The China Dogs (33 page)

Only now does he look down.

His hands are not shaking. But the thunder in his chest tells him that he is coming to the end of his days and shaking or not, power is slipping from his fingers.

His lie about Molton telephoning him and being ready to talk has only delayed matters. Put off the inevitable. Bought a little time.

A day or two.

A week at the most.

Unless Xian can discredit or remove Zhang within the next seven days, he will find himself out of office and possibly even dead. The world's press would be given some rubbish about a heart attack, or cancer that had been kept quiet. Few would know how the assassin had struck. Most likely poison. Or a surprise attack by someone who can snap his neck quickly and not leave marks that can't be covered up by a new uniform for the state funeral.

If he is to survive, then so too must Molton. And that means they must talk. Even if he initiates the call.

Xian looks at the secure phone on his desk and wonders if he should pick it up.

The alternative is unthinkable.

He's sure that Zhang is pressing on without the safety net of having pacifying agents to sedate the weaponized dogs.

Within forty-eight hours Florida will be like an abattoir.

Then Zhang and Xue Shi will target the major cities. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston, Philadelphia, and Dallas. Finally, he will release the dogs of war in Washington—the seat of government—the ultimate humiliation.

The phone swims into Xian's view again and the urge to pick it up is hard to resist.

But he knows he needs to reflect. Think things through.

Strategize.

This, after all, is the beginning of his biggest battle.

120

Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea

H
ao Weiwei sits in the cool, white surroundings of his laboratory and feels a sense of loss that he has only known once before. The time his wife died.

The end is near.

The end of his work. End of his time as a parent to Jihai.

End of his life.

When Zhang and Xue Shi realize that he knows about the poison dogs, they will have no choice but to “remove him” and any others they suspect he may have told.

They will all be as dead as Péng.

His fingers pause on the computer keyboard. He's at the place where he's worked for the past three years and loyally completed the tasks given him. Now he's teetering on the brink of what would be regarded as treachery.

All the tests that he has run have automatically been downloaded onto a main computer in Beijing. He's sure that at first no one will notice exactly what has happened, but they will eventually. Officials in the intelligence service will have certain alert programs in place, and once that software picks up the data he has run, then all eyes will be on him and his team.

As he accesses the restricted administration sections of the master computer, he thinks of his only son.

He remembers holding him for the first time. Struck by how light and tiny he was. How soft his skin felt. How beautiful he smelled. What joy he experienced to have brought life into the world.

Jihai will go on to be a great scientist. Of that he has no doubt. Which is why Hao is doing what he's doing.

And when he's finished, then he's going to remove the military pistol from the locked metal cabinet beneath his desk and do the honorable thing.

121

Beijing

Z
hang and Xue Shi sit alone in an office adjoining the Operations Room.

The general's mood has been black ever since they walked out of the meeting with President Xian. He cracks the knuckles of his fingers as he reflects on the meeting. “The old fool is making one desperate effort to cling to power. I doubt there is truth in his claim that Molton has called him.”

“I can get Chunlin to check his call records.”

“We cannot trust Chunlin.” Zhang's face is dismissive. “No matter. If they haven't yet spoken, they will. Xian will call Molton and suggest a meeting. It will be his last attempt to get the Americans to accept the deal.”

“The level of attacks planned for the next twenty-four hours will bring the Molton administration to its knees,” Xue says. “He will be begging to accept.”

“Have our other friends prepared their surprise?”

Xue Shi smiles. “They have. Turmoil follows turmoil.”

Zhang drums his fingers on the table while he thinks. Everything is going according to plan. He can taste victory, but he wants it to be
his
victory and not Xian's. “The moment Xian goes to meet Molton is the very instance when he feels strongest—and is therefore at his weakest. As these ‘great leaders' prepare for diplomacy, we must rattle the sabers of war so loudly that they cannot hear themselves speak.”

“The second phase dogs?”

Zhang is pleased by the thought of the havoc they will wreak. “How many of them can be activated?”

Xue Shi is unsure. “I will need to check. Not that many. Ten, maybe twenty.”

“And these are on the East Coast?”

“New York and Washington.”

“And the pacifier for the phase one dogs? Not that I care. I want to know solely in order to keep Xian under the illusion that we are still following his orders.”

“Weiwei was close. I received a message that he had called, just as I was leaving to join you for the meeting.”

Zhang stands up and heads for the door. “You need to prepare to close that unit down. Jong Hyun-Su can handle things from here. Don't leave any loose ends.”

122

North Korea

J
ihai takes the bucket and mop with him.

He slides back the boards, sits in the roof space and listens intently as the men dry and dress.

Only once do they mention him.

A man with a deep voice asks, “What happened to the cleaner?”

There's a pause and then a lighter voice answers. “His things are gone. I guess he's left.”

That's it. He's out of their minds. They talk of how hungry they are. How ugly a particular sergeant is and how they're not looking forward to going back on duty.

He's forgotten.

The door bangs shut and the shower block falls silent.

Sitting in the dust and dark he thinks of his father and wonders what he's doing. Whether he is planning his own escape. How he will try to do it.

Jihai has a simple plan for himself.

Wait.

Wait until the black of night joins forces with the storm and he can make allies of them both.

Wait until the vast number of men on duty falls and much of the camp drifts into sleep.

Wait for his one slim chance to get out of here alive.

123

Breezy Point, New York

I
t's late evening by the time the FedEx van finally arrives with Danny's new computers, modems, relays, and peripherals.

Two surly New Yorkers unload them in the hallway, even though he wanted all of it upstairs.

By the time he's finished the shifting, he's glistening like a roasted hog.

It takes the rest of the night to get everything cabled up and online.

