The China Dogs (41 page)

Jackson nods. “You said video?”

Danny nods. “Yes sir. There seem to be years of lab experiments.”

“We're prioritizing the latest ones,” adds Everett.

“It was this stream that got snagged and opened everything up,” explains Danny. “It was as though after the final experiments were finished, someone broke the firewalls so we could deliberately get in. Until then all the programs I'd thrown at it just slid off.”

Jackson looks to Parry, a glance that asks if they had an operative inside the operation, but the commander shakes his head. “Thanks, Speed. Excellent work. Thanks, Bill, I'll catch up with you later.” He leads the director out to the corridor. “We ran some of the log-ins and cross-matched them with other intelligence. Two names came up, a father and son called Weiwei.”

“Go on.”

“They're both scientists. Well known within the international community. Especially the older one. Years back we tried to turn him but had no luck. He's a geneticist, Hao Weiwei, who was short-listed twice for a Nobel. His son was named on much of his work and published his own papers on GM crops.”

Jackson is tired. “They're behind Nian?”

“Looks like they were involved at senior levels. Hence their names being on the computer access. We ran facial recognition on the scientist shot by the North Koreans. It's Jihai Weiwei. He was crossing the DMZ when the KPA shot him.”

152

Police HQ, Miami

G
host leans back in his chair, stretches and yawns. He's bone weary from too little sleep and too much worry. There's little action on the monitors now. Just a giant clean-up operation. All the adrenaline of the day has disappeared like a retreating tide. The room is filled with emptiness and sadness.

He looks to one side and sees Annie staring at him. “What?”

“You mind if I say something?” She walks closer.

“Is it advice? I'm really not in the mood for advice.”

“It is.” She pushes her luck. “You look awful. I can't even see beyond those superstar shades of yours but I'm willing to bet your eyes look like walnuts, and from your crumpled suit and yawning, I'm guessing you should go home and crash before you fall over or something.”

He knows she means well. “Home is the last place I want to be. I'm going to make some final calls and then go to the hospital.”

“Why not
call
the hospital? You can't make her better by sitting alongside her, you know. Sitting beside someone is not a form of medical treatment.”

Ghost smiles. “I know.” He picks up the phone. “One call then I'm going.”

She nods and leaves him to it.

The call Ghost makes, however, is not to the hospital but to Sandra Teale.

The vet recognizes his number and picks up right away. “I was five minutes away from sending you an e-mail.”

“I have special telepathic powers and thought I'd save you having to write.”

“Well, your timing is perfect. I have you on speakerphone and I'm peering down the most powerful microscope we have, at one of those chips from the center.”

He picks up a sense of intrigue in her voice. “Is there something unusual about them?”

“Oh, yes. Very much so. They're not data chips at all.”

“Pardon?”

“Well, that's not technically correct. I should have said they're not
only
data chips.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are drug chips. That is to say, they are filled with tiny reservoirs that are filled with some kind of drug—”

He jumps in. “That small? You can get drugs into a microchip?”

“Yes you can. Highly concentrated droplets are kept in separate reservoirs and then released at timed intervals. The technology was developed for seriously ill patients who would be unlikely to remember to take pills at the right times.”

Ghost makes notes as he fires questions. “What kind of drug is in these chips?”

“Hey, I'm quick but not that quick. I've drawn some of the liquid out but still have to run tests.”

“Sorry. Have you any idea what it might be? Some kind of vaccination? An antirabies shot?”

“No, I don't think so. I haven't heard of shots being given that way. There's no rabies alert at the moment. And most of all, these are really sophisticated chips, they're far too expensive to use on dogs.”

Ghost falls silent.

So does Teale. She waits for a question that never comes, then asks, “What are you thinking?”

“I'm not sure. I'm trained to look for the obvious, and then when everything obvious has been ruled out, consider the ridiculous.”

“Which is what?”

“That the dogs have been deliberately drugged to enrage them and make them kill. In other words, they'd been effectively weaponized.”

153

Honolulu, Hawaii

T
he giant conference table is ringed by the rich and unfamous. Powerful men most of the world have never heard about who decide the fortunes of millions.

The gathering is an emergency session of a little known but highly powerful organization called APEC. Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation is the key forum for protecting North America's business interests in markets like China, Japan, North Korea, and Australia, and right now its cross-border treaties are in danger of falling apart.

Ichiro Nomura, the delegate for Japan, leans into the microphone in front of him and sums up the perilous situation. “The USA has yet again delayed interest payments on its very sizable debts to my country and leaves us no choice but to consider an immediate cessation of trade unless shortfalls are remedied and guarantees given that future payments will be timely.”

Tomas Reynolds, the U.S. executive, presses the red light on his desk and responds quickly. “My good friend Ichiro-san makes an unfair point. The delay in debt payment is a technical holdup of just a few days.”

Nomura responds. “A few days' interest on several trillion dollars is a lot of money, Tomas-san. Do I need to remind you that 95 percent of consumers lie outside America's borders and that 40 percent fall within APEC's domain?”

“You don't. I need no such reminder.”

“Or that the Asia-Pacific region buys 70 percent of U.S. agricultural exports.”

Applause from other member countries drowns out the U.S. delegate's reply.

Ichiro Nomura stands, his microphone still on. In his hands is a thick legal document. “This is a contract worth two billion dollars, for the provision of transportation equipment by companies in Indiana.” He tears it in two and lets the papers ceremonially flutter over the edge of his desk. “No more trade until debts are paid.”

Cheers go up. Korean delegate Kim Kak-Hee turns his microphone on and similarly stands, papers in hand. “Contract for chemical manufacturing—one billion dollars.” He rips it in half and half again. “No trade until debts paid.”

