The China Dogs (7 page)

“Pha!” Cornwell dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “Little bastard will have seen it on CNN. Don't attach too much credibility to this horseshit.”

Molton isn't so flip. “Anything in it?”

“Too soon to say.” Jackson looks as uncomfortable as he feels. “I could only get a brief outline over the phone. Big dog went mad on a teenage girl over at a beach in Key Biscayne, then a Ranger shot it. Sad but not unheard of. Could be the heat, could be a disease, could be a lot of things.”

“Find out which.” Molton stares out into the clouds. “I hope to Christ this is as crazy as it sounds.”

22

Coral Way, Miami

T
he sun-shaped clock on Jude's kitchen wall strikes 8:00
P.M.
almost at the same moment the downstairs' doorbell rings.

Zoe is listening to the weather guy on the radio telling her tonight is going to stay way too hot to go out in the black maxi dress she's just put on. Now that her date has turned up, she has no time to change into something cooler.

Reluctantly, she trots through to the intercom by the front door and presses the button that opens the front lobby door.

While he's on his way up she sneaks a final check in the full-length hall mirror. The dress is so tight that wearing any underwear was impossible, unless she wanted to look like a patched up bicycle tire.

There's a polite knock on the apartment door.

She pulls it open and is amazed to see a small Hispanic man in his late forties in tattered jeans and a blue shirt that is soaked under the armpits.

“Cab for Zoe Speed.”

“I didn't order a cab.” She can't take her eyes off the driver's sweat patches.

“
Meester
Ghost sent me.”

“Who?”

“
Lieutenant
Walton. Said to say sorry he couldn't come in person but he's running late.”

She leaves the sweating cabbie on the doorstep while she collects her things and works out what kind of guy sends a car on a first date. Seems the night's going to be full of surprises.

Zoe swings a borrowed black purse over her shoulder. “Okay, I'm ready, let's roll.”

He leads her downstairs to a yellow car and plays jazz on the radio as he heads back into the city.

She catches the driver's eyes in the rearview. “Where exactly are we going?”

He smiles back at her. “
Meester
Ghost said you would ask.”

“Hey, what's with this Ghost shit?”

He looks up at her in his mirror. “That's what everyone calls him.”

“It's not very nice.”

“He don't mind. He really nice.” He smiles widely so she can see his sign of approval for her date. “He said I should tell you you're going to one of the best restaurants he knows.” His eyes twinkle. “I think you are in for a night you will remember.”

“Is that right?” She can't keep the irritation out of her voice.

Two more jazz numbers play out before the cab pulls over in front of a tall sandy building that seems a cross between offices and apartments.

The driver turns in his seat. “Apartment 4011—that's the penthouse floor. The concierge will show you up.”

“Apartment?” She bends in her seat and cranes her neck to get a view of where she's supposed to be going. “Shouldn't you just take me to the restaurant where we're having dinner?”

“Meester Ghost said to bring you here.” He shrugs. “I just do what he say.”

She gives up. “Okay. What do I owe you?”

He shakes his head. “The fare's already paid.”

“Thanks.” She gets out and flaps the door shut. A cool breeze billows across the sidewalk, and Miami's lights twinkle in the city blackness. It ain't New York, but she can feel the place has its own special energy and buzz.

The lobby is filled with black and white marble and some big old terra-cotta pots sprouting palms. A courteous concierge in his sixties shows her to the elevator and swipes his security card over an electronic reader so she can get to the penthouse suites.

Apartment 4011 is just a few doors down on the fortieth floor.

She knocks on the rich oak door and waits.

Ghost opens it. He's dressed in an immaculately cut black dinner suit, complete with bow tie. Zoe notes it's not the clip-on cheating type but the really difficult shit you have to fold and twist all by yourself.

And he's minus shades. He's there in all his albino glory.

“Hi, come on in.”

She stands there a second, in shock. “You look like James Fucking Bond.”

He laughs. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Please do.”

She's still rooted as she studies his eyes. They're amazing. Hypnotic. Fascinating. She wishes she had a camera to catch the meek milky irises and the threateningly deep pink pupils.

