“Never mind that!” he yelled. “Arm yourselves and leave the rest. We’ll find food and water on the way.”
The snapping of branches and shouts from within the trees grew as the crowd surged forward in an effort to find the one who had escaped. A branch snapped nearby and a man burst from the forest, his sword wielding arm held high.
“I found them!” he shouted at Asita rushed forward, drawing his sword, swinging at the surprised man emboldened from the crowd, but now alone and apparently inexperienced in the art of war.
His innards spilled on the ground, a river of crimson flowing on the slight downslope leading to a meandering stream their camp was straddling.
More shouts and Asita knew it wouldn’t be long before they were overwhelmed.
“Run!” he shouted, turning from the forest and sprinting along the streambed, his feet splashing through the shallow water, the footfalls of his servants, including his trusted companion Channa close behind.
The forest belched forth dozens of pursuers at once.
Asita slowed to defend himself allowing the others to catch up and position themselves between him and the approaching throng.
“Run, Master! We will protect you!”
He hesitated for a moment as the four men, all highly adept warriors advanced on the crowd, leaving him shivering in the cool mountain runoff.
“Run!” cried Channa with a final look over his shoulder as swords clashed.
He ran.
The battle soon began to fade, the clashing of swords crushing his spirit with each splash in the water, his thoughts of Channa, a servant he had grown up with and he had chosen to be his official companion upon becoming a man and heir to the leadership of their tribe.
Channa had been elated.
And Asita had been careful to never abuse his friend, instead rarely needing to ask for anything, Channa knowing him so well his needs were usually anticipated.
And now his friend would die defending his master.
A stabbing pain in his right shoulder overwhelmed him, sending him tumbling to the ground. His grip on his sword loosened and it clattered onto the bed of small rocks as he reached for the source of the pain, his head turning to look at what was causing so much agony.
An arrow, embedded deep, blood flowing freely, stood menacingly upright. He tried to reach it, but couldn’t, his fingertips irritatingly close but not enough to grip the shaft and pull it free. He pushed himself to his knees and another arrow skidded past him. He looked back and saw the archer marching toward him as he readied another arrow.
He ran.
Or rather stumbled forward.
The pain was nearly unbearable and he thought of the agony his poor father must have gone through. The satchel containing the clay bowl swung out from his body then back, hitting his hip. His heart leapt. He stole a glance inside the bag and breathed a painful sigh of relief as he confirmed the bowl hadn’t broken when he fell.
Another arrow, this one too close, his stumbling and zigzagging thankfully enough to keep the man’s aim from being true, his first shot apparently lucky, the man’s skill thankfully limited.
But his pace was slowed, less than half his healthy self.
And he could hear fewer swords now.
I’m sorry, Channa!
He said a silent prayer as he continued away from the battle but could feel himself getting weaker and weaker.
He dropped to a knee, reaching again for the shoulder, the throb now overwhelming.
He couldn’t go on.
The clatter of horses’ hooves on stone had his head turning painfully to the side and he caught a glimpse of a man on horseback charging toward him, the blood thirsty mob behind him, stained blades held high as they surged forward, his companions finished, the numbers against them overwhelming.
His head sagged as he collapsed on all fours, gasping for breath, exhausted and weak. The bowl was heavy in his bag, pulling down on his neck, but he refused to think ill of it, to resent its weight, for it was the last thing his father had held, and one of the last things the Buddha had held. It contained the key to saving his village, should he solve the riddle that accompanied it.
Unfortunately he would never know the answer to that riddle.
And his village would continue to founder, and eventually fall.
“Master!”
The voice was instantly recognizable. Channa! He looked up as the mighty beast neared, slowing down, and felt a surge of hope as he saw his friend leaning over, reaching out for him. He held up his left arm, his right nearly useless, but knew he had no hope of gripping his friend and companion’s arm.
But he needn’t have worried.
Channa grabbed his forearm with an iron grip and pulled him from the ground, swinging him onto the horse behind him, urging the beast forward once Asita wrapped his one good arm around his friend’s waist. He looked over his shoulder and saw the crowd come to a halt in frustration, and he prayed that his ordeal was over.
The adrenaline that had been fueling him began to wane and within moments his head fell on Channa’s back, the horror of the day fading to black as he passed out from the pain and blood loss, the Buddha’s riddle in his head.
Trust in what you see.
He felt a moment of frustration and anger at the source of the cryptic message. His father had died for a riddle when what he needed was sage advice, not clever words. His eyes burned with tears in his final moments of consciousness as he thought of his dead father and his final words, his chest filling with the shame of hating the Buddha.
Seek the wisdom in his words.
It was his father’s final commandment to him.
But what in the name of the ancestors does the riddle mean?
Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day
The curator sped away before Professor James Acton could say anything, leaving nothing but Vietnamese guards behind. And they still looked edgy.
“Was that who I—”
Acton cut Laura’s whispered question off. “Yes.”
