The China Dogs (2 page)

First the lost baggage, now she's caught slap bang between a fleeing bank robber and a brown getaway car that's just pulled out from a Taco Bell opposite the Citibank and flung open the passenger door.

She needs to step aside. Get the hell out of the way. And quick.

Only, giving ground is not in her nature.

She slips off her shoulder bag and the precious computer inside it.

The onrushing robber glances toward the car and the woman driving it.

Zoe lurches into a jump kick.

Her right foot cracks his chin. Hits him as hard as a baseball bat.

Blood and spit spatter through the balaclava mouth hole as his feet come up and the back of his head cracks the sidewalk.

His shotgun clatters across the ground toward the getaway car.

The guy tries to get to his feet, but Zoe's over him already. She drops knees first onto his chest. Knocks the wind out of him. Probably cracks a rib or two as well.

The getaway driver, a scruffy redhead in her late thirties, is out of the car by now and has her hands on the shotgun.

“Armed police! Drop it!”

Zoe is still on the guy's chest. She can't see the officer behind her, but given his booming voice, presumes the drama is now ending.

“Drop it, lady! I won't tell you again.”

The closeness of the cop spooks the robber into one desperate dash for freedom. He wriggles free of Zoe and swings a desperate punch. She grabs his fist with both hands and twists the arm to breaking point. Self-defense training taught her that she needs to keep her grip as she shuffles her weight off his chest, spins him facedown and pulls his wrist painfully up his back.

The redhead sees her man is out of the game. She drops the shotgun. “Okay, okay don't fire that thing.”

“Move away from the weapon and lie on the ground.” The cop shuffles toward her, his gun extended, handcuffs trailing from one hand. “Do it quickly, ma'am. Come on. Facedown. Hands behind your back.”

Zoe manages to turn her head. She sees the cop bent over the woman clicking cuffs around her wrists. He's freaky. Tall, white-haired, with very pale skin, wearing big dark shades and a smart light suit.

He looks at her. Picks up the shotgun. Reaches into his pocket for a pair of plastic standby ties. “Can you hold him a couple of seconds more?”

“No problem,” she says. “This asshole's going nowhere.”

“Glad to hear it.” He walks over, puts a knee into the man's back and carries on talking as he yanks up the robber's wrists and ties them with the restraints. “That was quite a job you did.” He gives her a second glance. “You hurt at all?”

“No, I'm fine.” She catches herself staring at him. Everything about the guy is wonderfully wrong. He's too tall.
Way
too pale for Miami. Thin but athletic. And that white hair makes him look a whole generation older than the rest of his body suggests. She'd kill for her camera right now. For a chance to capture this cool white warrior in the middle of the sizzling hot action.

The cop sees her gawping but doesn't seem embarrassed as he casually hauls the prisoner to his feet and carries on chatting. “I'm Lieutenant Walton, Miami PD.” He flips his ID for her. “I was close by when the call went out.”

“Zoe Speed.” She envisages him in a thousand shots—near a burst of neon signs, his whiteness against a zillion electric colors, or down on the beach, walking past racks of browned bodies, blue sky and blue sea as backdrops. The guy's a photographer's dream.

He nods suggestively toward her legs. “You might like to know that you've split your jeans.”

She puts a hand down and feels that several of the fashionable frayed and stitched splits have torn into a gaping flap up the inside of her thigh.

He smiles and adds, “My guess is that unless you cover up, you'll soon be getting stared at even more than I am.”

7

Beijing

S
ixty-year-old Xian Sheng, President of the People's Republic of China, General Secretary of the Communist Party, Commander-in-Chief and Chairman of the Military Commission, clears the room of his minions. He wants to meet with Vice President Zhang in private.

Twenty years Xian's junior, General Zhang is the former leader of the Special Operations Forces and one of China's most decorated soldiers. His modernization of the army, crackdown on organized crime, and tolerance of “black jails”—secret detention centers for troublesome dissidents—have already marked him out as Xian's likely successor.