“You want dinner in the corridor?” The big lieutenant smiles as he holds the door wide. “Or you want to come inside?”

“Sorry.” She floats past him. “Inside is good.” She takes a quick look at the decor. “Fuck, inside is
very good
.” She grabs her iPhone from her purse and clicks at a white wall filled with multicolored original art. “You mind?”

He shrugs at her bent back as she snaps. “No, why on earth should I? Unless you're an art thief, planning a heist.”

Zoe stops. “Stolen a few hearts in my time, but nothing else.” She slips the camera back into her purse.

Ghost finds himself staring at her for the first time. She hadn't been wearing makeup when they met at the robbery and her hair was scraggy. Now her lightly powdered skin showcases beautiful cheekbones and she looks like a shimmering pixie. “I, er—like to patronize up-and-coming artists.” He waves a hand toward the paintings. “For obvious reasons I tend to go for the more vibrant and unusual works.” He walks her toward a horseshoe of white sofas. “Would you like a drink?”

“I would. What you got?”

“I've chilled some champagne. Unless you'd prefer something else?”

“Hard for a girl to say no to champagne.”

“And you look lovely.” He blurts it out and disappears into the kitchen.

“Lovely?” She smiles as she weighs up the word. She can't ever recall being called that before.

Hot. Sexy. Even beautiful. But never lovely.

She takes advantage of the fact that he's not in the room and shouts through to him, “The driver called you Mr. Ghost.”

“Ah, yeah. Lots of people call me that.”

“You don't mind? I thought it was kinda rude.”

“Stopped minding a very long time back. As a cop you get called a lot worse.”

While he's gone she walks to the window and looks out at Miami's illuminated cityscape. Music starts to seep into the room from hidden speakers, the unmistakable crackle and hiss of an old vinyl record, something classical and smooth that she doesn't recognize.

He reappears, looking every inch a high-class waiter as he balances a round silver tray bearing two crystal flutes of champagne on one outstretched hand. “It's a seven-year-old Taittinger. I visited the vineyard a few years ago and it reminds me of a wonderful French summer.”

She takes a glass and tastes it. The fizz tingles sensuously across her lips and tongue, then melts in her mouth like a gossamer-thin wafer of honey.

“Okay?”

“
Very
okay.” She lets the flute dangle between her fingers, enjoying the pleasure of its coolness in her warm hand. “So, surprise time is over—where exactly are we going to eat, Lieutenant?”

“Here,” he says as though he's already told her. “Well, upstairs, to be precise.”

23

Presidential Residence, Beijing

A
s the long day draws to a close, Xian Sheng sits alone in the dimmed light of his study and pours a shot of whiskey. It's a sixty-four-year-old Macallan malt, one of only four hundred in existence, distilled in five sherry butts made from Spanish and American oak and given to him by President Molton as a gesture of friendship, a thank-you for the dog they now call Emperor.

Around the decanter's neck is a handwritten message:
Everyone eats and drinks, only a few appreciate what they taste.
The quotation is apt but incorrect. It comes from the Confucian classic
The Doctrine of the Mean
and should read: “Everyone eats and drinks: yet only a few appreciate the taste of food.” He sips the liquor and forgives the mistake.

It is undoubtedly the best malt he has ever tasted.

Not worth the $60,000 a shot he is told it sometimes sells for, but still exceptionally good.

As he sips he knows that tomorrow General Zhang will come to him, his ambition shining like a new medal, and demand that he push China closer to war by green-lighting a total deployment of the Project Nian weapons. He has already given the go-ahead for some selective strikes—a show of strength to the Americans—but he realizes it is not enough. Zhang is an all-or-nothing soldier. Crush and conquer the enemy so they can never rebuild, so they live in fear of the victor for the rest of their days.

But Xian has serious doubts.

Doubts that this newfound biological warfare can be as widely controllable and effective as he is being told. Doubts that the new arsenal of money and technology is really better than the old one of nuclear missiles and diplomacy. Even the greenest of hunters understands that if you wound a big animal and don't kill it, then unless you retreat, it will destroy you. And America is a big animal.

