The bathroom door opened and Laura stepped out in a bathrobe, her hair tied up in a towel atop her head, her face flushed. Acton noticed she left the door open only slightly. “Forgive my appearance,” she said, smiling. “You caught me in the shower.” She paused, her smile still in place. “I’m sorry, I was expecting Vietnamese police.”
Sarkov struggled out of his chair. “Igor Sarkov, Professor Palmer, Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” said the man, walking over and shaking Laura’s hand with a bow. “A pleasure to meet such an accomplished woman.”
Laura returned the handshake. “Thank you, Mr. Sarkov. Do I have time to dress? It will only take a moment.”
“Of course, madam, please.”
Laura disappeared into the bedroom, the door closing behind her. Sarkov returned to his seat. “You are a very fortunate man, Professor. Not only is your wife a wealthy woman and accomplished in her field, she is remarkably beautiful.”
“Thank you, I shake my head every day that she agreed to marry me,” Acton said with a smile. “You said I was mistaken. How?”
“In your insistence that the man we know entered the museum and assassinated our Prime Minister is not the man you saw.”
Acton shrugged, slightly. “All I can tell you is what I saw. The man I saw was at least fifty years old and the man in the photo looks twenty years younger. Besides, the ID you had photocopied said his name was Jeffrey Green. The man who was the shooter was named Phong.”
“Phong?”
“Yes, Phong.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because they spoke. And your Prime Minister knew him from the Vietnam War.”
“Tell me more.” Sarkov seemed genuinely interested, which gave Acton some hope that perhaps this man was actually after the truth.
“This man, Phong, claimed the Prime Minister had massacred his village in nineteen-seventy-four.”
Sarkov leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Did the Prime Minister deny this?”
Acton shook his head. “No, in fact he claimed he had wiped out many villages then he seemed to remember the man when he was shown a bowl, saying Phong’s name first.”
Sarkov’s head slowly shook back and forth, as if in disbelief. “If what you say is true, then the man would easily be in his fifties.”
“Agreed.”
A sudden burst of air from between his lips was accompanied by a one-handed scalp massage. “Again, if this is true, and I’m not saying I necessarily believe you, but if it is true, we will need proof of this. And quickly.”
Laura appeared and both men rose, Sarkov again with effort. “Lovely lady!” he exclaimed, admiring her simple outfit. “Isis herself couldn’t be more beautiful!”
Laura smiled as she took a seat near Mai. “You flatter me, sir.”
Sarkov bowed slightly. “I hope it is not unwelcome.” He looked at Acton. “And it is all in good taste, I assure you.”
It was Acton’s turn to bow. “Your flattery honors me, sir.” He motioned for Sarkov to sit down and the man plopped once again in his seat.
“Madam, you I suppose support this story of your husbands?”
“I do,” replied Laura. “I saw the shooter and he was definitely not the man in the photograph. And they definitely knew each other.”
Sarkov shoved his lips in and out several times. “And how old would you say he was?”
Acton assumed Laura hadn’t heard the conversation and just prayed her estimate was in at least the same ballpark as his. “I’d guess fifty or sixty. I only caught a few quick glimpses of him, but definitely an older man.”
“Yet he jumped through a window and made his escape. Fairly spry, would you not say?”
“Hey, Stallone is late sixties, Chuck Norris is in his seventies,” replied Acton, hoping the references weren’t lost on their Russian “guest”.
Sarkov nodded. “This is true.” He leaned forward slightly. “I must confess I love the Expendables movies. Sylvester Stallone is one of my favorites, though I must also confess that in my country Rambo Three is considered a comedy.” Sarkov roared in laughter and the others joined in, albeit with a little discomfort, this man quite possibly holding their lives in his hands.
“What now, sir?” asked Acton. “When will we get our passports back?”
Sarkov’s face was red from laughing. As he sucked in several deep breaths and a few more gulps of water, he returned to a more normal pasty white with red blotches. “I am confident that you are innocent bystanders,” he said. “Your stories however don’t match what my Vietnamese counterparts are insisting is accurate. If it were up to me, I would let you go about your business now, however, unfortunately for us all, Moscow has sent a senior investigator, Mr. Dimitri Yashkin, who will be arriving this afternoon.” Sarkov sighed. “I’m afraid he won’t be so easily convinced.” Sarkov spread his hands out in a conciliatory fashion. “I am but a bureaucrat, exiled to this horrible posting because I have not kissed the proper asses as you Americans might say. Where I see innocence, my counterpart might see conspiracy.” He pushed himself out of his chair, the others rising with him. “I will have your passports returned, but I believe you may have a limited window in which to take advantage of them, if you know what I mean.” He tapped the side of his nose then headed for the door. Opening it he turned back toward Acton and Laura, Mai remaining behind in the living area. “It was a pleasure meeting you both,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.” He snapped his fingers. “The papers for these good people!”
Major Yin stepped forward, producing two passports.
“And Miss Trinh’s papers?” asked Acton as he took the passports.
