Another orange robe was stained with red as the white man fired his weapon.
Phong closed his eyes.
“Kill them all.”
Immediately the loudest sound Phong had ever heard erupted as multiple guns opened up on his family. He buried his head in the grass, covering his ears, but nothing could drown out the sound of the guns or the screams of his people.
And then there was silence.
He looked up and his chest heaved with anguish as he saw everyone he had ever known and loved lying in a pile of bloodied flesh, some still alive, though too near death for it to matter. The white man walked around the mound of flesh and put bullets in each of those who still struggled to survive and within minutes there was absolute silence save one baby, still held in his dead mother’s arms.
Phong buried his head once again as the final shot rang out, silence reigning, the horrors of moments before lost to the white noise of fluttering leaves.
The sound of the white man speaking Vietnamese had his head lifting from the ground. He wiped his eyes clear as the words set it.
“Destroy everything.”
“Yes, sir!”
Torches were lit and the homes he had grown up in, played in, ate in and slept in were quickly set ablaze, memories of a childhood wiped from history as the crackling of fire replaced the gentle rustling of the leaves and the harsh, acrid smoke overwhelmed the sweet smell of the grass he lay on. He cried as he finally spotted the body of his father, draped protectively over his mother, and felt a rage build inside him as he rose to his knees, still unseen by the murderous Viet Cong and their white overlord.
The man turned toward the shrine, stepping under its small roof.
“What’s this?” he asked, picking up the bowl and looking inside.
“Some religious icon,” replied his translator.
The man threw the bowl against the stone surrounding the shrine, the clay shattering into dozens of pieces, the precious ashes it contained spilled on the ground.
“There is no room for religion in Communism.”
Phong roared in anger as he jumped to his feet, charging toward the man who had massacred his village, destroyed Buddha’s bowl, disrespecting the founder of their village and their entire culture. Phong didn’t care as the weapons were turned toward him, didn’t notice that the white man waved off the soldiers, instead walking toward Phong, an amused smile on his face.
He grabbed Phong by the top of the head, halting his advance. Phong’s arms swung at the murderer as he pushed forward with all his might but it was useless, and as the Viet Cong soldiers around him began to laugh at his futile efforts to exact revenge, he felt humiliation begin to overwhelm him as he realized there was nothing he could do, his small fifteen year old body no match for the fully grown man in front of him.
And it probably saved his life.
“What is your name, boy?” asked the man in near perfect Vietnamese.
Phong collapsed to his knees, his shoulders heaving in sobs as he fell back on his haunches, crying, self-pity overwhelming him.
“Kill me,” he whispered.
“What is your name?”
“Phong.”
The man motioned toward the pile of bodies now burning, the sickly sweet smell filling Phong’s mouth with bile. “Is your family in there?”
Phong nodded, closing his eyes as he saw the flesh of his father’s jaw melt off in drips, his once proud visage now a smoldering mass of sticky goo on the bloodstained ground.
“It’s too bad you didn’t die with them.”
“Kill me, please!”
“Why would you die so readily?”
Phong looked up at the man, dumbstruck at the question. “You killed everyone I have ever known! You have destroyed the Founder’s Bowl, gifted to his father by the great Buddha himself on the day of his death. You have scattered the Founder’s ashes! And you ask why I want to die? My heart is filled with such rage and sorrow I am no longer worthy to be with the living. I must leave this existence, endure the bardos and be reincarnated to once again live a life worthy of perhaps one day reaching Nirvana.”
The white man shook his head slowly, frowning. “So much of your life has been clouded with the nonsense of religion. Buddha? Karma? Reincarnation? These are the ideas of a weak mind, an existence so frail and worthless that one looks forward to death so they can escape their own pathetic selves in the hopes they will be reborn into some form that might actually be worthy of existence, or to join some imaginary deity in an afterlife of eternal bliss.” The man spat on the ashes of the Founder Asita causing the rage to return. Phong’s fists clenched.
“So you just might be a man after all,” observed the murderer, nodding toward Phong’s fists. He kicked him in the chest, knocking him onto his back, a heavy boot suddenly crushing the air from his chest. Phong gasped, grasping uselessly at the black boot as the pressure increased. The man leaned forward, looking down at him. “You will find no quarter with me, little man. Which is why I will let you live. Tell the other villages what you have witnessed here today, and should we not get volunteers the next time we come back, they too will suffer the fate of your village.”
The pressure was suddenly removed from his chest as the man stepped back leaving Phong to gasp for breath, his chest heaving painfully as he lay on the ground, his back soaking in the blood of his people, tears rolling into his ears as his beaten self wallowed in misery, silently praying for death.
“Let’s go!” ordered the man, walking away, his back turned on Phong, a final insult to the boy, he so pathetic he wasn’t even deemed a threat worthy of attention.
