The China Dogs Read online

  He nods suggestively toward her legs. “You might like to know that you’ve split your jeans.”

  She puts a hand down and feels that several of the fashionable frayed and stitched splits have torn into a gaping flap up the inside of her thigh.

  He smiles and adds, “My guess is that unless you cover up, you’ll soon be getting stared at even more than I am.”

  7

  Beijing

  Sixty-year-old Xian Sheng, President of the People’s Republic of China, General Secretary of the Communist Party, Commander-in-Chief and Chairman of the Military Commission, clears the room of his minions. He wants to meet with Vice President Zhang in private.

  Twenty years Xian’s junior, General Zhang is the former leader of the Special Operations Forces and one of China’s most decorated soldiers. His modernization of the army, crackdown on organized crime, and tolerance of “black jails”—secret detention centers for troublesome dissidents—have already marked him out as Xian’s likely successor.

  Zhang is more than happy to publicly display his cruel streak. Some weeks ago he invited news crews to film him personally flogging a group of young soldiers who’d been involved in petty gambling. When the elderly grandfather of one of the beaten men complained about the severity of the punishment, he had him publicly flogged as well.

  The president’s grand office doors are opened by flunkies. The general marches in. He is small and muscular, his black hair short, his dark eyes big and bright. There are no scars or wounds on his body, save a crescent-shaped burn across his chest, the result of a pan of boiling water his psychotic mother threw at him when he was a small child.

  “Please sit,” Xian motions to a chair.

  Zhang obeys, legs and heels smartly together, shoulders back and spine straight. He wants Xian’s job. Wants it now. But knows the only route to power is through obedience, patience, and a bold, name-making campaign such as Project Nian.

  The president looks up from a fan of papers on his desk. “What progress do you have to report?”

  “We are on plan and within budget. As you requested, we have fixed disinformation intelligence to ensure that if our deceit is uncovered, we will be able to make the world think it is solely the work of the North Koreans and nothing to do with us. We will be able to present ourselves as concerned intermediaries, trying to stop their reckless despotic ways.”

  Xian Sheng stares into the ambitious eyes locked on his old and tired ones. “I still have my reservations. Perhaps it is better to have sponsored this idea from afar, rather than with us insinuated in its development.”

  “Please do not have such doubts. Without our direct involvement, this idea would have been but a lotus flower strangled in a field of weeds.”

  “Have our scientists now reached the required standards and implemented the proper controls that we spoke of ?”

  “They are on course to do so, and still within the given operational timetable.”

  The president senses he is being economical with the truth. “I am relying on you to ensure there will be only minimal casualties, Zhang. Minimal. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The words ring hollow. “The party has given you their full support, as have I. Nian creates a powerful weapon to use against our enemies—but we must be able to fully control it, or else we are like a sleepy child with a loaded gun.” His face grows sterner. “Remember, I only supported this project of yours with the understanding that you could deliver the behavioral modifiers that you promised.”

  “I remember well. Work on the modifiers is advanced enough for us not to be held up. I will not let you down”

  “I know you won’t.” Xian prays he is right. In truth, he realizes there is already too much support among the military council for the project to be stopped.

  “Mr. President, with respect, I think the Americans will be more skeptical and stubborn than you expect. As a race, they are both arrogant and ignorant. They believe they will never be held accountable for their actions, that irresponsibility is allowable if it is gross enough and blatant enough.”

  “Do not underestimate them, Zhang. President Molton presides over a country in the midst of extreme difficulties. History has taught us that when people are in the greatest danger they are capable of the greatest victories.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have done well. I will speak with Molton after the summit. If he is not open to our offer, then as planned you must go ahead and meet with the head of the NIA and tell him of the consequences of such foolishness.”

  “I understand, sir. I have arranged to see him in the morning just before our military escort takes the presidential party back to Air Force One.”

  “Let us hope it does not come to that.” Xian waves him away. “Go now and prepare your actions, while I prepare my words. Tomorrow we will see which is to control the way forward.”

  8

  Miami

  Rubberneckers crowd the sidewalk. Police sirens scythe the sultry afternoon air.

  Members of an armed response unit—dispatched somewhat unnecessarily, as far as Walton’s concerned—argue with a handful of regular cops about who takes possession of the cuffed prisoners.

  Eventually the weapons men win. They get to walk away without doing the paperwork on the robbery, which also means not being snagged for subsequent court time. Grudgingly, a couple of uniforms traipse off to start interviews at the Citibank. Others haul the offenders away in separate green-striped Crown Vics.

  Walton finishes briefing a sergeant and looks for Zoe. He sees her over in a pool of shade, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a palm, her black canvas bag back over her shoulder. She’s shooting pictures on a smartphone. Interestingly, not of the prisoners but of him.

  He walks toward her with his hand up, blocking the shot. “I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

  She frowns. “Why?”

  “Because I’m in the middle of doing my job and it pisses me off.” He finger jabs shades back up his nose. “There are some paramedics up there, treating customers and bank tellers for shock. Having a gun waved in your face is alarming to most people. Maybe it would be good to get yourself checked out before I ask you some questions?”

