The China Dogs

by Sam Masters

  He knows she means well. “Home is the last place I want to be. I’m going to make some final calls and then go to the hospital.”

  “Why not call the hospital? You can’t make her better by sitting alongside her, you know. Sitting beside someone is not a form of medical treatment.”

  Ghost smiles. “I know.” He picks up the phone. “One call then I’m going.”

  She nods and leaves him to it.

  The call Ghost makes, however, is not to the hospital but to Sandra Teale.

  The vet recognizes his number and picks up right away. “I was five minutes away from sending you an e-mail.”

  “I have special telepathic powers and thought I’d save you having to write.”

  “Well, your timing is perfect. I have you on speakerphone and I’m peering down the most powerful microscope we have, at one of those chips from the center.”

  He picks up a sense of intrigue in her voice. “Is there something unusual about them?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much so. They’re not data chips at all.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, that’s not technically correct. I should have said they’re not only data chips.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They are drug chips. That is to say, they are filled with tiny reservoirs that are filled with some kind of drug—”

  He jumps in. “That small? You can get drugs into a microchip?”

  “Yes you can. Highly concentrated droplets are kept in separate reservoirs and then released at timed intervals. The technology was developed for seriously ill patients who would be unlikely to remember to take pills at the right times.”

  Ghost makes notes as he fires questions. “What kind of drug is in these chips?”

  “Hey, I’m quick but not that quick. I’ve drawn some of the liquid out but still have to run tests.”

  “Sorry. Have you any idea what it might be? Some kind of vaccination? An antirabies shot?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I haven’t heard of shots being given that way. There’s no rabies alert at the moment. And most of all, these are really sophisticated chips, they’re far too expensive to use on dogs.”

  Ghost falls silent.

  So does Teale. She waits for a question that never comes, then asks, “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m trained to look for the obvious, and then when everything obvious has been ruled out, consider the ridiculous.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That the dogs have been deliberately drugged to enrage them and make them kill. In other words, they’d been effectively weaponized.”

  153

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  The giant conference table is ringed by the rich and unfamous. Powerful men most of the world have never heard about who decide the fortunes of millions.

  The gathering is an emergency session of a little known but highly powerful organization called APEC. Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation is the key forum for protecting North America’s business interests in markets like China, Japan, North Korea, and Australia, and right now its cross-border treaties are in danger of falling apart.

  Ichiro Nomura, the delegate for Japan, leans into the microphone in front of him and sums up the perilous situation. “The USA has yet again delayed interest payments on its very sizable debts to my country and leaves us no choice but to consider an immediate cessation of trade unless shortfalls are remedied and guarantees given that future payments will be timely.”

  Tomas Reynolds, the U.S. executive, presses the red light on his desk and responds quickly. “My good friend Ichiro-san makes an unfair point. The delay in debt payment is a technical holdup of just a few days.”

  Nomura responds. “A few days’ interest on several trillion dollars is a lot of money, Tomas-san. Do I need to remind you that 95 percent of consumers lie outside America’s borders and that 40 percent fall within APEC’s domain?”

  “You don’t. I need no such reminder.”

  “Or that the Asia-Pacific region buys 70 percent of U.S. agricultural exports.”

  Applause from other member countries drowns out the U.S. delegate’s reply.

  Ichiro Nomura stands, his microphone still on. In his hands is a thick legal document. “This is a contract worth two billion dollars, for the provision of transportation equipment by companies in Indiana.” He tears it in two and lets the papers ceremonially flutter over the edge of his desk. “No more trade until debts are paid.”

  Cheers go up. Korean delegate Kim Kak-Hee turns his microphone on and similarly stands, papers in hand. “Contract for chemical manufacturing—one billion dollars.” He rips it in half and half again. “No trade until debts paid.”

  As the applause dies down, Chinese delegate Zhiang Liu gets to his feet. “The People’s Republic of China is owed more than two trillion dollars by the United States of America.” He holds his hands up, so three contracts are seen by the table of delegates. “These are manufacturing orders worth ten billion dollars for companies in Ohio. It is with great regret that I do this on behalf of my country.” He walks from his place and stands next to the U.S. representative, where he tears them up and leaves them on the table in front of him. “China will not trade with the U.S. until debts are paid on time and in full.”

  154

  Police HQ, Miami

  Once Sandra Teale has hung up, Ghost sits in a daze.

  Poisonous microchips.

  It makes sense. Sounds outrageous but makes perfect sense.

  But Li Chen?

  Was he really an illegal immigrant who’d spent months jabbing dogs with killer chips? And who had put him up to it? A company ready to sell some antidote? Or a more sinister group?

  Ghost is reminded that Zoe found something at Chen’s house that sent her straight to Bicentennial Park. He mentally flicks through the images on her camera and suddenly they take on significance. Two bedrooms. Made and unmade beds. Clothes in separate closets.

  These weren’t the living habits of man and wife. They were signs of spies hiding out, sharing a roof and a lifestyle as a cover for their activities.

