The China Dogs (24 page)

“Ha ha.”

“There's a new phone and number for you in the glove box. We'll put a trace on your old cell and restore the number when we know it's safe. Until then don't call anyone you don't want to end up dead.”

Danny pulls a white iPhone out of the glove box. “White? You think I'm the kind of guy who uses white phones?”

“You are today.” Stevens glides the Lincoln off the dirt and heads south down Montague and out on to Columbia. “No sign of the bleeder you mentioned. He must have got away. I had his friend Mr. Stiff moved, though. And your place is being stripped and cleaned. How many bullets did you fire?”

“Just the two.”

“Not too much paint and plaster needed, then. Did you collect the shells?”

“You think I'm stupid?”

“Just 'cause you're a cracker doesn't mean you're smart.”

“Hacker not cracker. There's a difference.”

“Being?”

“Crackers are assholes, evil cyber vandals that screw things up for no reason. Hackers have reasons, you know—like the common good.”

“Yeah, sure. Your common good being personal profit.”

Danny's not in the mood for a wind-up. “Fuck you, man. You pay the bills, you get the company benefits. I'm just the skateboarder hanging on to the back of your big old bus.”

“Glad you know your place. Any more shit like this and the bus won't be stopping for you anymore. Did you get everything you needed out of that flea pit?”

“Pretty much. Won't be sad to see the back of it.”

“What are you going to tell the rest of the crew?”

“Texted them already. Said our IP masks were compromised and the Wall Street loft isn't safe. They'll know we need to stay low and relocate. They'll be cool.” Danny looks out the windshield as the Lincoln filters onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. “Where we going?”

Stevens smiles broadly. “You're in luck. We've got a vacation home for you out at Breezy Point.”

“Breezy? You're freakin' kidding me. I hate the ocean. I can't even swim. Man, I'm gonna die of boredom out there.”

“Is that a promise?”

 

PART FOUR

I do not know with what weapons

World War III will be fought, but World War IV

will be fought with sticks and stones.

A
LBERT
E
INSTEIN

 

83

Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea

T
he high-pitched whine of an electric motor and the deep rumble of rubber wheels echo through the tunnels of the underground bunker as Hao Weiwei and his son Jihai wheel three heavily sedated pit bull terriers in a caged motorized cart to the testing zone.

Hao is ready to try again.

A new serum, split into three separate and slightly different doses.

A new hope.

As usual, Tāo and Péng help maneuver the dogs through the airlock of the central cell and into three separately petitioned areas. The PBT is a breed banned in many U.S. states and countries worldwide. It's universally recognized for being astonishingly strong and devastatingly aggressive.

This is the ultimate test.

The microchips of all three animals have been successfully triggered, and prior to being heavily sedated, they were showing advanced signs of intense aggression.

Starved and taken away from their recognized environment, they should, when they wake, become even more hostile.

Hao is confident his newly adjusted serum will be able to calm and control them.

He knows General Zhang is hoping that too. It is what the military leader needs in his fight against American aggression. So much so that the general has told him that his patience is being tested and if he doesn't produce success in the next few days he will be “replaced.”

Hao also fully understands the endless meanings of the word “replaced.”

Quickly but meticulously, the scientists go about their final chores, electronically measuring, weighing, and photographing the sleeping animals before drawing blood for testing and taking final pulses.

Once the sedated dogs are left in their isolated spaces, Jihai removes the motorized cart, locks all the doors, and gives Tāo the instruction to check the controls on the remote video cameras mounted inside the glass cell.

Recording machines clink and whir into action as time-coded footage begins to be gathered on all three fawn and white dogs. Seeing them asleep, it's easy to imagine them as pets, and even an untrained eye would spot striking similarities between the cute trio and at least assume they're from the same litter.

But few would guess that they are clones. Bred to the point of deadly aggression.

Péng raises his chunky arms, slips the canisters of serum into the overhead atomizers, and gives his colleagues a knowing nod.

Hao presses a button on his master control terminal and a clock on the outside of the glass cell resets to zero.

As soon as the dogs wake, the experiment may begin, and one way or another he knows it may well be the last time he is in charge.

84

Coral Way, Miami

R
eluctantly, Ghost leaves Zoe in bed and goes into work. He's shocked how quickly the heavenly postcoital endorphins fade and the tension of the dog investigations once more creeps into his bones, muscles, and mind.

“Captain is after you,” says Annie Swanson as he enters the office. “Didn't look like he wanted to give you good news either.”

