for the past six months personally overseen by China’s top scientist, Hao Weiwei.

  A gifted geneticist and loyal Communist Party activist, Hao has dedicated his life and learning to his homeland. Three years ago he and other l
eading geneticists were drafted into the project to help create the “enemy within.” Six months ago, as the final stage approached, he and his team moved to North Korea and spend all their working lives in these bunkers. Only the Chinese scientist and his son have swipe-card access to all rooms and clearance to the world aboveground.

  Hao Weiwei and his son Jihai trundle the sedated dogs through the muted light of the reinforced tunnels in to the ultrasecure testing room with its sterile cells. Each of them is pushing an identical, electrically assisted rolling cage. It’s a cell on wheels, made of iron bars stretching nine feet long by six wide and six high. The cages are the same but the dogs about as different as can be.

  In Jihai’s cage is a shih tzu, a delicate breed much loved by the Ming Dynasty. It’s a tiny, silky dog that weighs just eleven pounds and at a cute stretch is barely eleven inches from paw to shoulder.

  In Hao’s cage is an American pit bull terrier, a seventy-eight-pound slab of fighting muscle that is twice as big as the Chinese breed.

  The two men are met by Péng and research assistant Tāo. They help them maneuver the containers through an air-lock antechamber into the testing room’s central containment area—a giant glass-walled cube that can be used as one large, open area, or divided into separate observation and experimentation cells.

  The scientists slide the sleeping animals out of the cages and leave them side by side in a single cell, before they withdraw to the other side of the testing cube and lock them in.

  Hao turns to his son. “Are all checks complete?”

  Jihai has been diligent. As always. “Blood count. DNA profile. Calcium levels. Protein readings. All have been entered into the computer, sir.” He never calls him Father, not unless they are alone and off work.

  “Good.” Hao is pleased. One day the boy will make a very fine scientist. Perhaps even his successor.

  Audio speakers on the outside of the containment cell crackle and hiss into life. Supersensitive microphones gather the dogs’ sounds. Whispery breaths from the shih tzu. Heavy snorts from the pit bull.

  The tiny dog is the first to start to wake.