The China Dogs (3 page)

“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

F
ew 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

W
alton 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.”

“What?” She looks distinctly pissed.

“There's an emergency at the beach on Key Biscayne.”

She gets to her feet. “What kind of emergency?”

He sees no harm in saying. “Some dog has gone crazy. Killed a girl. I don't think anyone else has been hurt.”

The photojournalist inside her surfaces. “Can I tag along?”

“Not a good idea.” He shoots her a disapproving look as he goes to the counter to settle the check. “There will be enough ghouls down there without me bringing more.” He turns to a small, dark-haired guy in his late fifties. “
Muchas gracias,
Angelo.”

Zoe stands stunned by the insult.

Walton puts down an extra twenty. “Could you please call a cab for the lady? It shouldn't cost more than ten to fifteen to get her to her friend's.”

“Sure. No problem.” Angelo takes the bill and turns to Zoe as he reaches for a phone. “You ready to go now, lady?”

“Yeah, I'm ready.” She watches Walton leave without even saying goodbye. “Not big on manners, is he?”

Angelo looks up and smiles as the door bangs shut. “Ghost? Ghost is a perfect gentleman—until you piss him off. Then you'd better watch out.”

11

G20 Meeting, Beijing

T
he twenty leaders of the largest economies in the world stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the stage of the conference hall. They shake hands vigorously and smile perfectly for the official end of summit photographs.

Between them, they control a staggering eighty percent of the world's trade. Along with their finance ministers and bank governors, they are what make the world's businesses tick.

At the center of the shot are the three most powerful men on the planet. Clint Molton, President of the United States; Xian Sheng, head of the People's Republic of China; and Vladimir Stanislaw, leader of the Government of the Russian Federation.

When the last click of the cameras has been taken, Molton and Xian retire to a guarded side room for a very private discussion.

They settle in soft executive chairs made from caramel-colored leather, and the American gets the niceties out of the way: “Sheryl and I want to thank you again for your wonderful gift. The kids
adore
the dog. He's already very much one of the family.”

Xian Sheng seems pleased. “I am very glad to hear this. May you enjoy many years of happiness together.” He looks down at the rich, rigid grain of the heavy mahogany table that separates them and seems to study it for a moment. When he raises his head, the warmth has gone from his eyes. “Mr. President, your words at the close of the summit today gave Chinese people little comfort. Your debt to my country is more than two trillion ­dollars—and it is rising all the time. Yet all you speak of is the need for more trade and more expansion.”

Molton leans forward. “I hope you understand, we have to generate greater revenues and profit overseas to service our debts. Either that or we face a currency devaluation and further downgrading of our credit status. My words, Mr. Xian, were about ambition and optimism, vital qualities as we
all
strive for growth.”

“Words are not enough. And the interest you pay on loans is also not enough. We are no longer confident you can settle what you owe.”

Molton leans back in his chair. “The United States has always honored its debts, and always will.”

There is an awkward pause.

The Chinese leader runs his hands slowly over his slick black hair, then delivers the lines he's been rehearsing for days. “Mr. President—I have a proposition for you. A radical but practical one.”

“I'm always open to offers, sir.”

“China wants to
waive
your debts. Forget them completely. Treat the money as a real investment in your country and help the United States grow.”

“That's very kind of you.” Molton smiles diplomatically. “Why do I suspect this isn't the altruistic offer it seems?”

“In return for our two trillion dollars of loans
and
the interest payable on them—we want to own ten percent of America.”

Molton smiles—he isn't sure he's heard the Chinese leader correctly. “I'm sorry, what exactly do you mean?”

“Think of United States like a company. A company in big trouble. Think of China like an angel investor. Angel gives two trillion dollars to help the troubled company. In return, United States pays us ten percent of all future taxes raised—
in perpetuity
, forever.”

“I know what in perpetuity means. And the answer is no. The whole idea is as ludicrous and insulting to me as it would be to the American people.” Molton gets to his feet to leave. “Thank you again for your hospitality, here in Beijing. We already have a signed and executed financial arrangement and we intend to honor it, as must the Chinese government.”

Xian doesn't rise. “Mr. President, United States's foreign debts are fourteen trillion dollars—that is now bigger than the United States's annual revenues. China has enough influence in Asia and across the world—especially with our friends in Russia—to control almost half of your debt holders. Maybe more. You should take China's offer now at ten percent, or in the near future you will be forced to accept a not so generous offer.”

Molton is almost at the door, “What did you just say?” He strides back to the table; fully aware his manners have gone. “Only, I'm really hoping I misheard you, because that sounded a whole lot like a threat to me.”

Xian finally gets to his feet. He stays perfectly calm in the shadow of a man almost twice his size. “It was no threat, Mr. President—it is a promise. We have the power to
save
your economy or
ruin
it. You have the power to choose.”

Molton glares at him, then turns and storms out.

The leader of the People's Republic of China calmly sits again. With a steady hand he pours a glass of water.

Before he finishes his first sip, the door is opened by General Zhang. “It went as I predicted?”

Xian puts his glass down. “Yes, you were right. Molton is deaf to my words and has chosen the path of ultimate actions. You must speak with Director Jackson before he leaves in the morning and intimate what terrible repercussions follow in the President's wake.”

12

Bill Baggs Park, Miami

B
y the time Walton gets to the scene, police patrols have sealed off a crescent-shaped area of the beach, south of Cape Florida Park Boulevard. They've also closed the park entrances and are searching cars and questioning pedestrians in order to find the owner of the killer dog.

Away from the uniformed cops, two white tents stand out on the now eerily empty sand.