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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “We’ve got company!” shouted Niner from the door, Cadeo’s men all leaping from their assorted perches, grabbing their weapons.

  “Sorry, Terry, we’ve got a situation here. Please keep us live. Apparently the authorities may have found our location.”

  Niner jogged over, readying his Glock. “A car with diplomatic plates just pulled up and there’s a couple of police checking out the news van.” He pointed to Stewart. “Get their story on the air, fast. We might not have much time.”

  “What about Phong?” asked Acton, his chest tightening as he realized their entire plan was quickly unravelling.

  “Something tells me it’s too late for him,” replied Niner. He pointed at Acton. “Could use a good man on the door.”

  Acton nodded. “Call me if you need me,” he said to Stewart, pulling his own Cadeo provided Beretta from his belt. He could hear the interview resume behind him with Laura and Mai as he readied the weapon. He looked out the small, dirty window, a clear area in the center made with someone’s fist rubbing the dirt away.

  And frowned.

  Time’s up.

  Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Dawson held the door to the service elevator, Spock on the opposite side, Jimmy in the main hallway organizing the elevators there. Plans had changed. Since they were still blocking almost all of the elevators, they were going to evacuate everyone in one shot. He motioned to Spock to hold the door as he stepped back into the hallway to confirm everyone was loaded.

  A thumbs up from Jimmy gave him the all clear.

  Dawson activated his comm. “Proceed to ground floor on my mark. Don’t let anyone board should you stop at another floor. Do not engage unless fired upon, you’re fish in a barrel. When you arrive in the lobby, immediately proceed to the right, then right again, straight through to the rear entrance and get in your designated vehicles. Each agent will report any stops on any floors, your arrival in the Lobby, and the successful loading in the vehicles as per your briefing.” Dawson climbed aboard the elevator, nodding to Spock. “Proceed.”

  The doors closed, the elevator cramped with Atwater and her senior advisors, half a dozen DSS agents along with several pieces of highly classified communications gear. Laptops had already been wiped, hard drives destroyed just in case, and the classified gear could be made inoperable with a touch of a button on the outside of their cases.

  As the floors ticked down, Dawson readied himself for anything. He had been assured by Yashkin that the Vietnamese had agreed to cooperate, but he frankly didn’t believe any of them. Right now he wouldn’t breathe easy until the landing gear smoked on American soil.

  “Okay, get ready people. Our directions are simpler. We walk out in an orderly fashion, calmly, no matter what you see, no matter what you hear. We turn to the left and just walk straight out the door at the far end of the hallway and we’ll see the motorcade waiting for us. There’s no reason to die here today, so if you hear gunfire, just hit the floor, raise your hands and surrender.” He nodded toward one of the aides with a video camera. “And don’t forget, we’re on TV.” The elevator chimed their arrival. “Okay, calmly to the left then straight until we’re outside.”

  The doors opened and they found an empty service room. He stepped out and checked the hallway. Empty. All of the other elevators were reporting unplanned stops, the Vietnamese having obviously pressed the buttons on other floors either to delay them, or had done it earlier during the crisis. Either way it didn’t matter.

  It meant delays.

  He headed toward the door at the far end, Spock covering the one that led to the lobby while the others followed him in near silence, a few of the civilians audibly trembling in fear.

  He didn’t blame them.

  These people were never meant for situations like this. In fact he was always impressed with how often civilians were able to rise to the occasion, some able to compartmentalize their emotions until the crisis was over.

  That was when the breakdowns usually happened.

  He reached the door, it solid with no window.

  No way to see what was on the other side.

  He waited for everyone to catch up, Spock still covering the far door by the elevator. “Okay, people. You’re all doing great. We’re going to go through this door. The vehicles are already in place, not even thirty yards from here. Remember, just walk calmly toward your assigned vehicle. Don’t run, that just causes you and them to panic. No matter what you see, you just walk. If they fire at you, hit the ground, surrender.”

  Several of the elevators continued to report repeated delays, none yet arriving at the lobby.

  He couldn’t wait.

  He opened the door only to be blinded by large spotlights trained on the exit, and as his eyes adjusted he cursed.

  Dozens of soldiers pointing a mix of AKs at them stood between them and the idling vehicles.

  Jimmy cursed again as the doors opened on the fourth floor, two men staring at them, guns pointed at them, clearly part of the Russian delegation. He didn’t react, instead reaching over and pressing the Close button. It had been the story the entire way down, the doors opening on every floor except the seventh. Over the comm he could hear the same was true for the others except for Dawson’s group, the service elevator apparently cleared.

  It had him wondering if it were an attempt to split the security detail into two batches.

  The doors closed and they passed the third floor. It chimed on the second.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake!” cried someone in the back of the elevator, the tension getting to them all. The doors opened and two Vietnamese Police officers pointed guns at them and Jimmy again ignored them, the key to getting out of this alive to avoid any type of provocation.

  He hit the Close button again.

  “Okay people, get ready. Remember, we exit calmly, turn to the right, walk past all the elevators, take our first right then go straight through the rear exit of the hotel where our motorcade is waiting. Get into your assigned vehicles and then we’re home free. Just stay calm no matter what you see, and whatever you do, don’t run. That just causes itchy trigger fingers to twitch.”