Zhang is more than happy to publicly display his cruel streak. Some weeks ago he invited news crews to film him personally flogging a group of young soldiers who'd been involved in petty gambling. When the elderly grandfather of one of the beaten men complained about the severity of the punishment, he had him publicly flogged as well.

The president's grand office doors are opened by flunkies. The general marches in. He is small and muscular, his black hair short, his dark eyes big and bright. There are no scars or wounds on his body, save a crescent-shaped burn across his chest, the result of a pan of boiling water his psychotic mother threw at him when he was a small child.

“Please sit,” Xian motions to a chair.

Zhang obeys, legs and heels smartly together, shoulders back and spine straight. He wants Xian's job. Wants it now. But knows the only route to power is through obedience, patience, and a bold, name-making campaign such as Project Nian.

The president looks up from a fan of papers on his desk. “What progress do you have to report?”

“We are on plan and within budget. As you requested, we have fixed disinformation intelligence to ensure that if our deceit is uncovered, we will be able to make the world think it is solely the work of the North Koreans and nothing to do with us. We will be able to present ourselves as concerned intermediaries, trying to stop their reckless despotic ways.”

Xian Sheng stares into the ambitious eyes locked on his old and tired ones. “I still have my reservations. Perhaps it is better to have sponsored this idea from afar, rather than with us insinuated in its development.”

“Please do not have such doubts. Without our direct involvement, this idea would have been but a lotus flower strangled in a field of weeds.”

“Have our scientists now reached the required standards and implemented the proper controls that we spoke of ?”

“They are on course to do so, and still within the given operational timetable.”

The president senses he is being economical with the truth. “I am relying on you to ensure there will be only minimal casualties, Zhang.
Minimal
. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The words ring hollow. “The party has given you their full support, as have I. Nian creates a powerful weapon to use against our enemies—but we must be able to fully control it, or else we are like a sleepy child with a loaded gun.” His face grows sterner. “Remember, I only supported this project of yours with the understanding that you could deliver the behavioral modifiers that you promised.”

“I remember well. Work on the modifiers is advanced enough for us not to be held up. I will not let you down”

“I
know
you won't.” Xian prays he is right. In truth, he realizes there is already too much support among the military council for the project to be stopped.

“Mr. President, with respect, I think the Americans will be more skeptical and stubborn than you expect. As a race, they are both arrogant and ignorant. They believe they will never be held accountable for their actions, that irresponsibility is allowable if it is gross enough and blatant enough.”

“Do not underestimate them, Zhang. President Molton presides over a country in the midst of extreme difficulties. History has taught us that when people are in the greatest danger they are capable of the greatest victories.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have done well. I will speak with Molton after the summit. If he is not open to our offer, then as planned you must go ahead and meet with the head of the NIA and tell him of the consequences of such foolishness.”

“I understand, sir. I have arranged to see him in the morning just before our military escort takes the presidential party back to Air Force One.”

“Let us hope it does not come to that.” Xian waves him away. “Go now and prepare your actions, while I prepare my words. Tomorrow we will see which is to control the way forward.”

8

Miami

R
ubberneckers crowd the sidewalk. Police sirens scythe the sultry afternoon air.

Members of an armed response unit—dispatched somewhat unnecessarily, as far as Walton's concerned—argue with a handful of regular cops about who takes possession of the cuffed prisoners.

Eventually the weapons men win. They get to walk away without doing the paperwork on the robbery, which also means not being snagged for subsequent court time. Grudgingly, a couple of uniforms traipse off to start interviews at the Citibank. Others haul the offenders away in separate green-striped Crown Vics.

Walton finishes briefing a sergeant and looks for Zoe. He sees her over in a pool of shade, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a palm, her black canvas bag back over her shoulder. She's shooting pictures on a smartphone. Interestingly, not of the prisoners but of him.

