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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He shrugged. “Shoulda coulda woulda.” He took a sip of his coffee then leaned in, bumping Murphy’s arm. Murphy jumped in his seat.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” replied Stewart, nodding toward their guest. “I’m guessing he’s about to make us very happy.”

  “You didn’t hear this from me,” said Donavan, “but we were just informed that the American delegation from the Daewoo will be leaving within an hour for the airport.”

  “The attack has stopped?”

  Donavan nodded. “The Russians are taking credit for that, and they’re taking credit for negotiating with the Vietnamese to let the delegation proceed to the airport.”

  “Are they going to let them lift off?”

  “No word on that, but don’t be surprised if they don’t. The statement was very carefully worded.”

  “At least though they’ll be on the airplane. That has to be safer than at the hotel,” said Murphy, swirling his now cold coffee in his cup.

  “I don’t know about safer,” said Stewart. “How do you defend against an assault on an airplane filled with jet fuel?”

  “But isn’t the aircraft considered American soil?” asked Murphy. “Attacking it would be like attacking the embassy.”

  “True,” said Donavan, swallowing the last of his donut. “But who would have ever thought they’d attack the damned Secretary of State’s hotel!” He shook his head. “This whole thing is nuts. The goddamned Russian bastards have launched a full-blown invasion of the Ukraine and they’re rattling their sabers at the Baltic States. NATO is shitting right now. They’ve got a mutual defense pact with them.”

  “So what are they doing? The news is pretty thin.”

  “From what I can gather NATO is on full alert and a rapid reaction force is already on its way to Lithuania. Air patrols have been stepped up and the navies are sending pretty much everything they’ve got in the area toward the Baltic Sea. I think everyone is just praying this settles down.”

  “Any word from Professor Acton or his wife?” asked Stewart.

  Donavan shook his head. “No. I’ve got one of my staff trying to track them down but there’s not much we can do. The cell network is down and so is the internet. The number you gave us for him is obviously down. We’ve tried sending some emails, but haven’t heard anything. My guess is they’re stuck just like we are.”

  “Did you try his wife’s number?”

  “We don’t have it. Hers wouldn’t work either.”

  “No, she’s got a satellite phone.”

  Donavan paused in mid sip.

  “Pardon me.”

  “Satellite phone. She’s got one. We need to get that number. They need to know about the plane leaving so they can get on it.”

  Donavan pursed his lips as Murphy jacked his own satellite phone into his laptop, creating a painfully slow internet connection. “I’m not sure if that could be swung.”

  “Even if it can’t, just knowing that the plane is leaving could be valuable. At least if they are safe for the moment, they’ll know to keep their heads down until the delegation leaves. Then things should start to settle and maybe this security cordon will be lifted.”

  “I don’t think the police are going anywhere until Agent Green is arrested.”

  Murphy swung the laptop around. “Maybe we should call her university? See if they have the number?”

  Stewart picked up the satellite phone and dialed the number for University College London. It turned out she was splitting her time at the Smithsonian and was supposed to be there now, but with most people still asleep in Washington, he persisted with the London call. It took several transfers but he was soon speaking to one of her grad students, it still mid-afternoon in London.

  “Terrence Mitchel here.”

  “Mr. Mitchel, Charles Stewart, ABC News. I’m trying to reach Professor Laura Palmer and her husband, Professor James Acton. Do you have a satellite phone number for them?”

  There was a pause, then a reply he was used to hearing. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give out the professor’s private number. If you give me your number I’ll see what I can do.”

  Stewart gave the number for Murphy’s satellite phone, his own just a straight cell. “Now listen, Mr. Mitchel. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but they have become mixed up in this Hanoi business.”

  “I know! I know! It’s always something with them! If she had never met Professor Acton her life would be so much safer!”

  Stewart smiled, the concern in the young man’s voice plain to be heard.

  Something tells me someone has a crush on his teacher!

  “Marital situations aside, it is essential I speak to them at once. I have urgent information they need to know. Can you try calling them immediately?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it at once. Thank you, good bye.”

  The call ended and Stewart checked the phone battery just to be safe.

  Half a charge.

  “Hopefully we’ll hear something soon.”

  Donavan rose. “If you hear anything, let me know right away. And get their number. We need to be able to contact them so we can arrange a pickup if it becomes possible.”

  “Will do.”

  Donavan walked away leaving both Stewart and Murphy staring at the phone.

  Ring dammit!

  It rang.

  Two hands darted for it on instinct, Murphy’s winning. He shrugged sheepishly and handed the phone over.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Charles?”

  Stewart smiled, breathing a sigh of relief and giving a thumbs up to Murphy as he recognized Acton’s voice. “Thank God you’re okay!” he said, pulling out his pad and pen. He paused. “You are okay, right?”

  “For the moment. We managed to hook up with Mai at her brother’s place, and we have Agent Green with us.”