“Cummings is allergic to good news, he's never allowed it anywhere near him.”

She looks him up and down. “You're dressed like you were yesterday.”

He tries to ignore her observation. “Did he say what he wanted?”

Annie frowns as she puts together the floating pieces of what she can remember about last night. “Did you go home with that photographer woman?”

His eyes widen behind his shades. “That's none of your business.”

“Oh wow.”

Ghost drifts away. He hadn't expected to be quizzed on his private life. Hadn't left time to go home and get changed after he and Zoe returned to bed. He curses himself all the way to his captain's office. Normally, he keeps his private life far removed from work. This time he's slipped up.

Up on the top corridor he walks past the captain's open door to talk to the boss's secretary when Cummings catches his eye.

“Ghost! Get your freaky ass in here.”

He doubles back and sticks his head around the door. “You bawled for me, Captain?”

“Yeah, I did. I bawled.” He points to a chair. “Sit while I bawl some more.”

Ghost takes a perch.

“Late last night I get a call from Graham Gate—you know who that is?”

The name is familiar but Ghost can't place it. “Governor's office?”

“No. You're miles off. Gate is the President's chief of staff. They saw you on CBS, mouthing off about these flaming dogs—”

“Captain, I had a camera pushed in my face, I thought it better—”

“Think of shutting up while I finish what I got to say.”

The two men stare at each other until Ghost manages a suitably submissive look.

“Anyways—despite the whole police world getting briefed yesterday
not
to say shit that might scare the public about dogs, you do. You go tell the world that Fido the family pooch is really a freakin' monster who's gonna bite them to death while they sleep in their beds.”

“I'm sorry, but what I said was—”

“For Christ's sake, listen and don't talk!”

Ghost raises his palms in defeat.

“Seems you touched a nerve. God knows how.” Cummings searches his table for a scrap of paper. “You're to ring this guy on this number in Washington. Apparently the President wants to put together a task force to address the canine challenge, and they want you on it.”

Ghost takes the scribbled note and stands up with a smile on his face.

“Do
not
smile. Do not fucking even think of smiling in my office.” He eyeballs the lieutenant like only captains can. “And most of all, do not screw this up, Ghost. The chief of police has made it clear to me that my ass is your ass. If there's cause to rip you a new one, then I get one as well—a two-for-one offer that I do not want to take up—you follow me?”

“Like a puppy, Captain.”

“Bad analogy.” He throws a thumb at the door. “Now get the fuck outta here—and remember what I said, no screw-ups.”

85

Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea

A
hundred ten minutes click by on the laboratory clock.

All three pit bulls are twitching, waking, moving.

Wobbly and groggy, they haul themselves upright.

Two head instinctively and unsteadily to the water bowls in the corners of their cubicles. The third stands its ground close to the glass and adopts an aggressive stance. Its lips curl back and intense black eyes fix on the watching scientists.

Hao checks his computer monitors and sees the dogs' heart rates rise as they become more and more alert. The trigger drug is still strong, riding buoyantly through their bloodstreams, touching nerves and piquing anxiety levels. That part of Nian has always been good, but today he needs to be able to reverse it. The serum he's been working on must neutralize the aggression and kill it permanently, not just for minutes like the sedatives have done.

All three dogs start barking.

They lunge at the glass and snap their teeth. They're ready to fight for any scraps of food, more than ready to kill if necessary.

Hao types in the computer keystrokes that activate the canisters of atomized serum. Each has a slightly different chemical modifier and all have been constructed to be absolutely harmless to humans.

Within ten seconds Dog One becomes tired. He stops jumping and barking, flops on his side and licks comfortingly at his short coat. The response is good and all the scientists feel encouraged.

Dog Two, the one held in the middle section, remains highly alert but no longer aggressive. His ears are bent upward like bat wings and he paces territorially and quickly. He's no longer snapping or biting but still looks like he might go for anyone who invaded his personal space.

The third dog is motionless but still upright. It is as still as a statue, like it's been sprayed with quick-drying cement. Its head is cocked toward the other two terriers, its dark eyes glassy and fixed.

Hao is pleased. To lesser and greater degrees all three are responding. And the deviances in behavior seem to correspond to what he'd expected from the different doses of administered serum.

There is hope.

