The China Dogs (10 page)

Zhang stands. Motionless. Quiet as the rodents watching from the corners of the infested pit. He listens. Strains to hear their hearts racing with panic, savors their raspy breath quickening in the fetid air.

Now he moves.

He circles them.

Looks down into their faces. Into their eyes. Into what remains of their courage.

He grades them. Ranks them by the fear they show.

The bravest will pleasure him first. The most frightened he'll leave till last.

Leave her so she can hear the screams of the others.

30

Village Green Park, Key Biscayne

M
ost kids out at Key Biscayne play their ball games on the spread of sun-scorched sports fields squashed between the Galleria and Key shopping centers just east of the Community Church.

The four fields are marked out for both English soccer and American football, and ten-year-old Dale Shawcross and his buddies have beaten the Steiner gang at both all year long.

Right now a five-a-side battle is being waged with the round ball and the score is 3–1 to the Shawcrosses. Dale's brother Vic has scored twice, the last an absolute screamer, and he's added the third. Steiner's one goal was lucky. A toe-ender that hit fat Adam in the face and went in off the post.

“Foul!” shouts Dale as Joey Redfern upends his brother Vic.

“That sucks! I played the ball.” Alfie Steiner holds up his hands in innocence. “He went down like a sissy.”

Vic is clutching his ankle and is close to tears as Dale walks over to sort it out. If that mouthy bastard says another word, he's going to hit him. He picks up a bottle of water from where he'd thrown it and swigs on the way. One thing for sure, his brother is going to have to toughen up and stop bawling so easily.

Someone shouts, “No! Get off!”

Dale looks up just as he's kneeling down next to Vic. A dog is snapping at Steiner's ankles trying to get the ball. It's so funny it makes him laugh.

“Here, have a drink.” Dale passes the water to his brother to stop him from blubbing and continues to watch the mutt. It's some kind of black dog, jumping at Alfie Steiner, and the jerk is getting all freaked out. He shouts across to him, “It just wants to play, you idiot.”

Alfie's scream gives away the fact that he's not good around dogs.

Dale gets to his feet and guesses the thing might have nipped him. “Stop shouting, you pussy. Dogs can tell when you're scared of them. I've got one at home and—”

He stops in his tracks.

Blood is running from the dog's jaws and Steiner isn't making any noise.

He's flat out.

There's red all over his soccer shirt.

And where his face used to be.

31

Beijing

T
he leader of the largest army in the world showers in the luxuriously marbled bathroom that adjoins his spacious office.

He scrubs hard to rid himself of the smell of the women.

Of their sex. And their blood. And their crying.

General Zhang changes into a freshly laundered new uniform. He stands soldier-straight and checks himself in the full-length mirror.

His hair is jet black and shows no sign of graying.

His eyes are clear and bright.

His body toned and hard.

He is as handsome as he is powerful. The personification of virility. Before he moves away, he thinks of his burns.

The scars his mother gave him.

He makes sure they are well hidden. The world must only see him as perfect. Unblemished.

Waiting in the adjoining room, on a small hard chair in front of his large, antique desk, is Geng Chunlin, Minister of State Security and Head of Intelligence. Chunlin is a man without muscle or hair. There is barely flesh on his scrawny fifty-eight-year-old bones. He wears suits as gray and lifeless as his skin, trousers that stop too short above gray socks, and rubber-soled black shoes that encase his small, narrow feet.

The minister stands as the general enters the office and settles in his big, leather executive chair.

“Sit, Chunlin.” Zhang stares distastefully at the specimen opposite him. The excuse for a man who wouldn't last an hour as a soldier. Wouldn't survive ten minutes in a black jail. Dislike aside, he knows the minister is as masterful in his own dark line of work as he is in his.

“I have a final briefing today with President Xian. After that, Lieutenant General Xue—not you—will be announced as operational commander of Nian.” He pauses so he can enjoy the disappointment spreading across the minister's face. “For my meeting, Xue will provide me with updated satellite sequencing from the United States, data of where the weaponized canines have been deployed and also where the country's indigenous stray packs are roaming. You will assist him with whatever field intelligence he requires from our operatives. Are you clear about what is required of you?”