  “He’s with you?!” Stewart looked around, lowering himself and his voice as he realized the entire cafeteria was now looking at him. “How did you manage that?”

  “He reached out to us.”

  “He knows you?”

  “Yes. Don’t ask me more.”

  “I won’t, I won’t. Here’s the skinny. The American delegation is leaving for the airport in about an hour. Any chance you can get there? Maybe sneak onto the airfield?”

  “I don’t see how. We might be able to get to the airport but there’s no way we’re getting on that plane with all the security I’m sure they’ll have. But listen, we might not have to.”

  Stewart’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve got proof that Green isn’t the shooter.”

  “Really?” He wrote ‘PROOF NOT GREEN’ and underlined it three times, Murphy raising his eyebrows. “What kind of proof?”

  “We’ve got the footage from the museum showing the shooter. You can’t really see his face, but analysis should be able to show that the man in question is easily six inches shorter than the agent.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There’s no doubt. All anyone would need to do is measure something in that room for a reference point like the metal detector.”

  Stewart was nodding, furiously scribbling notes, Murphy reading them in stunned silence. “Can you send us the footage?”

  “No, the Internet is down and the computer we have access to has no way to connect to our satphone. We’re stuck here with probably the only copy of the proof with no way to send it.”

  “What’s your location?” He jotted down the address, Murphy already entering it into Google Maps. “We’re coming to you.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Probably not, but I’m a newsman and the truth must be set free, or some bullshit like that.”

  Acton laughed. “It’s your neck.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He looked at the notebook with the directions plotted. “We’re not actually that far from you. If we can get out of here, we should hopefully be th
ere in about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, good luck.”

  Stewart ended the call as he rose from the table, Murphy already packing up their equipment. His cameraman looked at him. “Just how do you think we’re going to get out of here? Aren’t we wanted?”

  “I’ve got an idea on that.”

  He strode over to a nearby table, a CNN crew sitting around it. “Can I borrow your keys?”

  Murphy laughed. “Bloody hell.”

  Tay Ho District, Hanoi, Vietnam

  “Are you crazy?” asked Duy. “You want to tell the Americans that you’re the cause of all this insanity?”

  Phong nodded. “It’s the only way to stop it.”

  “But you’ll be killed!”

  He shrugged. “So? My life’s purpose, a purpose that was never supposed to have been fulfilled, has been. If I die now, today, I die in peace.”

  “You will die, don’t doubt that.”

  “And I can live with that.” He held up his hand, smiling. “Sorry, no pun intended.”

  Duy shook his head. “This is no time for morbid jokes.” He paused then picked the bottle back up, taking a long swig. “What are you going to tell them?”

  “The truth. The entire truth.” He motioned to Duy’s wife. “Can you hand me the phone?”

  She didn’t budge. “You don’t even know the number.”

  “I’ll ask the operator.”

  “They charge for that!” She pointed at her son. “Go to the store, they’ve got a phone book for tourists. It might have the American Embassy number.”

  He jumped to his feet and disappeared, running back a few minutes later, the bottle making another couple of rounds, Phong partaking again as he fueled himself with courage, his hands shaking slightly as he realized what he was essentially doing was committing suicide.

  Something he had been tempted on many occasions to do in his youth.

  But this time at least it would serve a purpose. It would save lives.

  And perhaps atone for those lost already due to his actions.

  He had no sympathy for Petrov, and only a little for his guards, all men who were protecting a murderer, which in his mind made them little better. He wondered how much they knew of their leader’s past, and if they knew, would they have still tried to defend him, or would they have stepped aside, letting justice be served.

  Phong took the piece of paper with the number, Duy’s wife handing him the phone. He dialed.

  “American Embassy, Hanoi, how may I direct your call?”

  “I need to talk to someone in charge.”

  “In regards to?”

  “I’m the man who shot the Russian Prime Minister.”

  “One moment please.”

  The woman at the other end sounded scared after his revelation, the phone ringing again several times as he was transferred he hoped to the right person. “This is Leroy Donavan. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Phong Son Quan. I am the man who shot the Russian Prime Minister this morning.”

  American Embassy, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Leroy Donavan’s jaw dropped. “Everyone quiet!” he shouted as he hit the button on his phone, placing the call on speaker. The bustling office area was suddenly silent, Charles Stewart and his cameraman, just bringing him up to date on the two professors and their plan to meet them, were sitting in front of his desk, equally as curious as the rest of the room.

  “Can you repeat your name for me?”

  “Phong Son Quan.”

  Donavan jotted it down, ripping the paper off the pad and waving it in the air. It was snatched within seconds. “And you said you shot Prime Minister Petrov and his security detail this morning.”

  “Yes.”

  Some of the room gravitated toward the desk scribbling notes, the rest hitting their phones and computers, immediately trying to gather as much information as they could based upon what they were hearing.

  “What proof do you have?”

