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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Jimmy gave a two figured salute. “I’ll beat his ass like there’s no tomorrow if he tries anything.”

  “You know the egress route, meet us outside the security cordon, we’ll stop for you. Jimmy, you drive the lead escort vehicle like planned, keep a constant connection with him and pick him up. All of our vehicles are diplomatically plated so they can’t touch him once he’s inside. They won’t dare interfere with the motorcade. Once the vehicle is within the security perimeter of the plane he’s on US soil.” Dawson jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Now go.”

  Niner and Jimmy left the room, Dawson and Spock following. “Let’s walk the route.” The hallway was still a buzz of activity. By now the eighth floor where the security staff were lodged would have been cleared, protocol dictating that they were constantly packed in the event of a quick egress. Their luggage would already have been collected and placed in front of one of the two service elevators. Since this wasn’t an emergency egress, but still an unscheduled one, the majority of the equipment and luggage would be left behind for embassy staff to collect and return to Washington.

  The priority here was to get the personnel and classified equipment out of the hotel and onto their airplane as quickly and efficiently as possible without a panic.

  He looked at his watch.

  Five minutes.

  They would leave in two waves, the first with his team and other DSS agents, would evacuate Atwater and the senior staff—essentially anyone who could fit on the first elevator. The second wave would be larger and would be purely DSS agents providing security. They would wait until all staff had been evacuated then follow the first motorcade. The delay should be no longer than ten minutes between the two, and should it become absolutely necessary, the Secretary’s plane would leave without them.

  He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  The elevator chimed and he and Spock stepped on, two Vietnamese police with assault rifles standing in the rear corners. They both held up their passes and turned their backs on them, Dawson watching their reflections in the polished elevator doors just in case.

  They rode in silence as the floors ticked down without any additional passengers boarding.

  Everyone is probably too terrified to leave their rooms.

  The doors opened to shouting. Dawson immediately spotted several police chasing a man in shorts and a t-shirt with ball cap and sunglasses.

  Niner!

  His comrade whipped around a column and made eye contact just as Dawson heard the distinct rattle of a weapon being moved behind him. He swung his left hand, chopping at the side of the man’s neck as Spock whipped around, collapsing his man’s windpipe. Dawson finished the soldier off with several rapid punches to the face, Spock’s still gasping for air, his hands nowhere near his weapon. The doors began to close and Dawson turned, grabbing it just as Niner dove inside.

  He hit the rear of the elevator just as gunfire erupted from the lobby. Dawson jumped back, hugging the wall as Spock did the same, Niner grabbing the gasping guard and using him as a human shield as he dropped prone on the floor. Dawson hit the button for the eighth floor then kept jamming his finger on the Close button as the glass in the rear shattered, shards raining down on Niner and the two police officers.

  Dawson had his Glock in his hand but refrained from shooting, hoping to not make the situation worse, they hopelessly outnumbered regardless. The doors finally began to close, the bullets now impacting the metal on the other side but none penetrating completely. He activated his comm.

  “Code Red, Code Red, Code Red. We have taken fire, I repeat, we have taken fire. Secure the package and prepare for hostile assault, over.” He looked at Niner as the acknowledgement came in over his earpiece, Niner pushing the now dead cop off him. “You okay?”

  He nodded. “I’m having a better day than him.”

  The second cop groaned and Niner punched him in the face, knocking him out cold again. He leaned over and pushed the button for the fifth floor. The doors opened and he peeked out. “Not a soul.” He dragged the now unconscious cop out of the elevator. “See you soon.”

  Dawson simply shook his head. “I assume you’ve got a plan?”

  “Yup. I intend to blend.” He motioned toward the guard’s weapon that still lay on the floor of the elevator. Dawson bent over and tossed it to him. Niner snatched it and winked. “See you on the other side.”

  The doors closed leaving Spock and Dawson looking at each other.

  The police officer moaned.

  Spock looked down at the man. “Whadaya know? He’s alive.”

  Dawson kicked the man in the head, silencing him.

  Noi Bai International Airport, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Igor Sarkov stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up as Dimitri Yashkin surveyed his surroundings from the door of the Aeroflot Airbus A320. He was younger than Sarkov by twenty years, but his squared jaw and determined, arrogant eyes suggested a throwback to the Soviet era.

  He would have fit right in.

  It was the new Russia. Or was it the new new Russia? More like the old than ever before, and those who would go far would be those who agreed with ironfisted rule from a single, central authority led by a single, charismatic leader who yearned for the glory days.

  The problem was Sarkov remembered those glory days. He had spent the first almost forty years of his life living in the Soviet Union during those glory days.

  And they weren’t very glorious.

  Their President was drinking his own Kool-Aid, as the Americans might say, believing his own propaganda about how great things once were, and how great they would be once again. The only thing that had been good before was that the Soviet Union was indeed a superpower with an arsenal that could destroy the world a dozen times over. The world respected it, and for good reason.

  Because they feared it.

