The China Dogs (32 page)

He realizes she's being practical rather than insensitive. “She has a father and a brother. I don't have numbers but I can find them.” He gets to his feet again. “I need her phone. I think it must have been in her clothes.”

“I'll have one of the nurses look for you. You going to go home now? You look dead on your feet and there's nothing you can do here. We'll treat you as her surrogate decision maker and call you if there's any change.”

“Actually, I'd like to sit with her for a while, if that's okay? Seems wrong just to walk out of here without seeing her.”

Kinsella nods. The guy's in love, she thinks. He believes that somehow holding her hand is going to work magic. They all do. Unfortunately, it never works.

115

North Korea

H
ao's words are ringing in Jihai's ears.

“Run. Escape. Save yourself and tell the world the truth.”

He'd gripped the phone in shock and still feels as dazed now as he did when he left the bunker and entered the eye of the storm.

“Péng is already as good as dead, and Zhang will kill us all when he discovers we know about the poison dogs.”

The news had rocked his world, thrown him completely out of orbit. He and Péng had been friends since they both learned to speak. Since the death of his mother, Jihai's only living relative had been his father.

Now he was being told to do something that would mean he'd never see either of them again.

And if he hesitated, then he might be killed.

It was one thing to have suspicions and doubts. But to have them validated and turned into a matter of life, death, and honor was something else.

Now the questions come. The biggest he has ever faced.

Even if he could desert his dying friend—and he's not sure he can—what about Tāo, and how could they escape?

He forces himself to think.

The DMZ is long but narrow, and the hospital less than a ten minute run into sanctuary in South Korean and American hands. But a million North Korean troops lie between the two points. Could he really evade them?

Others have done it.

Done it for years.

But in a storm like this?

They'd done it in the depths of winter and the height of summer. Done it because they were determined to. Because they
had
to.

And others have been killed.

Shot down by guards in the lookout towers. Caught on barbed-wire fences and riddled with machine-gun fire.

Jihai tried to stay positive. The smart ones had gotten away. They had headed for the demarcation line, made it to Panmunjom, the abandoned village where the cease-fire was signed, where the JSA—the Joint Security Area—is and, bizarrely in this land of extreme contradictions, where tourists are even bussed in to witness the tension between the only divided country in the world. Or they made it into Daeseong-dong, the only civilian habitation within the southern portion of the DMZ. The military demarcation line lies just a few hundred yards west of the village. While the DMZ is under the administration of the Allied Control Commission, the residents of Daeseong-dong are considered South Korean civilians and subject to South Korean government law.

If he could get there, he'd be safe.

Dr. Chi is talking animatedly to medics. Finally, Péng's gurney gets wheeled into what passes as an emergency room. From the look on the faces of the Koreans, he suspects that all they are doing is isolating him, making sure that whatever has made him ill doesn't infect their soldiers.

A look around tells him that security in here is lax, to say the least. Sick army personnel are in beds, chairs, wards, showers, changing rooms, and there are uniforms and weapons everywhere.

If he's going to make his move, he has to make it now.

116

Beijing

T
he briefing note trembles in President Xian's hands.

He puts it down on his office desk and stares at his fingers as though alien creatures have attached themselves to him.

He's never been nervous in his life.

Nothing has ever hit him so hard that he could not control his own body.

But the note from his intelligence services has done that.

It's not so much what it says, but the fact that he has to read of such an important event, rather than be told in person.

That fact alone means more to him than the event itself.

It signifies that he is no longer the most important person to tell. The person who must know before anyone else.

It means his position is not unassailable. And people know it.

The ones outside his room, waiting to come in, they know it.

He looks down.

His hands are shaking even more.

He presses them on the camphor wood and closes his eyes.

Now he is walking the slopes of Dragon Bone Hill with his wife and child. The air is cool and fresh. Carried on it are the smells of plum blossom, camellia, and tree peonies. He sees the wonder in young Umbigo's face and feels the love in Suyin's hand as she takes his.

Xian opens his eyes.

His fingers are still.

The trembling is gone.

He holds down a switch on his desk and talks to his secretary. “Show them in. And bring us some tea.”

The president stands. In his mind he hears the words of Sun Tzu, China's greatest tactician:
Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance.

The door opens and Zhang enters. A step behind him is Lieutenant Xue Shi.

“My heroes.” Xian beams warmly and embraces each one in turn. “What incredible victories you are achieving. Sit, sit. Come.” He ushers them to the softly furnished area that is reserved for visiting dignitaries.

They settle on the plush leather sofas and Xian continues his gushing approval. “So tell me about it. How you managed to get the great bald eagle to bow before the dragon and declare a State of Emergency in Florida.”

Zhang feels awkward. He'd expected the president to be annoyed. It was the effect he had hoped for. Not this effusive praise. “We have been systematic in the deployment of the Nian dogs. All has gone exactly to my plan.”

“Our plan, comrade.”

Zhang concedes the point. “Indeed. Our plan.” He wonders if the president would be so quick to use the plural if he knew the full extent of what the plan was.

Xian picks up the intelligence briefing. “I shall have this framed. A moment of history.” He puts it down and smooths it out on the desk. “Of course it wasn't news to me.” He watches his general's eyes and sees a twitch of tension, the lips press together in annoyance. “Do you know how I knew, Zhang?” He positions his smile just the right side of smugness.

The general remains silent.

“The President told me.” Again he sees a twitch in his underling's eyes. “I believe he is ready to talk.”

“Did he say as much?”

Xian raises an eyebrow. “You meant to ask, ‘Did he say as much, Mr. President, sir?' This chair and my position are not yet yours, so please remember the courtesy I am owed.”

