The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Washington, DC.”

  “Interesting.” He leaned back. “Now, how do you explain that your ID card was used at the National Museum of History today?”

  “I reported my card stolen this morning from my hotel room safe.”

  “How convenient.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Of course it is. A DSS agent would never lie.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’m not.”

  “So where were you when the shooting took place?”

  “In my room.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “No, I won the bet and got the odd man out room. I’d been on the nightshift and went to bed a few hours before I got the call about the emergency recovery.”

  “Which took how long?”

  “Under ten minutes.”

  “So you mean to tell me that in under ten minutes you were found, woken, got dressed and into position? Where was your position?”

  “At the rear entrance of the hotel where the Secretary would be arriving.”

  “And you did all that in ten minutes.”

  “Yes. But I had already showered and dressed beforehand.”

  “But we only have your word for that. For all we know you weren’t in your room at that time and instead were busy assassinating the Prime Minister then returning here.”

  “How would I have gotten here, sir?”

  “A motorbike would get you here very quickly. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were in disguise as part of the motorcade. Or perhaps in the Secretary’s limousine?”

  “That’s ridiculous, sir. I’m sure there’s security footage at the museum that will show it wasn’t me that used the ID.”

  “Vietnam is a rather primitive country, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t count on any video footage being found.”

  “This is a fairly high-end hotel. I’m sure there are cameras here that could prove I was where I say I was.”

  Sarkov threw up his hands, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry, but at the insistence of your own DSS agents, all cameras on this floor were disabled.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “You may find your attitude won’t play well with my colleague who will be arriving shortly. He will no doubt want to interview you, and I am certain will insist it be done, elsewhere, shall we say?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Sarkov rose, as did his suspect. “Unfortunately, Mr. Green, I know you are lying to me about at least one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Your name. And when you lie to me about your name, that means you are lying to me about who you really are. I know you are Special Forces, which means you are quite capable of killing the Prime Minister and his security detail. You are among the best in the world, of that I have no doubt. Your identification was used, that fact is not in dispute. And you are a liar, I think we can all agree on that fact as well.” Sarkov shrugged, raising his hands palm upward. “I tried to get the truth from you, and you chose to stick to your story. If you were to confess, then this could be handled through diplomatic channels where your government would most likely have you disappear, or fake your death, or something, sabre rattling would ensue, then life would go on. But since you are going to try and hide your involvement, this will turn into a battle of wills that may erupt out of control.” Sarkov walked to the door, putting his hand on the knob. “Remember where you are, gentlemen. You have no friends here, no power here, no influence. Like the last, this is a war you cannot win.”

  Sarkov excited the room, nodded to Miss Boyle, then walked toward the elevator, boarding the one held for him. He returned to the ground floor, joined by his Vietnamese counterpart, Major Yin.

  “Did you find out anything?” asked Yin.

  “Only that they are lying.”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  “Should I have the professors arrested?”

  Sarkov shook his head. “No. Let’s see what they do.”

  Valley of the Red River

  Modern day Vietnam

  388 BC, Thirteen years later

  The constant shivers continued to rack Asita’s bones. His trusted companion, Channa, fixed the blanket draping his shoulders as four of the younger men carried the chair that had been fashioned for him after the sickness had taken over long ago. His fever had come and gone over the years, but it had been bad now for many moons, his body weak though his years numbered less than forty.

  The journey made it tougher.

  They had been travelling for so long another generation had been born, the eldest lost. Grandfather had been right—he was too weak for the journey. He died only weeks after starting, despite being carried. Asita himself had fallen ill that very night but used it as proof from the divine that this place was cursed and they should leave in all haste.

  But nothing he could construe as a sign had made itself known to him. They had tried settling on numerous occasions only to find something to drive them away either days or weeks, sometimes months later.

  So they continued.

  He knew his people were frustrated and some wanted his son, barely sixteen, to take over. Which would mean Asita would have to die.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the point of view, Asita’s son would never do such a thing and seemed content to let his father take the bulk of the criticism while defending him fiercely.

  Asita leaned back and looked up at the canopy of tree leaves overhead, the sun occasionally making its presence known. The warmth, though brief, was welcome on his face, and he closed his eyes to enjoy himself, making a game of whether or not he could sense when the sun was bearing down on him.

  His face felt warm.

  Consistently warm.

  He opened his eyes and found the canopy overhead gone, instead a brilliant blue sky shining down on him with the occasional wisps of clouds in a long, slightly curved line overhead.

  His heart leapt.

  He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the procession still marching forward, and he looked to his side, instantly recognizing flowers in full bloom along the edge of the clearing as those he had seen a thousand times before from the imagination of an artist unknown to him, painting a ring of flowers never before seen by anyone in his village.

