by Sam Masters
“Those are not their real names,” Harries adds. “But they are among the ones they’ve used since they came into the country about half a decade ago.”
Ghost is confused. “I couldn’t find any records on either of them.”
“We pulled them,” answers Parry. “Expunged them from the system.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons,” explains the SAD chief. “They’ve been moving around for the past few years, living in New York but coming to Florida very frequently. They have several homes in the state and multiple identities and businesses. Li Chen has often stayed for periods in Miami, while Mingyu has done the same on the East Coast. We found that unless we followed them exceptionally closely it proved impossible to work out whether the couple were together or apart. When we lost track of them about two months ago we killed their records in the hope that it might flush them out and force them into re-registering on official sites. So much easier to look at new regs.”
“But it didn’t?”
“No,” conceded Jackson. “Until you came across their activity, we hadn’t even connected them to all the current troubles.”
Ghost’s interest spiked. “All the current troubles?”
Jackson sensed the cop was going to probe too far. “Lieutenant, given Dr. Teale’s presence, I suggest we brief you more fully in private.”
Ghost nods.
Jackson’s mind goes back to the attacks he saw in Bristol, where out-of-town dogs came in from the countryside and decimated the population. “Doctor, just so I’m clear on things, could those microchip things also contain some kind of remote guidance system that forces the dogs to go in a particular direction?”
“Not at all.” Sandra Teale has to hold back a laugh. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, mainly because it seems that once they’ve been activated, the dogs congregate and seem en masse to attack human settlements. How can that be?”
“They’re hunters,” explains the vet. “Deep down these animals are descended from wolves and instinctively they’ll hunt in packs wherever they can smell food—or flesh, to be more precise.”
The director glances at his watch. “Thanks. A simple but horrifyingly easy to understand explanation.” He looks to Ghost. “Lieutenant, I suggest you go with Chris and Gwen and they’ll answer the rest of the many questions you seem to have.” He gets to his feet. “Doctor, perhaps you could give Dr. Gonzalez more background. I’m afraid I have to go to a crisis meeting with the President and the Joint Chiefs.”
157
Beijing
Sitting opposite each other in the grand presidential office, both Xian and Chunlin are aware how momentous their short meeting is.
It may be the last time they see each other.
In a few hours’ time the president will leave for the APEC summit and his critical appointment with Molton. The end game will have begun.
The minister looks frail and tired. He has expended all his energy on gathering intelligence about Zhang and Xue Shi. “The general is preparing to activate more dogs in the major American cities. Next on his list are Seattle, Philadelphia, and Detroit. The strikes are planned just as you meet the President.”
“I have lost all influence with him.” Xian looks despondent. “The only consolation is that the more fear he creates, the more people wish his downfall.”
“You found support in the Politburo?”
“Enough. Eighteen of the twenty-five we could bank on.”
“I am sure I can name the seven who would stand against us.”
“I am sure you can as well,” Xian manages a smile. “Four are key to the Central Military Commission.”
“Of which you are head.” Chunlin realizes his leader is having doubts. If he acquiesces to Zhang and steps aside, he will be allowed to leave office and live the rest of his years with his family. But if he makes a move against the general and fails, then they will all be killed. “The Military Commission will learn shortly of the incident in the DMZ. When they do, it will reflect badly on Zhang. Weiwei was his appointment. There may even be international fallout to the incident.”
Xian dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. “He will launder the blame. No doubt he and Xue Shi already have it in hand.”
Chunlin grows angry. He remembers his leader when the man was full of fight and fury, guile and resolve. “I need your decision, Mr. President. I need you to tell me clearly and with no doubt in your mind or heart that you wish me to implement my plan.”
Xian hesitates.
His mind is still on the safety of his family. His thoughts on safeguarding them and living to watch his son grow up and marry.
“Zhang must not rule,” says Chunlin forcefully. “If you will not sanction a move against him, then I will make one anyway.” He stands and pushes back his chair.
“Wait!”
The minister stops and his hands settle on the top of the chair.
“You must not stand alone. I will leave shortly for the meeting with Molton. When I do, I will call and send my wife and child to Guangdong. There are people there who will protect them and get them out of the country if necessary.” He walks from behind his desk and stands in front of his old friend. “I thank you for your loyalty to me and to our country. I pray history remembers us as both righteous and victorious.”
158
The White House, Washington DC
Ghost is surprised to find himself alone with Chris Parry in a small but stylishly furnished briefing room. “Where is the elusive Agent Harries?” he asks as they settle on green corduroy sofas.
“She sends her apologies,” says Parry. “She has a very active caseload. As I believe you do, so I’ll cut to the chase.”
“Please do.”
“The information you have given us is really useful. If substantiated, it may lead us to a way of—how shall I say this—‘disarming’ these dogs and saving a lot of lives.”
“I’m glad to help in any way I can.”
“We know. And we’re grateful for you coming at short notice, especially given your personal circumstances.”