“But—”
“I know.” He turned to Mai. “Do you know what hotel Secretary Atwater is staying at?”
Mai nodded, still clearly terrified. “The same hotel you are staying at. It is the best Hanoi has to offer.”
“Excellent. I think it’s best we return to our hotel immediately.”
Mai asked something of one of the soldiers who appeared in charge and he replied with something sounding like an uncertain affirmative then adding a burst of dialogue just before they exited the room. They froze. The man approached, his walk cocky as he clasped his hands behind his back, his body almost at an obtuse angle as he approached, kicking his feet out in a slightly exaggerated manner.
Ministry of Silly Walks, anyone?
“You are American?” asked the man, his accent thick.
“I am. My wife is a British subject.”
“You witnessed what happened here today?”
Acton nodded. “Yes.”
“You saw the man who did this?”
“Yes,” said Acton.
“Yes, we all did,” added Laura.
“No, I saw nothing!” yelped Mai, clearly terrified. “I closed my eyes as soon as the shooting started.”
Acton knew full-well that Mai had seen the shooter, but decided she must have her reasons for lying.
Probably pure terror. She knows if she doesn’t say what they want to hear, she’s liable to end up in some labor camp.
It made him yearn for a quick return home.
“I can attest to that,” said Acton, deciding to cover for Mai. “As soon as I saw the man appear from behind that tapestry”—he pointed to the far wall, their interrogator turning to look for a moment—“I grabbed them and pushed them to the floor. I’m surprised either of them saw anything.”
“I only did because I turned to look,” added Laura, playing along. “Miss Trinh was closest to this wall”—she motioned toward th
e near wall—“so she had both myself and my husband in her way.”
The man pursed his lips, not looking convinced. He shouted something and one of his men disappeared after a heel-clicking snap to attention. The man looked back at Acton then Laura, his eyes finally resting on a trembling Mai. “Why do I think you are lying?”
Acton shrugged. “Why would we lie? There was a shooting. We were simply trying to survive without getting shot.”
“Why didn’t you run like the others?”
“We were in the direct line of fire. If he had missed one of the guards he might have hit us. I felt it was more important for everyone to get on the ground.”
“Or perhaps the assassin knew you, and let you live.”
Mai failed to stifle a yelp.
Acton sensed his wife getting pissed off.
“What a ridiculous notion!” she cried, jabbing her finger at the five corpses. “A tragedy has occurred here today, a tragedy that we had nothing to do with. Clearly your security failed, which is unbelievable considering who your guests were today!”
Acton shifted slightly in front of Laura under the guise of getting a better look at the bodies on the other side of the room. He wagged a finger at her behind his back.
“Sir, we would be happy to cooperate in any way we can, but we didn’t really see much.”
“You saw the shooter.”
“Yes, I did,” said Acton. “Miss Trinh had no opportunity, and my wife had minimal.”
“And you would recognize the man should you see him again?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why, because all us Charlie’s look alike?”
Acton hated to admit it, however it had been proven scientifically that people were programmed to be able to recognize people of their own ethnicity far easier than those of another, and his exposure to Vietnamese had been limited, Maryland not exactly bursting at the seams with the descendants of former refugees. “No,” he said deliberately, “it’s not that at all. It’s just that we were worried about getting shot the entire time. I was more focused on the barrel of his gun.”
The soldier dispatched earlier returned at a run, handing a folder over to his commander. The man opened the file, revealing the same photo they had seen earlier of Niner, a member of Delta Force’s Bravo Team. A man Acton knew and trusted with his life.
And definitely not the shooter.
“Do you recognize him?”
Acton was about to answer truthfully when he remembered Dawson’s subtle headshake.
They’re undercover.
“No.”
He almost sensed Laura’s heart race.
“But you must.”
Acton felt a lump form in his throat.
They know!
“Why must I?”
“Because he is the shooter.”
Acton shook his head. “No, he isn’t.”
“How can you be sure? You said you were looking at the barrel of the gun? How can you be so sure it wasn’t him?”
Acton tried to steady his pounding heart. “I just know,” he said, digging his finger nails into his palms clasped behind his back. “This man looks completely different.” He decided to play a card, leaning forward and squinting. “He looks Korean to me.”
“So?”
“So? So the man who shot the Prime Minister said he was Vietnamese.”
“You heard them speak? Why didn’t you say so before?” The man’s tone was becoming more pressing, more belligerent by the moment, and Acton wasn’t sure how to diffuse him.
“Because you simply didn’t ask, officer,” said Laura for the save, her voice sultry and sweet. “My husband said we’d cooperate fully. We simply haven’t had an opportunity to tell you what happened yet, since you’ve been focusing on who did the shooting, not how it happened. We would be happy to give you a statement.”
The man visibly relaxed, if only for a moment.
“What was said?” he snapped, his tone back.
