The China Dogs Read online

  Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  The best thing of all is to take

  the enemy’s country whole and intact;

  to shatter and destroy it is not so good.

  SUN TZU

  1

  Gobi Desert, Northeastern China

  The silver buses drive across the land of endless sand. Onboard are prisoners from China’s notorious Death Row. Rapists, serial murderers, and child abusers.

  Twenty men about to be given an extraordinary chance to live.

  To wipe the slate clean.

  The long vehicles that carry them are equipped with lethal electrocution equipment, state-of-the-art technology designed to deliver on-the-spot executions. The inmates can choose to stay on board and be quickly put to death; their organs harvested there and then and sold to those needing donations.

  Or—when the doors swing open—they can run for their lives. Run into one of the largest deserts in the world and take their chances with what lies out there.

  Air brakes hiss, sand sprays, and the five buses come to a synchronized stop in the blistering heat.

  Three army copters hover in the sweltering air. Military bosses watch like circling vultures.

  On cue, automated locks clunk and the big doors of the vehicles slide open.

  Clouds of hot sand rise as the bare feet of desperate men jump and run from the vehicles.

  No one remains.

  Six miles away—six miles north, south, east, and west—the doors of four armored personnel carriers also open.

  General Fu Zhang peers down like God. Watches life and death play out. People reduced to black dots, scattered like dung beetles. He can’t help but think it would be better for the men if they’d stayed on the buses.

  Their deaths would be less painful.

  The leader of China’s armed forces follows each and every fatality on his video monitor.

  Nonchalantly, he waves a hand to the pilot to return to base.

  He is pleased.

  Seldom has he seen such efficient slaughter. Such economic carnage.

  Project Nian is nearing completion.

  2

  Sinuiju, North Korea

  It’s minus 25 and a skin-stripping wind whips down the Yula River, lashing the crews on the icebreaking barges that crunch in the whitened mouth of the delta where the Yellow Sea, Korean Bay, and East China Sea meet.

  Fifty-nine-year-old Hao Weiwei and his only child, twenty-six-year-old Jihai, light cigarettes near mounds of snow at the end of the Friendship Bridge. They smoke and shiver as they stare nostalgically across at their home town of Dandong, a place they may never see again.

  To the soldiers photographing them from the military towers on the Korean side of the river, the men look almost identical. Both are slight of build, with round, gentle faces and soft brown eyes. The father has a little less of the black, thick hair, and the son moves with more vigor as they both stamp their feet to stay warm.

  Those who know them would tell you that they’re more than family. They are coworkers and close friends, made closer by the cancer that took Jihai’s mother when he was only sixteen. They are kind men. Dedicated workers. Perfect citizens.

  Hao throws the remains of his cigarette into the Yula. “Enough now. Come, we still have a long way to go.”

  Jihai takes a final look at the matte grayness posing as daylight, sinks the stub of his cigarette beneath the snow and walks back toward the waiting van. He shuffles down the boards past other workers and takes his seat next to his best friend Péng, the rock he leaned on when his mother died. Péng is broad and round, so he takes up at least a seat and a half, but Jihai wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Sitting behind them is the unit’s research assistant, Tāo, a frail and shy young man who is still more at home in scholarly surroundings than the world at large.

  The government driver shuts the door and begins the long journey south.

  It’s to a destination that few people in the world have ever been to and most would fear to go.

  3

  Washington DC

  Jack and Jane Molton are about as excited as young kids can get. Mom and Dad—Clint and Sheryl—are pretty wound up as well.

  America’s First Family is getting a new pet. One that’s had more medical examinations than the President himself.

  “Emperor” is a red Tibetan mastiff pup, a gift from Xian, the great and honorable leader of the People’s Republic of China, and to quote twelve-year-old Jane, the dog is “super cute.”

  Officers Rick Ryan and Darryl Heitinger carry the small white cage into a playroom in the residential wing and salute their President.

  Ryan, a young Marine with a chiseled GI Joe face, passes over a small red book. “Emperor’s medical papers, sir. All jabs, quarantine tests, and inspections are up-to-date and fully in accordance with Homeland and White House regulations.”

  “Thank you, Rick.”

  The officers dutifully disappear and the family descends on the tiny bundle of fur that has its face pressed against the plastic coated bars.

  “Me first! Let me hold him first.” Ten-year-old Jack is beside himself with excitement.

  Forty-seven-year-old Chicagoan Clint Molton bends his six-foot-two-inch frame to unlock the door. With one big hand he scoops out the fluff bundle, accompanied by a chorus of “Oooohs.”

  “Oh my God, he’s so pretty!” Sheryl kisses the pup’s shiny black nose before Clint passes him to Jack.

  “In Chinese the breed is called Do-khyi,” says the President, not that anyone is now listening to him. “It means home guard or door guard.”

  Again no reaction.

  Clearly now is not the time to try to educate the family.

  Jack cradles Emperor like a baby and rocks him lovingly. Jane rubs the soft golden fur under his chin. “Okay, come on, it’s my turn now. Let me hold him.” She tries to prise the pup from her younger brother’s grip.

