by Sam Masters
The bad news is that he can’t call anyone and no one can call him.
Until he gets clearance from Stevens, he’s unable to communicate with either Jenny or Zoe, the only two people who really matter to him.
Just after midnight he completes the setup and celebrates with a grilled cheese sandwich and a cold beer. Then he turns in before he collapses from stress and tiredness.
He’s asleep within seconds of hitting the sack.
In his dreams he hears the click of his finger on the trigger. The explosion. The zip of air. The dull thud of bullet through clothing. The muffled agony. The tumble down the wooden stairs.
Danny wakes in a sweat.
He’s soaked. It’s like he’s showered in wet salt.
He swings his legs out of the strange bed and pads into the kitchen to get some water.
There’s a bleep.
And another.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
It’s his computer. Sending out an alert.
He rushes to the back room to check.
Jackpot.
He’s found it again.
He’s back on the tail of the elusive code.
124
North Korea
Hao is completing his final tasks when Dr. Chi and Tāo return.
The army issue pistol is in his hand, the door to the metal cabinet still open and a suicide note on his desk.
Chi looks at him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
He slides the safety catch back on the gun and avoids the question. “How is Péng?”
The doctor’s eyes answer before he does. “Critical. They have given him morphine.” He glances toward young Tāo and then back to Hao. “He will die peacefully.” He looks distressed. “I have no idea what is wrong with him.”
“He’s been poisoned.” Hao sees no point pretending any more. “He was bitten by the dog and it secreted a neurotoxin into his blood stream.”
“Neurotoxin?”
“Tetrodotoxin.”
Chi looks confused. “How?”
Hao doesn’t have the strength of spirit to explain in full. “There was a new batch of microchips sent for implanting. They contained a different serum. One that had been adjusted so it converted the dogs’ saliva into something toxic.”
Tāo steps closer to the two men. “What does this mean?”
“It means we cannot continue. I came here in the name of peace. To create a way to protect our country, not to attack others. I am shutting down the program.”
Chi rushes him.
Hao is caught unawares and the gun goes off.
The doctor lets out a primeval cry and falls to his knees.
Blood is pumping over his white medical coat, surfacing like a giant poppy from the middle of his stomach.
Hao is traumatized by what he’s done. His eyes are glued to Chi, who is already going into shock.
The doctor slumps sideways, cracking his head on the tiled floor. His eyes and mouth are splayed open.
Tāo is crouched in the corner of the room. His back is against the wall and he too looks shocked.
Then Hao sees why.
The bullet has passed straight through Chi and hit the youngster.
“Oh no. Tāo. Tāo.” He rushes to him.
The researcher is holding his chest, and it’s instantly clear that the shot went up through Chi and caught him in the worst possible place.
Hao puts his arms around him and guides him to the floor.
“Don’t—let—me—die.” Tāo’s eyes are filled with pain and fear. “I—don’t want—to—die—”
“It’s okay,” lies Hao. “You’ll be okay.” He leans over him and takes his hand. “Lie still, don’t tense up.”
He feels Tāo grip his fingers. Grip hard. Then slacken.
The boy lets out a splutter and his body spasms.
He’s gone.
Hao stands up and looks at the blood on the white floor. Looks at the two crumpled bodies. And he looks at the gun.
He’d meant to shoot himself. An honorable end to the dishonor he’d been tricked into. He’d planned to end it all with just a single bullet, and instead that one shot has killed two innocent people.
He sits in his chair and raises the weapon. His eyes take in one last look of his office. A lab coat of Jihai’s behind the door, a photograph of him on the wall, and the dead bodies of Chi and Tāo.
As he slides the cold barrel into his mouth he has a final thought.
One that might just save his son’s life.
125
Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami
The last thing Ghost notices is the rhythmic beep of the life support machines and the dull green glow of lights on the other side of Zoe’s bed.
After that sleep comes.
It scoops him up and transports him to an unblemished land of parks and rivers. The sun is golden and a cool wind blows Zoe’s dress tight to her body as they walk the banks of a river and decide where to sit.
The click of the door handle wakes him.
A big male figure stands in the frame, bright corridor lights burning in the background.
“Lieutenant Walton?”
He peers out from the shade and reaches for the sunglasses he put on a bedside cabinet. “Yeah.”
The man steps into the small room and takes a pace to one side. “Stand for the President of the United States.”
Ghost isn’t together enough to make sense of what’s happening and he’s still sitting and staring when Clint Molton walks in.
Now he tries to get up.
“Mr. President.”
Molton waves him back down. “Sit. I need to do the same.” He pulls over a chair near the door and turns to the protection officer who walked in before him. “We’re fine; you can leave us, thanks. I’m in no danger from this man.”
As they’re talking, Ghost can’t help but listen for the machines and look across at the dials and monitors. He doesn’t understand the readings but their positions and sounds are familiar, and familiar means good. He glances at his watch.
Ten past midnight.
He’s sitting with the President at ten past midnight.
