They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Read online

  An important aspect of her job, aside from promoting harmony and mutual understanding, was appearing on television and radio and writing thoughtful op-ed articles for the newspapers, explaining away Beijing’s latest effrontery or outrage, whether saber-rattling at Taiwan or the appalling number of female newborns being found in Chinese dumpsters. Winnie didn’t always win the argument, but she always made it with style. When the attack dogs of the right went after her, snarling and snapping, she responded with a lightness of touch that made their fury seem disproportionate or even pathetic. Winnie personified the Chinese proverb that says, “You cannot prevent birds from dropping on you, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair.”

  Winnie was chatting pleasantly with the makeup lady when Angel appeared in the doorway.

  The intern escorting Angel immediately realized her mistake, but too late. Ice was already formed on the makeup mirror. The two women sat in Antarctic silence as the cosmeticians hastily completed their ministrations with the intensity of emergency medical workers at the scene of an accident.

  “Angel Templeton, welcome,” said the host of the show Hardball, Chris Matthews. “You’ve been making some pretty tough accusations lately. Let me ask you—do you have any real, actual evidence that China tried to poison the Dalai Lama?”

  “I wish I didn’t, Chris,” Angel said sadly, “but the evidence will soon see the light of day. Meanwhile we at the Institute for Continuing Conflict are praying night and day for His Holiness’s recovery. We’re also formally requesting that the U.S. Treasury Department provide Secret Service protection for the Dalai Lama. We have information that Beijing is going to make another attempt on his life. It seems they are desperate to silence this good man.”

  “Winnie Chang, head of the U.S.-China Co-Dependency Council, thanks for coming on Hardball. Before we get into this, I’ve got to ask you. Are you really a spy? National Review magazine recently called you ‘China’s top spook.’ Are you?”

  Winnie beamed. “Well, Chris, all I can say to that is, if I am a spy, I must be a very bad one, since all these people are calling me one.”

  “That’s good. So what about Ms. Templeton’s allegations, that your supposed masters over there in Beijing, your controllers”—Matthews was laughing—“are trying to assassinate the Dalai Lama? What do you say to that?”

  Winnie laughed along. “I’m not sure what to say, Chris. Honestly, I think Ms. Templeton, who is obviously a clever person, is trying to use this to raise money for her institute, which openly promotes global conflict. She makes the late Senator Joseph McCarthy sound like Little Bo Peep.”

  Angel snorted. The battle was joined.

  “You know, Chris,” she said, “that’s really a mouthful, coming from someone who makes her living flacking for a totalitarian regime that among other things executes fifteen thousand people a year and throws thousands more into dungeons for so much as complaining about garbage collection.”

  “But what do you really think about China?” Matthews said with a laugh. “Okay. But come on, answer the question. You say you’ve got evidence. Where is it? And why would China be trying to assassinate someone who’ s—what?—seventy-six years old? How much longer can he have to live anyway?”

  “You have to understand the totalitarian mind-set, Chris,” Angel said. “The psychology—pathology, if you will—of evil. It just can’t tolerate criticism. It’s a kind of narcissistic injury. But this isn’t about strategy. This is about revenge. And of course China can’t wait to install its own puppet Dalai Lama when this one goes.”

  Winnie Chang shook her head sadly and smiled. “There, you see, Chris? You asked Ms. Templeton for evidence, and all she has to offer are more reckless and baseless accusations. It makes me want to say to her, sincerely, dear lady, you are not making sense. You seem to know about narcissistic injury. Perhaps you should seek professional help?”

  Angel laughed. “I’m crazy? Oh, that’s good. Wow.” She turned to the grinning Matthews, who was thinking, What a great show. “As you know, Chris, another characteristic of totalitarian regimes is to accuse anyone who disagrees with them of being mentally ill. So they can throw them into quote/unquote psychiatric hospitals and inject them with psychotropic drugs until they hurl themselves out the window. Speaking of which, I see another miserable worker in Guangdong hurled herself off the roof yesterday. What’s the death total for that factory now? Must be in the dozens.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Matthews interjected. “Are we getting off the topic here?”