  More pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. If he was right about the poison chips and the spies, then it began to explain why the NIA and President were so interested in the dog attacks so early in the chain of events. He looks at the small business card he’s placed in the middle of his desk. On it is a private number. One he was told he could ring at any time, providing, of course, the occasion was important enough.

  Ghost thinks it is.

  He makes sure his office door is securely locked and dials it.

  The voice that answers is male and well-educated, crisp and friendly. “President Molton’s office. Jordan speaking.”

  “This is Lieutenant Walton from the Florida task force. I need to speak to the President as a matter of urgency.”

  Molton’s executive secretary sounds surprised. “How did you get this number, sir?”

  “The President gave it me in person when he was in Miami.”

  “Please hold.”

  Ghost is left in a digital void. He guesses the assistant is checking to see if the great man is around or even wants to take his call.

  The next voice he hears is Molton’s. “Lieutenant, how are you and how is your lady?”

  “I’m fine, sir. Unfortunately, she’s not so fine. Still in a coma, I’m afraid. Thank you for asking.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. President, I’m calling you directly because I have information that suggests the dog attacks are not a natural phenomenon but a coordinated event. The result of a gang of individuals, possibly a form of terror group.” He pauses to see if the President reacts and will fill in some of the many holes in his own theories.

  “That’s quite
a statement, Lieutenant. What leads you to that idea?”

  “Sir, the vet who attended several of the dog-related deaths has discovered that the microchips used to ID the animals contain chemical reservoirs that can be remotely activated. I just spoke to her and she believes the substance in the chips will have directly boosted the dogs’ adrenaline levels, destabilized and disorientated them and as a consequence made them aggressive.”

  Clint Molton feels his heart leap. “Lieutenant, I need you—and this vet—to speak to the CIA and to my scientific advisors. And I need you to do that in person ASAP.” He knows that Walton won’t want to leave Miami but he has no option but to ask. “I’m going to clear a military plane to pick you both up and bring you here. The way those guys fly, it’s less than a two-hour flight, and I promise to get you back right away. Is that okay with you, Lieutenant?”

  Ghost wants to say no. He wants to be close to Zoe. Whatever happens. “Of course, sir.”

  “Good. I presume you haven’t mentioned this to anyone else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then please don’t.”

  “I won’t. What have the Chinese got to do with this, Mr. President?”

  Molton falls silent. Finally he asks, “What prompts your question?”

  “Because one of the dog shelters here employed a man called Li Chen, and I can’t find any trace of him even being in the country, let alone Miami.”

  “Sadly, illegal immigration is not that uncommon.”

  “It’s more than that, sir. Chen supplied those drug-filled microchips, and a woman purporting to be his wife is connected to a number of other dog shelters, spread across America.”

  Molton took a beat. The information filled in so many blanks, but he couldn’t discuss it now. “I won’t lie to you, Lieutenant, there is a Chinese dimension but I can’t talk about it on the phone. Director Jackson will speak to you when you arrive. I have to go now. My office will be in touch within the next ten minutes regarding your travel.”

  Ghost hears the line go dead.

  He stands up and picks his car keys off the desk. If he’s going to Washington, then he’s going to see Zoe first. He has to hold her hand and kiss her—at least one more time.

  155

  Beijing

  “In American movies they talk of the beginning of the end,” says General Zhang as he sits alongside Xue Shi and points at the dogs on three monitors in the control room. “This is the real beginning of the end.”

  Computer generated graphics tell the rest of the story.

  CAM 1: New York, Central Park

  CAM 2: Chicago, Lake Shore Drive

  CAM 3: Los Angeles, Century City

  Zhang folds his arms and leans back in relaxed anticipation of what’s to come.

  At Fox Plaza in L.A. two balls of brown wool turn from being harmless Labradoodles into murderous dogs. Their owner, a fifty-year-old former TV presenter, thinks they’re having a tantrum and tugs hard on their Gucci leads.

  Then they rip into her.

  One dog savages her hand and pulls at her wrist and arm. The other tears a mouthful of flesh from her gym-toned right thigh. Crowds scatter along the sidewalk.

  Half a block down, an Alsatian jumps a skateboarder and closes his yellow jaws around the young boy’s throat.

  Zhang’s eyes move unemotionally to the middle monitor and he points at the scene with deep satisfaction. “Chicago. President Molton’s hometown. How I would like to see his face when he learns of the deaths here.” A black Doberman, the size of a small horse, brings down a businessman in a blue suit outside the Edgewater Beach Hotel. The man loses his brown leather case and claws his way up a bank of grass. The dog lurches forward and bites into his hip. He falls and the big animal clambers onto his chest. The dog is all over him and he will be dead in minutes.

  Xue Shi is following the action in New York. In Central Park, off the Great Lawn, down by Eighty-Fifth Street where the edge of the reservoir rolls toward the Guggenheim, a pack of wild dogs overturns a horse-drawn carriage. The driver is lying on his side in shock as several large mongrels set on him. His passengers, a dark-haired man and red-haired woman, are kicking out at two brown rottweilers. Other walkers are running for their lives. No one is helping.