  “I’m not most people and I don’t need checking, but thanks.” She snaps a final close-up, smiles and walks past him.

  “I still need to ask you some questions.”

  “Then ask away.” She carries on walking.

  “Hang on.”

  Zoe stops.

  “You want to go for a drink, or something?”

  She turns and hits him with a mischievous grin. “You asking me out?”

  He laughs at her cheekiness. “I just thought after your ordeal you might want some water or coffee while I ask you the kind of questions cops have to ask.”

  “I don’t. And it wasn’t an ordeal. What I want is to go to my friend’s house, just off the bottom of Coral Way. How about you give me a lift there and do your question shit on the way?”

  He pulls a quizzical look. “My question shit?”

  “Yeah, your question shit.” She notices he has a nice smile.

  “I guess I can. Follow me.” He turns and walks across to the other side of the road.

  Zoe tags behind him and sneaks several more shots. This time, of the long shadows he casts on the blacktop.

  Walton stops at the passenger side of a ’58 Dodge, a great big boat of a car, full of dents, ginger rust, and tarnished chrome. It’s what his colleagues call “a Dumpster on wheels.”

  “What the holy fuck is this?” Zoe tentatively touches the mottled door handle.

  “Custom Royal Lancer—Swept Wing. Not many made.”

  “I can see why.” She jerks open the door and cautiously slides onto the worn white leather front seat.

  Walton
gets in the other side and slips a key into the ignition. “One day I’ll do her up, and then this baby and me are gonna cruise coast-to-coast.”

  “Yeah, and one day I’ll be chief photographer for AP or Reuters and have a Manhattan loft bigger than a football field.”

  “That what you want?”

  “Yeah, maybe. An old snapper in NYC told me to look him up when I qualified. I guess he’s only after getting in my pants, but I figure in a few months’ time I’ll give it a try.”

  “Which bit? The getting sexually assaulted bit or the job lead?”

  “I think they go together.”

  Classical notes spill out of hidden door speakers.

  The choice of music takes Zoe by surprise. “Mahler?”

  “Resurrection.”

  “I thought that all cops listened to was bad-ass rap and Armageddon rock.”

  “Kinda like that too.” He grins boyishly. The rebuilt V8 coughs through smoky pipes as he hits the gas. “You said you’d come from the airport, where did you fly in from?”

  “Maryland.”

  “No bags?”

  “Not anymore. Carrier lost them somewhere. Supposedly, they’re going to deliver them later.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  “Tell me about it. Got my camera in there. It’s like losing a limb.” She leans forward and examines the car’s dash. “Is the air-con on?”

  “Only air-con is the window. Roll it down for cool, up for hot.”

  “Sophisticated.” She cranks the handle and the sheet of glass drops in heavy jerks. From being alongside Walton she can see beyond his shades for the first time. “You’re albinoid, right?” She looks pleased with her diagnosis. “And the shades are prescriptive not decorative because your albinism is oculocutaneous.”

  “Ten on ten. Though I got lucky.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I’m light sensitive—very sensitive. So I need reactive lenses, but my vision is perfect, so they let me be a cop.”

  “That’s unusual. Albinism usually comes with bad eyesight.”

  “Like I said, I got lucky. And I guess, because you know so much about this weird little twist of genetics, you were a med student from Johns Hopkins before you switched to photography. Which in turn, would explain why a girl with a New York accent is flying in from Maryland.”

  “You’re close.”

  “What’d I get wrong?”

  “Well, I never studied medicine. Always wanted to be a photographer. After this stay with a friend, with or without help from the old perv in NYC, I’m planning on going there and starting up as a freelance photojournalist. Did an arts degree but spent a lot of time snapping doctors at work—and patients too.” She’s done disclosing so she shuts her eyes and enjoys a blast of cool wind from the open window.

  “And patients included albinos?”

  “Aha.” She opens her eyes and looks across the seats to him. “You know what?”

  “Yeah, I know ‘what’ intimately. What about ‘what’?”

  “If that offer of a drink still stands, then I’d be happy to take you up on it.”

  9

  Miami

  Few people hate their jobs as much as thirty-two-year-old Huey Dunbar hates his. The two-hundred-pound, former car salesman detests the beach, loathes local history, and couldn’t give an owl’s hoot for the famous wildlife that apparently is in abundance around him.

  After he lost his sales position, the best straw he could pull was one as a lighthouse guide over at the Bill Baggs Cape in Key Biscayne. Dressed in white sneakers, a baggy white shirt, and shorts as brown as his crew-cut hair, he plods past the coconut trees and climbs the twisting spiral of metal steps inside the whitewashed tower.

