The China Dogs

by Sam Masters

  “And the vet?”

  “Sandra Teale said she’d try to get in to see you within the hour.”

  “Thanks.” Ghost stands up, “Where’s Mrs. Clabbers?”

  “Interview Three.”

  He nods and heads for the corridor.

  Annie walks with him, Zoe’s pocketbook in her hand. “Are there photographs to go with these notes you gave me?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve uploaded them from Zoe’s camera, you’ll find them on my computer.”

  “Which file?”

  “Just all over the desktop.”

  “Neat,” she says sarcastically as she leaves him and goes back to his office.

  Interview Three is situated just past the overnight detention block. The air down there has been turned fetid by the overnight intake of drunks, druggies, and the homeless. He opens the door to the room and sees Bella Lansing drinking coffee with a gray-haired woman in a black pantsuit who he guesses is the local manager of the county’s animal shelter.

  “Mrs. Clabbers, I’m Lieutenant Walton.” He stretches out a hand.

  “Lieutenant.” She rises a little from her seat, shakes it timidly and sits back down.

  He can see she looks stressed. “Are you okay?”

  Bella answers for her. “Mrs. Clabbers is a little nervous.”

  “No need to be.” Ghost settles in a chair opposite the manager.

  “I’ve never been in a police station before. They are—well—rather intimidating.”

  Ghost smiles reassuringly. Normally he’d spend more time putting her at ease, but today time is in short supply. “Mrs. Clabbers, a woman named Zoe Speed came to see you yesterday. What did she want?”

  “She used your name, actually. Gave me your number, and I called, but you were busy—”

  “You’re not in trouble, Mrs. Clabbers, I just need to know everything that was said between you and Miss Speed.”

  “Right. Well, she was asking questions about Mr. Chen—”

  “Who is?”

  “He’s an assistant at the center. His full name is Li Chen.” She opens the purse on her lap. “I wrote down all his particulars for you—his name, address, phone numbers.” She hands over a slip of paper.

  “Thank you.” Ghost takes it and holds it between them. “Why did you do that? How did you know I’d be so interested in Mr. Chen?”

  She colors and shifts in her seat. “Well, Miss Speed said he had sold some wirehaired pointer pups to the breeders who’d supplied those ladies who died the other night.”

  “Astrid and Heidi Gerber?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “And had he?”

  “I don’t know. Not as far as I know. Though Miss Speed was insistent he had. She said she’d spoken to the breeders and they’d named Li out of the blue.”

  “And that made you think it was possible?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ghost could tell that Monique Clabbers was beginning to have doubts about the man. “How long have you known Mr. Chen?”

  “About eighteen months.” She corrects herself, “No, it’s longer, must be more like two years now. Li and his wife turned up one day and we thought they were looking to take a dog, you know, give it a home. But actually they were volunteering to help.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes, Mingyu is a businesswoman. Very bright. She makes financial contributions to our center but doesn’t do any physical work. Li does, though. He’s very hardworking. He’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “We just want to talk to him.”

  Bella interrupts. “Sorry, how do you spell his wife’s name?”

  “M-I-N-G-Y-U.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ghost continues his questioning, “To be clear, before Li Chen turned up at the center, you didn’t know him at all? There were no personal recommendations or references?”

  “No.”

  “Did you subsequently do any checks on him?”

  She looks embarrassed. “Well, no—there was really no need—I mean, we haven’t been paying him—he’s not on our books—he’s just a volunteer.” A thought hit her, “Is he—you know—” She lowers her voice. “—an illegal?”

  “At the moment there’s no suggestion Mr. Chen has done anything wrong.” Ghost doesn’t mention that so far he’s failed to find any records that even confirm Li Chen exists, let alone is a candidate for deportation. “Is he at work today or should I try him on these numbers you’ve given me?”

  She shifts awkwardly in her seat. “He’s not been at the center for a couple of weeks now. Said he was taking a break, but hasn’t called since he was due back.”

  “Which was when?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “And is that unusual?”

  “Yes. Especially with Li. He’s always so punctual. You can set your clock by him.”

  “Did he say where he was going on vacation?”

  She strains to remember. “No, I don’t think so. Or else I’ve forgotten. I’m afraid I forget a lot more these days than I used to.”

  Ghost reran things in his head. What the woman had just said to him. Notes he’d read in Zoe’s pocketbook. His own half-formed theories on this line of inquiry. “Let me share some of our thoughts and worries with you, Mrs. Clabbers, and see if you can help us get a better idea of what is going on.”

  She sits up attentively.

  “Zoe Speed, the young lady who came to see you, went to the Chens’ home after being at your center.”

  “I know that, I gave her Li’s address.”

  “Well, Miss Speed is now in intensive care after being savaged by dogs at the Bicentennial Park incident yesterday.”

  Clabbers clasps a hand to her mouth.

  “That means there are two close connections between fatal and near fatal dog attack victims, your shelter and this man Li Chen.”

  Clabbers sinks back in her chair.

  Bella reaches across and touches her arm reassuringly.

