The China Dogs by Sam Masters Page A

the distance he sees Sheryl and the kids engrossed in a game of ball with the pup.
    Watching her still brings a smile to his face and a glow of love. They met twenty-five years ago, and there’s never been anyone else for either of them. Nor does he imagine there ever will be. He’s a lucky man and knows it. President of the most powerful country in the world, happily married and the father of two gorgeous children. How could life get any sweeter?
    White House serving staff stand at attention alongside a linen-covered buffet table groaning with salads, jugs of juice, cut meats, fruit, fresh cheeses, and home-baked breads.
    â€œGreat right arm you’ve got there!”
    The First Lady turns and smiles as she hears his voice. “It’s aching like crazy. This little guy never seems to tire.”
    Jack and Jane come running over to hug their father, closely followed by Emperor, a gnarled tennis ball lodged between his spiky puppy teeth. Molton gets a grip and shakes it free, then hurls it a good thirty yards down the manicured lawn. The mastiff hurtles after it, and the President guides his children toward the food tables.
    A waiter passes the leader of the Western world a sanitized wipe for his hands. “Thank you, Philippe.”
    Sheryl kisses him, “How’s your day been?”
    â€œBusy. I’m still jet-lagged so it’s tough getting back into things.” He glances at the food. “I don’t think I’m going to eat much, my hunger clock is messed up.”
    She tries to fathom how lagged he is. “What was Beijing—ten hours ahead?”
    â€œThirteen. Though if you ask me, it feels like it’s a century behind.”
    Emperor appears at his knees, well-slobbered ball in mouth.
    â€œNo more, mister. We just cleaned up. Go on; give us a break for a while.”
    The dog drops the ball at Jack’s feet then looks up with sad eyes and pants hopefully.
    Sheryl’s heart melts. “Aw, look at him. Isn’t he so cute?”
    â€œHe certainly is.” Molton watches his son put his foot on the ball and drag it back and forth like a soccer player.
    Emperor’s big head shifts with every move of the ten-year-old’s foot.
    Then he snaps.
    Clamps his teeth around anklebone instead of tennis ball.
    â€œShit!” Molton jumps forward and pushes the dog away with the sole of his shoe.
    Jack looks more frightened by his father’s movement than the dog. “He didn’t hurt me, look—” He lifts his leg to show an uncut ankle. “He’s just playing, that’s all.”
    Molton feels his heart banging in his chest. “Sorry.”
    Emperor drifts back sheepishly.
    Jack drops to his knees, hugs the dog and ruffles his coat.
    â€œJack, not at the table.” Sheryl takes another sanitized wipe and hands it to him. “Don’t play with the dog while you’re eating.”
    Molton’s eyes never leave the animal. He wonders if he overreacted, or if maybe dogs are much more dangerous than he ever figured.
    34
    Greenwich Village, New York
    D anny Speed’s apartment looks like a trashed Radio Shack storeroom.
    You can’t see furniture for all the motherboards, hard drives, and memory chips scattered there.
    Amid the mess, financial journalist Jeff Libowicz counts cold hard cash into the young hacker’s hands.
    â€œFour sixty. Four eighty. Five hundred.” The thirty-five-year-old shakes his head. It only took the nerd a couple of days to get secret financial information that he’d been chasing for weeks. “Fifteen hundred in total. I need my head examined.”
    â€œI don’t do brain surgery.” Danny stuffs the bills into the frayed pocket of his low-hanging gray jeans.
    Libowicz slides his near-empty wallet back into his leather jacket and picks the A4 envelope off the top of a workstation. “Tell me—how exactly did you learn all the geeky stuff ?” He points at a