  Zhang draws comfort from that.

  Fear is a wonderful ally.

  Florida’s dog problems and the emergency measures imposed there have clearly struck terror into the hearts of all the Americans.

  He sits up in his seat and turns to Xue Shi. “Tomorrow, Xian flies out to meet the American. He will buy time for himself and claim Molton is close to accepting our demands. Demands that are now ridiculously low. If he is clever, he may even persuade the American to agree to them and then ring the party chiefs with news of his triumph. Either way, I want to be ready to bring our weak leader’s period of power to a humiliating end. Let him inform the council of his great diplomacy and what it has achieved. Give him that hour of false satisfaction. Then deploy the poison dogs. Let them loose and have them undermine him. Have them rip the spirit out of the Americans and destroy his credibility once and for all. Then we will take control and make more fruitful demands of Molton and his administration.”

  PART FIVE

  “If you win, you need not have to explain . . .

  If you lose, you should not be there to explain!”

  ADOLF HITLER

  156

  The White House, Washington DC

  The flight from Miami to the capital gives Ghost an opportunity to think. To live with the notion that the dog attacks were orchestrated by some militant, maverick Chinese terrorists. Maybe it went back to the Syrian crisis and the stand both China and Russia had taken against U.S. intervention to stop Assad. Perhaps it was more obscure than that. One thing he knew for certain, spying incidents happened every day and got covered up. It was more than possible that this one escalated until it was just too big and dirty to sweep under a diplomatic carpet.

  By the time Ghost and Sandra Teale are shown through to a meeting room, the dog attacks in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles have escalated.

  The TV news is playing on a screen and they can see that four more New Yorkers have been killed and nine injured in Wall Street. Five have been killed and seven injured at Universal Studios in L.A., and in Chicago six people have been killed and eleven injured at Union Station.

  The total across the three cities is now sixty-five dead and eighty more being treated for wounds and shock.

  Their viewing is interrupted when a tall black man and two white men, walk in. A pace or two behind them is a pencil-thin woman Ghost recognizes. Gwen Harries. “Brandon Jackson, NIA director.” He sticks out his hand. “And this is Chris Parry, from Langley, and Marlon Gonzalez, director of the White House’s Office of Science.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Walton, and this is veterinary pathologist Sandra Teale.”

  There’s a merry-go-round of handshakes until Jackson says, “And I understand you and Agent Harries know each other.”

  “We do.” To her great surprise, Ghost makes a point of warmly embracing her. “Good to see you again Gwen. Though I do have a feeling that you’ve been holding back vital information that might have helped the Miami police.”

  “Only under my instructions,” says Jackson, noting the sarcasm. “Please sit down.” He ushers them to a table behind the soft sofa area where they’d been watching the TV. “The President told me your story about the shelter, the microchips, and the Chinese couple, but I’d like us all to hear it from the two of you.”

  Sandra Teale slips over a file containing copies of her research. “I only did one set of copies. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem.” Jackson reroutes the technical data to Gon­zalez.

  “Basically,” the vet continues, “the dogs were fitted with microchips. They look like the standard k
ind that can act as a tracer and when scanned will reveal owner and dog details. But these were more advanced.” She produces a packet of unused chips from the folder in front of her and passes them over. “They have drug reservoirs that release chemicals to make the dogs aggressive and anxious.” She looks toward Gonzalez. “I can be more technical if you wish?”

  “Later,” says the white-haired advisor with a smile. “Let’s keep this simple for the moment.”

  “Well,” continues Teale, “this type of chip was found in all the dogs that killed people in Florida. That is, all the ones I’ve managed to examine or trace reports on. And it seems the same chip supplier has been used in most shelters throughout the state and elsewhere in the country.” She looks across to Ghost.

  He picks up the story. “I talked to the major animal shelter in the region and they got their supplies through a Chinese guy called Li Chen who worked with them.” He notices Jackson and Harries exchange glances. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “It might,” answers Jackson. “Please go on.”

  Ghost takes that as a yes. “Turns out Li Chen distributed chips across the country, and I believe even dogs. One hound that was traced back to him was responsible for the death of a young woman named Astrid Gerber, and her mother Heidi.” Now he looks directly at Parry. “But then I guess you do know about all this because I suspect you’ve had a tap on my phone since the first day sweet-innocent Gwen here turned up—and I guess she only disappeared from the scene once she was certain that the recording devices in my office and the trace software on my computer systems had gone undiscovered. Right?”

  Jackson looks toward his colleague. “You can talk within reason, Chris.”

  The head of the Special Activities Division sits forward. “To a degree you are right, Lieutenant. Li Chen is a Chinese deep cover agent, a sleeper. We lost track of him several years ago. We didn’t know he was connected to this case, he interested us for several other reasons which I won’t go into here, but yes, we are very interested in him, and Agent Harries now has an active mandate to find him and his wife.”