The China Dogs (49 page)

The Chinese leader stays impassive. Decades in front of party committees and military councils has taught him to give nothing away.

“If you look at the top of the screen, sir,” continues Parry, “you'll see data from what we understand is a venture called Project Nian. The numbers you see are the latest map locations of all the weaponized dogs in the United States. The CIA and the Army are rounding up the animals as we speak. We also know, sir, about the tetrodotoxin and the work done with this particular poison.” The last sentence is something of a bluff, but Parry's face doesn't hint at how little the Americans have actually discovered.

The cell phone in Xian's trouser pocket rings. He reaches it and turns it off. “My apologies.”

“Please, take it if you wish,” says Molton graciously.

“I have cut it off.”

“As you wish.” He motions to the monitor. “I'm not sure if you need to see any more of the footage. In summary, we have all the information we need to destroy Nian, to make America safe again, and to publicly implicate China in atrocities that in their sickness go beyond the worst of many war crimes.”

Xian's phone beeps with a message. In order to buy a little thinking time he takes it out.

The screen says:
ZHANG IS DEAD.

He checks the number and sees it is Chunlin's.

For a moment his mind is in a whirl. His elation at the general's death is a heady contrast to the humiliation Molton is putting him through.

“Please, excuse me, for one moment.”

The American nods and moves away.

Xian walks to the other side of the large room and triggers the phone's voice-mail service.

Chunlin's voice comes online. “It is done. There were complications but Zhang is dead.”

It's all the confirmation he needs.

He turns the phone off, returns it to his pocket, and walks back to Molton with a diplomatic smile on his face. “Mr. President, may we speak now without the virtual presence of your colleagues in Washington?”

“Of course.” He leans in front of the camera on the monitor. “Thank you, Chris. Stay on standby.”

“Yes, sir.”

Molton flips down the computer screen and ends the connection. “We are alone.”

188

Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami

G
host and Jude have run out of things to say. They sit in the antiseptic gloom of the room and listen for any clues that the machines and Zoe's breathing may offer. The agony of waiting is occasionally interrupted by the arrival of a nurse who checks to see that everything is working, scribbles on clipboard notes hung on Zoe's bed, and then disappears again.

“Who was it,” asks Jude, “who said patience is a virtue?”

“It's idiom.”

“Who?”

“It's an idiom; a mangled, mongoloid phrase that's taken on meaning over the centuries, you probably can't pin it down to one single person.”

“Right.” She looks at him and tries to take stock. He seems brighter and odder than any cop she knows or has even seen on TV. They're supposed to be simple souls, verging on caveman but maybe a bit vulnerable. This guy isn't anything like that. He's probably about as smart as they come and more complex than a Rubik's cube. One thing for sure, there's no doubting his devotion to Zoe. His eyes never leave her, and that wound in his shoulder must be torturing him. “Hey, you want me to go get you some painkillers for your wound?” She gets to her feet just as the door opens.

A nervous young man walks in. He glances at both Jude and Ghost, then at the bed. “I'm Danny, Zoe's brother.”

“Lieutenant Walton.” Ghost shakes his hand and reads the worry on his face. “They've operated and she's stable. We're waiting for her to come around.”

“Jude Cunningham.”

Danny shakes quickly and bends over his sister. He kisses her forehead and winces from the sadness of seeing her flat out and tubed up.

Ghost and Jude give him space. Let the shock sink in.

He finally turns and asks the questions they knew he would. “What happened? Why is she like this?”

“She was attacked by dogs,” explains Ghost, “one of a number of people hurt at a public show.”

“Dogs?” Danny finds it hard to bury his fury. “What was she doing at a dog show?”

“A long story,” Ghost says. “Basically, she was following up some information that she thought might help solve the canine crisis that's been sweeping the country.”

Danny falls silent. It seems horribly ironic to him that he was keeping his dog-related work secret and so was she.

“The bites were relatively minor,” adds Jude, “but there was a complication with the head injury and they had to operate to remove a blood clot.”

“But she'll be okay, right?” He looks to them both. “They said she'll be okay, didn't they?”

“I'm sure she will.” Jude gives him a smile that's meant to be reassuring.

Danny stares at Ghost. “How could you let this happen to her? I thought the cops were supposed to be looking after everyone.”

Ghost doesn't have an answer. In his mind, Danny is right. He should have looked after her. Should have kept her and all the other good people of Miami safe.

Zoe coughs.

It sucks all the noise out of the room.

She splutters. Her eyes screw up. She swallows painfully. Moves her lips.

“Sis?” Danny puts his face inches away. “Zo', are you awake?”

Her eyes open.

She blinks.

Then they close again.

189

Kahala Hotel, Honolulu, Hawaii

B
oth men are standing. Only a few feet away from each other but culturally a whole world apart.

Neither is inclined to sit at the large conference table spread out in the boardroom and bring matters to a head.

The Chinese leader looks out at the dying light of the Hawaiian day. “President Molton, can I have your word that whatever is said in this room is just between you and me, unless we both agree otherwise?”

The American's face is set as hard as Mount Rushmore. “Sir, you and I have run out of undertakings. Say what you want to say.”

Xian tries to soften him. “I would appreciate a final confidence with you.”

Molton takes a beat. Reluctantly, he nods his consent.

“Are you familiar with the writings of Georges Clemenceau?”

“A little. The War Minister for France during the First World War.”

Xian smiles. “Yes. The inappropriately named ‘
Great
War.' Clemenceau said, ‘War is much too serious a matter to be entrusted to the military,' and he was right. Nian was the cause célèbre of my vice president, Fu Zhang. He won sufficient political power in the party to take it forward. Zhang and Nian are now both—how shall I put this—no more.”