Acton thought back, trying to recall exactly what was said. “He asked the Prime Minister if he recognized him, and when he said he didn’t, he said they had met in nineteen-seventy-four when the Prime Minister had led a group of”—he paused, searching for a word other than ‘Viet Cong’—“soldiers that massacred his village. The Prime Minister said his name as if he recognized him, said the war was over, then was shot by the man.”
“There were no Russian soldiers here during the civil war.”
Acton shrugged, knowing that if he called bullshit on the statement it might just get him killed. “All I can tell you is what I heard.”
“I think you’re lying.”
Acton’s chest tightened. “Why?”
The man held up the photo again. “Because this man is the shooter, and he’s an American spy!”
Oh shit!
Again he shrugged, trying to remain calm. “That man”—he nodded toward the picture—“might very well be. But he isn’t the shooter.”
The man turned his head, shouting something, and immediately the entire security detail descended upon the three innocent bystanders.
Outside Pataliputra, Vrijji Kingdom
Near modern day Indian/Bangladeshi border
401 BC, three months after the Buddha’s death
Asita rotated his arm gingerly and Channa smiled.
“See, I told you, good as new!”
Asita frowned, not certain he would describe his healed shoulder that way, but he had to admit, other than some general weakness which he hoped would go away in time, it felt remarkably well. Thanks to Channa’s tender ministrations, the bleeding had been stopped once they had escaped the bloodthirsty mob, and he had kept it clean and free of infection, treating it with various plants and herbs as he had been taught by the village elders. Part of his job as companion was to treat his master’s wounds during and after battle, which meant an extensive knowledge of medicine.
It had saved Asita’s life.
He had feared that should he survive, his arm surely wouldn’t, but Channa had refused to give up and his confidence infused Asita with his own, allowing him to fight back from the brink.
But it had been hard. Once the bleeding had been stopped they had been back on the horse almost immediately, trying to put as much distance between themselves and their pursuers. It had been a long, arduous season, the chill in the air blowing down from the mighty mountains now noticeable, and with all their supplies left behind at their camp, they had been forced to scavenge.
All they had had were the clothes on their backs and the clay bowl his father had died for.
Asita shrugged his robe back over his shoulder and eyed the bowl sitting on a nearby tree stump. Whenever they were camped he placed it in plain view—if they were alone—and contemplated the meaning. Both he and Channa were at a loss.
Trust in what you see.
“I see a bowl! A cursed bowl! A bowl that my father died for!”
Channa nodded knowingly, sitting beside his master and staring at the riddle. “How do you figure your father died for it?”
Asita’s head spun toward his friend, his jaw dropping. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Apparently not.”
A flash of anger raged through him. “If we hadn’t have waited for the bowl, we would have left the village long before the Buddha died. My father would be alive and we would be free of those pursuing us.”
Channa’s head bobbed as he poked the small fire with a stick, the flames jumping, burning embers floating in the air in front of them. “You assume too much, Master.”
Asita sucked in a deep breath, holding back his desire to cuff his friend as he had every right to do, but had never done. “Explain.”
“You assume they wouldn’t have been able to find out who your father was, and then followed us all back to the village. We—” He stopped, his jaw dropping just as Asita’s did.
“The village,” whispered Asita, his heart climbing into his throat. “We’ve been gone so long�
�”
“If they knew, they surely would have reached it by now!” finished Channa.
“We have to go. Now.” Asita began to push himself to his feet when Channa grabbed his arm.
“No, Master, we must wait until morning. It is too dangerous to travel at night. We will rest and leave at the crack of dawn, making all haste home.”
Asita sat back down, reluctantly agreeing with his friend. And as they both lay down to sleep, Asita found himself tossing and turning most of the night, his thoughts consumed with images of his friends and family being massacred because he hadn’t been man enough to survive the initial battle, then had spent three months trying to save his own life rather than those of the villagers who would now call him their leader.
Father, forgive me!
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day
The car came to an abrupt halt and the door was pulled open. Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson stepped out first, nodding to Niner who held the door. They were at the Echo Two location, the rear entrance to the hotel where they could avoid the press and public during emergencies. Vietnamese security had kept it clear and seconds later they were within the walls of the hotel, the hallways already emptied to the service elevator.
The elevator ride to the ninth floor was a flurry of Atwater on the phone along with her aides who had been there to greet them upon their arrival. All had cellphones to their ears or in their hands, updates being shouted out, none of which raised any concerns until the last one.
“They’ve got a photo of the assassin,” said one, holding up his phone to Atwater.
Her jaw dropped as she looked at the photo then at Niner.
“It’s you!” she exclaimed, taking a step backward.
Niner said nothing, his eyes covered by his sunglasses, ignoring her. His job was to get her safely to her room then worry about false allegations later. Atwater grabbed the phone, shoving it in Dawson’s face. “He’s your man! You’re supposed to have vetted him! You let an assassin on your team! On my security detail!”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 3