The only good news is that Brad Stevens has had the house fitted with ultrasecure satellite broadband that has upload and download speeds more than a hundred times faster than anything commercially available.

The bad news is that he can't call anyone and no one can call him.

Until he gets clearance from Stevens, he's unable to communicate with either Jenny or Zoe, the only two people who really matter to him.

Just after midnight he completes the setup and celebrates with a grilled cheese sandwich and a cold beer. Then he turns in before he collapses from stress and tiredness.

He's asleep within seconds of hitting the sack.

In his dreams he hears the click of his finger on the trigger. The explosion. The zip of air. The dull thud of bullet through clothing. The muffled agony. The tumble down the wooden stairs.

Danny wakes in a sweat.

He's soaked. It's like he's showered in wet salt.

He swings his legs out of the strange bed and pads into the kitchen to get some water.

There's a bleep.

And another.

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

It's his computer. Sending out an alert.

He rushes to the back room to check.

Jackpot.

He's found it again.

He's back on the tail of the elusive code.

124

North Korea

H
ao is completing his final tasks when Dr. Chi and Tāo return.

The army issue pistol is in his hand, the door to the metal cabinet still open and a suicide note on his desk.

Chi looks at him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

He slides the safety catch back on the gun and avoids the question. “How is Péng?”

The doctor's eyes answer before he does. “Critical. They have given him morphine.” He glances toward young Tāo and then back to Hao. “He will die peacefully.” He looks distressed. “I have no idea what is wrong with him.”

“He's been poisoned.” Hao sees no point pretending any more. “He was bitten by the dog and it secreted a neurotoxin into his blood stream.”

“Neurotoxin?”

“Tetrodotoxin.”

Chi looks confused. “How?”

Hao doesn't have the strength of spirit to explain in full. “There was a new batch of microchips sent for implanting. They contained a different serum. One that had been adjusted so it converted the dogs' saliva into something toxic.”

Tāo steps closer to the two men. “What does this mean?”

“It means we cannot continue. I came here in the name of peace. To create a way to protect our country, not to attack others. I am shutting down the program.”

Chi rushes him.

Hao is caught unawares and the gun goes off.

The doctor lets out a primeval cry and falls to his knees.

Blood is pumping over his white medical coat, surfacing like a giant poppy from the middle of his stomach.

Hao is traumatized by what he's done. His eyes are glued to Chi, who is already going into shock.

The doctor slumps sideways, cracking his head on the tiled floor. His eyes and mouth are splayed open.

Tāo is crouched in the corner of the room. His back is against the wall and he too looks shocked.

Then Hao sees why.

The bullet has passed straight through Chi and hit the youngster.

“Oh no. Tāo. Tāo.” He rushes to him.

The researcher is holding his chest, and it's instantly clear that the shot went up through Chi and caught him in the worst possible place.

Hao puts his arms around him and guides him to the floor.

“Don't—let—me—die.” Tāo's eyes are filled with pain and fear. “I—don't want—to—die—”

“It's okay,” lies Hao. “You'll be okay.” He leans over him and takes his hand. “Lie still, don't tense up.”

He feels Tāo grip his fingers. Grip hard. Then slacken.

The boy lets out a splutter and his body spasms.

He's gone.

Hao stands up and looks at the blood on the white floor. Looks at the two crumpled bodies. And he looks at the gun.

He'd meant to shoot himself. An honorable end to the dishonor he'd been tricked into. He'd planned to end it all with just a single bullet, and instead that one shot has killed two innocent people.

He sits in his chair and raises the weapon. His eyes take in one last look of his office. A lab coat of Jihai's behind the door, a photograph of him on the wall, and the dead bodies of Chi and Tāo.

As he slides the cold barrel into his mouth he has a final thought.

One that might just save his son's life.

125

Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami

T
he last thing Ghost notices is the rhythmic beep of the life support machines and the dull green glow of lights on the other side of Zoe's bed.

After that sleep comes.

It scoops him up and transports him to an unblemished land of parks and rivers. The sun is golden and a cool wind blows Zoe's dress tight to her body as they walk the banks of a river and decide where to sit.

The click of the door handle wakes him.

A big male figure stands in the frame, bright corridor lights burning in the background.

“Lieutenant Walton?”

He peers out from the shade and reaches for the sunglasses he put on a bedside cabinet. “Yeah.”

The man steps into the small room and takes a pace to one side. “Stand for the President of the United States.”

Ghost isn't together enough to make sense of what's happening and he's still sitting and staring when Clint Molton walks in.

Now he tries to get up.

“Mr. President.”

Molton waves him back down. “Sit. I need to do the same.” He pulls over a chair near the door and turns to the protection officer who walked in before him. “We're fine; you can leave us, thanks. I'm in no danger from this man.”

As they're talking, Ghost can't help but listen for the machines and look across at the dials and monitors. He doesn't understand the readings but their positions and sounds are familiar, and familiar means good. He glances at his watch.

Ten past midnight.

He's sitting with the President at ten past midnight.

Molton waits patiently for him to finish his scanning of the screens then smiles. “This your lady?”

“I hope so.” He remembers his manners and belatedly adds, “Sir.”

“Forget the formalities. How's she doin'?”

“Not so well.” He looks across at Zoe's pale motionless face, the mask that's helping her breathe, and the tubes and drips that are keeping her alive. “But they say she's stable.”

“That's good. She'll be okay.” He puts his hands on his knees and looks across at her as though she were one of his own family. Then he turns back to Ghost. “My sister got hit by a bus, under the Loop in Chicago. Spent two days in a coma. My mama sat there every minute worrying. Soon as I walked in the room I knew Connie was going to pull through. She did. Recovered just fine. I know your lady's going to do the same.”