He knows the genealogy of all the dogs, and this one in particular. The pit bull was created centuries ago when the British crossed terriers and bulldogs. Later, there was more collaborative interbreeding with kennel clubs in the United States, and so the American PBT was created. Initially it was well regarded and even widely used in the police services. Then its natural aggression began to surface. A series of vicious and fatal attacks on people, mainly children, changed its image irrevocably. He thinks it ironic that the Nian project is dedicated to exploiting America's mistakes in developing interbred aggression.

If the serum can pacify a pit bull it can pacify anything.

86

Coral Way, Miami

S
howered and breakfasted, Zoe uploads the photos to her MacBook. They seem even more shocking than when she'd taken them. The scene had been more like an abattoir than a kitchen, but after the initial shock she'd concentrated on taking the stills and somehow that process shielded her from the full emotional blast of the carnage. Now there was no such protection. The close-ups of the victims' faces—what remained of them—stings her eyes with tears. She can't help but imagine what horrible deaths they endured. Being bitten to death must surely count as one of the cruelest and most agonizing ways to die.

Who were they?

The question burned in her mind. Ghost had said they were a mother and daughter. She'd jotted their names down at the time. Astrid Gerber and her mother Heidi.

She sits back from the computer and studies a full-length shot of the ripped and ravaged torso of the younger woman. She looks little more than a collection of meat bones you'd get from the butcher shop for your dog.

Zoe flips down the lid of her Mac and gets up from her chair. She's seen enough. More than enough. Her mind is clear now. She knows what she has to do. Knows she has a duty to the memory of the women she'd photographed.

Jude left her the keys to her Nissan, “in case of emergencies,” and while she'd never imagined using it, she now finds herself gratefully picking them up and wandering outside to the car. She takes a minute to familiarize herself with the controls and then sets the satellite navigation.

Twenty minutes later she's back at the scene where the two women died.

She locks the car and looks at the quiet avenue. It's as though nothing had ever happened. The police and emergency vehicles have gone. So too is the fluttering tape that kept the public and press away from the death scene. There's just a lone cop standing on the doorstep. Zoe looks around and sees a male photographer taking shots from across the road. A middle-aged reporter is going from house to house, without getting much joy. Residents are barely opening their doors more than a crack for him. She feels hugely disappointed. Her aim in coming here was to find out more about the two women, put together the stories of their lives, make them more than just statistics.

Her eyes drift back to the house where the women died, and she recognizes the cop from last night. A good-looking rookie who'd turned up just as she and Ghost were leaving. She walks down the driveway and pins on her best smile. “Hello again, don't tell me you've been here all the time?”

The cop has been watching her since she parked. His eyes have been all over her blue jeans, imagining what a shape like that would look like free of denim. Now he's hooked by the glint in her eye. “Just about to come off shift if you want to buy me a coffee.”

Zoe hits him with a cheeky smile, one that's laid legions of men helpless. “Yeah, I'd like that. Listen, can you help me out first?”

“I can try.”

“Remember that lieutenant I was with last night, the tall guy?”

“Yeah, freaky one wearing shades in the middle of the night.”

“You got him. He's sent me back to get some more shots.” She lifts her camera. “Seems I screwed up. Didn't get the full set.”

He frowns skeptically. “The stiffs have long gone.”

Zoe flinches. “Yeah, I know. It's not those that I missed. It's the interiors—the rooms. Seems I should have shot those.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Damned if I know. That's why I didn't shoot them last night.” She moves closer to him. Cuts his personal space in half. Watches his eyes dilate as she lowers her voice and
confides
in him. “Listen, I don't get these shots, then I get dumped, know what I mean? I'm only on probation and I'm one chance beyond my last chance. Can you let me in? I need ten minutes, that's all.” She steps back and gives him her best little-girl-lost look.

The rookie glances around. The reporter is just being let into a house and he's waving his photographer over. There's no one else out and about. And there's actually almost an hour until his relief is going to be here. He plunges his hands into a jacket pocket and produces the keys. “Use the back door and be quick. You get caught and we'll both be looking for new jobs.”

87

Police HQ, Miami

G
host dials the White House.

It's something he never imagined doing.

“Aaron Davies.” The voice is young but sounds as though it's irritated at being distracted from something far more important.

“Aaron, this is Lieutenant Walton of the Miami police. My captain said I should call this number in relation to the task force the President is putting together.”

The staffer knows exactly who he is. “Let me see if Mr. Gate is free to take your call.”

There are twenty seconds of dead air, then Davies comes back on line. “I'm putting you through to Mr. Gate.”