  “I need you to tell me everything, absolutely everything that Chen and his wife have done for your shelter. Every contact they may have had with dogs, customers, breeders, suppliers. Anything and everything, no matter how inconsequential you think it is.”

  144

  The Oval Office, The White House, Washington DC

  Molton had thought that his day couldn’t get worse.

  It just has.

  He knows it, just from the look on Don Jackson’s face. “What is it, Don?”

  Jackson takes a seat at the edge of the President’s desk and puts down the briefing papers he’s been given by his own watch team. “We’re getting reports of an incident in the DMZ.” He’s unshaven, without a tie, and sounds exhausted. “A defector from the North was shot dead right on the demarcation line. Now the South have his body and won’t give it back.”

  “Any exchange of fire between North and South?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. They did find another body out in the DMZ but it had been dead for some time. In fact it was bagged and tagged.”

  “Excuse me?

  Jackson explains. “It looks like the first man pushed the body across the zone on a gurney and got shot in the process. We’re digging for intel as we speak.”

  “Was the shooter in the DMZ? The South Koreans are going to go crazy if he was.”

  “We think so. The bullet was a 7.92 Mauser that apparently comes from a Zastava sniper rifle, standard issue to the KPA marksmen. It would be accurate up to about a thousand yards, less in strong winds, and last night it was blowing a typhoon. The dead man was way beyond that kind of range when he was cut down.”

  “The implications of all this?”

  “Well, as the Koreans never actually ended their war, the ceasefire of ’53 can disappear in
a blink and the two of them can go at each others’ throats. Just like they did back in ’69 when skirmishes essentially led to an unofficial war that essentially lasted three years and saw hundreds killed, wounded, and captured. Last known shooting incident was a couple of years back when the KPA fired on a South Korean post over at Hwacheon; no one was killed, though.” Jackson slides across the papers that he’d brought with him. “These are briefing notes for when Kim Jong-un calls you, as I’m sure he will.”

  “You can bet a night’s sleep on it.”

  “I’d bet my house before I’d bet any decent sleep.”

  Molton looks at his watch. “I’ve got a live press conference coming up on the Taliban bombing. Can I be sure the press won’t ask me about the DMZ?”

  Jackson nods. “The hacks are good but not that good. This information won’t be on the streets for days. With any luck, never.”

  “They say bad things come in threes.” Molton holds up his fingers, “Dogs, Taliban, and DMZ. Hopefully that’s the lot.”

  145

  Police HQ, Miami

  Urgent calls drag Ghost away from the interrogation of Monique Clabbers. To his pleasant surprise, Antonio Vasquez, his new right-hand man on the presidential task force, seems smart, efficient, and focused. No sooner has he hung up than there’s a call from Cummings’s office for him to “swing by when he has the chance.” It’s an offer he won’t be rushing to take up.

  He’s just about to take another stab at finding Li Chen through dental or medical records when Bella appears at his door. “Come in.”

  She settles quickly. “Clabbers said something interesting.”

  “Go on.”

  “This guy Chen carried out lots of jobs for her, including microchipping the dogs, you know, injecting those little data chips that show the dog name, owner, address, basic info on shots it’s had, etcetera.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean, but so what?”

  “That was my reaction as well. It turns out Chen told Clabbers he and his wife had friends who manufactured the chips and he could get them much cheaper than she was paying through her regular supplier.”

  Ghost didn’t quite see the significance. “But we’re talking data here. As far as I know, dodgy data chips wouldn’t infect a dog and drive it rabid or crazy.”

  “I know. Clabbers said the same thing. Anyway, she’s got a big bag of the chips at the shelter, so I’ve asked for them to be sent here, so we can at least look at them.”

  Ghost thinks about the chips. It’s an unknown quantity, and in his experience the unknown often held the answer to cases he’s been on. “It would be interesting if those chips match ones found in our killer dogs. That really would be a coincidence worth digging into.”

  “Well, here’s a thing . . .” Bella flips over her pocketbook. “Mingyu—Li Chen’s wife—didn’t just give sizable funds to this shelter. According to Clabbers, she was a leading supporter of at least half a dozen other shelters spread across Florida and beyond.”

  Ghost feels his heart bump. “So Chen’s dodgy chips—if they are that—could also have been sent to those shelters as well.”

  146

  East Room, The White House, Washington DC

  The world’s press corps has turned up for the live presidential broadcast.

  Molton speaks for close to five minutes, running the gamut of tones and messages. As he heads to his conclusion, the emphasis is on firmness and revenge.

  “Vice President Cornwell is at this moment flying to Afghanistan. Though Camp Leatherneck is seven thousand miles from our borders, we hold the men and women who serve there near to our hearts and we are deeply saddened by today’s tragedy. My sympathies and those of the American people will be conveyed by Vice President Cornwell, and he will reemphasize to the Afghan government that America’s plans for troop withdrawal, our intention for the Afghan people to police their own peace, and the world’s determination for this sovereign state to write a new page of history will not be destroyed.”

  Jay Ashton steps forward and promises journalists five minutes of Q&A. A forest of hands goes up and he points to a friendly reporter. “Go ahead, Rod.”

