The China Dogs

by Sam Masters

  A look around tells him that security in here is lax, to say the least. Sick army personnel are in beds, chairs, wards, showers, changing rooms, and there are uniforms and weapons everywhere.

  If he’s going to make his move, he has to make it now.

  116

  Beijing

  The briefing note trembles in President Xian’s hands.

  He puts it down on his office desk and stares at his fingers as though alien creatures have attached themselves to him.

  He’s never been nervous in his life.

  Nothing has ever hit him so hard that he could not control his own body.

  But the note from his intelligence services has done that.

  It’s not so much what it says, but the fact that he has to read of such an important event, rather than be told in person.

  That fact alone means more to him than the event itself.

  It signifies that he is no longer the most important person to tell. The person who must know before anyone else.

  It means his position is not unassailable. And people know it.

  The ones outside his room, waiting to come in, they know it.

  He looks down.

  His hands are shaking even more.

  He presses them on the camphor wood and closes his eyes.

  Now he is walking the slopes of Dragon Bone Hill with his wife and child. The air is cool and fresh. Carried on it are the smells of plum blossom, camellia, and tree peonies. He sees the wonder in young Umbigo’s face and feels the love in Suyin’s hand as she takes his.

  Xian opens his eyes.

  His fingers are still.

  The trembling is gone.

  He holds down a switch on his desk and talks to his secretary. “Show them in. And bring us some tea.”

  The president stands. In his mind he hears the words of Sun Tzu, China’s greatest tactician: Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance.

  The door opens and Zhang enters. A step behind him is Lieutenant Xue Shi.

  “My heroes.” Xian beams warmly and embraces each one in turn. “What incredible victories you are achieving. Sit, sit. Come.” He ushers them to the softly furnished area that is reserved for visiting dignitaries.

  They settle on the plush leather sofas and Xian continues his gushing approval. “So tell me about it. How you managed to get the great bald eagle to bow before the dragon and declare a State of Emergency in Florida.”

  Zhang feels awkward. He’d expected the president to be annoyed. It was the effect he had hoped for. Not this effusive praise. “We have been systematic in the deployment of the Nian dogs. All has gone exactly to my plan.”

  “Our plan, comrade.”

  Zhang concedes the point. “Indeed. Our plan.” He wonders if the president would be so quick to use the plural if he knew the full extent of what the plan was.

  Xian picks up the intelligence briefing. “I shall have this framed. A moment of history.” He puts it down and smooths it out on the desk. “Of course it wasn’t news to me.” He watches his general’s eyes and sees a twitch of tension, the lips press together in annoyance. “Do you know how I knew, Zhang?” He positions his smile just the right side of smugness.

  The general remains silent.

  “The President told me.” Again he sees a twitch in his underling’s eyes. “I believe he is ready to talk.”

  “Did he say as much?”

  Xian raises an eyebrow. “You meant to ask, ‘Did he say as much, Mr. President, sir?’ This chair and my position are not yet yours, so please remember the courtesy I am owed.”

  Zhang dips his head and respectfully acknowledges his mistake.

  Xian continues with his lie. “Molton called me personally. Before his announcement to the American media. I thanked him and he asked if we could come to ‘an accommodation.’ I told him I would think on the matter.”

  General Zhang wants to ask what his president has decided, but to do so will show a swing of power again.

  Silence sprouts and slowly festers between them.

  It’s broken by a knock on the door.

  Xian’s secretary brings in a tray of green tea. No one speaks while it is served. The secretary bows and leaves the room.

  The president picks up his cup. “So let us talk strategically. Outline for me your proposed next moves and I shall decide how best to respond to President Molton.”

  117

  Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami

  The light, the air, the electronic noises and the smells of the hospital bedroom, all give Ghost the creeps. He guesses it goes back to his childhood when he spent so long in clinical waiting rooms and examination suites. He’s never been good at waiting. Boredom multiplied by fear always makes for bad karma.

  He takes a break and retrieves Zoe’s Hasselblad from his car, then grabs hot chocolate from the machine in the hope that it’s more palatable than the coffee. He opens up Zoe’s notebook and tries to match the numbers and descriptions to the thumbnails he pulls up from the camera’s memory chip.

  Ghost is shocked to see the inside of the Gerbers’ house. He knows she didn’t take those pictures last night because she never left the kitchen. He casts his mind back and remembers that this morning, when he asked her what she was going to do with the photographs she’d taken, she answered that if anything she hoped to tell the story of the two women “with some sense of perspective and feeling.” Maybe this was her attempt to do that. She must have charmed her way past the cop on duty, got into the house, and then begun her photographic investigation.

  He breaks from the lists, descriptions, and images to hold her hand and watch the monitors. Zoe’s motionless face depresses him. The thought of losing her is growing more painful by the hour. He kisses her hand and tries to distract himself with her research.