  Partway up he wipes sweat from his face with the pristine handkerchief that his wife pressed last night and popped into his pocket. He folds it back along the creases and tries to inject enthusiasm into the patter he plies to the party of Japanese tourists trailing him: “The lighthouse you’re ascending is recognized as the oldest structure in South Florida and was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1971. It was restored in 1967–70 and again in 1992–96.” As he pauses for breath, a lightning storm of camera flashes illuminates his face. Half blind, he blusters on. “This is the only lighthouse to have been attacked by Indians. A U.S. Army base was then built here to protect the land and sea from subsequent attacks.”

  Huey turns his back on more flashes. He heads up the stairs to the lens room and the outside observation deck. It’s the part groups always like best. They get to gawp and wonder at life from on high, while he stares vacantly out to sea and dreams of doing anything but this.

  The guide looks back at his obedient charges. “You’re all going to have to be careful coming in here. Hold onto the rails and take it in turns. One at a time, until I usher you through. Be careful now and no pushing.”

  He points an educational finger, “From the platform you can see the park and the skyline of the city of Miami. The beach out there is one of the top ten stretches of sand in the United States—and look over here,” he points away at forty-five degrees, “you can see a lot of new homes, built after Andrew blew through like the end of the world was coming.”

  The tourists file in and out. Huey gets a minute to himself on the platform. He swings up the binoculars that now perpetually hang around his neck and looks out to sea. Some rich guys are racing each other on Honda jet skis, cutting up white surf as they zig and zag without a care in the world. Out on the prow of a million-dollar yacht a supermodel blonde in a haute couture black bikini braces herself then performs a perfect-legs-together swan dive into the aquamarine water.

  Huey swings the glasses toward the shore where the poorer people play. Kids are running around laughing and screaming. They splash each other with wild enthusiasm, completely unaware of the shit that awaits them when they graduate and have to find jobs and pay their own way.

  And dammit, there’s a dog down there too.

  An Alsatian or another big breed like it. He guesses some asshole has ignored the No Pets signs and let the thing roam free. There are no lifeguards out on the beach these days, so rules never get religiously enforced.

  Huey reaches for the radio on his hip and then thinks, What the hell? Someone brought a pet to the beach, so what? He’s not going to call the Ranger Station and get them all the way down here just to chase a mutt.

  The animal, a stupid one by the look of it, scampers through the surf trying to eat the waves. A group of teenage girls get spooked and shout a little as they head for the dry sand.

  One of the other girls takes a tumble and the dog circles her, wanting to play. Maybe it’s her pet. She’s on her back now and it’s climbing all over her, eager for a game.

  Huey refocuses.

  “Holy Christ!” The dog isn’t playing. It’s turned nasty and is snarling at her.

  Huey radios the Rangers. “Control, this is the lighthouse, we have an emergency out on the beach, a dog looks like it’s about to attack a female bather.”

  There’s a hiss and sizzle of static before a female controller comes back to him. “We’re on it, Lighthouse. Someone already called it in.”

  The girl is still on her back, kicking out as the dog snaps. People are standing around but no one is helping.

  The animal lunges and finds flesh.

  A vicious bite into her left leg.

  She screams.

  It shakes its snarling head and pulls her in the sand.

  More screams.

  The dog begins to drag her away, like a hunk of meat stolen from a butcher’s shop.

  Huey shouts into his radio “Where the hell are you guys? This thing is killing her!”

  He refocuses the binoculars.

  The animal bites into her neck.

 
The girl’s head flops.

  There are no screams now.

  No sounds at all from her.

  Or the beach.

  Just the dog slobbering and chewing.

  People around Huey are sobbing.

  “Come on folks, let’s go back inside.” He ushers them through to the lens room.

  As Huey pulls the door shut he hears the crack of gunfire.

  One. Two. Three quick shots.

  A pause.

  Two final cracks.

  “It’s all over,” he says without even looking, “The Rangers just shot the dog. So, everything’s fine now.”

  10

  Miami

  Walton parks his Dodge at the corner of Twelfth and Third, closes her up and looks back with pride. It’s not a car; it’s automotive art. Just as Miami is not a city, it’s a life installation.

  He and Zoe grab coffee at Angelo’s, a gourmet café that he’s been coming to ever since he discovered the difference between instant and ground.

  He takes her statement over his two espressos, her numerous extra-vanilla Crèmappuccinos, and a plate of home-baked ­brownies.

  Once they are down to the crumbs, Walton hands over a Miami police business card. “This is me, and my numbers. Someone from Robbery will ring and follow up with you. They’ll keep you apprised of court dates and such like.” He signals for the check then gets to his feet. “Excuse me, for a minute. I need to visit the restroom, then I’ll take you to your friend’s place.”

  “Thanks.” As he disappears, she looks at the card.

  LIEUTENANT I. WALTON

  Specialized Operations Unit

  I.

  She wonders what the letter stands for.

  Most likely Ian.

  Surely not something like Isaac or Ibrahim?

  She can’t think of any others.

  Igor?

  No, he’s definitely not an Igor.

  Zoe is still guessing when the cop comes back. He seems edgy.

  “Sorry.” He gestures with his cell phone, “I just got a call from Dispatch. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you here.”