“I am, General.”

“Good.” Zhang gets up from behind his desk and paces. There is much on his mind. Project Nian is his brainchild but he is too reliant on science and scientists for his liking. Academics make soft soldiers. Men with brains are men you can never be certain of. Men of science always have excuses for delays and imperfections.

He sits on the edge of his desk and leans forward. Big unblinking eyes bore into those of the minister. He doesn't see commitment or courage. He sees hesitation. Uncertainty. “What is it, Chunlin? What darkness festers inside you?”

The minister thinks about lying but knows the general would see through him. “My intelligence says the program to deactivate the dogs is still incomplete. It seems they can be turned wild but cannot then be pacified. And—”

“Disinformation.” Zhang spits out the word. “People are briefing against me.”

“With respect, the feed from the laboratory in Korea showed—”

Zhang slaps him. Flat-hands him. A blow so hard it knocks both man and chair across the floor.

Chunlin makes no sound, no complaint. He quickly repositions the seat and himself and resists putting a hand to the burning skin of his face.

“What the feed showed was a
success
, Chunlin.” The general glowers at him. “If you are asked about it, what did it show?”

“Success, sir.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Now get out of my sight. Report to Xue and get your job done.”

32

Village Green Park, Key Biscayne

P
olice marksmen slide out of the weapons van.

The killer dog is less than ten yards from Dale and Vic Shawcross.

Cradled in the cops' hands are Heckler & Koch PSGs—­Präzisionsschützengewehr rifles. Fast, accurate, semiautomatics. They were invented after the Munich massacre at the Olympic games. A time when German police found themselves unable to stop terrorists from killing hostages because they couldn't get close enough to intervene.

The boys on the ground are huddled together, the older one protecting the younger.

The dog advances slowly. Red drool dangles from its lower jaw.

Marksman Tom Barrett fills his Hensoldt telescopic sight with its muscular form. In the back of his viewfinder, rapidly going out of focus, is the body of another kid, so motionless that he'd be amazed if the boy wasn't dead.

Six yards.

He takes a breath. Stays rock solid still. Focuses.

Squeezes the trigger.

The twenty-five-inch barrel coughs out the first of the twenty rounds packed in the rifle's magazine.

Four yards.

The animal takes the bullet in a shoulder and merely flicks a gaze in Barrett's direction.

He pumps out two more rounds. The first hits the same shoulder, the second slams into its side and head.

Two yards.

The dog wobbles, then tumbles like someone just hand-braked its back legs.

A second marksman, Craig Barry, walks toward the youngster. His PSG is trained on the dog's head.

He drops a defining round into its skull.

A few feet back from the snipers, Ghost bends over the savaged child. He puts two fingers to what's left of his neck and isn't amazed to find there's no pulse.

The poor kid's been ripped to shreds.

He checks his wrist and puts his face close to the boy's mouth.

Nothing.

Ghost stands up and tries to shrug off the pain, the enormity of what's just happened. He knows he can't let it settle on him. Can't let the agony of seeing a young life destroyed seep into his pores and soak down into his spirit.

He walks over to the dead dog and stares at it. Three fatal dog attacks in two days. That call from the office of the NIA director is starting to seem less and less ridiculous and more and more interesting.

33

The White House, Washington DC

I
t seems the perfect August evening, as Clint Molton leaves the Oval Office to enjoy an al fresco dinner with his family in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden on the south side of the East Colonnade.

The President walks a brick-paved pathway bordered by bronze-colored chrysanthemums and immaculately trimmed low box hedging. Off in the distance he sees Sheryl and the kids engrossed in a game of ball with the pup.

Watching her still brings a smile to his face and a glow of love. They met twenty-five years ago, and there's never been anyone else for either of them. Nor does he imagine there ever will be. He's a lucky man and knows it. President of the most powerful country in the world, happily married and the father of two gorgeous children. How could life get any sweeter?