The American President understands the implication. “I am relieved—on both accounts. But, with respect, it doesn't alter what has been done—or the country responsible for doing it.”

“I understand your point.” Xian takes a pace away from the American as he talks. “You are seeking reparations. Compensation for the damage and loss of life.”

It's at moments like this that Molton most hates politics. Right and wrong reduced to dollars and cents. “I would like the families of victims to be substantially compensated for their loss, for what has been done to their lives. Money will not take away their heartache but it may help them going forward.”

Xian ponders for a moment before responding. “The Chinese government would be willing to make a fund of five hundred million dollars available for them.”

“One billion.”

Xian stares into his counterpart's eyes.

Money.

The very thing that had driven them to the brink of war is now bridging the divide between them.

And they both know it.

Xian gives a considered nod of consent. “One billion—on condition that we agree on a public statement saying a manufacturing fault in the microchips caused an allergic reaction in the dogs.”

Molton sighs. He knows he can hardly go public with a story that his administration suspected China of something worse but were powerless to do anything about it. “I might be able to live with that. But what about our outstanding debts?”

Xian realizes it is time for compromise. “We already have arrangements in place for them, do we not, Mr. President?”

“We do. And America will honor them. Providing China also uses its influence to reinstate the business orders that have been threatened at this APEC meeting.”

Xian smiles. The American is a good negotiator. He looks at his watch. “We have a few hours before the closing dinner of the conference, I will arrange it by then.” He puts out his hand.

It pains Molton, but he takes it. “There is a lot to rebuild, Mr. President. Starting with trust.”

“Everything begins and ends with trust. Who better to build on what little is left than we who almost lost so much? We have been to the brink and seen the bodies in the pits below the edge of our feet. I never want my country to see war.”

“Nor do I.”

The Chinese leader heads for the exit. “Your new puppy, the Tibetan I gave you, I hope he is still proving agreeable and has not misbehaved in any way.”

Molton gives a disappointed sigh. “Unfortunately, he didn't work out as we hoped.”

“That is a great pity.”

“Yeah, it is. We kinda had a soft spot for him. Kids
loved
him and we really wanted to make him fit in and become part of the family.” He stops and turns to his counterpart. “I'm afraid he just got unmanageable—even vicious.”

Xian looks offended. “The dog was pure. Part of my own litter. What did you do to him?”

“We did what was best.” Molton's face is cold and emotionless, his stare set in steel. “Once he turned on us, we shot him. Then for safe measures, we burned his carcass and trashed the ashes.” He motions again to the door. “After you.”

190

Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami

Z
oe's room is cleared of visitors.

For twenty minutes it's a case of medics only.

Ghost, Danny, and Jude prowl the corridor like caged animals as the doctors and nurses crowd around her.

“This is good, right?” asks Danny. “I mean, they're in there because she regained consciousness.”

“It's good,” confirms Jude. “But don't go expecting too much too soon. Sometimes people with brain injuries mumble and talk nonsense for a while. They can come around right away and be fine, or they can take days to get back to anything like normal.”

The debate is cut short by the appearance of Zoe's surgeon, Dr. Brook. To everyone's relief, there's a smile on his face. “I'm very relieved to say that the patient is responding well and looking good.”

A chorus of sighs comes from Ghost, Jude, and Danny.

“That's not to say she's out of the woods or going home anytime soon. But she's conscious and talking. We've given her a glucose boost and some water and so far so good.”

“What does that mean?” asks Danny. “Why the caution?”

“Surgeons are always cautious,” interjects Jude.

“You're right. It's because we have to be.” He looks directly at Danny. “Swelling, major trauma to the brain, cranial bleeds, they're all survivable, but only with great care. Surgically we've done all we can. I really do think we're over the worst. But now she needs to rest and her body has to help us out and repair itself.” He guesses what's on all their minds. “That means you can see her, but I don't want her overstimulated. So here are the rules: Only one person at a time, a limit of a couple of minutes each. Then I want you all to get out of the way, so she can rest properly and we can monitor her.” Brook looks pointedly at Ghost. “Seems some folks could do with a change of clothes more than most.”

“Point taken.”

“Good. Then sort yourselves out and please leave Miss Speed to us, as quickly as you can.”

Brook disappears and Ghost is left with Danny and Jude. “You guys go first. I need to at least wash up.” He walks away before they can argue. In truth, he wishes they weren't even here. Wishes he could have all those precious few minutes with her just for himself.

Ghost finds the restrooms and uses a wall machine to buy a disposable toothbrush and a razor. There's no hot water but he manages to soap up, shave, and then scrub his teeth. He strips off the remains of his tattered shirt and pulls on the new one Annie got him. It's too baggy in the body. Too short in the sleeves. And made of cotton too rough for him to even consider cleaning the Dodge with.

He tells himself beggars can't be choosers. Rolls up the cuffs and tucks the vast white spread of cloth into his muddied trousers.

A look in the mirror shows he looks better. At least from the waist up. It shows something else as well. A strange nervousness in his eyes. He stares for a moment at himself and tries to work out what it is. Fear? Excitement? Love?

All of those things.

Ghost throws the old shirt in a receptacle and walks back to Zoe's room. He's a corridor away when his cell phone rings. If the display wasn't flashing a number he'd only dialed once in his entire life he'd ignore it.

“Hello, this is Lieutenant Walton.”

A young male voice says, “Please hold on, I'm putting you through to the President of the United States.”

Ghost finds himself standing up straight, almost as though he's being seen.

“Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm in Hawaii at the moment but have been apprised of your injuries and your efforts to help us. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“There's no need, sir.”

“There's every need, Lieutenant. The information you gave us has helped enormously. My teams are sure within a day we will have eradicated these dogs problems—and I'm pleased to say our international difficulties with China have been very cordially resolved.”