“I can’t believe they let us go. Not that quickly, at least.”
Acton squeezed Laura’s leg. “You can thank my wife for that. Her smooth talking convinced Captain Nguyen we weren’t involved.”
Mai frowned, fear returning to her eyes. “You mean it was his decision, not headquarters?”
Laura nodded. “Why? What difference does it make?”
“Nguyen is nothing. He’s like the first officer on the scene. It’s his supervisor that we need to worry about.”
“What do you mean?” asked Acton, suddenly becoming even more concerned than he already was. “He said not to leave the hotel, which I guess is sort of like saying ‘don’t leave town’ back home, but he seemed to realize we couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
Mai shook her head furiously. “No, he’s nobody. This isn’t over. I highly recommend you ignore what he said and get out of the country as soon as you can.”
“If we flee won’t we look guilty?”
Mai grabbed her face with both hands. “What am I going to do?”
Laura put a hand on her shoulder. “You stay with us until this has blown over. Once they realize the man in the photo had nothing to do with it they’ll know we had nothing to do with it.” She patted Mai. “Who knows, maybe by the time we get to the hotel they’ll have caught the guy who did it!”
Acton frowned as he looked out the window.
Vietnamese troops were surrounding their hotel.
Gandhara Kingdom
Modern day Myanmar
401 BC, four months after the Buddha’s death
Asita hugged Channa as they both realized someone had survived whatever massacre had happened here. Someone had gathered the bodies, someone had cremated them, and with the effort involved, Asita had already jumped to the conclusion that more than one had survived.
“How do we find them?” asked Channa, tears of joy and hope staining both their cheeks. “Where could they have gone?”
Asita rose and looked about for some indication of where the survivors might have fled to, but saw nothing. “We must assume they went east, away from their attackers.”
“Half the world is ‘east’,” said Channa, sounding discouraged. “I can’t believe they would leave without knowing what happened to you and your father.”
Asita strode around the funeral pyre. “Perhaps they were certain we were dead, or told we were by their attackers.”
Channa now rose, looking at the sky. “It is getting late. We should set up camp.”
Asita stopped. “Here?” He looked around, a shiver climbing his spine. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“No, but I don’t think there is any danger in remaining, and there are supplies here, though few.”
“Few.” Asita barely whispered the word, it sending another surge of hope through him. He raised his voice slightly. “You said there were only a few supplies remaining.”
Channa seemed to pick up on his train of thought, but shook his head. “Parasites from other villages probably took what was left.”
Asita wagged his finger. “No, parasites would have taken everything. Word would have spread and nothing would have remained.” He walked toward the shell of what was once his home and found little inside of use, mere trinkets and broken pottery along with some rudimentary furniture that had escaped the fire. “Parasites would have taken this table,” he said, pointing. “It is in near perfect condition.”
Channa stood by his side. “Are you thinking that they all survived?”
Asita shook his head rapidly. “Never would I dare hope for such a thing, but it does appear that those who survived must have been great in number to have stripped the village of only what could be carried. The large items have been left behind, but the clothing and supplies are all gone.”
“I fear wishful thinking, Master.”
Asita sighed. “As do I, my friend, as do I. But perhaps wishes are all we have. We must trust in what we see before our eyes, and my eyes tell me that some of our village survived, that they took what they could, and left this place. And that their numbers were not insignificant.”
Trust in what we see before our eyes.
His own words repeated themselves, and he thought of the message from the Buddha before he died.
Trust in what you see.
He cursed, running for the stream, his eyes scanning the water for the clay bowl he had tossed in earlier.
It was not where he had last seen it.
His chest got tight as he held his breath, scanning downstream. He sprinted as he saw the bowl farther down, the current having managed to move it past the edge of their village. He slipped on the slick stones, falling, painfully banging his knee. As he winced, he grabbed the bowl before it rolled farther, and as he leaned forward on his knees and one hand, he looked into the bowl, and gasped.
Trust in what you see.
For what looked back at him from the half-filled bowl was his own reflection, and he suddenly realized what the Buddha had meant. Trust in yourself. He fell back on his haunches, holding the bowl in both hands now, the pain in his knee forgotten as he smiled to the heavens, the riddle deciphered. He closed his eyes, picturing his father in happier times, and how excited he would have been to understand what the great man had been telling him.
Trust in yourself.
His father hadn’t needed advice from the Buddha on how to save the village; the Buddha was telling him that he had all the wisdom necessary to save the village himself. He and his father had discussed many times moving the village farther to the east. They had been ravaged by neighbors, floods, drought and famine. The location for their village seemed cursed in recent years, and his father had thought moving was the best option.
But moving meant change, and people feared change. They feared the unknown, preferring the familiarity of their own misery rather than the uncertainty a new beginning would bring.
So the wisdom of the Buddha had been sought.
And all along, his father had been right.
Trust in yourself.
