by Sam Masters
The remark touches a nerve with Ghost. “It’d be better if he did it from the morgue—maybe then the whole damned country will know what’s really going on.”
“Enough.” Martinez halts him. “The President has had the cojones to call a State of Emergency and he’s promised us whatever resources we need to make our cities safe. In return, he expects us to step up to the mark, and I expect you to watch your mouth and honor this force when you meet him. Do you understand me, Lieutenant?”
Ghost doesn’t answer. He just stares into the major’s cold blue eyes. Right now he doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to meet the President. Certainly doesn’t want to head up any national initiative with some pen-pusher from Jacksonville.
Cummings tries to defuse the tension. “He understands, don’t you, Ghost?”
“Yeah, I do.” He gets to his feet. “I understand that I’m the wrong man to do this.”
“Sit down,” says Martinez wearily.
Ghost doesn’t stop until he gets to the door. “I have a friend dying in the hospital. She’s destined to be one of the sixty-plus people killed this week. You just made me realize it’s more important that I’m sitting there with her than being here with you.” He looks across to Cummings. “I’m leaving my badge and gun on your secretary’s desk. I’m done. Not just for now. For good.”
111
Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea
The monitor in Hao’s office shows the shih tzu is still in a calm and controlled state, curled up like a ball of silk in the corner of the containment cell.
The pacifying serum has worked perfectly.
The scientist feels a sense of vindication—plus a simmering annoyance that new chips, with new serum, were introduced without his knowledge.
He dials Beijing on an encrypted line and finds that both Zhang and Xue Shi are unavailable to take his call.
Lack of contact with them leads him to realize he’s at a crossroads.
His loyalty to his country and party lie in one direction, while family honor, self-preservation, and the lives of Péng, Tāo, and his son Jihai lie in a different direction.
He sits at his computer, enters the Project Nian database and registers the code that declares the experiment has been completed and the pacifier perfected. He then pulls up various authorization forms that have been previously granted for a variety of purposes. He copies and pastes the signature of General Zhang onto a new document—one that authorizes Péng’s transfer to the military hospital aboveground. He types in security codes and numbers that will come back with only one digit wrong when the guards run them through their systems. It’s the kind of mistake anyone might make. An admin slip-up.
A glitch that might buy valuable time.
Hao prints off a copy and examines it
It isn’t the best forgery in the world.
But it will do.
It will have to.
That and the sight of a dying man with a tube cut into his neck may seem authentic enough even to Korean guards.
The phone on the lab wall buzzes.
He picks it up, knowing it is Jihai.
“Father, where are you?”
Hao takes a deep breath. “I cannot come with you.”
“Father?”
“I will tell you why in a moment, but it is important Chi doesn’t hear. Do you understand me?”
Jihai backs away from the doctor and gurney where Péng is lying. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. Wait at the gatehouse where you are and in a moment the guards there will receive from me the authorization documents you need to go to the military hospital. Once you have Péng inside an emergency room, there is something you must do.”
“What, Father?”
“Remember you promised me that for the next day or so you would do as I ask, without question?”
Jihai is momentarily fazed. “Yes”
“Then listen to me and do not react.”
Jihai turns away, so the others can’t even see his face.
“Everything you said about the dogs was correct. Everything and more. I have the proof. Now this is what you must do. Be clear, Jihai, you must do this—not just for me, but for you and for the eternal good of our name . . .”
112
Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami
When Ghost was a kid he went to Jackson to see specialists. He remembers going to a restroom and getting freaked out by all the cockroaches that swarmed his feet when he sat in a stall.
Twenty years later the place looks spotless but the image remains in his head. He talks to a triage nurse and learns that Zoe is still there. Because he’s with Miami police, she says he can wait in a staff room.
He takes a cup of coffee from a machine and wishes he hadn’t. It tastes like hot water poured on soot. He sits and lets his mind idle. Through the fog of worry comes a memory of the notebook that fell from Zoe’s body as she was wheeled away. He takes it out and looks at it. The first page is marked with today’s date, and then under it he sees the names and home address of Astrid and Heidi Gerber. His first thought is that Zoe was trying to work out where to place the photographs she’d taken at the house, then he sees what looks like a shot list marked Dog.
#30-33: Vaccination
#34-42: Puppy shots
#43: Bill of Sale for pup
The information throws him for a second. He flicks through several other pages and sees references to Breeder, Animal Shelter, and Chens.
For a moment Ghost becomes pure detective. He loses emotional involvement and puts together the jigsaw. Zoe had gone back to the Gerbers’ house and dug into the history of the family and dog. It had taken her from there to the kennel that sold the family their dog and then for some reason to an animal shelter and a place called Chens. He knew Miami intimately and couldn’t think where that might be. He supposed it could be a store or name, but that was equally unfamiliar.
Inevitably, he loses focus and remembers finding Zoe unconscious in the Big Top. The wounds he saw were bad. Severe enough to have killed most people outright. It hits him that someone should be told she’s here in the hospital, fighting for her life.
