And if today didn’t end well, she might not need to worry about her dismal record on the dating scene.
She’d be dead or worse.
She closed the door to her office, sitting behind her desk and logging into the computer connected to the internal network. It was an old “clunker” as she had heard them called by other visiting professors, the better yet still outdated computers reserved for the full professors, not the grad students.
But it worked.
One advantage of working at a museum where nobody thought anything beyond physical security was important was that she pretty much had access to everything. Professor Tran had put her in charge of trying to modernize, which meant she had full Admin privileges on the server.
And was quickly into the files for the video cameras, installed just last year.
She pulled open a desk drawer and found a memory stick given to her as a gift at a conference she had once attended in Australia and inserted it into the USB port of her computer. She quickly copied the files over and set the ‘Hidden’ property on them to True. She then copied the electronic catalog of all their artifacts, pocketing the memory stick. Next she printed the catalog so she’d have something physical in her hand instead of having to use the memory stick to explain her presence.
She was about to log out when she paused for a moment, mentally debating if she had time.
And whether it was worth the risk.
She reached in her desk and grabbed a second memory stick, repeating the process, then slipped the tiny USB key into her bra. If she made it out unscathed, she’d have both copies. If she was stopped, she could hand over the first one and hopefully walk out with the second. And if she were arrested, she’d be in so deep it wouldn’t matter how many copies she had.
She trembled at the thought.
Straightening herself in a small mirror stuck to the back of the door, she sucked in a breath and was about to leave when she stopped.
She went to her desk and picked up the phone, dialing her brother.
She got his voicemail.
“Cadeo, it’s me.” She thought for a moment then realizing they barely spoke, added, “Your sister. I’m in some trouble. I got mixed up by accident with the assassination this morning. I’m at the museum now but I’m leaving. I’ll hopefully be with two American professors, Acton and Palmer, at the Daewoo. But if something goes wrong, just let everyone know I was doing the right thing and wasn’t involved in this at all, no matter what they say, I was just an innocent bystander.” She took a deep breath. “I love you.”
Her chest tightened and her eyes filled with tears as she suddenly realized she actually did love her brother, despite his decision to become a criminal, a dealer on the black market. She thought of calling her father but before she could return the phone to its cradle the door burst open behind her.
Causing her to nearly pee her pants as she inhaled suddenly.
The Russian from earlier was standing at the door flanked by two police officers including Captain Nguyen, the first officer on the scene after the shooting.
“Miss Trinh, may I ask what you are doing here?” asked the Russian.
She felt herself begin to get dizzy and grabbed the desk, placing the phone receiver on the top, still connected. The breath she had been holding finally burst free and she began to breathe again. And she realized he was waiting for an answer. She held up the sheaf of papers. “I was printing off our antiquities catalog for the visiting professors.”
“May I see?”
She nodded, handing the papers over. Sarkov quickly leafed through them, nodding as he did so. “An impressive collection, I am sure.” He handed the papers back. “Certainly this information is available on the Internet?”
Mai shook her head. “No, little of it anyway.”
“Are your American guests leaving so soon that this couldn’t wait?”
Mai’s mind raced for a reasonable explanation but could come up with nothing. “Not that I know of.”
He took a step forward causing Mai to take one back. “Did they ask you for the list, or did you offer?”
“I-I offered.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“No, I-I’m just scared.”
“Why?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Sarkov smiled, his head bobbing as he took another step forward. “I suppose I would be. Which is why I definitely wouldn’t come back here today.” He held his hand out. “Please give it to me.”
She knew she was busted. “Give you what?”
“Whatever storage device you are using for the files you copied from the secure network.”
She gulped, her stomach doing butterflies as her mind raced. Glancing past the massive man, Nguyen’s glare had her staring at Sarkov’s shoes. Wingtips. Polished. She looked for her face in them.
She reached into her pocket and produced the memory stick, regaining her composure for a moment. “I copied the electronic version of the printout in case they preferred that.”
The words came out fast and almost a jumble, her nerves winning out.
“Of course you did,” he said, taking the memory stick. “You won’t mind if I take a look at this a little closer, would you?”
She shook her head, motioning toward her computer. “Please.”
Sarkov smiled. “I think we’ll use my computer in the car.” He held out his hand, inviting her out the door. “If you would be so kind?”
She began to tremble. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe, I assure you.”
“B-but I’m a Vietnamese citizen.” She looked at Nguyen. “I demand—I mean I request that my government protect me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Nguyen stepped inside, his rage barely contained. “You have stolen files from a secure network belonging to the Vietnamese people! When he is done with you, then your government will protect you!”
Sarkov looked down at her with a sympathetic smile, waving the memory stick at her. “I’m sorry, Miss Trinh, but should we find anything on this that shouldn’t be there, it is out of my hands. Perhaps it would be best to admit to any wrong doing now?”
Mai’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She had hidden the files from casual observation. Anyone with even a basic knowledge of computers would be able to find them.