The allusion to Zoe makes Ghost feel sad. “Your boss said you needed to brief me more fully, in private.”
“I do.” Parry sits forward, tries to create a closer bond with the cop. “Neither you nor Sandra Teale can speak to anyone about the evidence that you gave us. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Do you understand?”
“No. I don’t. In fact, every day there is more and more about this bloody mess that I don’t understand. And as far as I can remember, buddy, you don’t have the power to quite so easily interfere with my freedom of speech, so if you want compliance and help, you better quit the strong-arm shit and brief me responsibly.”
“I’m not in a position to do that.”
“Then we’re done here.” Ghost gets to his feet and towers over Parry. “Now, if you’ve got nothing else to say, I need to get back to Miami to see someone who really matters to me.”
159
The White House, Washington DC
The crisis meeting is held in the Situation Room. The President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff are there in person. The leaders of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, and National Guard Bureau, and other senior commanders watch and listen on a video link to the Pentagon. On another feed from CIA HQ at Langley is the operational task force led by Bill Everett and the heads of the Counter Intelligence Center and Office of Terrorism Analyses.
Vice President Cornwell is on a feed from a presidential plane heading to Camp Dwyer in Afghanistan.
Around the table with Molton are his senior executive advisors and Attorney General Jan Saunders.
NIA director Don Jackson is on his feet by a digital summary board that shows maps, death figures, and totals for injured people. “The attacks of the last twelve hours have bee
n swiftly countered by police and National Guard units. Our response has been good and we have been alerted to more incidents. The President is preparing to fly to Hawaii to attend a meeting there with President Xian of China, and it is likely that this will happen amidst more canine assaults, probably in more of our major cities. We have deployed units in Dallas, Houston, Seattle, Philadelphia, Phoenix, Detroit, and of course we’ve redoubled cover in the cities hit today.” He looks toward Molton.
The President picks up. “Don doesn’t want to say it, and neither do I. But I think we’re a day away from declaring a nationwide State of Emergency.”
Groans break across the room.
“Listen up.” Molton falls back on his old political language for controlling unrest. “We still have diplomatic channels open, diplomatic options, and our intelligence services are making up ground—rapidly. Right, Don?”
“Yes, Mr. President. In a moment we’ll split into a smaller group and I’ll brief the Security Council members more fully on the progress made in the last hour.”
The door to the Situation Room opens and Jordan Taylor, the executive secretary, enters. “I’m sorry for the interruption. Mr. President. I have the Prime Minister of Canada on a phone for you in the breakout room. He says it’s urgent and cannot wait.”
“Excuse me.” Molton gets to his feet and follows his assistant into a side office.
The President’s heart sinks as the Canadian leader, Jacques Bastin, is put through to him.
“Mr. President, I call you to express the deep sympathies of the Canadian government, the Canadian people, and of course myself and my family.”
“Thank you.”
“It is terrible. We have watched it, of course, on the television, and it is unbelievable. I hope by now that the worst is over?”
“We are hoping so as well. The Army and National Guard are working with the police and sheriff departments, backed by multiagency support, and I’m sure normality will soon be resumed.”
“It is encouraging to hear that . . .” Bastin takes a diplomatic pause. “. . . but until that moment Canada feels it must close its borders to the United States.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There is concern here that your diseased animals may end up in Canada, and this cannot happen. So, until we are certain that you have mastered your difficulties, there will be no entry to anyone with an American passport, or any citizen other than a returning Canadian.”
“You’re being ridiculous. You can’t close five thousand miles of border.”
“Perhaps not, but we have to try. And with respect, protecting a population is not ridiculous; it is a governmental duty, and one you seem to be failing in. I wish you and your people well in tackling this menace. Au revoir.”
Molton throws the receiver at the phone cradle. America is becoming a world pariah and he’s had enough.
160
Beijing
On a patch of grass in the courtyard of the city’s famous garrison—the place that is the home of Wishu, the martial art better known to the western world as kung fu—a fight has broken out.
Soldiers gather around the two combatants and cheer them on.
It is a bloody and quick affair. An older warrior defeating a young upstart with a brutal flurry of blows.
General Zhang shows the crowd his triumphant fist and then licks blood off his knuckles.
The beaten young man lying in the dirt behind the guarded walls of the army camp knows better than to get up.
He needs to be a gracious loser.
This is how the monthly ritual goes. Zhang fights three recruits. One round apiece. The two men who do best receive privileges. The one who performs the worst is sentenced to a twenty-mile hike.
Zhang stages the fight for all manner of reasons. He believes it shows the men he is as tough as them. Is one of them. He thinks it creates an unassailable bond with grassroot soldiers. But more than that, it teaches them the art of war.
Dare they beat him?
Some are certainly fit and big and strong enough to do so.
But none ever have.
They are learning deception. How to lose when they could win. How to do it convincingly. How not to talk about it afterward, because those who deceive must never give away their true characters.