But who?
Who should he call and what are their numbers?
Ghost starts to realize how little he knows about her.
There’s her friend Jude, but she’s away somewhere. And she has a brother Danny in New York.
Those are the only ones he knows about.
There’ll be numbers for them on her phone, and that’s probably in her clothes, in a pocket. If it was in a purse, then she’s lost it, because she didn’t have one when they put her in the ambulance.
He recalls that she has a father too, but he has no idea where he lives and he knows her mother is dead.
Dead.
The word sticks as it skims across the surface of his mind.
Zoe probably will die.
Given her injuries, it may be the merciful thing.
But he hopes not. Maybe it’s selfish, but he hopes not. More than anything he wants to see her sit up in bed and talk to him. He’ll look after her. Whatever state she’s left in, he’ll take care of her.
Ghost feels like he’s making a promise to God—he’ll give the rest of his life to Zoe if only she’s allowed to live.
He stands up and knocks over the last of the cold coffee at his feet.
There’s a paper towel holder on the wall and he rips out a fold of rough green paper and mops it up. He throws the tissues in a bin marked NO SPIKES and turns on the TV.
President Molton’s face fills the screen and a big caption in the top left corner says LIVE. The President isn’t in the makeshift studio at Miami Police HQ but out at Bicentennial Park, the white canvas of the Big Top flapping behind him.
Ghost can’t stop himself from turning up the so
und.
“My sympathies, those of my administration and the nation at large, go out to everyone who lost loved ones today—be they in the tragedy here at the Bicentennial Park or anywhere across the country. Tonight we pray for their souls and we pray too for the speedy recovery of the many who were injured.” The camera catches Molton’s dark eyes in close-up, and Ghost can see that whatever the man is, whatever his politics, he’s at least sincere in his grief.
“The test of a government and the test of a nation is how we react to tragedies like today and how we work together to try to prevent them from happening again. I believe we must do so with common sense and precautionary planning—not with paranoia and panic. We have always known that dogs can be dangerous, just as we have known that they can be a loving part of our lives.”
The camera shot slowly tightens on Molton as journalists sense he’s moving toward a stronger section of his speech, the part most likely to make their headlines.
“Over the years, America has faced a catalogue of animal-related threats and overcome them all—H5N2 Avian flu, foot and mouth disease, H1N1 Swine flu, and even rabies. I have confidence that our scientists are close to identifying what this new threat is and exactly how we should combat it. In the meantime, we are taking immediate action to eliminate strays from our streets and we will be opening special dog safety shelters in all major cities. These will be secure depositories, where you can safely leave your animals and have them cared for by the state until we are sure we have eliminated any potential risks of them being affected. As I just said, the choice is yours. One in four households in America has a dog, and it is your choice whether you wish that dog to remain with you or to bring it to one of the temporary homes we plan to open within the next twenty-four hours.”
The staff room door opens and a nurse walks in. One he hasn’t seen before.
“Lieutenant Walton?”
He hits mute on the TV. “Yes.”
“Your friend is out of surgery. Dr. Kinsella is just scrubbing up and then she’ll come and speak to you.”
“How is Zoe?”
The young nurse flinches. “As I said, Dr. Kinsella will talk to you.”
113
Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea
The back end of a typhoon is turning into a tropical storm.
Dr. Chi holds the intubation tube in place as they walk Péng’s gurney out of the calm safety of the bunker network into the jaws of the murderous wind.
Jihai and Tāo lean and push.
At first it’s a struggle to keep the blanket from blowing off, then it becomes a battle to stop the gurney itself from blowing over.
Through the stinging rain they make out some of the one million North Korean soldiers who guard the 150 miles of DMZ.
Beyond them, somewhere out there in the gray swirling storm, are half a million South Korean and American troops.
Jihai shouts at an inquisitive guard who has broken from his rigid, storm-defying stance to investigate their presence. “I’ve a sick patient.” Fluttering in his hands are the falsified authorizations that Hao faxed through to the admin post manned by exit guards.
The soldier can barely read them.
He looks first at the injured man, then at the number of personnel authorized to exit, quickly counts and waves them on.
The tempest lashes them.
They bend double and push. It feels like they’re climbing a steep hill while being hosed down by a fire crew.
Soaked and red raw from the biting wind, they reach the guarded blue hut of the medical block.
Jihai steps forward again. The papers his father gave him are now sodden and in danger of tearing. “I am a Chinese scientist, from the research establishment in the bunkers, and I have authorization for my colleague to receive emergency medical treatment in your hospital.”
The guard is a young soldier, not a veteran, but he is not giving in that easily. “Give me the papers and your ID.” He waves a black-gloved hand toward the others. “I need to see all of your IDs.”
Jihai takes his from around his neck, passes it to the guard and rushes back to the gurney. “Give me your IDs cards, quickly. He won’t admit us without them.”