  “No.” Winnie smiled. “I think we are very much on the topic—namely, Ms. Templeton’s unfortunate mental breakdown.”

  “Thank you, Madame Chang,” Angel said, “but really, I don’t think I need to listen to that kind of hoo-hah from someone in the pay of a regime whose idea of street cleaning is driving tanks over students.”

  Winnie’s smile was hard as porcelain.

  “Yes, Chris, here we have the obligatory reference to the events in Tiananmen Square. When was that? My heavens. It is so long ago I cannot remember exactly—1989? It would seem that Ms. Templeton is unaware that no one who was in charge then is in charge now. But for Ms. Templeton, this is what would be called an inconvenient truth.”

  Angel laughed again. “I get it. I get it. It’s ancient history! Like the Great Leap Forward, when Mao starved to death—you’re a student of history, Chris, how many millions was it? Twenty? Thirty million of his own people?”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Matthews said, “both of you. We’re not debating Chairman Mao! We’re talking about the Dalai Lama!”

  “You’re right, Chris,” Winnie said. “Therefore I will not bring up the Kent State massacre.”

  “Kent State!” Angel said. “Kent State? Oh, my God, Chris, did you hear that? She’s comparing Kent State to Tiananmen Square! Freeze this moment, everyone. You heard it here first, America.”

  “All right, let me ask you, straight out,” Matthews said to Angel. “You’ve got it in for China. Can we stipulate that?”

  “I don’t hate China,” Angel sniffed. “I’m just not that into Communist dictatorships.”

  “This is from an article you wrote two months ago in the National Review. Quote: ‘There are one point three billion reasons to be afraid—very afraid—of China today. They have the highest execution rate in the world. They’re the biggest industrial polluters on the planet. They throw their dissidents into gulags, run over students with tanks, cozy up to loathsome regimes like North Korea, Iran, Venezuela, Zimbabwe. They’re building up their navy, cornering the world market on essential minerals. They unleashed epidemic SARS on the world and then—oops, forgot to tell the World Health Organization about it. And if that’s not enough to keep you awake at night, let’s not forget—they eat puppies, don’t they?’ ”

  Matthews shook his head. “ ‘One point three billion reasons?’ ‘They eat puppies, don’t they?’ And you’re saying you don’t hate China? Really? I’m not feeling a lot of love here for China.”

  Angel shrugged. “I don’t know if they have cooking shows on TV over there, Chris. But if they do, I’ll bet you a renmimbi—whatever that is in real money—there’s a chef giving lessons on how to chop up Pekingese for stir-fry. What does dog taste like anyway, Ms. Chang? Let me guess—chicken?”

  “I really wouldn’t know.”

  “Don’t go away,” Chris Matthews said. “You’re watching Hardball.”

  “So?” ANGEL SAID to Bird, back in the war room.

  “A fine piece of bitchery,” Bird said. “I think it’s probably safe to say you won’t be getting a visa for the People’s Republic anytime soon. But if they do let you in? I wouldn’t go too close to the edge of the Great Wall.”

  The TV was turned to CNN.

  “Anything on Saffron Man?” Angel said. “Why are they taking so long on this?”

  “They said they’re expecting an announcement ‘any minute now.’ Which means if you go to the bathro
om, you’ll miss it.”

  Angel sipped her coffee. “They’ve been saying that for days. I realize British medicine is hopeless and socialized, but there must be one doctor over there who can read an MRI. Or do they not have MRI machines in England?”

  Bird yawned. “Who knows. Maybe Dalai’s people are holding it up. It’s possible that Buddhists have a slightly less urgent sense of time than the rest of us.”

  Angel looked at Bird. “You look kind of raggedy. Did you not sleep last night?”

  Bird yawned again. “I got so stimulated watching you insult Ms. Chang on Hardball that I couldn’t sleep.” In fact, Bird had been up until 4:00 a.m., banging away on the novel. He was up to chapter 14 already. “Maybe Barry would lend me half a Valium.”

  “Really funny,” Angel said.