“Of course,” said Sarkov, giving a wink only they could see. He snapped his fingers, holding out his hand without looking. Mai’s ID was quickly placed in his palm and Sarkov handed them over. “Have a good day.” He closed the door behind him, leaving everyone sighing in relief.
Acton carefully looked out the peephole and saw the procession just disappearing out of sight. He returned to the sitting area as Laura opened the bathroom door. “It’s safe to come out now.”
Dawson stepped into the room.
“Did you hear that?” asked Acton.
Dawson nodded. “We might just have an ally.”
“For a few hours at least,” said Laura, plopping onto the couch. “Once this new guy arrives none of us are safe.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do. Miss Trinh, you’ll leave as planned with your legitimate identification papers. Go to the museum and see if you can get the camera footage. I’m going to return to the Secretary’s floor; they’re due to interrogate Niner any minute now and I want to be there.”
“What about us?” asked Laura.
“I’m afraid you two are stuck. There’s no way you’re getting on an airplane without being stopped. I’d suggest you try to leave the hotel with the excuse you’re going for a walk. Then try to get to the embassy.”
“But she’s British.”
“They’ll let her in. I’ll phone ahead so they know.”
“Then?”
“Hole up until the dust settles.”
Gandhara Kingdom
Modern day Myanmar
401 BC, four months after the Buddha’s death
Asita hadn’t been hugged this much since his mating ceremony. The tears of joy and relief, mixed with fear and sorrow, were overwhelming, but he kept a smile on his face and a steady timbre to his voice, realizing that his people, for they were now his people, needed strength. They needed a leader and his father was gone.
All the pressures of these dangerous and uncertain times now fell on his shoulders.
Already he didn’t like the burden of leadership.
He raised his hands to quiet the crowd that surrounded him, Channa and his grandfather keeping a respectful distance, his wife and children at his side, clinging to him as if they feared he might not be real.
“Thank you for your warm welcome. It has been a
long, hard journey, but it would appear my hardships were trivial compared to yours.”
“What of your father?” asked someone.
A deep sadness spread across Asita’s face. “He is dead.” He drew in a breath, looking from person to person. “Killed by the same people who destroyed our village.”
“They said he killed the Buddha!”
“That’s a lie!” barked Asita, immediately lowering his voice as the crowd jumped. “That is a lie told by these murderous fiends. My father was given the honor of preparing a meal for the Buddha. We did, and sampled it ourselves. It was not poisoned. The Buddha fell sick after eating, but his companion assured us that the Buddha had been ill before and had come to the village where we met him in order to prepare for Parinirvana as he knew he was dying.
“The Buddha gave us all his blessing”—this elicited murmurs of excitement—“and this blessed vessel”—he retrieved the clay bowl from his satchel and held it up to oohs and aahs—“along with the answer to the question my father asked of him.” He paused as he slowly turned, the bowl held high in the air so everyone could see it. “We have suffered, my friends, for many years. The question had been whether or not to move. As you know, both my father and I have been of the opinion that we should move to more fertile ground, no matter how long this has been our home. But others disagreed.”
He lowered the bowl, stopping his spin as his eyes rested on the most vocal opponent to moving. Their eyes dropped and Asita turned, looking at those who had supported his father. “To assuage any doubt, it was agreed that my father would seek the wisdom of the Buddha, and he did, quite possibly the last person to do so before the Buddha’s death, which I think to be a great honor and omen, it important we heed the Buddha’s words since they were among his last.”
“What did he say?” asked someone, desperate for Asita to come to his point. But Asita wouldn’t be rushed. There were many here who had forced this journey upon his father, and if it weren’t for them, his father would be alive right now.
“When the Buddha gave my father his wisdom, he gave him this bowl. His message was, ‘Trust in what you see’, and it was left to us to figure out what he meant. Before my father could contemplate the wise one’s words, we were set upon by a mob who falsely accused my father of poisoning the Buddha. My father fought a hundred men if it were one, and valiantly held the mob off until we could make our escape, ensuring the Buddha’s words and gift would find his people.” He held the bowl up again. “And I have succeeded in doing so, in fulfilling my father’s dying wish that this gift and the wisdom offered with it reach his people.”
“But what does it mean?”
Asita smiled. “I have puzzled over that for many a night, I assure you, but in a moment of grief upon discovering the destruction of our village, the wisdom of the great Buddha became clear to me as I looked into the bowl, filled with water from our own stream.”
“What did you see?”
“Myself.”
He let the word sink in for a moment, then continued before anyone else spoke. “I saw the reflection of myself, and realized what the Buddha meant. He said, ‘Trust in what you see’, and I saw myself. In other words, I should trust myself. If it had been my father who had looked in the bowl, he would have seen himself, and known the Buddha meant to trust in himself.”
Asita squared his shoulders, inflating his chest to make himself appear even larger than he already was, an imposing figure on any battlefield.
“Therefore I shall trust in myself, as the Buddha has instructed, and trust in my father’s wishes. We will move the village. In the morning, we head east, toward the rising sun, until we receive a sign from the Buddha that our new home has been found.”