Molton waits patiently for him to finish his scanning of the screens then smiles. “This your lady?”
“I hope so.” He remembers his manners and belatedly adds, “Sir.”
“Forget the formalities. How’s she doin’?”
“Not so well.” He looks across at Zoe’s pale motionless face, the mask that’s helping her breathe, and the tubes and drips that are keeping her alive. “But they say she’s stable.”
“That’s good. She’ll be okay.” He puts his hands on his knees and looks across at her as though she were one of his own family. Then he turns back to Ghost. “My sister got hit by a bus, under the Loop in Chicago. Spent two days in a coma. My mama sat there every minute worrying. Soon as I walked in the room I knew Connie was going to pull through. She did. Recovered just fine. I know your lady’s going to do the same.”
“I hope you’re right, sir.” He can’t help but add the formality. “But I guess you didn’t come here at this time to discuss patient welfare.”
Molton nods. “In a way I did.” He’s been carrying something in his hand, something chunky wrapped in a plastic bag and rolled short and tight. He pulls it up and hands it over. “This is yours, I believe. Your badge and gun. I was at your station house talking to your captain and I asked to see the guy who ducked out of a video date with me—”
Ghost starts to explain, “I’m sorry, I—”
“No need to apologize. I know what you’ve been doing. And how you’ve been doing it. The Vice President and I saw you on TV yesterday—and again today. Forgive my language—you kick ass. You say what you think and you do what you kno
w needs doing. I need ass-kickers like you. I’ve always needed them, now I need them like I’ve never needed them before.” He looks across at Zoe. “She’s in good hands, Lieutenant—the best there is, from what I’m told. Now I need the best of people to help me and America fight the war we’re facing.” He sticks out his right hand. “Will you help me—Lieutenant?”
126
Beijing
Lieutenant General Xue Shi puts the phone down and looks at his notes.
He’s learned from past experiences that bad news is best told quickly.
Such knowledge doesn’t, however, dispel the trepidation he feels as he enters the briefing room for a routine update and prepares to recite the contents of the call to General Zhang and Minister Chunlin.
“I have just heard, General, that Hao Weiwei has killed himself, his son, and the unit doctor as well.”
“What?”
“It is correct. A night patrol found them dead in the laboratory. The doctor and Weiwei’s son had been shot in the body and in the head from close range. Their faces were so badly blown off that guards only recognized them from the name tags on their lab coats. Weiwei had done the same to himself. He’d put a pistol in his mouth and shot himself.”
“Such loss.” Chunlin can’t hide his shock. He’d known the scientist and had thought of him as an admirable man. “What possessed someone as bright and honorable as him to do that?”
“There were factors.” Xue Shi gives Zhang a knowing look.
“Leave us.” The general opens the office door. “Leave us, and speak of this incident to no one.”
The minister feels indignation and anger boil up as he rises from his seat and walks out.
“What did he know?” asks Zhang as Chunlin closes the door. “What brought on this ‘noble’ act? For make no mistake, that is how the idiot scientist will have seen it.”
“He knew about the poison dogs. His suicide note condemned the Nian project as ‘morally reprehensible and beyond the boundaries of evil.’ ”
“He always had such limited vision.”
“The shooting happened just a few hours after one of his team was transferred to the military hospital in a coma and then died.”
“Transferred? Who authorized such a transfer?”
“I don’t know. It should have been me, or you, but I gave no such permission.”
“Then Weiwei faked it.”
Xue Shi completes the picture. “That’s why he was calling us. He was seeking authorization.”
Zhang is anxious to contain any possible damage. “Let us be clear about things. Weiwei acted without authority. He faked your approval and jeopardized our country’s safety. Lose the suicide note. Have it destroyed. Can you trust the commander?”
“Probably not.”
“Then have him and anyone else who saw the note returned to Beijing to report to us. And see to it that they never make it. For the moment, nothing must throw us off course. We cannot have Xian or senior members of the party casting any shadows of doubt over us.”
127
The White House, Washington DC
The security staff patch the encrypted call from the Chinese leader through to Pat Cornwell.
“President Xian, I’m afraid President Molton isn’t in Washington tonight. Can I be of help to you?”
There’s a pause before he answers. “No. When will he be back?”
“It’s the middle of the night here, sir. The President is in Miami and will make an early morning return to the capital. He could call you on the secure line from Air Force One in about four hours, say seven P.M. Beijing time. Would that be suitable?”
There’s a heavy pause before he answers. “Yes. It is suitable.”
“Can I tell him what it’s about, sir?”
The line is already dead.
Cornwell holds the buzzing phone out to demonstrate his surprise to Don Jackson, who’s sitting a few feet away. “And good night to you too, Mr. President.”
Jackson had been listening on a loop. “What do you think he’s going to say to Clint?”
The VP puts the phone back on its cradle. “More threats, I imagine. Might even try to increase their ridiculous demands.”
“Do you think we should call him and wake him?”