  The TV screen flashed: LIVE—ANNOUNCEMENT ON DALAI LAMA MEDICAL CONDITION.

  “Here we go,” Bird said. “Ten bucks says it’s his ticker.”

  “Brain. Fifty bucks.”

  “You’re on.” Bird paused. “Listen to us. Have we gone over to the dark side?”

  “Never left it.”

  “Angel, could I ask you a personal question?”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “No, really. I’m curious. I want to know. I have no agenda.”

  “ ‘What’s love got to do with it? What’s love but a secondhand erosion?’ ”

  “With all respect to Tina Turner, you’re avoiding the question.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how your brain got wired the way it did. This is not a criticism. It’s an interesting brain. Frightening, but interesting.”

  “You haven’t seen the half of my brain.”

  Bird smiled. “Your name. Angel. That should have been my clue. So you and Satan, how long have you been working together?”

  “Shh,” Angel said as two white-gowned doctors approached a podium bristling with microphones. “Showtime.”

  CHAPTER 12

  BIGGER THAN ANNE FRANK

  Until now, the word pheochromocytoma had been familiar only to endocrinologists, oncologists, and those unfortunate enough to be afflicted by one. Within hours of the announcement, most TV screens on the planet were filled with a white-coated medical authority gravely discussing the subject.

  Bird had been staring at various screens and monitors all morning, barely moving or speaking.

  Angel clicked over in high heels. When he didn’t look up, she leaned over and rapped him softly on the head with her knuckles. “Hello? Anyone home?”

  “Poor guy,” Bird murmured. “Gee whiz.”

  “Yo, Debbie Downer. Enough with the black crepe. Time to saddle up and move out.”

  “Not now, Angel. Just leave it.”

  “What’s with you anyway? Did JFK just get shot again?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “I don’t believe it. You’ve gone squishy. I should have known.”

  Bird swiveled in his chair. “Would it kill you to allow me a moment of sympathy here for His Holiness? He has a pheochromocytoma.”

  “He’s the Dalai Lama. He’ll reincarnate.”

  Bird turned back to his computer. “I’ve read so much about him. I feel like I know him. Such a good and decent man.”

  Angel groaned. She shouted across the war room, “Heads up! Got a weeper here!” Staffers popped up from their cubicles, like prairie dogs. “Somebody get a mop!”

  “You know, Angel,” Bird said, “you really can be a total—”

  “See you next Tuesday? No argument. So are you going to sit there making puddles or get up off your fanny and help your good and decent friend?”

  “Oh, so now you’re all about helping?”

  “This may be too complicated for you to grasp, but walk with me for a second. Saffron Man—”

  “Would you please stop calling him that?”

  “Excuse me. His Holiness has spent his entire life trying to get even with the bastards who seized and subjugated his country. With me so far? Good boy. All his life, all his efforts, all his work—at least when he’s not levitating or making mandalas and whatever else it is they do—”

  “They don’t levitate, Angel. They meditate.”

  “Whatever. Okay. So he’s got the Big C. Pheochromosayonara. You’re missing the big picture. Don’t you see? We just fell into a huge tub of butter.”

  “Angel. The man is dying. The Dalai Lama, one of the most revered personages on the planet.”

  “Will you stop with the revered and the decent? I stipulate he’s a nice guy. A sweetheart. A lama among lamas. I’m down with all that. I’m saying let’s give his death meaning. Bird, listen to me. We have it in our power—in our hot little hands—to make him the biggest martyr since Anne Frank. Bigger than Anne Frank. Do I have to hire a skywriting plane to explain this to you? We’ve got the bastards by their red testicles. All we have to do now is yank.”

  Bird thought, She’s right. Scary, but right.

  “Okay, I’m in.”

  Angel patted him on the head. “There’s my bravest boy. Now, go get with Dr. Death over there and rustle me up some credible pathogens.” She added in her best Slim Pickens imitation, “Time to get this thing on the hump. We got some lyin’ to do!”

  She walked off, heels clicking. Turned, wagged a finger. “Bird?”

  “Hm?”