“Ridiculous,” mumbles Chi as he pulls the chained picture ID from around his neck. Tāo collects Péng’s and hands it over with his own.
The guard takes the collective stack from Jihai and walks from person to person checking the photographs. He seems oblivious to the torrential rain.
As soon as he sees Péng’s opened throat, he glances at the picture and shouts to his colleagues to let them through.
The gurney bumps over boards in the entranceway and then leaves long wheel tracks on the corridor.
Everyone sighs with relief at being out of the storm.
Chi checks on Péng.
Jihai and Tāo watch nervously as he takes the pulse and rolls back his eyelids.
“He’s alive,” says the doctor. “But he’s not conscious. He’s in a coma.”
114
Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami
Dr. Rosa Kinsella looks as if she’s worked a day and a half without a break. And that’s because she has. A shortage of staff and a bad road traffic accident stretched rotations to breaking point even before the wave of dog injuries.
After another two hours in surgery, the thirty-six-year-old brunette is still in scrubs as she walks into the staff room to give the waiting policeman the bad news.
Ghost can already read it in her eyes. He gets to his feet and readies himself.
She can tell what he’s expecting. “It’s not that bad. She is still alive—but only just.”
“How ‘just’?”
“Life support just.”
The words leave him hanging. He can’t find the right questions to ask and finds himself sitting down.
Kinsella leans on the wall next to him. “Zoe’s body suffered immense trauma from the multiple bites and she lost a massive amount of blood—about five pints in all. But that’s not the most serious part.” She raises a right hand to the right side of her head. “She suffered a fracture to her skull. Most likely fell hard on the floor or against something and there’s been internal bleeding. The bites alone would be bad. The blood loss from just one of those wounds could kill some people, let alone the complication of the head injury. Put them all together and, well . . .” She deliberately lets the sentence fall away.
“How long?” He takes his tinted glasses off and rubs tired eyes. “How long before her chances disappear of making a full recovery?”
“We’re not there yet.” She tries to sound more positive than she is. “Not by a long way.” She misses a beat as she notices his albinism. “Do you know who Zoe’s next of kin is?”
He realizes she’s being practical rather than insensitive. “She has a father and a brother. I don’t have numbers but I can find them.” He gets to his feet again. “I need her phone. I think it must have been in her clothes.”
“I’ll have one of the nurses look for you. You going to go home now? You look dead on your feet and there’s nothing you can do here. We’ll treat you as her surrogate decision maker and call you if there’s any change.”
“Actually, I’d like to sit with her for a while, if that’s okay? Seems wrong just to walk out of here without seeing her.”
Kinsella nods. The guy’s in love, she thinks. He believes that somehow holding her hand is going to work magic. They all do. Unfortunately, it never works.
115
North Korea
Hao’s words are ringing in Jihai’s ears.
“Run. Escape. Save yourself and tell the world the truth.”
He’d gripped the phone in shock and still feels as dazed now as he did when he left the bunker and entered the eye of the storm.
“Péng is already as good as dead,
and Zhang will kill us all when he discovers we know about the poison dogs.”
The news had rocked his world, thrown him completely out of orbit. He and Péng had been friends since they both learned to speak. Since the death of his mother, Jihai’s only living relative had been his father.
Now he was being told to do something that would mean he’d never see either of them again.
And if he hesitated, then he might be killed.
It was one thing to have suspicions and doubts. But to have them validated and turned into a matter of life, death, and honor was something else.
Now the questions come. The biggest he has ever faced.
Even if he could desert his dying friend—and he’s not sure he can—what about Tāo, and how could they escape?
He forces himself to think.
The DMZ is long but narrow, and the hospital less than a ten minute run into sanctuary in South Korean and American hands. But a million North Korean troops lie between the two points. Could he really evade them?
Others have done it.
Done it for years.
But in a storm like this?
They’d done it in the depths of winter and the height of summer. Done it because they were determined to. Because they had to.
And others have been killed.
Shot down by guards in the lookout towers. Caught on barbed-wire fences and riddled with machine-gun fire.
Jihai tried to stay positive. The smart ones had gotten away. They had headed for the demarcation line, made it to Panmunjom, the abandoned village where the cease-fire was signed, where the JSA—the Joint Security Area—is and, bizarrely in this land of extreme contradictions, where tourists are even bussed in to witness the tension between the only divided country in the world. Or they made it into Daeseong-dong, the only civilian habitation within the southern portion of the DMZ. The military demarcation line lies just a few hundred yards west of the village. While the DMZ is under the administration of the Allied Control Commission, the residents of Daeseong-dong are considered South Korean civilians and subject to South Korean government law.
If he could get there, he’d be safe.
Dr. Chi is talking animatedly to medics. Finally, Péng’s gurney gets wheeled into what passes as an emergency room. From the look on the faces of the Koreans, he suspects that all they are doing is isolating him, making sure that whatever has made him ill doesn’t infect their soldiers.