He smiled, every muscle in his body relaxing as everything became clear. His father had been right all along, his greatness and wisdom as a leader reaffirmed by the Buddha. He looked down at his reflection again and wondered if the Buddha’s message extended to him.
It must.
He rose, his body chilled to the bone, his shivers unnoticed as he rushed back to share the revelation with his friend as the sun began its rapid descent in the west, the trees casting long shadows across the stream and the ruins of his home.
Something snapped in the forest to his right.
And he gasped.
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day
James Acton stepped out of the car, the museum emblem on the side granting them access to the main entrance valet parking area. He helped Laura then Mai out as they were immediately approached by several deceptively uniformed police officers, the police in Vietnam merely an extension of the military.
Something was said in Vietnamese.
“They want to see our identification,” translated Mai, producing her ID with a shaking hand. Acton reached into his shirt pocket, producing his passport as did Laura.
“American?” asked the officer in a thick accent.
Acton nodded. “I am. My wife is British.”
Words were shouted and a more senior man appeared who could apparently speak more English. “I am Major Yin. You are an American?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What is your business in our country?”
“We were invited by your National Museum of History to view some of their artifacts. We’re both archeologists—university professors.”
“Archeologists?” The man’s eyes narrowed then understanding dawned. “Ahh, like Indiana Jones!”
Acton smiled, nodding. “Nothing so exciting, I assure you.”
If only that were true! At lease we haven’t encountered Nazis yet.
“Yes.”
Yin nodded at Mai and said something in Vietnamese.
“She’s our guide from the museum,” said Laura. “We’ve invited her to join us for dinner.”
“You were at the museum?”
Acton felt his heart rate ratchet up. “Yes.”
“Did you see the shooting?”
A moment long debate of whether or not to lie ended with a decision to tell the truth. “Yes. We were questioned by Captain Nguyen and released. He said we might be questioned further later.”
Yin nodded, waving over one of his men. He handed them their passports, snapped an order and the man disappeared. “We’re just going to confirm you are a guest of the hotel and verify your visas.”
“Of course,” smiled Acton, already resolving to get on a plane as soon as possible and get the hell out of the country. “May we wait inside?”
Yin snapped his fingers and took a piece of paper from one of the others. He held up the now familiar picture of Niner. “Have you seen this man?”
Acton shook his head. “No.”
“But you saw the shooting?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t the shooter.”
Yin’s lips pursed and Acton immediately flicked through half a dozen better responses than the truth, none of which would have been lies. Yin flipped the photo around, looking at it, then turned it back toward Laura. “And do you agree with your husband?”
“I didn’t get much of a look,” replied Laura. “I was trying not to get shot.”
Smart woman!
Acton assumed the same question was barked at poor Mai who the police seemed to have no compunction against intimidating. She shook her head, spitting out a response that didn’t please the man.
“None of us had much of an opportunity to see anything,” said Laura. “We were too busy ducking.”
“Yet your husband said this man, who we know is the shooter, wasn’t the shooter.” Yin’s eyes narrowed as he looked up at Acton, the man a full head shorter. “I wonder why that is? You sound so certain that the man we are positive is the shooter, isn’t the shooter. Since we know this man is American, and you are American, perhaps you were involved?”
The officer dispatched earlier to verify their identities returned, handing the passports back to their interrogator as he delivered a verbal report. Yin nodded. “It appears you are indeed guests of this hotel and your visas check out. You may enter, but go straight to your room for your own protection.”
Acton held his hand out for his passport but Yin shook his head, waving them at him. “I’ll hang on to these. You’ll get them back once this investigation has been completed.”
Acton bit his tongue. “Can we at least get a receipt or something?”
Yin’s eyes narrowed inquisitively. “Receipt?”
“Something that shows you have them.”
“Ahh, I understand. No.” He turned on his heel and walked away, suddenly stopping and turning back toward them. “And do not leave the hotel. You will be questioned further.”
Acton felt Laura’s hand squeeze his, cutting off any verbal retort. He merely nodded. Laura grabbed Mai’s hand and practically pulled her after them into the hotel. Acton led them directly to the elevators, immediately boarding a newly arriving car.
He nearly bumped into Spock, one of the Delta Force Bravo Team members he had come to know over the years.
No looks were exchanged as the Delta operator disembarked.
“Honey, we’ll need to call Mr. White as soon as possible with our room number.”
“You mean he doesn’t know we’re in room eighteen-oh-two?”
“I think I forgot to tell him,” replied Acton as the doors closed. Mai looked at Acton with a puzzled expression but said nothing as they rode up to the penthouse level in silence. The doors opened and they found the hallway deserted.
Laura swiped the keycard and they were finally inside the privacy of their own room leaving them all to breathe a sigh of relief as the door clicked closed behind them. Acton quickly looked in the bathroom and separate bedroom, confirming they were alone.
“What are we going to do?” asked Laura. “We can’t leave the country without our passports.”