There were murmurs of nervousness and excitement, most happy a decision had been made, others not so certain. The village broke off into small groups, debates beginning to rage, but Asita ignored them, instead waving to Channa who directed him to a temporary shelter that had been waiting for them just in case they arrived.
Settling in for the night, out of sight of the others, Asita broke into a cold sweat, shivering from head to toe as fear and doubt set in.
How can I trust in what I see when I don’t even trust in myself?
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day
Igor Sarkov rode the elevator down to the ninth floor for his scheduled meeting with the American assassin. In silence. He had read the dossiers on the two professors before meeting them. They were well respected, well connected and well financed. With a knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He tapped his chin. If he was a more cynical man, he might think that they were always exactly where they were supposed to be, exactly when they were supposed to be. FSB files on them suggested they had been involved in more than one American Special Forces operation over the past several years beginning with the assassination of the American President a few years ago. And the assassination of the Pope. And the kidnapping of the next Pope. And the assault on the Vatican. There was even an unsubstantiated rumor that they were involved during the Qing coup attempt in China.
They either weren’t who they said they were, or they were the unluckiest two people he had ever met.
How they found each other…
The door chimed and he stepped out into the hallway, immediately greeted by several men who were clearly security, and one woman he had no doubt was sent to disarm him with her smile.
“Mr. Sarkov?”
He nodded with a slight bow.
“I’m Secretary Atwater’s aide, Cynthia Boyle. Please follow me. I’ve been instructed to tell you that you have fifteen minutes with our agent, and one of our people will be in the room at all times. You may ask him anything you want.”
Sarkov said nothing, there being no point. He was actually a little shocked the Americans were giving him any time with the suspect, which suggested to him either they thought he wasn’t involved, or he was and they wanted it to appear they were cooperating.
He wasn’t sure what to think. The Vietnamese were convinced this Mr. Green—obviously an alias—was the shooter, but for some reason he believed the two professors. Their dossiers would suggest he shouldn’t, but he never put much stock in FSB files any more than he had in KGB files when he was a younger man.
He had always wanted to be a police officer, or more accurately a detective, but the Communist government, through his father, had other plans for him. He had become KGB, then after the fall, FSB, then finally part of Foreign Affairs, dealing with embassy and diplomatic security. It had been glamorous work at times and his dear, dear wife had loved it so.
His chest tightened slightly at the thought of her. She had died only two years ago in a car accident in St. Petersburg, their son who was driving dying days later from his injuries.
T-boned by a drunk connected to what many in Russia now called the Party. The Communist party still existed, but it was United Russia that now called the shots, the Communists relegated to the sidelines, and the Russia he had such high hopes for after the collapse was quickly regressing into the old ways.
And it shamed him.
He didn’t like Hanoi, it was too hot for his large frame, but it was about as far from Moscow politics as you could get because Moscow really didn’t care what happened here. As far as they were concerned Hanoi would remain within the Russian sphere of influence no matter what happened. Their efforts were focused elsewhere.
But now with the Prime Minister assassinated, everything could change. He was now in the limelight, and he didn’t like it. He had two more years then he’d get his meagre pension and retire to some place cold.
Perhaps Canada.
But if this investigation didn’t turn out the way the leadership wanted, he just might find himself in Siberia.
Six feet under the permafrost.
“Right in here, Mr. Sarkov.”
He was shown into a small conference room flanked by two DSS agent
s. Inside sat the man he recognized from the photocopied identification card, and another he recognized by the look on his face as a very dangerous man. His dossier supplied by the Vietnamese said he was Mr. White—what is with the colors?—but FSB pegged him as American Special Forces.
Sarkov sat in the uncomfortable chair, noticing with a slight smile that his suspect was seated quite comfortably. A pitcher of ice water sat on the table and he poured himself a tall glass, downing half of it before refilling. He pulled his chair in and crossed his arms on top of the table. “I am Igor Sarkov, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Russian, if you don’t recognize my accent.” He smiled at the suspect as the door closed, leaving him alone with the Asian American and the Special Forces operator in the corner of the room, standing by the window.
If he’s here, then this is one of his men.
Which had his mind racing. If the suspect was American Special Forces, then perhaps this was an assassination by the Americans after all. His ID had definitely been used to gain access to the Museum, the witnesses who said it wasn’t him had a long history of being involved in international events, therefore could be spies themselves, which meant none of their answers could be trusted. And if they were lying, then there was a conspiracy here, which meant this man hadn’t acted alone.
He hadn’t gone rogue.
“Your name is Mr. Jeffrey Green. You’re a Special Agent with the Bureau of Diplomatic Security.”
“Yes.”
“In fact, you’re actually a member of the United States Special Operations Command.”
Remarkably the man showed no sign of surprise.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is your motto? Sine Pari? Without equal? I believe some of our Spetsnaz soldiers would disagree.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m a DSS agent on temporary assignment to the Secretary of State’s detail while in Hanoi.”
“Temporary. And where is your permanent posting? Fort Bragg? Coronado?”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 7