“I copied the camera footage,” she mumbled, her chin on her chest.
Nguyen began a tirade cut off with a single raised finger by Sarkov.
“Did the Americans ask you to?”
She looked up at him, eyes wide as she shook her head vigorously. “No! I said I would get it to prove their friend wasn’t the shooter!”
“Their friend?”
Mai gasped, realizing she had made a terrible gaffe. “No, I didn’t say that, I mean, I misspoke.”
“We both know you didn’t. So the Americans lied to me. I wonder why they would do that.”
The room felt like it was starting to spin as Mai’s heart raced and a vicelike grip took hold of her chest. She steadied herself with a hand on the corner of her desk, closing her eyes which proved to be a mistake, she nearly losing her balance. She opened them quickly and focused on the wastepaper basket in the corner. Sarkov was saying something, the words distant and incoherent.
“Miss Trinh!”
Sarkov’s sharp shout brought her back to reality with a roar and she sucked in a sudden breath, everything coming back into focus. She looked up at Sarkov. “They know him from somewhere, and they know he wasn’t the shooter, as I know he wasn’t the shooter. If you’re going to kill me because I told you the truth, then so be it.”
Sarkov pursed his lips, nodding, giving Mai the impression that he actually respected her response. He motioned to Nguyen. “Take her away. I’ll want to interview her later as will my colleague from Moscow.” He turned toward the door then looked down at the much smaller Nguyen. “And I expect to find her in the exact same condition she is in now.”
Nguye
n snapped to attention briefly in acknowledgement, his eyes, burrowing into Mai’s, revealing his outrage at the limitation imposed upon him. Orders were barked and she found herself between two policemen being hauled bodily down the hallway, past all of her shocked colleagues.
It would be humiliating if it weren’t so terrifying.
As she stepped out in the light of day hundreds of cameras began to snap while she was pushed into the back of a police car, flanked on either side in the backseat by the two officers, another two in the front. The siren was turned on and the vehicle pulled away from the museum and made its way through the police cordon and onto the street.
Where she caught a glimpse of the two professors in the museum car, horror on their faces.
She just hoped they would tell her family how she died.
With honor, doing the right thing.
At the hands of her father’s beloved government.
Outside the Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam
“Get out!”
Acton spun toward the driver. “Excuse me?”
“Get out! Get out! Get out!” screamed the man, motioning toward the door.
Acton decided it was best to follow the order, it clear they were no longer welcome now that Mai had been arrested. Acton looked back at Laura as she frowned, opening the rear door. They both stepped onto the street and looked about.
“What now?” asked Laura, eyeing the guards.
“We walk straight toward that throng of press people and hopefully get recognized.”
He took Laura by the hand and walked with purpose toward the street fronting the entrance to the museum where the police had a cordon set up and international press—he was sure there’d be few if any local press—were gathered, cameras rolling.
He spotted an ABC News reporter that he had met after an incident at the Vatican. He raised his hand, hailing him as he pushed a broad smile out over his face.
“Charles!”
The man looked at him, confused for a moment, then an expression of shock mixed with recognition took over. “Professor Acton? What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“We were visiting the museum when all hell broke loose,” he replied, flashing his ID to the guards as he continued to walk toward the reporter. And just as he had hoped, every camera and microphone was now turned toward them, someone finally engaging them.
“Did you see the incident?” yelled one.
“Do you have a ride?” Acton asked Charles Stewart. Stewart nodded.
“Was it an American?” shouted another.
Security seemed confused, an officer looking about for instructions on whether or not to let these two foreigners off the premises. Acton casually looked for their tail car but it was lost in the crowd.
Suddenly the cordon parted after somebody shouted something in Vietnamese behind them.
They were free, Stewart hustling them toward his van. Safely inside the driver pulled away, the vehicle being chased by the press for a good twenty yards. Stewart turned back toward them from the passenger seat. He jerked a thumb at the driver. “Meet Pat Murphy, my cameraman and chauffeur.”
“Bloody slave would be a more accurate description,” muttered Murphy, flashing a smile at the new arrivals, his accent thick and Irish.
“He’s a scholar and a gentleman and a constant pain in my ass. Why they keep putting us together on assignment I’ll never know.” Stewart suddenly became all business. “Okay, what gives? How are you two mixed up in this?”
“Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all,” replied Acton. “We were on a tour provided by the museum when the assassination took place.”
“You saw it?”
“From the context of ducking, yes.”
“Did you get a good look at the shooter?”
Acton exchanged a quick glance with Laura that the trained Stewart caught.
He pounced. “You did, didn’t you? Was it an American like they claimed?”
Acton decided coming clean on that part at least should be not only safe, but his duty. “No, he was definitely Vietnamese.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I guess I can’t be sure he was Vietnamese, but he looked like he was from this region, shall we say.”
“They’re claiming an Asian American attached to the Secretary of State’s security detail.”