Phong pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at the departing Viet Cong, then rolled himself over and onto his knees. The translator wasn’t as willing to dismiss Phong as harmless, keeping his eye on him, raising his weapon as Phong rose to his feet.
The white man noticed and turned.
“Until we meet again, young Phong.” He nodded and was about to turn when Phong finally found his voice.
“I’m going to kill you if I ever see you again!”
The man tossed his head back, laughter roaring from within as the others stopped, joining in. The man pointed at Phong, smiling. “You’ve finally found your balls!” The levity wiped from his face as he took a single step toward Phong, Phong taking a reflexive one back. “I look forward to that day.”
Phong, trembling with fear and adrenaline, part of him hoping to provoke a quick death, another enraged by the injustice he had witnessed, retook the lost ground, advancing another step closer. “You know my name. What is yours?”
The man’s chest inflated as his hands moved to his hips.
“I am Captain Anatoly Petrov. And should we meet again, little one, you will die.”
Petrov turned on his heel and disappeared into the forest, the Viet Cong following, and within moments Phong was left alone with the dead, his village a mere memory of what it once was.
And as the embers of hate began to ignite in his heart, he made a promise to himself that he doubted he would ever be able to keep.
If I ever see Anatoly Petrov again, he will die, or I will die.
Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day
Phong Son Quan still couldn’t believe his luck. Yesterday had started as any other day. A member of the maintenance staff at the Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, a job he had proudly held for almost twenty years since the opening day in 1996, he did his job and he did it well, keeping his head down as expected, ignoring the guests unless spoken to directly.
He was a model employee.
And yesterday had changed all that.
For he had seen a new guest arrive in the lobby, a guest he only caught a glimpse of by accident.
Then couldn’t take his eyes off.
It was a face he’d never forget, and other than some wrinkles and gray hair, there was no doubt who he was.
His nemesis.
The murderer of his entire village.
/>
The man who had let him live so that he could suffer the memories of that day for the rest of his life.
The Prime Minister of Russia.
Anatoly Petrov.
Phong didn’t care who he was now, all he cared about was who he was then.
Captain Anatoly Petrov.
And his vow of almost forty years ago, never forgotten, was suddenly no longer an empty threat.
Petrov had looked directly at him as he walked by, apparently not recognizing him. He had resisted throwing himself at the bastard and was now thankful he had, for he would simply have been arrested or worse, his family, friends and home unavenged.
Instead he had remained quiet, dropping his head down, his chin back on his chest as the procession walked by. They were the second VIP delegation of the day, the American Secretary of State having arrived earlier. He knew nothing of politics, nothing of world events. He lived in a communist country that controlled the news, instead only letting the people know about things the Party wanted them to know about.
And since the Party had been responsible for massacring everyone in his home, he hated them with a passion that continued to burn to this day.
Which was why he had moved into the city, taking simple manual labor jobs, eventually getting his prized job at the finest hotel in Hanoi. He shunned the news, didn’t have a phone, nor did he have a television. He did his job well, prayed for those who had passed, and kept himself as healthy as he could for as long as he could, in the event this day should arrive.
Which was why he had never known his lifelong enemy had become so powerful a man.
He had finished his shift then went for his end of day briefing on what was expected the next day. Today. That was when he found out the Russian Prime Minister would be going to the National Museum of History, leaving the hotel at exactly 9:45 in the morning, only fifteen minutes after the United States Secretary of State would be leaving for the same destination.
The significance hadn’t occurred to him at first until he was sitting in his tiny apartment eating his evening meal of pho noodles and banh chung sticky rice cakes. He knew there was no hope in reaching Petrov at the hotel, security was too tight. But he now knew where the man would be and when.
He had eyed the drawer of the rickety nightstand where he kept his gun, an old Makarov he had found after the war years ago. Over time he had learned how to use it during his mandatory military service and kept it clean and well oiled.
Always ready for the day he would kill Captain Anatoly Petrov.
But what was significant about what he had been briefed on was not just when and where his target would be, but who would also be there.
The American delegation.
And he already knew from his duties that there was an Asian looking man on the security delegation and that his room had a Do Not Disturb request until noon, he apparently serving on the nightshift. Phong knew that in order to get into the museum he would need to pretend to be part of one of the two delegations, since it would surely be closed to the public. He couldn’t risk accessing the Russian floors since he might be recognized, and he couldn’t speak their language should the need arise.
But he spoke English with little trouble, his hotel offering free training to improve the guest experience.
He had excelled.
His plan came together over the hours lying on his bed and the next morning he arrived early for work, seeking out his friend Duy in the Eco Office, Duy a one-man team that monitored utilities usage in the individual guest rooms, an effort the hotel was undertaking to try and lower their carbon footprint.
“I need a favor.”
“What?”
“I need you to tell me when room 804 has a shower.”
“Huh? Why?”
“I forgot my key pass in there yesterday. If management finds out, I’ll lose my job!”