  Mom sees problems brewing. “Hey, be careful. He’s an animal, not a toy. You guys are going to have to learn to be gentle and responsible or you’re going to hurt him.”

  Clint finally has a chance to add a fact that might get their attention. “And remember, when this little fella is fully grown, he’s going to be worth a million bucks.”

  Sheryl looks shocked. “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope. Pedigrees like ours are rare. This breed goes back fifty-eight thousand years and some dogs fetch more than ten million yuan.”

  “Sheesh. You’d best take President Xian a nice present when you next see him.”

  “I will. I’m in China for the G20 later this year. But I’ll call him tonight and say how much we all love the pup.” He lifts Emperor out of his daughter’s arms. “Let’s put him back now, give him a rest, then we’ll show him his basket and you can feed him.”

  Molton raises the dog so they’re eye-to-eye. “You really are handsome. Seems I have some competition in the house at last.”

  His daughter squeals with laughter, “Daddy, Daddy look.”

  Molton doesn’t have to.

  He knows what’s happened.

  “Well, that’s a first,” says his wife. “The President of the United States has just been peed on.”

  4

  Six months later, Miami International Airport

  Lost Luggage—a synonym for purgatory. A place of despair. A vortex of broken
souls, eternal delays, and heartfelt losses.

  Among the melancholic masses is Zoe Speed, twenty-six years old, five-foot-six, with spiky black hair and an attitude to match.

  Exhausted and angry, she strides from the counter not at all convinced that her worldly goods will turn up via the next flight and be sent as promised to her friend’s address. That big old brown trunk, plastered front-to-back with check-in stickers, has stayed loyally with her for years across countless countries and continents. It’s survived a turbulent childhood, her parents’ divorce, cross-state house moves, transatlantic holidays, and even boyfriend breakups. Nothing has shaken it from her side. Until now. Until a pissy flight from Maryland.

  A-friggin-mazing.

  She hurries outside the recently extended terminal, a daunting seven million square feet of aviation commerce. From her cavernous shoulder bag she produces her pouch of Drum Original and rolls together a smoke.

  Goddamn United Airlines.

  She was going to kick the habit, but this latest event has broken her resolve. Mentally, she ticks off what’s missing. Makeup, sleeping tablets, birthday cards, favorite silk underwear a boyfriend gave her, dresses and shoes she bought for herself back in New York.

  And her camera.

  The center of her life.

  The beautiful Hasselblad she’d won in a photographic contest while finishing her art and media studies degree. Everything else seems unimportant.

  Zoe throws away half of her cigarette as she reaches the lower level ramp and catches the downtown bus. It’s packed but she gets a seat near the luggage rack and tries to chill. There’s no point getting wound up about things she can’t control. She slips off her red cord jacket and takes long, slow breaths like her shrink told her to. With every exhalation a little anger disappears. Not as quickly as if she had some dope, but it goes nonetheless.

  After fifteen stops, Zoe changes and catches the 22 out to Coconut Grove Station. She gets off at Nineteenth and Twenty-second, then starts to walk to the eastern end of Coral Way where her friend Jude lives.

  The two women met at Johns Hopkins. Jude was doing straight ER studies and Zoe was on placement at the more exotically titled Department of Art (as Applied to Medicine), shooting features on reconstructive surgery.

  It’s as hot as hell out on the street and she’s wishing she wasn’t wearing jeans and the red Converse trainers that match her cord jacket. She makes another roll up as she strolls and is just licking the edge of the paper when an alarm sounds behind her.

  It’s the Citibank that she passed less than a minute ago.

  A stocky man bundles his way down the sidewalk. His face is covered by a balaclava. A big black canvas bag is over a shoulder and a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

  Shoppers scream and scatter.

  A young mom topples her baby’s stroller trying to escape.

  Zoe’s feet stick to the sidewalk.

  She’s directly in his way.

  5

  Beijing

  “Can you believe these people?” Pat Cornwell, Vice President of the United States, points at the television in the corner of the hotel’s heavily guarded penthouse suite. “Do you have any idea what this program is about?”

  Clint Molton looks across from the rosewood desk where he’s revising his speech for the conclusion of tomorrow’s G20 summit. “Some chat show, by the look of it. It’s probably no worse than Survivor or Big Brother, Pat—and hey, don’t even get me started on those other trashy reality shows we have.”

  “Well, unfortunately my Chinese is good enough to tell you it’s worse. Much worse than that. This is a pre-execution interview show. Can you imagine? The guests go straight from this little tête-à-tête to their death. Some forty million Chinese sickos make a regular appointment to view this stuff.”

  The President takes off his reading glasses and stares at the TV. A well-dressed female presenter in her late forties is sitting uncomfortably in a scrubby room, flanked by uniformed prison guards. The camera cuts to a sobbing middle-aged man in orange prison overalls, manacles around his wrists and ankles.

  “What’s he done?”

  The VP explains. “Killed his gay lover. It was a crime of passion. He came home and found his boyfriend in bed with another man. Everyone started beating on everyone and the guy cracked his head and died.”