White House serving staff stand at attention alongside a linen-covered buffet table groaning with salads, jugs of juice, cut meats, fruit, fresh cheeses, and home-baked breads.

“Great right arm you've got there!”

The First Lady turns and smiles as she hears his voice. “It's aching like crazy. This little guy never seems to tire.”

Jack and Jane come running over to hug their father, closely followed by Emperor, a gnarled tennis ball lodged between his spiky puppy teeth. Molton gets a grip and shakes it free, then hurls it a good thirty yards down the manicured lawn. The mastiff hurtles after it, and the President guides his children toward the food tables.

A waiter passes the leader of the Western world a sanitized wipe for his hands. “Thank you, Philippe.”

Sheryl kisses him, “How's your day been?”

“Busy. I'm still jet-lagged so it's tough getting back into things.” He glances at the food. “I don't think I'm going to eat much, my hunger clock is messed up.”

She tries to fathom how lagged he is. “What was Beijing—ten hours ahead?”

“Thirteen. Though if you ask me, it feels like it's a century behind.”

Emperor appears at his knees, well-slobbered ball in mouth.

“No more, mister. We just cleaned up. Go on; give us a break for a while.”

The dog drops the ball at Jack's feet then looks up with sad eyes and pants hopefully.

Sheryl's heart melts. “Aw, look at him. Isn't he so cute?”

“He certainly is.” Molton watches his son put his foot on the ball and drag it back and forth like a soccer player.

Emperor's big head shifts with every move of the ten-year-old's foot.

Then he snaps.

Clamps his teeth around anklebone instead of tennis ball.

“Shit!” Molton jumps forward and pushes the dog away with the sole of his shoe.

Jack looks more frightened by his father's movement than the dog. “He didn't hurt me, look—” He lifts his leg to show an uncut ankle. “He's just playing, that's all.”

Molton feels his heart banging in his chest. “Sorry.”

Emperor drifts back sheepishly.

Jack drops to his knees, hugs the dog and ruffles his coat.

“Jack, not at the table.” Sheryl takes another sanitized wipe and hands it to him. “Don't play with the dog while you're eating.”

Molton's eyes never leave the animal. He wonders if he overreacted, or if maybe dogs are much more dangerous than he ever figured.

34

Greenwich Village, New York

D
anny Speed's apartment looks like a trashed Radio Shack storeroom.

You can't see furniture for all the motherboards, hard drives, and memory chips scattered there.

Amid the mess, financial journalist Jeff Libowicz counts cold hard cash into the young hacker's hands.

“Four sixty. Four eighty. Five hundred.” The thirty-five-year-old shakes his head. It only took the nerd a couple of days to get secret financial information that he'd been chasing for weeks. “Fifteen hundred in total. I need my head examined.”

“I don't do brain surgery.” Danny stuffs the bills into the frayed pocket of his low-hanging gray jeans.

Libowicz slides his near-empty wallet back into his leather jacket and picks the A4 envelope off the top of a workstation. “Tell me—how exactly did you learn all the geeky stuff ?” He points at a trio of pimped-up Macs running screens full of codes. “I struggle to operate just one of them.”

“My father bullied me into computer sciences at college, and I picked up a pile of know-how before I dropped out.”

“You're good. You should go back and finish.”

“And you shouldn't pay people to break the law.”

“Like they say, ‘To each his own.' Seriously, man—you
are
good. I mean, that stuff you got for me was Fort Knoxed behind son-of-a-bitch Russian firewalls. I'm truly impressed.”

“You shouldn't be. Most of their online security is old-­fashioned, copied from the West. The Asians are actually much tougher nuts to crack.”

“That right?”

“Yep.” Danny lifts a Coke off the desk and drains it through a long blue straw. “Ain't just the Japanese either. China's all but caught up with them on tech. Koreans too.”

Libowicz is intrigued. “I was just thinking. If you're not going to go into honest employment and pay Uncle Sam his taxes, then maybe I can make you a deal.”