  The reporter follows protocol and introduces himself. “Rod Taylor, New York Times. Mr. President, can you tell us more about the size and nature of the bomb, and how it was smuggled into the camp?”

  “To some degree, I can,” says Molton. “Without getting too technical, we understand it was an advanced form of C4, with the type of enhanced velocity usually found in PE4. Some of you may know this is a flexible plastic explosive that can be molded into all shapes and is therefore very easy to conceal. I can’t at the moment tell you how the C4 was detonated. When a full forensic examination has been completed I hope to give you more information.”

  “John Bonham, Washington Post. Mr. President, we conducted a flash poll of our readers today, and 80 percent of them want our troops to come home now. No delays. No waiting. How do you respond to that?”

  “I agree with them. I want our troops to come home now. And I want the British troops to come home now. And more than anyone, the Taliban wants our troops to come home now. Panic withdrawal is not the answer to oppression and tyranny. It is a long-term betrayal of the Afghan people. It is a betrayal of more than a hundred thousand troops who’ve fought there in the name of freedom and human rights. And most of all, it is a betrayal of every single man and woman who has been wounded or laid down their lives trying to create a freer, fairer future for the Afghan people.”

  “Mr. President, Victoria Ashbourne, CNN. Aside from the human cost, in terms of fatalities and injuries, our experts say Operation Enduring Freedom will cost in excess of three trillion dollars by the time we’ve withdrawn from Afghanistan. Will it have been worth it?”

  “What price do your experts put on freedom?”

  The reporter is stumped.

  “I suspect they don’t have an answer either. The citizens of the United States have no time for fancy-mouthed financiers who think a calculator is an instrument to make a moral decision. Freedom is priceless.”

  Ashton scans the sea of hands. “One more question and then we have to wrap things up.” He points to a woman in the front row. “Jane Dockery, Reuters. Mr. President, what’s your message to the families of the American and British troops who died and were injured today?”

  Molton takes a beat. “Your sons and daughters are heroes in the truest sense of the word. They have given their lives for the most honorable and selfless of all causes—the basic human rights of a perfect stranger, someone they’d never even met, to live without fear. They gave their lives so future generations can live—can live and prosper in a far better world. I am proud to be the President of those American heroes, and I know the British Prime Minister will feel the same way about the brave British troops who were injured and killed. And to those who took their lives, to the cowards of the Taliban and their accomplices, I make you this promise. We will find you. No matter how far you run, how remotely you hide or how long it takes us—we will find you and we will make sure you pay the ultimate penalty for your cowardice and criminality.”

  Molton steps back from the microphone and leaves the room.

  Don Jackson catches him as soon as he walks out of public view. “Mr. President, I need a word.”

  “Yes, Don.” He can tell from the director’s face that something is wrong.

  “We’ve just had a call from the British, and we’ve confirmed it with General Sir James Winnet, leader of the British forces in Afghanistan. The Deputy Prime Minister and two senior army officers have been critically injured.”

  “My God, how?”

  “A second attack. An Afghan civilian worker stole a truck, set it on fire, and drove it into the tent where Mr. Pearson was briefing the press corps on the first incident.”

  “Will he pull through?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t know, sir. This is literally breaking news. The Deputy PM has a fractured skull, broken ribs, and collapsed lung. If he dies, it’ll be a major victory for al-Qaeda.”

  147

  Police HQ, Miami

  It’s early afternoon when Ghost gets a call from Zoe’s friend Jude. To his relief, she says she’s catching the next flight back. Her instant and kindly response makes him feel guilty that he’s not at the hospital monitoring Zoe’s every second. It also prompts him to call her brother again.

  There’s still no answer.

  “This is Danny, I’m busy doing other stuff, leave your details after the beep.”

  He wonders what kind of guy doesn’t check his phone for so long. “Danny, this is Lieutenant Walton, Miami Police. I’ve called several times and still need to talk to you about your sister. Ring me back on this cell phone number or you can get me on 305-476-5423. Thanks.”

  He makes a mental note to call the cops in New York City and see if they can trace him.

  The urge to ring Jackson Memorial is too great. He has the direct number on speed dial.

  “ICU.” The female voice sounds busy.

  “Lieutenant Walton, Miami police. I was there last night. Can you give me a condition check on Zoe Speed?”

  The duty sister, Tessa Norton, doesn’t even have to look at her notes. “Unchanged. I’m afraid there’s been no marked improvement and she hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  “Thanks.” He ends the call and tries to clear his mind. He tells himself that everything will turn out okay. Zoe is a fighter. There’s no doubt about that. In that dark world where she’s submerged, she’ll be clawing her way slowly back to the surface, and sometime soon her eyes will open and she’ll gasp for breath without all those tubes and lines and monitors.

  Annie interrupts his thoughts and says Sandra Teale has just been settled in his old office—a corridor away from the Incident Room that’s now become home for the task force.

  When he gets there he finds the forensic vet is wearing a floaty, floral, knee-length sundress and her long dark hair is down to her bronzed shoulders. Ghost can’t help but notice how different she looks than when they met on the beach at Key Biscayne. “Nice to see you out of your forensic whites.”