  “Not Murder One—not even in Texas.”

  Pat continues his scathing commentary. “The prisoner’s family has refused to see him before he’s executed. They seem more ashamed of his sexuality than his crime.”

  “Well done, China.”

  The Vice President watches some more then turns to Molton, “Jeez, the prisoner just asked the presenter if she’d be generous enough to shake his hand before he goes to his death—said he dreamed of touching someone who doesn’t want to hurt him before he dies.”

  “Emotional moment.”

  “You’d have thought so. Only this bitch says no. Says he deserves to suffer some more.”

  Molton shakes his head. “It’s a different world out here, Pat. One that we’ve taken big bucks from, so we’re going to have to get used to their ways.”

  “You can’t get used to what’s wrong—no matter how big their checks.”

  On screen, the inmate is hauled sobbing to his feet. The presenter turns her back on him to deliver a final address to the camera. A picture comes up of his dead lover. Then another of the two of them together. Finally, a shot of the place where he’s going to be executed.

  Pat opens the suite’s minibar. “I need a drink or ten. You want one?”

  “No thanks.” Molton picks up the pen he’s been correcting his speech with and looks across at his old friend. “You know, Pat, there are many Americans who would applaud that sentence. They are proud to back capital punishment, and a lot of our states are more than happy to throw the switch.”

  Pat pulls a Bud off a shelf and flicks the door closed. “These motherfuckers still execute more people than the rest of the world put together, and the numbers are going up, not down.”

  “Biggest population on the planet—one point four billion—I guess they’re going to have more bad guys than the rest of us.”

  The VP pops the cap off his Bud and swigs it. Time to bite his tongue. He’s said enough.

  Molton watches the cold beer glug down. “Actually, I will have one of those. Thanks.” He smiles at his friend. “By the way, if we showed execution chat shows, the audience would be at least twice what the Chinese get.”

  6

  Miami

  Zoe wonders how her day got so shit so quickly.

  First the lost baggage, now she’s caught slap bang between a fleeing bank robber and a brown getaway car that’s just pulled out from a Taco Bell opposite the Citibank and flung open the passenger door.

  She needs to step aside. Get the hell out of the way. And quick.

  Only, giving ground is not in her nature.

  She slips off her shoulder bag and the precious computer inside it.

  The onrushing robber glances toward the car and the woman driving it.

  Zoe lurches into a jump kick.

  Her right foot cracks his chin. Hits him as hard as a baseball bat.

  Blood and spit spatter through the balaclava mouth hole as his feet come up and the back of his head cracks the sidewalk.

  His shotgun clatters across the ground toward the getaway car.

  The guy tries to get to his feet, but Zoe’s over him already. She drops knees first onto his chest. Knocks the wind out of him. Probably cracks a rib or two as well.

  The getaway driver, a scruffy redhead in her late thirties, is out of the car by now and has her hands on the shotgun.

  “Armed police! Drop it!”

  Zoe is still on the guy’s chest. She can’t see the officer behind her, but given his boo
ming voice, presumes the drama is now ending.

  “Drop it, lady! I won’t tell you again.”

  The closeness of the cop spooks the robber into one desperate dash for freedom. He wriggles free of Zoe and swings a desperate punch. She grabs his fist with both hands and twists the arm to breaking point. Self-defense training taught her that she needs to keep her grip as she shuffles her weight off his chest, spins him facedown and pulls his wrist painfully up his back.

  The redhead sees her man is out of the game. She drops the shotgun. “Okay, okay don’t fire that thing.”

  “Move away from the weapon and lie on the ground.” The cop shuffles toward her, his gun extended, handcuffs trailing from one hand. “Do it quickly, ma’am. Come on. Facedown. Hands behind your back.”

  Zoe manages to turn her head. She sees the cop bent over the woman clicking cuffs around her wrists. He’s freaky. Tall, white-haired, with very pale skin, wearing big dark shades and a smart light suit.

  He looks at her. Picks up the shotgun. Reaches into his pocket for a pair of plastic standby ties. “Can you hold him a couple of seconds more?”

  “No problem,” she says. “This asshole’s going nowhere.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He walks over, puts a knee into the man’s back and carries on talking as he yanks up the robber’s wrists and ties them with the restraints. “That was quite a job you did.” He gives her a second glance. “You hurt at all?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She catches herself staring at him. Everything about the guy is wonderfully wrong. He’s too tall. Way too pale for Miami. Thin but athletic. And that white hair makes him look a whole generation older than the rest of his body suggests. She’d kill for her camera right now. For a chance to capture this cool white warrior in the middle of the sizzling hot action.

  The cop sees her gawping but doesn’t seem embarrassed as he casually hauls the prisoner to his feet and carries on chatting. “I’m Lieutenant Walton, Miami PD.” He flips his ID for her. “I was close by when the call went out.”

  “Zoe Speed.” She envisages him in a thousand shots—near a burst of neon signs, his whiteness against a zillion electric colors, or down on the beach, walking past racks of browned bodies, blue sky and blue sea as backdrops. The guy’s a photographer’s dream.