He walks toward her with his hand up, blocking the shot. “I'd rather you didn't do that.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“Because I'm in the middle of doing my job and it pisses me off.” He finger jabs shades back up his nose. “There are some paramedics up there, treating customers and bank tellers for shock. Having a gun waved in your face is alarming to most people. Maybe it would be good to get yourself checked out before I ask you some questions?”

“I'm not most people and I don't need checking, but thanks.” She snaps a final close-up, smiles and walks past him.

“I still need to ask you some questions.”

“Then ask away.” She carries on walking.

“Hang on.”

Zoe stops.

“You want to go for a drink, or something?”

She turns and hits him with a mischievous grin. “You asking me out?”

He laughs at her cheekiness. “I just thought after your ordeal you might want some water or coffee while I ask you the kind of questions cops have to ask.”

“I don't. And it wasn't an ordeal. What
I want
is to go to my friend's house, just off the bottom of Coral Way. How about you give me a lift there and do your question shit on the way?”

He pulls a quizzical look. “My question shit?”

“Yeah, your question shit.” She notices he has a nice smile.

“I guess I can. Follow me.” He turns and walks across to the other side of the road.

Zoe tags behind him and sneaks several more shots. This time, of the long shadows he casts on the blacktop.

Walton stops at the passenger side of a '58 Dodge, a great big boat of a car, full of dents, ginger rust, and tarnished chrome. It's what his colleagues call “a Dumpster on wheels.”

“What the
holy fuck
is this?” Zoe tentatively touches the mottled door handle.

“Custom Royal Lancer—Swept Wing. Not many made.”

“I can see why.” She jerks open the door and cautiously slides onto the worn white leather front seat.

Walton gets in the other side and slips a key into the ignition. “One day I'll do her up, and then this baby and me are gonna cruise coast-to-coast.”

“Yeah, and one day I'll be chief photographer for AP or Reuters and have a Manhattan loft bigger than a football field.”

“That what you want?”

“Yeah, maybe. An old snapper in NYC told me to look him up when I qualified. I guess he's only after getting in my pants, but I figure in a few months' time I'll give it a try.”

“Which bit? The getting sexually assaulted bit or the job lead?”

“I think they go together.”

Classical notes spill out of hidden door speakers.

The choice of music takes Zoe by surprise. “Mahler?”

“Resurrection.”

“I thought that all cops listened to was bad-ass rap and Armageddon rock.”

“Kinda like that too.” He grins boyishly. The rebuilt V8 coughs through smoky pipes as he hits the gas. “You said you'd come from the airport, where did you fly in from?”

“Maryland.”

“No bags?”

“Not anymore. Carrier lost them somewhere. Supposedly, they're going to deliver them later.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Tell me about it. Got my camera in there. It's like losing a limb.” She leans forward and examines the car's dash. “Is the air-con on?”

“Only air-con is the window. Roll it down for
cool
, up for hot.”

“Sophisticated.” She cranks the handle and the sheet of glass drops in heavy jerks. From being alongside Walton she can see beyond his shades for the first time. “You're albinoid, right?” She looks pleased with her diagnosis. “And the shades are prescriptive not decorative because your albinism is oculocutaneous.”

“Ten on ten. Though I got lucky.”

“How so?”

“Well, I'm light sensitive—very sensitive. So I need reactive lenses, but my vision is perfect, so they let me be a cop.”

“That's unusual. Albinism usually comes with bad eyesight.”

“Like I said, I got lucky. And I guess, because you know so much about this weird little twist of genetics, you were a med student from Johns Hopkins before you switched to photography. Which in turn, would explain why a girl with a New York accent is flying in from Maryland.”

“You're close.”

“What'd I get wrong?”

“Well, I never studied medicine. Always wanted to be a photographer. After this stay with a friend, with or without help from the old perv in NYC, I'm planning on going there and starting up as a freelance photojournalist. Did an arts degree but spent a lot of time snapping doctors at work—and patients too.” She's done disclosing so she shuts her eyes and enjoys a blast of cool wind from the open window.