Duy smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got your back.” He handed him his card. “Use mine for now. I don’t need it stuck in here.” He hit a few keys on the computer. “Just a second, I have to activate the system for that floor to get at the data. He pointed. “He entered his room about six hours ago and didn’t take a shower. He turned out his lights about fifteen minutes later then the TV shortly after. I’m assuming his roommate is in there with him.”
Phong shook his head. “He doesn’t have one. I heard someone say he ‘won the bet’, whatever that means, so he got the solo room. He’s alone.”
Duy examined the keycard log and nodded. “There’s only one keycard assigned to that room, and only one has been used since they arrived yesterday. Looks like you’re right.” He looked at Phong. “His room is flagged as being for security personnel for the American delegation. Are you sure you want to sneak in there? He’s liable to shoot you.”
“Not if he’s in the shower.”
“You’re taking one hell of a chance.”
“I can’t lose my job.”
Duy tapped a few keys and cursed. “He just turned on his lamp and the television. He’s getting up. Go now, I’ll call you when the shower starts.”
Phong rushed from the room, taking the service elevator to the eighth floor then waiting for Duy’s call on his hotel issued cellphone, picked up at the beginning of each shift, handed in at the end. It vibrated on his hip. He answered the call, his heart now pounding as he heard the words he had been waiting for.
“He’s in the shower. Hurry!”
Phong stepped out into the hallway and walked straight for the room, pushing his maintenance cart in front of him. He tapped lightly on the door and there was no answer. Swiping Duy’s master keycard, he pushed the door open slightly and listened.
The shower along with karaoke quality singing could be heard.
Louie Louie, oh baby, say we gotta go?
He quickly stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his eyes scanning the room the entire time. The man’s clothes were laid out on the bed, but his pass was nowhere in sight.
Something Phong had anticipated.
From two decades of experience he knew that most security personnel locked their passes in the room safe while off duty just to prevent what he was about to do.
What most didn’t know was that each safe had a master code, and thanks to those same two decades of experience, he knew what it was.
He opened the cabinet doors hiding the safe and dropped to his knees, pressing ## rapidly then entering the master PIN code of 144639. The safe clicked open, revealing the photo ID he saw all the security personnel wearing. He took the pass then closed the safe and the doors, exiting quickly just as the shower shut off.
It had been the most terrifying two minutes of his adult life.
And things were only going to get worse.
He returned Duy’s keycard with a promise of beers later, then booked off sick, feigning a wicked stomach ache. It being his first sick day in years he wasn’t questioned for a moment, instead receiving well wishes and advice from the ladies in Personnel on various soups and potions to try, one even offering to come by later with some.
He had bowed his way out, made his way home and changed into his best clothes—a dated suit bought at a secondhand store years ago—donned a pair of dark sunglasses like he had seen the security team all wear, then took his moped to the museum. He no doubt made an odd sight as he rode the fifteen minutes to his destination. Parking just down the street, he waited for the American delegation to arrive. Once he saw they were all in the building, he walked in, aping the movements of the security detail.
The pass was barely looked at, merely photocopied and handed back.
He had visited the museum once before and knew the most popular room would be where they kept the drums. There was no way Petrov would miss it. Entering the room, his badge secured to his chest allowing him to pass unfettered, he found a floor to ceiling tapestry and placed himself behind it. From his position he could lean to the left to see the door he had just come through, and to the r
ight to see the opposing door.
The rest was now history, his adversary dead.
A life’s promise fulfilled.
A life no longer with purpose.
He curled up into a ball on his bed and wept for those who had been lost all those years ago.
Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam
Mai Lien Trinh turned down the hallway containing the museum staff offices, hers at the far end, her position, or lack thereof, warranting a tiny cubbyhole next to the utilities closet. But she didn’t mind at all. She found her work fascinating, rewarding, and until today, completely non-political.
She hated politics. Her brother was obsessed with them. He hated the Party, he hated the system, he hated their father for being a staunch supporter of the military, a proud retired member of the Vietnam People’s Army and a firm supporter of communism.
Her mother simply never spoke of it right up to her death.
And Mai hated it all. She just wanted to live her life outside of the system as best she could, which was why she had gone the academic route rather than the service route. And she was damned lucky as far as she was concerned.
Now if only I could find a boyfriend!
She had been on a lot of dates but rarely received the promised call back. Her brother assured her she was ‘hot’ but in a bookish way, so it must be something else and she was pretty sure what it was.
She hated her country.
Her work exposed her to the world and she knew it was much better almost everywhere else she had been. Communism was at fault, the Party that imposed this failed system was at fault, and the people who blindly supported the Party were at fault.
Like her father.
Many of the men she went out with were men she wouldn’t want to have return her calls, and she made it quite clear they shouldn’t call through her lack of interest, and most of the rest simply were shown disdain at their love of their “connected” job.
Yet there were a few that she was disappointed never called her, breaking her heart every time.
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 9