  The combination of camera and notebook prove to be as intriguing as they are revealing. They offer the sequential explanation that Chens is not a town, place, or store. It appears to be a home of a man named Li Chen who worked at a Miami animal shelter and lived near Charles Hadley Park. From the photographs, Ghost sees Zoe is something of a serial housebreaker. Apparently, she got into Chen’s house and took a whole series of shots. There are no other people in the stills and as far as he can make out there is nothing of significance in the photographs.

  The next sequence of shots, taken forty minutes later, is at the dog show. There are close-ups of breeders’ signs. He flicks through and gradually works out that she’s only picked out those concerned with wirehaired pointers.

  The final shots show a pointer on the center stage suddenly savaging its proud owner. Ghost guesses Zoe then forgot about photography and tried to get the hell out of there, or more likely—knowing her—focused on helping other people around her.

  “Hell of a story,” he says to the unconscious woman in front of him. “I just hope you wake up soon, honey, and can fill in those missing gaps.” Ghost turns the camera off and puts it on her nightstand. He grabs a spare pillow from the bottom of her bed, takes her hand again, and settles down for what he suspects is going to be a long wait.

  118

  North Korea

  Jihai walks to the doorway from where Tāo is watching Chi and the Korean medics attend to Péng.

  He touches the young researcher’s arm to get his attention and gives him a clear and firm instruction. “You stay with the doctor. I’m going back to help my father.”

  Tāo nods obediently.

  Jihai walks the corridor and pushes open a door.

  It’s a shower block.

  He can see steam billowing from around a corner and there are hospital gowns, shoes, and clothes everywhere.

  But no uniforms. No weapons.

  There’s a window to the outside world, but even through the frosted glass he can see the verticals of the iron ba
rs.

  There are drains in the floor. But they are far too narrow to fit into and he guesses they simply run waste out into the earth, or into one of many self-contained septic tanks.

  The steam is rising in front of him. It hits the ceiling and then bleeds away. There is no air-conditioning and there are no vents, but the steam is swirling upward.

  Jihai stands on a wooden bench and puts his hand to the big ceiling boards. They are loose.

  Raucous laughter comes from the showers. It sounds like some play fight. He hears three voices, maybe more.

  Jihai’s knowledge of Korean is good and he can make out words.

  They are calling each other names. Fooling around. They’re distracted.

  He stretches and pushes the board.

  It lifts.

  But he’s not tall enough or strong enough to be able to flip it back, find a joist, and haul himself up. If he stacks another bench on top of that, then the men will be suspicious when they come out of the shower.

  He glances around.

  In the far corner there are two toilet stalls. If he went in one of them he could climb on top of the lavatory and might be able to reach the ceiling.

  More laughter spills from the showers.

  But he’d have to cross the soldiers’ line of sight. And then he’d either have to wait until they’d gone or make the climb with the risk of them spotting him.

  A few feet to his left there’s a steel bucket, a mop, some dark cloths, and a long rubber floor wiper for shifting excess water.

  He takes off his white laboratory coat, folds it up and puts it in the bucket. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, grabs the cleaning equipment, takes a deep breath and heads to the stalls.

  His heart is hammering as he comes level with the men. He can feel strange eyes on him, checking him out. Custom dictates that lowly cleaners keep their heads down, show respect for their betters, so he does exactly that.

  One of the men says, “It’s only a cleaner. Don’t worry. Don’t stop. He won’t say anything.”

  Jihai keeps on walking.

  The farthest stall is in the corner.

  He slips inside and turns.

  Through the steam he catches a glimpse of the men. Two of them are kneeling. The third has his hands spread against the wall.

  The last thing they’re paying attention to is him.

  119

  Beijing

  Xian watches Zhang and Xue Shi leave.

  Watches their backs all the way to his door.

  Watches the door close and then listens to their heavy military footsteps fall on the boards of the corridor.

  Only now does he look down.

  His hands are not shaking. But the thunder in his chest tells him that he is coming to the end of his days and shaking or not, power is slipping from his fingers.

  His lie about Molton telephoning him and being ready to talk has only delayed matters. Put off the inevitable. Bought a little time.

  A day or two.

  A week at the most.

  Unless Xian can discredit or remove Zhang within the next seven days, he will find himself out of office and possibly even dead. The world’s press would be given some rubbish about a heart attack, or cancer that had been kept quiet. Few would know how the assassin had struck. Most likely poison. Or a surprise attack by someone who can snap his neck quickly and not leave marks that can’t be covered up by a new uniform for the state funeral.

  If he is to survive, then so too must Molton. And that means they must talk. Even if he initiates the call.

  Xian looks at the secure phone on his desk and wonders if he should pick it up.

  The alternative is unthinkable.

  He’s sure that Zhang is pressing on without the safety net of having pacifying agents to sedate the weaponized dogs.

  Within forty-eight hours Florida will be like an abattoir.

  Then Zhang and Xue Shi will target the major cities. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston, Philadelphia, and Dallas. Finally, he will release the dogs of war in Washington—the seat of government—the ultimate humiliation.