As the applause dies down, Chinese delegate Zhiang Liu gets to his feet. “The People's Republic of China is owed more than two
trillion
dollars by the United States of America.” He holds his hands up, so three contracts are seen by the table of delegates. “These are manufacturing orders worth
ten
billion dollars for companies in Ohio. It is with great regret that I do this on behalf of my country.” He walks from his place and stands next to the U.S. representative, where he tears them up and leaves them on the table in front of him. “China will not trade with the U.S. until debts are paid on time and in full.”

154

Police HQ, Miami

O
nce Sandra Teale has hung up, Ghost sits in a daze.

Poisonous microchips.

It makes sense. Sounds outrageous but makes perfect sense.

But Li Chen?

Was he really an illegal immigrant who'd spent months jabbing dogs with killer chips? And who had put him up to it? A company ready to sell some antidote? Or a more sinister group?

Ghost is reminded that Zoe found something at Chen's house that sent her straight to Bicentennial Park. He mentally flicks through the images on her camera and suddenly they take on significance. Two bedrooms. Made and unmade beds. Clothes in separate closets.

These weren't the living habits of man and wife. They were signs of spies hiding out, sharing a roof and a lifestyle as a cover for their activities.

More pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. If he was right about the poison chips and the spies, then it began to explain why the NIA and President were so interested in the dog attacks so early in the chain of events. He looks at the small business card he's placed in the middle of his desk. On it is a private number. One he was told he could ring at any time, providing, of course, the occasion was important enough.

Ghost thinks it is.

He makes sure his office door is securely locked and dials it.

The voice that answers is male and well-educated, crisp and friendly. “President Molton's office. Jordan speaking.”

“This is Lieutenant Walton from the Florida task force. I need to speak to the President as a matter of urgency.”

Molton's executive secretary sounds surprised. “How did you get this number, sir?”

“The President gave it me in person when he was in Miami.”

“Please hold.”

Ghost is left in a digital void. He guesses the assistant is checking to see if the great man is around or even wants to take his call.

The next voice he hears is Molton's. “Lieutenant, how are you and how is your lady?”

“I'm fine, sir. Unfortunately, she's not so fine. Still in a coma, I'm afraid. Thank you for asking.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. President, I'm calling you directly because I have information that suggests the dog attacks are not a natural phenomenon but a coordinated event. The result of a gang of individuals, possibly a form of terror group.” He pauses to see if the President reacts and will fill in some of the many holes in his own theories.

“That's quite a statement, Lieutenant. What leads you to that idea?”

“Sir, the vet who attended several of the dog-related deaths has discovered that the microchips used to ID the animals contain chemical reservoirs that can be remotely activated. I just spoke to her and she believes the substance in the chips will have directly boosted the dogs' adrenaline levels, destabilized and disorientated them and as a consequence made them aggressive.”

Clint Molton feels his heart leap. “Lieutenant, I need you—and this vet—to speak to the CIA and to my scientific advisors. And I need you to do that in person ASAP.” He knows that Walton won't want to leave Miami but he has no option but to ask. “I'm going to clear a military plane to pick you both up and bring you here. The way those guys fly, it's less than a two-hour flight, and I promise to get you back right away. Is that okay with you, Lieutenant?”

Ghost wants to say no. He wants to be close to Zoe. Whatever happens. “Of course, sir.”

“Good. I presume you haven't mentioned this to anyone else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then please don't.”

“I won't. What have the Chinese got to do with this, Mr. President?”

Molton falls silent. Finally he asks, “What prompts your question?”

“Because one of the dog shelters here employed a man called Li Chen, and I can't find any trace of him even being in the country, let alone Miami.”

“Sadly, illegal immigration is not that uncommon.”

“It's more than that, sir. Chen supplied those drug-filled microchips, and a woman purporting to be his wife is connected to a number of other dog shelters, spread across America.”

Molton took a beat. The information filled in so many blanks, but he couldn't discuss it now. “I won't lie to you, Lieutenant, there is a Chinese dimension but I can't talk about it on the phone. Director Jackson will speak to you when you arrive. I have to go now. My office will be in touch within the next ten minutes regarding your travel.”

Ghost hears the line go dead.

He stands up and picks his car keys off the desk. If he's going to Washington, then he's going to see Zoe first. He has to hold her hand and kiss her—at least one more time.

155

Beijing

“I
n American movies they talk of the beginning of the end,” says General Zhang as he sits alongside Xue Shi and points at the dogs on three monitors in the control room. “
This
is the real beginning of the end.”

Computer generated graphics tell the rest of the story.

CAM 1: New York, Central Park

CAM 2: Chicago, Lake Shore Drive

CAM 3: Los Angeles, Century City

Zhang folds his arms and leans back in relaxed anticipation of what's to come.

At Fox Plaza in L.A. two balls of brown wool turn from being harmless Labradoodles into murderous dogs. Their owner, a fifty-year-old former TV presenter, thinks they're having a tantrum and tugs hard on their Gucci leads.

Then they rip into her.

One dog savages her hand and pulls at her wrist and arm. The other tears a mouthful of flesh from her gym-toned right thigh. Crowds scatter along the sidewalk.

Half a block down, an Alsatian jumps a skateboarder and closes his yellow jaws around the young boy's throat.

Zhang's eyes move unemotionally to the middle monitor and he points at the scene with deep satisfaction. “Chicago. President Molton's hometown. How I would like to see his face when he learns of the deaths here.” A black Doberman, the size of a small horse, brings down a businessman in a blue suit outside the Edgewater Beach Hotel. The man loses his brown leather case and claws his way up a bank of grass. The dog lurches forward and bites into his hip. He falls and the big animal clambers onto his chest. The dog is all over him and he will be dead in minutes.