  But for the Soviet people themselves life was anything but glorious. Food shortages, sketchy utilities, no freedoms of any kind. Why anyone would want to return to such times was beyond him. Yes things weren’t perfect now, far from it. But the new Russia was less than 25 years old. It still needed to grow and develop, to learn what it truly meant to be a democracy, to have freedom of religion, speech and a free press.

  Unfortunately almost none of those existed anymore thanks to their glorious President.

  The new Russia was dead.

  And who might resurrect it he had no clue. Unfortunately it would probably take an old Soviet style coup to actually deliver democracy back to the people, and with their new dictator shoveling money into the armed forces, he doubted deliverance would come from them.

  It made him sad.

  It made him look forward to retiring elsewhere soon.

  He forced a smile on his face as Yashkin descended the steps. Hugs and the traditional cheek kisses were exchanged, another thing he didn’t miss about Mother Russia, then they quickly climbed into the back of a waiting SUV supplied by the Embassy.

  Pleasantries were pushed aside as soon as the doors closed.

  “Have you arrested the American assassin yet?”

  Sarkov shook his head. “No, the Americans have refused to hand him over.”

  “Is he still on the Secretary of State’s floor at the Daewoo?”

  “Yes. But some doubt has been raised as to his involvement.”

  “Explain.”

  “They’re claiming his pass was stolen, and witnesses to the shooting have said the assassin was an older Vietnamese man who knew the Prime Minister, not this younger American.”

  “And these witnesses are these two professors you reported on earlier?”

  Sarkov nodded. “Yes, Professor James Acton—”

  “An American.”

  “—and Professor Laura Palmer.”

  “A British subject, married to an American, now living in the United States.”

  “Yes. And one Vietnamese national who says she saw nothing but I’m pretty sure she did. She even went so far as to tr
y and steal a copy of the camera footage from the museum to prove their story.”

  “And you arrested her?”

  “Yes, but she escaped.”

  Yashkin’s head dropped slightly as he expressed his surprised outrage. “Explain.” The single word was delivered as hard as any Sarkov had ever heard. He almost shivered with the memories it brought back.

  “According to the Vietnamese Police a dozen men on motorcycles assaulted the officers escorting the suspect to the police station. Several were hurt in the attack. They fought valiantly but there were only four of them and a dozen attackers with automatic weapons.”

  Yashkin grunted. “More likely there were half a dozen men, few weapons, and these police officers are telling a tall tale to cover their collective behinds.”

  Sarkov had to admit it appeared Yashkin had a firm grip on how any story from the Vietnamese authorities should be interpreted.

  “These professors. I’ve read their dossiers. They’re clearly involved.”

  Sarkov indicated his disagreement with a tilt of the head and a bounce of the eyebrows. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so.”

  “You have read their files, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. I admit they are colorful, but having met them, I get the distinct impression they are simply what they are—unlucky.”

  “You are naïve, Comrade.”

  Sarkov bristled at the word. Comrade! This man was definitely yearning for yesteryear. He hadn’t heard the word used in years, the mere thought of it bringing back the sickening feelings of decades ago. The traditional greeting of Party members to each other, or those who wanted to look good when they thought they were under surveillance.

  Tovarishch. Comrade.

  It hadn’t been nearly as common as Hollywood would have you believe, though it was all too common, there being millions in the Communist Party and the military who used it habitually.

  And here this young Kremlin stooge would dare use it on him.

  His displeasure clearly had registered with Yashkin.

  “You are offended?”

  Sarkov caught himself, knowing full well how he handled himself over the next few days, perhaps hours, would determine if he retired in peace like he had planned, or met his maker far sooner than intended. “Not at all. But we need to examine the footage before we jump to conclusions like the Vietnamese did.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  Sarkov nodded. “Yes, but there’s only a camera at the front entrance. We can see the man enter who used the pass but it is of poor quality.”

  “Does he at least meet the description?”

  Sarkov shrugged. “He was Asian, male, that’s about it. I’ve asked the embassy to send it to Moscow for enhancement. But like I said, I think these professors are telling the truth.”

  “I will want to speak to them.”

  “We don’t know where they are. The Vietnamese have ordered their arrest for involvement in the escape of their citizen from police custody, but they managed to escape.”

  “So they are definitely involved then.”

  Sarkov pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t want to be arrested by the Vietnamese any more than I’m sure they would. If I were them I’d be trying to get to either the American or British embassies.”

  “Have they tried?”

  “They might have, but the Vietnamese authorities organized protests around both embassies so they’ve been cordoned off. I doubt they’d be able to get anywhere near either building.”

  “I want people put on all Western embassies plus other traditional allies. Australia, Japan. All of them. The Americans are liable to swing some sort of deal to hide their accomplices.”

  “I already sent the order immediately after their escape.”

  Yashkin smiled broadly. “Good work, Comrade! Perhaps we think alike after all.”

  That I sincerely doubt.

  “Now that the professors have nowhere to go, they will get desperate. They will stick out among a sea of Vietnamese and soon be arrested.” He lowered his voice. “You should know, I am under direct orders from Moscow to make certain that the story of the American assassin sticks. Any evidence that shows otherwise is to be destroyed or eliminated.”