Zhang dips his head and respectfully acknowledges his mistake.

Xian continues with his lie. “Molton called me personally. Before his announcement to the American media. I thanked him and he asked if we could come to ‘an accommodation.' I told him I would think on the matter.”

General Zhang wants to ask what his president has decided, but to do so will show a swing of power again.

Silence sprouts and slowly festers between them.

It's broken by a knock on the door.

Xian's secretary brings in a tray of green tea. No one speaks while it is served. The secretary bows and leaves the room.

The president picks up his cup. “So let us talk strategically. Outline for me your proposed next moves and I shall decide how best to respond to President Molton.”

117

Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami

T
he light, the air, the electronic noises and the smells of the hospital bedroom, all give Ghost the creeps. He guesses it goes back to his childhood when he spent so long in clinical waiting rooms and examination suites. He's never been good at waiting. Boredom multiplied by fear always makes for bad karma.

He takes a break and retrieves Zoe's Hasselblad from his car, then grabs hot chocolate from the machine in the hope that it's more palatable than the coffee. He opens up Zoe's notebook and tries to match the numbers and descriptions to the thumbnails he pulls up from the camera's memory chip.

Ghost is shocked to see the inside of the Gerbers' house. He knows she didn't take those pictures last night because she never left the kitchen. He casts his mind back and remembers that this morning, when he asked her what she was going to do with the photographs she'd taken, she answered that if anything she hoped to tell the story of the two women “with some sense of perspective and feeling.” Maybe this was her attempt to do that. She must have charmed her way past the cop on duty, got into the house, and then begun her photographic investigation.

He breaks from the lists, descriptions, and images to hold her hand and watch the monitors. Zoe's motionless face depresses him. The thought of losing her is growing more painful by the hour. He kisses her hand and tries to distract himself with her research.

The combination of camera and notebook prove to be as intriguing as they are revealing. They offer the sequential explanation that
Chens
is not a town, place, or store. It appears to be a home of a man named Li Chen who worked at a Miami animal shelter and lived near Charles Hadley Park. From the photographs, Ghost sees Zoe is something of a serial housebreaker. Apparently, she got into Chen's house and took a whole series of shots. There are no other people in the stills and as far as he can make out there is nothing of significance in the photographs.

The next sequence of shots, taken forty minutes later, is at the dog show. There are close-ups of breeders' signs. He flicks through and gradually works out that she's only picked out those concerned with wirehaired pointers.

The final shots show a pointer on the center stage suddenly savaging its proud owner. Ghost guesses Zoe then forgot about photography and tried to get the hell out of there, or more likely—knowing her—focused on helping other people around her.

“Hell of a story,” he says to the unconscious woman in front of him. “I just hope you wake up soon, honey, and can fill in those missing gaps.” Ghost turns the camera off and puts it on her nightstand. He grabs a spare pillow from the bottom of her bed, takes her hand again, and settles down for what he suspects is going to be a long wait.

118

North Korea

J
ihai walks to the doorway from where Tāo is watching Chi and the Korean medics attend to Péng.

He touches the young researcher's arm to get his attention and gives him a clear and firm instruction. “You stay with the doctor. I'm going back to help my father.”

Tāo nods obediently.

Jihai walks the corridor and pushes open a door.

It's a shower block.

He can see steam billowing from around a corner and there are hospital gowns, shoes, and clothes everywhere.

But no uniforms. No weapons.

There's a window to the outside world, but even through the frosted glass he can see the verticals of the iron bars.

There are drains in the floor. But they are far too narrow to fit into and he guesses they simply run waste out into the earth, or into one of many self-contained septic tanks.

The steam is rising in front of him. It hits the ceiling and then bleeds away. There is no air-conditioning and there are no vents, but the steam is swirling upward.

Jihai stands on a wooden bench and puts his hand to the big ceiling boards. They are loose.

Raucous laughter comes from the showers. It sounds like some play fight. He hears three voices, maybe more.

Jihai's knowledge of Korean is good and he can make out words.

They are calling each other names. Fooling around. They're distracted.

He stretches and pushes the board.

It lifts.

But he's not tall enough or strong enough to be able to flip it back, find a joist, and haul himself up. If he stacks another bench on top of that, then the men will be suspicious when they come out of the shower.

He glances around.

In the far corner there are two toilet stalls. If he went in one of them he could climb on top of the lavatory and might be able to reach the ceiling.

More laughter spills from the showers.

But he'd have to cross the soldiers' line of sight. And then he'd either have to wait until they'd gone or make the climb with the risk of them spotting him.

A few feet to his left there's a steel bucket, a mop, some dark cloths, and a long rubber floor wiper for shifting excess water.

He takes off his white laboratory coat, folds it up and puts it in the bucket. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, grabs the cleaning equipment, takes a deep breath and heads to the stalls.

His heart is hammering as he comes level with the men. He can feel strange eyes on him, checking him out. Custom dictates that lowly cleaners keep their heads down, show respect for their betters, so he does exactly that.

One of the men says, “It's only a cleaner. Don't worry. Don't stop. He won't say anything.”

Jihai keeps on walking.

The farthest stall is in the corner.

He slips inside and turns.

Through the steam he catches a glimpse of the men. Two of them are kneeling. The third has his hands spread against the wall.

The last thing they're paying attention to is him.

119

Beijing

X
ian watches Zhang and Xue Shi leave.

Watches their backs all the way to his door.

Watches the door close and then listens to their heavy military footsteps fall on the boards of the corridor.