  “Stop!” he shouted, his strength suddenly returning. His chair was lowered to the ground and he stepped forward, Channa immediately at his side along with his son, Alara. “Get me the bowl!”

  The bowl was quickly produced and Asita pointed to one of the bands that ringed it, second from the top. It was blue, with white circles. He pointed at the sky. “Look!” The others gathered as they looked from the bowl to the sky and back. Then he pointed to the strange flowers nearby, then at the final ring at the top of the bowl.

  And they all gasped.

  For they were a match.

  He shook off the helping hands and plodded forward, toward the sound of running water, looking about him. It was a wide clearing, easily large enough for a village. The river was of a good size, but not so large it would pose a danger, and the embankments suggested a steady height, not one prone to surges during spring.

  He dropped to his knees, dipping the bowl into the water, then looked inside.

  And he saw his reflection.

  And smiled.

  He drank from the bowl and raised it to the heavens.

  “Father! We have found our home!”

  Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Present Day

  James Acton looked at his wife, not sure what to do. Dawson had just left and Mai was about to. But it didn’t feel right. Dawson wanted them to stay put but that wasn’t his style. Unfortunately his style quite often got them into trouble, but he couldn’t in good conscience let Mai leave alone.

  Laura grabbed her handbag.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Going with Mai. What are you doing?”

 
; Acton grinned. “I knew there was a reason I married you other than your money.”

  Mai stood by the door. “You shouldn’t come with me, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Which is exactly why we’re coming with you,” replied Acton. “If you’re with us you’re less likely to get hassled on your way there.”

  Laura put her hand on the doorknob. “What about when we get there? Surely they’ll get suspicious if we try to go in.”

  Mai shook her head. “No no no, you mustn’t come in with me.” She pulled a piece of paper from her purse and quickly wrote down a phone number. She handed it to Laura. “This is the number for my brother Cadeo. If anything happens to me, let him know so he can tell my family.”

  Laura took the paper and placed it in her purse. “Nothing will go wrong. Just get in, get the footage, get out. We’ll come straight back here.”

  Mai forced a smile, looking unconvinced as Laura pulled the door open. They headed for the elevator, there now several uniformed police on their floor. They showed their ID and were allowed on the elevator with little hassle. The ride down was in silence, Acton’s mind going a mile a minute as he weighed the pros and cons of getting themselves in even deeper. But he could see little choice. Sure, going with Mai was near idiotic, but it was the right thing to do. Sticking up for Niner was also the right thing to do. It would have been easier to just say he saw nothing and couldn’t confirm or deny that Niner was the shooter. It would probably have allowed them to get on a plane today but it would have been wrong. Niner had saved their lives on numerous occasions and leaving him hanging, to possibly literally hang, wasn’t an option Acton could even contemplate.

  It just wasn’t him.

  A friend was in trouble and he was honor-bound to help.

  And there would be no keeping Laura away for the same reasons.

  Which was one of the many reasons he loved her so much.

  Their relationship had been tumultuous, dangerous, terrifying, as well as exciting, passionate and stimulating. He wouldn’t change a thing despite the fact they had both been through hell on too many occasions.

  It had forged a relationship that had been tested under fire, creating a bond as strong as those shared by soldiers in combat, a bond so strong he was certain it could survive any challenge.

  And they had been challenged.

  And now, once again, they were leaping into the thick of things, boldly going where no sane married couple would dare.

  The doors opened and as they crossed the opulent lobby for the main entrance, the dozens of police officers ignored them completely.

  Which Acton found extremely odd.

  The doors were held open and Acton spotted the museum’s car with the same driver from earlier. They made a beeline for it, this time Acton climbing in the front seat, the two women in the back. Mai said something in Vietnamese and the driver pulled away. Acton lowered himself slightly in the seat and looked out the side view mirror, frowning as he spotted what he assumed was an unmarked police car pulling out after them.

  He turned back to look at Laura and Mai. “How are you two doing back there? Comfy?” He motioned with his eyes toward the car following them.

  Laura immediately caught on, resisting the urge to turn around, but Mai wasn’t as quick on the uptake, her life not one normally filled with intrigue. Laura held a finger up and pressed it against Mai’s cheek as she turned to look, pushing it back forward.

  “We’re okay. Just looking forward to getting this errand out of the way then having a nice dinner tonight at the hotel.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” He looked at a confused Mai. “You should join us, I insist.”

  She nodded, fear in her eyes as she eventually realized that their actions must have meant they were being followed. “I w-would be honored.”

  “Fantastic!” grinned Acton. “We’ll take the opportunity to go over those files you’re getting us. We barely saw half the museum so we’ll have to settle for the paper version!”

  Mai seemed to catch on, she now having a reason for returning with them, something the driver could no doubt report to the police that might actually sound legitimate.

  “It’s unfortunate your visit was cut off. Unavoidable, obviously, but my government would want you to at least read the catalog. I’ll try to get an electronic version for you so that you can browse it a little easier.”