Cornwell rubs his tired forehead. “Let the poor bastard have what little sleep he can. He was dead on his legs when he left here.”
“Yeah. Not a good time to be President. I’m going to head to my office and check on how the Army and the National Guard are getting their acts together.”
“I’ll come down and see you later.”
Jackson raises a hand as a goodbye and walks out.
Cornwell settles down to his own to-do list. Come first light he wants police and sheriff’s offices working with military units to hunt down strays across Florida and “dispose” of them. He wants a one-to-one with this freaky new guy that Clint has put in charge at the Florida end of things. And he wants fresh press initiatives to keep the media at bay.
For a short while he zaps across the news channels to see if he’s missed anything and to try to get a feel for the mood of the country.
It’s not good.
Channels are starting to move on from the scene of disaster reporting and are beginning to get more analytical. In turn, the average Joe is starting to ask smarter questions when a microphone is shoved in front of him. The big one is simple: What the hell is going on?
The Vice President wishes he knew.
It’s still dark when he takes a rare cigarette break and downs another espresso. He’s had much more caffeine than his doctor recommends. Too much stress as well.
Standing in the cool courtyard, he reflects on how he’ll be disappointed when Air Force One returns from Florida and he’s no longer calling the shots.
The VP flicks away the low tar butt and ambles back inside, his head still mixing up his personal ambitions to run for the next presidency with the current problems the country is facing.
The idea of secure containment areas for all dogs—or “safe homes,” as Jay Ashton is publicly branding them—was his, not Molton’s. And it’s a smart one. For now, dog owners will have the choice of putting their mutts in containment, but in the next few days, maybe even sooner, the government will make it compulsory. After that, it’s almost inevitable that most, maybe all, of the dogs will have to be destroyed.
Cornwell has already got Ashton and his spin doctors working on some cock-and-bull story about the dogs being infected with a rabieslike virus that justifies the culls. Rabies scares everyone shitless. Just one shout of the word and people will be grabbing shotguns and shooting their own dogs.
Around dawn he wanders down to the Situation Room.
Lights are burning in all the offices and a much bigger watch team than normal is putting together the “Morning Book,” the daily compilation of new reports from intelligence agencies plus diplomatic cables and a summary from the State Department.
Cornwell finds Jackson at the far end with a duty officer and intelligence analyst, working his hand deftly across a state-of-the-art Telestrator. The monitor screen always reminds Cornwell of the one sports commentators use when they draw rings around players and highlight offensive and defensive runs. Only down here, Jackson is working on a mix of 3D maps, live satellite images, and graphic overlays of where attacks have taken place.
“How’s it going, guys?” The VP gives them an encouraging smile as he approaches.
Jackson answers on everyone’s behalf. “We’re just reviewing the implications of the decision to focus our National Guard and hit team resources around the areas where there have been the most damaging or most frequent attacks.”
“And?”
“And we’re not sure the Joint Chiefs have made the right decision.”
“Go on.”
Jackson swipes a finger down the east coast of Florida and leaves a dotted white line on the screen. “Miami keeps getting hit. We’ve had multiple kills at Lummus Park, Jason Schaffer, Flamingo Park, Key Biscayne, Coconut Grove, and South Beach. But not here.” He runs a finger around the Miami city center. “There’s not been so much as a bark in the middle of town, which is why we only have a small patrol allotted to give cover here.” His hand moves up the map. “Same over at Jacksonville. Nothing in the center. There have been no attacks there, and we just have a couple of crews doing watch-and-see deployed here.” He sweeps his hand across to Santa Rosa. “This is countrified. Way, way away from a center of population. And we had deaths here and over in remote places like Merritt Island and Millers Landing.”
Cornwell starts to get the picture. “You believe the big cities are going to be targeted? You think our armed resources are being pulled wide to the rural areas, then they’re going to strike at the centers with a wave of weaponized dogs?”
Jackson takes his hand off the board. “I’m certain of it. The question is not really where they’ll hit us, but when.”
Cornwell sees his point. “Strategically it fits. If I were running an attack campaign, I’d build things up. Smash the small, soft targets during the first stages of political negotiations, then when talks start to disintegrate, hit a densely populated area to prove your power.”
“Exactly. Our problem, sir, as you know from the briefing earlier today, is that we don’t have resources to instantly cover all the areas at risk for all of the time.”
Cornwell winces. “A-fucking-ghanistan. We should have been out of there years ago.”
Jackson doesn’t even mention that his latest intel shows troubles rising there as well. “Which brings us back to our dilemma, Mr. Vice President. Have the Joint Chiefs done the right thing by deploying units to rural areas in preparation for more rural attacks? Or, have they bet wrong? Will the next wave be the big cities? It’s your call—and I’m afraid you have to make it right now.”
“Then we stay as we are. Doubts are always going to raise their heads, Don. We have to learn not to be distracted by them and stick to our guns. The Chiefs thought long and hard about this strategy, so we’re sticking to it.”