  “Including people?”

  “Especially people. We must recover the escaped Vietnamese witness, destroy the video evidence from the museum if it doesn’t show what we need, and eliminate the professors before they can talk to their own officials.” He jabbed the air with his forefinger. “There can be no dissenting voices.”

  “But what of the truth?”

  Yashkin tossed his head back. “So you are naïve.” He shook his head as if pitying Sarkov. “My dear old man, there is no such thing as the truth, only the story. The story here is that an American on the Secretary of State’s security detail, with the assistance of at least one American, one British and one Vietnamese national, assassinated the Prime Minister and his security detail in cold blood, then was given the protection of his government from immediate prosecution.” Yashkin almost looked like he wanted to rub his hands together in glee. “The public relations coup this will bring is immense. The sympathy at the UN is already unprecedented. Almost every country has expressed their condolences and over one hundred have condemned the United States for their involvement or lack of cooperation.”

  “Mostly Arab and African countries, I would assume.”

  “Yes, but it’s the optics. So many in the West believe the UN is an institution that is of value because they think it is made up of countries like theirs. They can’t fathom the fact that only eighty-seven of the hundred-ninety-three countries are actually democracies. When the news reports that the majority on the Security Council or in the Assembly passed resolutions condemning the United States, they have no idea it’s simply a bunch of dictators and theocracies pushing their own agenda. The United Nations is like the useful idiot that serves its purpose on days like today.”

  They pulled up to the Daewoo Hanoi hotel, a complete cordon of security now in place.

  “I assume you’re going to want to interview the suspect?”

  “You should get in the habit of calling him the ‘assassin’. And yes.” He smiled as he looked toward the entrance. “Good. I see they received their orders.”

  Sarkov looked and his jaw dropped as he watched at least a platoon’s worth of Vietnamese soldiers decked out in assault gear disappear into the main lobby.

  Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Fifth floor

  Niner grabbed the guard and tossed him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He rushed toward the end of the hall and where he knew the service elevator was on each floor. And privacy. Kicking open the door, having no time to bother with security passes, he dumped the man on the floor and quickly undressed him. Pulling his own sneakers, shirt and shorts off, he hiked on the man’s pants and zipped them up.

  He cursed.

  They were about four inches too short.

  He cringed for a moment at the thought of putting the man’s socks on but he had no choice otherwise he’d be sporting bare ankles and too much calf. Slipping on the socks, he shoved his feet into the man’s shoes.

  It wasn’t happening.

  He removed the laces and pushed his toes in as far as he could, shoving the rear of the shoe down with his heel. Using the shoelaces, he tied the shoe around the middle, strapping them to his feet. The man’s shirt fit just as poorly but it was short sleeved making it a little less obvious, and one thing he had noticed since being in Vietnam, the uniforms were always very baggy.

  He placed the man’s hat on his head, rolled up his own clothes into as tight a roll around his sneakers as he could and tucked it under his arm, parallel to his forearm. Shouldering the local variant of an AKM assault rifle he hogtied the still unconscious man with some sheets from a laundry basket, dumped him inside, then stepped into the hallway, making for the stairwell.

  Boots were pounding on the steps below. He loo
ked over the railing and could see black-clad troops, possibly SWAT or Vietnamese Special Forces, rounding the second floor. He looked up and saw a familiar face looking down from the eighth.

  He didn’t acknowledge it.

  Stepping back through the stairwell door he took up a position to the side of the door, out of view of the elevators.

  And listened.

  He glanced down at his highwaters, the too short pants looking ridiculous.

  I look like Spaz doing the Poindexter dance.

  He smiled at the memory of his late buddy, killed the first time he had encountered Professor Acton. Killed by Professor Acton. He didn’t blame the professor, not anymore—he was simply defending himself against the Bravo Team who were sent to kill him under orders they now knew were illegal. Acton and his students weren’t domestic terrorists like they were told.

  They were innocent.

  The team had been torn up for some time after they found out the truth. Dawson had taken it the hardest. He had known from the beginning something just didn’t feel right so had taken it upon himself to do most of the dirty work so the others wouldn’t have to live with the consequences.

  It was something they never spoke about.

  Not to their wives, girlfriends, shrinks or brothers-in-arms.

  They just tried to make up for it every day.

  Which was why he had such strong feelings about helping the professors now. He and Jimmy had decided it was best that he leave alone, being spotted with a pasty white American would be too easy. Jimmy was to act as his spotter from the eighth floor window if he should make it out, but he had lost his comm in the excitement down in the lobby where he had been spotted and challenged almost instantly.

  He was on his own.

  Just like the professors.

  Boots pounded past the stairwell door and he waited a few seconds before peeking through the small glass window. He could see shadows moving above and nothing below but it was hard to tell. He opened the door and cocked an ear. Shouting erupted above, some in English, ordering the approaching force to stand down as additional boots began their ascent.