From far across the courtyard, in the shadow of a doorway, Minister Chunlin watches as the two bare-chested fighters bow to each other out of respect. Deception is on his mind as well. And what better place to see it played out?
Fresh blood steps forward. A young recruit named Luo Kai. He has a body hewn from granite and feet and hands the size of car wheels.
The two men take their respective stances in the sharp sunshine.
They shuffle left and right to find an opening, a chink in each other’s tactical armor.
Kai’s physical prowess seems nature’s way of making up for his lack of intelligence. Every troop has its big dumb ox, and he is it.
Or at least that’s what he wants them to believe.
Zhang doesn’t even see the blow coming.
A front kick so hard and fast that it smashes his lips against his teeth and fills his mouth with blood.
His head throbs with rage.
Anger courses through every nerve and sinew as he tries to counter and attack.
Kai hits him with a pile-driving center punch, stiff-armed and loaded with enough raw power to drop the general flat on his back.
A huge grin fills his innocent face and he pumps a fist in the air.
There is no cheer, though. No noise at all from the crowd. All eyes are on the general as he gets to his knees and puts his hand to his face. He looks at the blood then wipes it on his chest and stands.
“Come on,” Zhang beckons his opponent with his left hand. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
Kai advances cautiously. He knows what to expect.
Zhang turns to the side, his bodyline a thin target, his foot ready to strike like the head of a cobra.
Then the crowd sees it.
The trailing left hand. The glint of steel. The flash of a blade.
Chunlin sees it too. And it makes him smile. It’s what he expected. What he told Kai to expect. The young Goliath was pointed out to him years ago when the boy was first conscripted. Since then he’s been one of the minister’s protégés.
Zhang lunges, and the tip of the knife cuts across the man’s muscled stomach.
There’s a sound of shock from the crowd.
Kai doesn’t even touch the blood. He knows now he has to get up close. Seize the knife and make what happens next look like an accident.
Zhang fakes a lunge with the knife, then wheels around and slams a kick into his opponent’s side.
Kai counters by grabbing Zhang’s ankle and rolling forward.
Zhang is thrown off balance.
For a second he is on his back and exposed.
Kai knows he should drop a knee on the knife arm. Break the wrist and see the fingers lose their grip on the steel.
He doesn’t.
He misses. Misses by a fraction.
Zhang slices upward and cuts into his side.
Kai rolls away.
Cut twice, he’s now bleeding heavily. He stands. Shakes his hand in surrender and bows his head.
Zhang throws his bloodied knife into the earth and goes to the beaten man. He raises Kai’s hand in shared victory and the crowd roars.
The general turns so no one else can hear. “Get that stitched up then call my office. You have the makings of a true warrior. I could use a man like you.”
Chunlin is too far away to hear what is being said. But he knows enough to smile. Zhang is as inevitably drawn to brutal power as a moth is to a flame.
He will want time alone with Kai. The opportunity to talk man-to-
man.
It will be an auspicious meeting, of that Chunlin is certain.
161
Situation Room, The White House, Washington DC
When Molton reenters the room, the size of the group has been slimmed down to only members of the Security Council.
Video screens on the monitor wall are playing satellite footage of new dog attacks in New York. Paramedics and helivac teams are attending injured people out at Liberty Island.
The President glances at the feed as he sits back at the table. The monitors are so full of horror at the moment he can no longer spare the time to stop and stare. “Canada is closing its borders, that’s what the call was. The biggest unguarded border in the world is about to get guarded.”
Pat Cornwell shakes his head on the link from Afghanistan. “Expect the Mexicans to follow suit. After all our efforts to keep them out, they’re not going to be able to resist turning the tables.”
Molton looks to Jackson. “Carry on, Don. Before I stepped out of the room you mentioned progress. I’d really like to hear about progress.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Walton from the Florida task force has provided us with information that we’re working fast on. He’s discovered a link between a known Chinese operative, killer dogs in the Miami region, and the supply and distribution of drug-carrying microchips to a network of shelters across the U.S.”
Molton makes notes as he talks, a habit from his days out “on the stump” in Chicago. “What does Gonzalez say about all this?”
“He’s confirmed the viability, Mr. President. We have some of the chips and they’re in the labs being analyzed as we talk.”
Pat Cornwell asks the question everyone’s thinking. “How do they get triggered?”
“They’re a form of RFID—Radio Frequency ID—and they could be set off from anywhere in the world,” says Chris Parry almost dismissively. “The dogs’ positions will show up on a computer map and an operator will simply type in a trigger command to a local relay that will use radio waves to set them off. Guys over at MIT have been developing an advanced system for humans with Alzheimer’s or schizophrenia—they can remotely deliver more than twenty drugs through a chip and monitor patient response. Mercedes and Lexus have chips in cars that do diagnostics, they contact service centers and remotely tell owners when they’re heading for a breakdown before the part fails. This dog stuff is simple, now that we know what it is.”