  “I work at the Daewoo Hanoi.” Donavan’s hand shot up, pointing down at the phone, indicating someone should pick up on that tidbit. “I tricked my friend into giving me his key pass. I told him that I forgot mine in your agent’s room and I was afraid of being fired. I then used his pass to enter the room, used the factory security code for the safe and stole the security pass while your agent was in the shower.”

  “How did you know he would be in the shower?”

  “My friend works in the Eco Office. He let me know when the shower was activated but he had no idea what I planned to do. He was just helping a friend.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I told Human Resources that I was sick and went home, changed into a suit, then rode my moped to the museum. I used your agent’s pass to enter. They thought I was part of your delegation. I then hid behind a tapestry in the room where they keep the Dong Son drums—”

  “How did you know he’d go there?”

  “Everyone goes there. It’s the most famous display in the museum.”

  “Okay, continue.”

  “When he entered the room, I waited for a few minutes while he spoke to your delegation, but I thought I saw one of his security guards notice me so I came out from behind the curtain, shot his guards then shot him.”

  “Why?”

  “He murdered my family and massacred my entire village during the war.”

  Donavan could hear the man’s voice crack, immediately removing any doubt he might have had, it clear this man was struggling with his confession. “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes, I wanted to make sure he knew who was killing him and why.”

  “Did he remember you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there any witnesses who could prove your story?”

  “There were three, I think. I think they might be who they’re saying helped your agent, I’m not sure. But they just happened to be there, I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Are you willing to testify to this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, we’re going to need to get you to a safe location as quickly as possible. Is there anywhere you can go that the authorities wouldn’t know about?”

  Phong shrugged. “Not really. They know where I live and where my friends live since they almost all work at the same hotel.”

  “Okay, give me your number just in case we’re cut off.” He jotted down the number. “And where are you?”

  “A friend’s.”

  “A friend that the authorities will know about?”

  “Yes, actually another friend from the hotel just warned us that the Russians are looking for us.”

  Shit!

  “Okay, just a second.”

  He hit the Hold button. “Where can we hide this guy? There’s no way we’re getting him in the Embassy, not with all those police out there.”

  “We could pick him up.”

  Donavan looked at Stewart. “Huh?”

  “We’re taking a CNN truck out in a few minutes to go meet the professors. We could pick him up and take him with us.”

  Donavan shook his head. “No, it’s more important that you get that evidence transmitted than it is to pick this guy up.”

  “Then have him meet us,” suggested Murphy. “We can kill two birds with one stone.”

  Donavan nodded, taking the sheet of paper he had been making notes on prior to this bombshell phone call. It contained the address for where Agent Green and the professors were, as well as the satellite phone number. He jabbed the hold button. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to give you an address, do you have something to write it down with?”

  “One moment.” Talking in Vietnamese could be heard, muffled, then a moment later Phong spoke again. “Go ahead.”

  Donavan gave him the address and made him repeat it. “How long would it take you to get there?”

  “If I get my moped, not long.”

  “Where is it?”

>   “At my apartment.”

  “No, don’t go back there under any circumstances. Can you borrow a friends?”

  Again muffled voices. “Yes. I can be there in about ten minutes.”

  “Good. When you get there, have them call us so we know you’re safe.”

  “Okay, thank you. Wait a minute, somebody is coming…oh no!”

  There was a sound as if the phone had been dropped followed by shouts and footfalls fading into the distance. More scratching, as if the phone were being picked up and a deep voice in English with a thick Russian accent spoke. “Who is this?”

  Donavan lifted the receiver and dropped it back into its cradle, ending the call.

  “Our assassin may have just run out of time.”

  Tay Ho District, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Igor Sarkov stepped out of his car, the temperature having dropped even further since his visit to Phong’s apartment, it no longer stifling with the humidity now reasonable. It had taken him longer than expected, forced to almost inch along with the revelers, none paying too much heed to the cars travelling with them, most drivers appearing to be taking part along with their passengers.

  It made him dislike the country a little less.

  He didn’t like it here. He didn’t hate it, but he didn’t like it. It wasn’t the people, though he couldn’t stand most of the senior bureaucrats, their arrogance rivaling those in similar positions in Moscow. The everyday people he had to admit were wonderful. They were simple by Western standards in that they led simpler lives. Consumerism was growing as the economy expanded and barriers were dropped, but it was nothing like that now seen in Moscow. Meals were simpler and eaten at home with family, evenings were spent with friends and family talking and playing games rather than in front of a television or a phone, and it wasn’t a constant competition of who owned what or drove what.

  Simpler.

  Just too hot for his liking, too communist for his liking.

  He believed in democracy, even if his taskmasters didn’t.

  And to preserve any hope of maintaining a possible democratic future for his homeland, he needed to stop this madness. His GPS informed him in her charming British accent that he had arrived. He found a spot along the parade route, there no police or barriers here to stop him, it an informal affair.