  “No pandas. Promise Momma?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Bird conferred with Dr. Twent. “Speak to me.”

  Twent took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair.

  “Pheochromocytomas. Essentially, tumors of the sympathetic nervous system. They present when the adrenal glands produce an excess of epinephrine. Typically—”

  “Jeremy,” Bird said wearily, “I’ve spent the last four hours listening to at least two dozen pheochromocytoma experts on TV. At this point, there is not much that I don’t know about pheochromocytomas. What I need from you is, What could our friends in Beijing have put in his yogurt that could have caused the pheochromocytoma in the first place?”

  Twent frowned. “Nothing.”

  “Not the answer I was hoping for.”

  “Pheos aren’t caused by poison,” Twent explained wearily. “Generally they’re associated with genetic abnormalities and—”

  “No, no, no, no. Genetic abnormalities do me no good. I need you to think outside the box.”

  Twent said sullenly, “This is science.”

  “Could you make it a little science fictiony? I’m not asking for a Ph.D. dissertation.”

  Twent considered. “Theoretically? They could have given him something that might have exacerbated an existing pheo.”

  Bird smiled. “Now we’re cooking. Excellent. Continue. I’m in awe.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Okay. Then that would presuppose that they knew he had the pheo in the first place?”

  “Well, yes. Obviously.”

  “But how would the Chinese know that? Are we suggesting that they slipped into his Rome hospital room in the middle of the night dressed like ninjas, threw him into a sack, and shoved him into an MRI machine, then put him back in bed and left—with the MRI readout?”

  “They wouldn’t need an MRI. They could tell from his urine.”

  “Yeah? Tell me more.”

  “They’d have collected his urine for twenty-four hours. Mind you, they were looking for worm eggs. But if they’d checked his urine for metanephrines and catecholamines, they’d have found levels indicative of a pheo.” Twent looked puzzled. He said, “What I don’t understand, given the time frame, is why didn’t the doctors in Rome find it?”

  Bird considered. “So . . . they . . . switched his pee with someone else’s.” He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Highly unlikely,” Twent said. “This is a top hospital. It’s where they take popes. They’re not going to be sloppy with Dalai Lam
a urine. They were thorough. Remember they did an X-ray and said there’s a shadow on it. And then they did another and said it was gone. Consistent with worms. Or a bad clam.”

  “Let’s stay with the switched pee. I’m running hypotheticals here.”

  “Well, it’s an absurd hypothetical,” Twent sniffed. “But I forgot you write thriller-type novels.”

  “I happen to be a novelist, yes,” Bird said. “I wouldn’t really call my genre the thriller type.”

  “Are you published?”

  “I’m waiting until I finish the last in the series. Then I’ll probably bring them all out at once. It’s a tetralogy.”

  “A what?”

  “Tetralogy. Four novels.”

  “Isn’t that called a quartet?”

  “Can we get back to business, here? Okay. So let’s say the Chinese had a mole in the hospital. And they switched out the Dalai’s wee-wee with someone’ s—someone who was in for a bad clam. Not that far-fetched.”

  “To a novelist, maybe.”

  Bird continued. “And so the Chinese knew that he was sick. From the Rome episode. That he had a pheo. But no one else knew. You said you can give someone who has a pheo something to exacerbate it? To make the pheo go wacko or whatever they do?”

  “Theoretically. Yes. Any number of things could do it. Certain toxins. Cheese.”

  “Cheese?” Bird said. “Really?”

  “Sure. Cheese is full of tyramine. That would light up a pheo. Symptoms would include palpitations, profuse sweating, abdominal pain, cardiac enlargement, retinal hemorrhage.” Twent turned to his computer and studied the screen. “Some of those symptoms are in fact consistent with what he had when they brought him in to the hospital in London.”

  Bird considered. “We can’t go claiming that they tried to assassinate him with Stilton. I mean”—he sighed—“cheese? How’s that going to sound? Death by cheese?”

  “There are other triggers,” Twent said. “Amphetamines.”

  “Okay.” Bird brightened. “Now you’re talking, professor. Speed. Definite improvement on cheese.”