He sips again on the Macallan and thinks about Zhang. He is a great warrior. A distinguished soldier. But he is an untrustworthy brute and a sadist. It would be disastrous for China should he ever realize his dreams of becoming President.

Then there is the problem of momentum.

Zhang has momentum.

Momentum and the backing of powerful members within the party. For him to hesitate now would be seen as a sign of cowardice, not wisdom. Nian has been many years in development and is long past the point when it can be further delayed or once more revised.

Xian finishes the whiskey and recaps the elegant Lalique decanter. About now the man who gave it to him will be flying out of Beijing, talking with his advisors, trying to make sense of how a visit that was supposed to strengthen ties between nations has instead concluded with grave threats against his people. Threats that are already being enforced.

On Xian's desk is a photograph of his family. His wife Suyin and their one child, Umbigo. They are pictured on the slopes of Dragon Bone Hill in Zhoukoudian, one of the oldest and most important places on earth. The area's ancient caves contain skulls and human remains that date back more than a quarter of a million years.

History is important to Xian. Reading it, learning from it, making it.

As he heads to bed he thinks about tomorrow and how historians of the future will judge the momentous decision he is about to make.

24

Historic District, Miami

“D
inner is upstairs?” Zoe takes a sip of champagne and looks untrustingly at Ghost. “That's a little presumptuous, isn't it?”

He smiles at her and puts his own glass down. “I mean on the roof.” He walks toward the patio doors, “Come and have a look.”

She follows him out onto the large balcony and glances at the glitteringly beautiful view of Miami. Ghost disappears down the side of the terrace and takes a metal spiral up onto a helipad.

“Wow.” Zoe is pleasantly surprised by a large spread of artificial lawn fringed by potted palms and the sound of music wafting over the rooftop.

“I called in some favors,” explains the cop.

At the center of the covered helipad is a round table covered in crisp white linen and cream leather chairs. In the middle of the table is an arrangement of cut white and pink roses and a silver candlestick.

Zoe laughs as she approaches the laid place settings. “Please tell me this isn't white china.”

“Actually it is.” He walks toward her. “Fine bone china from England. Victorian, to be precise.”

“
Bone
china? Why is it called that?” She picks up a charger plate and inspects it.

“Because it's a kind of porcelain made from about fifty percent bone ash.”

“Yuk.” She puts the plate down. “What's the music? I know it's Liszt but can't place the movement.”

“It's Ayako Shinozaki's interpretation of
Liebesträum
.” He pulls back a chair for her and lets her settle before seating himself opposite her. “Would you like something more modern?”

“No. I'm very happy to sit and drink champagne and listen to harp music on a grassed-over helipad.” She picks up her champagne flute by the delicate spindle, “I toast your wild and beautiful taste.”

“Here's to things wild and beautiful—and long may I be around them.” He clinks his glass gently against hers.

Zoe notices his eyes never leave hers as they toast and drink. His stare is mesmeric but unthreatening.

A small dark-haired man of about Zoe's age appears from the stairs and distracts her. He's wearing a waiter's white shirt, black vest, black trousers, and is carrying two plates of food.

“Good evening, Lieutenant.” He smiles at Zoe. “Welcome, ma'am, to the roof of the world. I hope you both enjoy the food.”

“Thanks, Benny,” Ghost says, then makes the introductions. “Benny, this is Zoe Speed from New York City via Maryland. Zoe, this is Benny Clark, Miami via Mexico and Los Angeles. Benny normally does pizza delivery but took the night off specially to help out. I'm very grateful Benny.”

“My pleasure, Detective.” He nods and walks away.

Ghost waits until he is out of earshot before adding, “Our ‘waiter' used to run with a bad crowd. Before the pizza job he used to deliver more lucrative takeouts, namely crack and dope. To stay out of prison he turned C.I. Now he runs straighter than a train on the Nullarbor Plain.” He points his fork at her starter of raw fish and vegetables seasoned in spices and marinated in vinegar. “How's the ceviche?”