Acton sat down in one of the chairs, catching an ice cold water bottle tossed by Laura who was bent over at the fridge. He pushed aside a curtain to look out across the city. “We’ll need to get new ones.”
“How? We’re not allowed to leave the hotel.”
Acton made a face, letting go of the curtain as he cracked open the lid. “We need to get the British Embassy to issue a new passport for you, and the American for me. I wonder if we can do this by phone.”
Laura nodded. “Possible. But even so they’ll have our names at the airport and stop us from leaving.”
Acton bit his lip as he crossed his legs. “Maybe we’re looking at this in the wrong way.”
“How so?”
“We’re assuming we have to flee the country. We’ve done nothing wrong. Perhaps we should just let justice take its course and eventually we’ll be allowed to go.”
“Ha!”
All eyes turned to Mai. “Sorry, I apologize for my outburst, but Professors, this is Vietnam. Every crime will be solved and a perpetrator will be brought to justice. Never does that guarantee the right person is brought to justice. Do not put blind faith in the police. If they think you’re involved, you could find yourselves very quickly in prison, and me along with you.”
“So what would you suggest?” asked Laura, motioning for her to sit down on the couch, the poor woman flitting about, a bundle of nerves.
Mai perched on the edge of the floral patterned couch, Laura sitting in another of the chairs. “I think you need to use whatever means you have at your disposal to get out of the country. For whatever reason the police are either convinced this American committed the assassination, or they are intentionally trying to frame him for the murder. Either way they are dead set on convicting an American.”
“I wonder how they got his photo,” said Acton. “It looked like a photocopy of an ID.”
“All ID’s were being copied today because of the diplomatic visits,” said Mai. “Just as yours were.”
Laura instinctively reached for where her passport would be. “It said Bureau of Diplomatic Security. Who are they?”
“They provide security for embassy staff and government officials while traveling in foreign countries,” explained Acton. “He’s obviously part of Secretary Atwater’s security detail.”
“But I didn’t see him in her group.”
“Neither did I.”
Mai leapt to her feet, pacing nervously. “I understand you are rich, Professor Palmer.”
“Well, I…”
Laura’s brother had sold his hi-tech company before the bubble burst netting him hundreds of millions, the exact amount Acton wasn’t even sure about. Laura had given him full access to everything when they married, but he didn’t care enough to actually look. All he knew was that she had inherited it all when her brother had been killed, and from all appearances most of it still remained, if not more, the interest on that kind of money obscene.
“If you have money, then I suggest you use it to get out.”
“How?” asked Laura. “We still need passports to get on an airplane.”
“I might be able to get you fake passports.”
“How?”
Mai flushed slightly. “My brother isn’t exactly an honest man.”
“We can’t choose our family,” said Acton. “But if we were caught with fake passports we would be going to prison for a very long time.”
Someone knocked on the door gently.
It still startled them all, Mai jumping to her feet and running around the couch twice, trying to find a place to hide if Acton weren’t mistaken. He rose and walked quietly to the door, looking through the peephole. “It’s okay,” he said, opening the door.
&n
bsp; Burt Dawson stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind me. “I’ve only got a minute. I understand you wanted to speak to me?”
Acton smiled. “Glad you got our message. Are you aware that they’re claiming Niner was the shooter today?”
Dawson nodded, his lips a thin line. “Yes.”
“I told them he didn’t do it, but they don’t care. They’ve got a photocopy of his ID. Apparently it was used to enter the museum.”
Dawson stepped deeper into the room, his eyes coming to rest on Mai. “And you are?”
Laura answered. “Mai Lien Trinh, a grad student from to the National Museum of History.”
“She’s our guide,” added Acton. “I trust her.”
“With your life?”
Acton wasn’t sure what to say without embarrassing everyone, since he had to admit he couldn’t answer truthfully. Right now he trusted very few people within a few thousand miles.
Dawson was one of them.
As was Niner.
“We have no choice,” he said instead. “Where’s Niner?”
“On the Secretary’s floor for now. They’ve demanded we hand him over but we’ve instead agreed to an interrogation supervised by us on our turf.”
“What do you plan to do?” asked Laura, now standing beside the two men.
Dawson lowered his voice, glancing at Mai. “I’ve been ordered to do whatever it takes to prove his innocence.” He lowered it even further. “There’s fear that war could break out if we can’t prove an American didn’t do this.”
Air burst from Acton’s lips. “How can we prove it wasn’t him?”
“You saw the shooter?”
Acton nodded. “Clearly. And it wasn’t Niner, of course.”
“I had little doubt,” said Dawson with a wry smile. “Could you describe him?”
Acton shrugged. “Honestly I doubt it. I don’t even know if I’d recognize him if I saw him again. He was about five-four, hundred-twenty pounds maybe? Vietnamese in appearance. He had hair.” Acton shrugged again. “I really don’t think I can be of much help.”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 5