Acton frowned. “They’ve already released that?”
“Unofficially of course, but they’re not denying it, and they’ve got his ID on circulation none too discretely.”
“We’ve seen that photocopy and he definitely wasn’t the shooter.”
“How do you know? You said he was Asian.”
“Yes, but they knew each other.”
Stewart’s eyes narrowed. “Huh? Who? You mean the shooter and this Asian American?”
Acton shook his head. “No, the shooter and the Russian Prime Minister.”
“How do you know?”
“They spoke,” said Laura. “He claimed the Prime Minister had massacred his village during the war.”
“The Vietnam War?”
Acton cocked an eyebrow indicating how stupid he felt the question was.
“Sorry, obviously. And the Prime Minister didn’t deny it?”
Laura shook her head. “No, in fact he seemed quite proud of the fact he had, even told the man he’d have to be more specific since he’d cleansed lots of villages during the war.”
“Then the guy showed him a clay bowl and that’s when Petrov said the man’s name.”
Stewart’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
Acton shook his head. “Nope. He said, ‘Young Phong, is that you?’ and the man nodded and spoke of how Petrov killed everyone in his village.”
“There was no doubt they knew each other,” said Laura. “This was not an American. We saw the photo they’re handing around. It definitely wasn’t him. The guy’s at least twenty years younger!”
Stewart was scribbling madly on his pad, shaking his head the entire time in awe. “This is huge,” he muttered. “Are you willing to go on camera?”
Acton looked at Laura who shook her head slightly. “Not until we’re safely stateside unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“If they’re trying to pin this on the Americans, you might have a hard time leaving the country what with you being there and all.”
Laura patted the pocket her passport was in. “They already seized our passports but gave them back. We’d try to leave but we’re afraid that might just make us look guilty.”
“There was some suggestion by the Russian investigator that a much more hardline guy is arriving from Moscow later today. I expect things to get much more difficult by then.”
Stewart lowered his voice as if concerned someone might actually be listening within their vehicle. “Look, this American connection is being pushed, hard. Every press organization worldwide is running his name and photo. The only saving grace is that it’s a terrible photocopy, so his identity in the future might actually be protected still. The Russians are already at a heightened state of alert but our government hasn’t responded yet, they’re denying any involvement, promising to cooperate fully, and are scrambling to deescalate. The Russian President though is already whipping up a frenzy and it hasn’t even been four hours.”
“Do you really think this could lead to war?” asked Laura, her own voice subdued, a tinge of fear lacing it.
Stewart shrugged. “I doubt it, but that guy’s a nutbar. I’m guessing he’ll use it as an excuse to take some territory where he feels Russian minorities are ‘oppressed’”—Stewart added air quotes—“and perhaps a few limited skirmishes to make his point. I just can’t see anyone wanting all-out war, not even that man, no matter how far he’s got his head shoved up his ass looking for the Soviet Union’s former glory.”
Action stifled a grin, Stewart always peppering his conversation with colorful alliterations.
“We’ve got a tail.” It w
as Murphy that startled them all with the revelation.
Stewart already looking at them in the backseat shifted his eyes. “Yeah. Dark blue sedan, four people inside. None look happy.”
“We were followed on the way to the museum,” replied Acton. “Probably the same people.”
“Which reminds me,” said Laura. “I need to call Mai’s brother.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out the piece of paper Mai had written on earlier then dialed the number. She shook her head, covering the mouthpiece. “Voicemail,” she whispered then raised her voice. “Hi, this is Professor Laura Palmer. I’m a colleague of your sister Mai. I have important information about her. Please contact me as quickly as possible as it is urgent.” She left her number then hung up. She looked at the others. “Let’s hope he understands English.”
Half a dozen motorcycles suddenly whipped by them on either side, racing up between the lanes of the wide boulevard.
Chaos erupted moments later.
Trang Tien Street, Hanoi, Vietnam
Cadeo An Trinh raced between the rows of traffic on his Yamaha, everyone stopped for the traffic lights ahead. As soon as he had heard this morning that there had been an assassination at his sister’s museum he had gathered his gang and headed for the general vicinity. He had one of his men set up surveillance near the front gate while the rest hung back a couple of blocks away. His little sister he knew didn’t approve of him, didn’t approve of the choices he had made over the years, but he didn’t care.
She was still his little sister.
And it was his duty to protect her.
It had only been a precaution to go to the museum, he figured there was no way she could be involved, but by the time they got there the place was swarming with police and she wasn’t answering her phone. When one of his friends texted that she had just arrived in a museum car with two white people he had immediately become concerned since the story had broken it was an American that had killed some Russian big-wig.
And now she had come back.
It wasn’t even ten minutes later that she was led out by police. His decision had been quick and decisive. There was no doubt they thought she was involved otherwise they wouldn’t have arrested her. And since she had arrived with these two Americans—or who he presumed were Americans—they were involved too.
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 10