  “That would be even better. Paper is so passé!” Acton said with a wink, turning back in his seat and facing the front again as they pulled up to the museum, hundreds of security personnel everywhere including a fairly impressive foreign press brigade. He turned to the driver. “My wife and I are fairly well known. Perhaps it’s best if we stayed in the car so the press doesn’t see us.”

  “No problem,” said the man as they pulled through the throng, the police making a hole. Their ID’s were checked and Acton noticed the senior officer look behind them then nod as if he had just received instructions.

  He waved them through.

  And the pit that formed in Acton’s stomach almost made him nauseous. He looked back and saw the car that had been following them parked on the side of the road, outside the ring of security, no doubt waiting for their exit.

  But were they just watching them out of curiosity, or did they know what they were up to?

  This is too dangerous.

  He turned to tell Mai but before he could say anything she had opened her door and jumped out. Instead he was forced to make eye contact with Laura and try to convey his concerns.

  She seemed to already be sharing them.

  They watched as Mai disappeared through the front entrance, her ID inspected, but not very closely.

  As if she was simply being led deeper into the flytrap.

  Leaving Acton to wonder if he would ever see her again.

  Valley of the Red River, Vietnam

  June 17th, 1974

  Phong shook like the leaves around him, the stiff breeze blowing through the village causing them to flutter, the gentle white noise generated not enough to drown out the horror he was witnessing.

  The war had arrived.

  His village had tried to stay out of the conflict, its location in a small valley with only a few trails leading to other communities allowing them to enjoy relative peace over the years of conflict, though the sound of planes screaming overhead and helicopters thundering on the other side of the surrounding hills was a constant reminder that the war was close.

  Too close.

  And today it was here.

  He had been in the forest looking for herbs, his future duties as companion to the eldest son of their leader demanding he be able to heal him should he become sick.

  But there would be no healing from this.

  Screams had sent him running toward the village, his duties forgotten. Orders were barked in unfamiliar voices and as he neared he skidded to a halt, dropping quietly to his belly at the edge of the village.

  Men with guns were herding the villagers around the shrine where the holy vessel sat on a covered pedestal, protected from the elements. Oral history taught that it had been drunk from by the great Buddha himself before his death and had been a gift to the village leader on the night of the Buddha’s death. The leader Cunda had died, but his son, Asita, had saved the bowl and the wisdom imparted with it, and moved their entire community from what was now near India to Vietnam.

  The great Asita had died within days of the establishment of their new community, but they had flourished exactly as he had said, with their numbers growing so much over the years that they had spread throughout these hills, there now dozens of villages that could trace their lineage back to this one, spreading the word of the great Buddha to those already living here. Some said that the great Asita had brought Buddhism to this part of the world so long ago.

  And the vessel, a simple clay bowl with faded artwork encircling it, had been preserved, lovingly, the ashes of the village’s founder, Asita, contained within, gathered from
his funeral pyre.

  A man in a uniform stepped into view, a uniform that Phong didn’t recognize, though he would admit to anyone he wouldn’t recognize any uniform, he having seen so few. All he knew was it was quite different from those he had seen while trading in the bigger towns.

  But this man was white, whiter than any he had seen before. He had seen pale faces fly overhead in helicopters, quite often accompanied by faces darker than any he had ever witnessed. He had found it remarkable. And now one of these “white people” as he had heard them referred to was in his village, directing the activities in a language he didn’t recognize, his translator crying out his orders with gusto.

  “Any man who joins us to fight will live!”

  Phong held his breath as the men of the village exchanged glances, the terror in their eyes clear. They were farmers, not fighters. The days of fighting between villages was long gone, generations of peaceful coexistence shattered in one day as these strangers forced an impossible decision on his friends and family.

  But to their credit, none moved, none stood to join what was clearly an evil cause, for it must be evil. If it were just, then why threaten those you would ask to join you with death?

  The white man stepped forward, aiming a handgun at his cousin Duc’s head and fired. Duc’s body crumpled to the ground eliciting wails from his wife and children, his mother passing out.

  “Who’s next?” shouted the translator.

  Duc’s brother jumped to his feet and charged the white man only to be cut down by one of the Viet Cong soldiers’ rifles. He writhed on the ground in agony, his wife crawling toward him, pleading with their captors to let them live. The white man straddled her, waving his gun at the others.

  “Who will join us to save her life?”

  Nobody stood, but several hesitant attempts were halted by others with the grab of a shoulder. Phong wept silently as his heart filled with pride at the brave display he was witnessing, those who had at first hesitated now stoic in their resolve. They had heard the stories and knew that anyone who didn’t join would be shot, including women and children. And should they join these men they’d be forced to commit unspeakable atrocities that went against all the teachings of Buddhism.