  The phone swims into Xian’s view again and the urge to pick it up is hard to resist.

  But he knows he needs to reflect. Think things through.

  Strategize.

  This, after all, is the beginning of his biggest battle.

  120

  Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea

  Hao Weiwei sits in the cool, white surroundings of his laboratory and feels a sense of loss that he has only known once before. The time his wife died.

  The end is near.

  The end of his work. End of his time as a parent to Jihai.

  End of his life.

  When Zhang and Xue Shi realize that he knows about the poison dogs, they will have no choice but to “remove him” and any others they suspect he may have told.

  They will all be as dead as Péng.

  His fingers pause on the computer keyboard. He’s at the place where he’s worked for the past three years and loyally completed the tasks given him. Now he’s teetering on the brink of what would be regarded as treachery.

  All the tests that he has run have automatically been downloaded onto a main computer in Beijing. He’s sure that at first no one will notice exactly what has happened, but they will eventually. Officials in the intelligence service will have certain alert programs in place, and once that software picks up the data he has run, then all eyes will be on him and his team.

  As he accesses the restricted administration sections of the master computer, he thinks of his only son.

  He remembers holding him for the first time. Struck by how light and tiny he was. How soft his skin felt. How beautiful he smelled. What joy he experienced to have brought life into the world.

  Jihai will go on to be a great scientist. Of that he has no doubt. Which is why Hao is doing what he’s doing.

  And when he’s finished, then he’s going to remove the military pistol from the locked metal cabinet beneath his desk and do the honorable thing.

  121

  Beijing

  Zhang and Xue Shi sit alone in an office adjoining the Operations Room.

  The general’s mood has been black ever since they walked out of the meeting with President Xian. He cracks the knuckles of his fingers as he reflects on the meeting. “The old fool is making one desperate effort to cling to power. I doubt there is truth in his claim that Molton has called him.”

  “I can get Chunlin to check his call records.”

  “We cannot trust Chunlin.” Zhang’s face is dismissive. “No matter. If they haven’t yet spoken, they will. Xian will call Molton and suggest a meeting. It will be his last attempt to get the Americans to accept the deal.”

  “The level of attacks planned for the next twenty-four hours will bring the Molton administration to its knees,” Xue says. “He will be begging to accept.”

  “Have our other friends prepared their surprise?”

  Xue Shi smiles. “They have. Turmoil follows turmoil.”

  Zhang drums his fingers on the table while he thinks. Everything is going according to plan. He can taste victory, but he wants it to be his victory and not Xian’s. “The moment Xian goes to meet Molton is the very instance when he feels strongest—and is therefore at his weakest. As these ‘great leaders’ prepare for diplomacy, we must rattle the sabers of war so loudly that they cannot hear themselves speak.”

  “The second phase dogs?”

  Zhang is pleased by the thought of the havoc they will wreak. “How many of them can be activated?”

  Xue Shi is unsure. “I will need to check. Not that many. Ten, maybe twenty.”

  “And these are on the East Coast?”

  “New York and Washington.”

  “And the pacifier for t
he phase one dogs? Not that I care. I want to know solely in order to keep Xian under the illusion that we are still following his orders.”

  “Weiwei was close. I received a message that he had called, just as I was leaving to join you for the meeting.”

  Zhang stands up and heads for the door. “You need to prepare to close that unit down. Jong Hyun-Su can handle things from here. Don’t leave any loose ends.”

  122

  North Korea

  Jihai takes the bucket and mop with him.

  He slides back the boards, sits in the roof space and listens intently as the men dry and dress.

  Only once do they mention him.

  A man with a deep voice asks, “What happened to the cleaner?”

  There’s a pause and then a lighter voice answers. “His things are gone. I guess he’s left.”

  That’s it. He’s out of their minds. They talk of how hungry they are. How ugly a particular sergeant is and how they’re not looking forward to going back on duty.

  He’s forgotten.

  The door bangs shut and the shower block falls silent.

  Sitting in the dust and dark he thinks of his father and wonders what he’s doing. Whether he is planning his own escape. How he will try to do it.

  Jihai has a simple plan for himself.

  Wait.

  Wait until the black of night joins forces with the storm and he can make allies of them both.

  Wait until the vast number of men on duty falls and much of the camp drifts into sleep.

  Wait for his one slim chance to get out of here alive.

  123

  Breezy Point, New York

  It’s late evening by the time the FedEx van finally arrives with Danny’s new computers, modems, relays, and peripherals.

  Two surly New Yorkers unload them in the hallway, even though he wanted all of it upstairs.

  By the time he’s finished the shifting, he’s glistening like a roasted hog.

  It takes the rest of the night to get everything cabled up and online.

  The only good news is that Brad Stevens has had the house fitted with ultrasecure satellite broadband that has upload and download speeds more than a hundred times faster than anything commercially available.