  The tension level rose as they descended once again. The doors opened and Jimmy resisted the urge to curse, dozens of soldiers, weapons raised, ringed the elevator doors as they all began to open.

  He activated his comm. “Everyone stay calm. Follow the plan.”

  He stepped out, leaving his weapon holstered, there no point in drawing with odds like this. He saw several other DSS agents step out of their assigned elevators as well. The soldiers inched forward, the sound of boots and magazines rattling disturbing enough to cause several of his group to begin sobbing, their attempts to stifle themselves only making it worse.

  “Calmly people, follow me,” he said, stepping to the right, checking over his shoulder to make sure they all followed, several carrying pieces of equipment, the final DSS agent nodding the all clear as the group he was responsible for finished exiting the elevator. The barrels of the guns followed them, but no one said anything. He spotted the Russian, Yashkin, nearby, staring at them, particularly him.

  I wonder if he knows who I really am.

  Apparently he had called Dawson ‘Sergeant Major’ so he was pretty sure the Russians had dossiers on them all. He did a shoulder check and saw the last of the six elevators open, the delegation emptying into the lobby, shocked expressions from some along with others covering their eyes, trying to either hide from those aiming weapons at them, or hide the horror from themselves.

  It was a pitiable sight.

  One he had seen far too often, just never in a five star hotel lobby.

  He activated his comm. “Elevator Zero-Three all clear, proceeding to first turn, out.”

  He heard the others reporting in as Dawson’s voice broke in.

  “We’ve been blocked by troops, hold at the rear entrance doors, over.”

  Shit!

  He reached the corner and lo
oked to his right, down the hallway leading to the rear exit.

  A hallway lined with soldiers, guns at the ready.

  But no one had fired yet.

  This was a show of force, designed to intimidate, to make someone on their side make a mistake.

  The only problem with these types of standoffs was the side creating them was just as scared usually.

  Which meant they might set off their own trap.

  If just one of these dozens of soldiers fired a single shot, the rest of them would fire as well. The entire delegation would be mowed down in an instant before the order to cease fire could even be given.

  He simply walked forward, calmly, his hands open at his sides, slightly out in front, showing he had no weapon at the ready. He walked at a reasonable but not too quick a pace reaching the rear doors, large glass affairs providing a clear view of the situation outside.

  A situation that didn’t look good.

  He checked behind him and found the entire delegation bunched together, no stragglers left behind. Yashkin and his Vietnamese counterparts were walking toward them.

  “We’re at the rear entrance, awaiting your orders.”

  “Proceed through the doors when you see us and merge with our group. I’ll lead, on my mark.” Jimmy put a hand on the door to the left of the revolving doors, a DSS agent doing the same on the right, two queues forming behind them spontaneously.

  “Execute.”

  Dawson stepped forward, a DSS agent holding open the door as he led the delegation forward, directly toward the center of the line of troops. He glanced to his right and saw Jimmy stepping through the glass doors of the rear entrance, two lines following through the doors, merging back together, walking calmly and deliberately toward his group.

  Perhaps calmly wasn’t the right term.

  The civilians were terrified. Even his nerves were on edge. At least he was used to the prospect of dying at any moment. It was his job. These people had probably thought they were simply going on an exciting field trip to a country few of their generation had seen, and far too of their parents’ generation had.

  The Vietnamese weren’t moving.

  He kept closing the distance between them and the vehicles, each guarded by a single DSS agent who would double as driver, the doors all opened and ready.

  He came face to face with one of the soldiers, staring down at him.

  He said nothing.

  Neither did the soldier, his weapon almost shaking as it was pointed up at Dawson’s chin. If the kid shook any harder he risked blasting Dawson’s face off.

  Jimmy stepped up beside Dawson, saying nothing, adding his own set of eyes to the staring match, the poor soldier, clearly out of his depth, nervously glancing between the two.

  “Let them through.”

  Dawson turned to see Yashkin standing just outside the doors. The order was shouted in Vietnamese and the young soldier in front of them sighed audibly, lowering his weapon as the cordon of soldiers quickly parted in the middle, retreating in two directions leaving the delegation with full access to the vehicles.

  “Calmly people,” said Dawson as he led them toward the vehicles, the DSS agents splitting off with their groups. Dawson headed for the main limo, stepping aside as Atwater and her senior aides climbed in. He closed the door behind them then opened the passenger side door, waiting for the rest of the vehicles to be loaded. The all clears came in over the comms and Dawson looked at Yashkin.

  The man smiled. “Until we meet again, Sergeant Major.”

  Dawson nodded at Yashkin, climbing into the passenger seat and closing the door.

  Now let’s see how far they let us go.

  Dong Mac Ward, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Phong turned the corner and nearly pissed his pants. He had run almost the entire way and was exhausted, still gasping for breath. He had always considered himself in reasonable shape, there barely an ounce of fat on him, but he never actively exercised beyond his morning stretches.

  His job kept him in shape.

  But his job had never involved running for almost thirty minutes.

  He had bolted the moment he saw the white man walking toward them, it obvious he was there to arrest him. He had shouted a warning to the others but none had reacted quickly enough. He was dismayed to find himself running alone but knew the best way to help his friends would be to get the truth out.

  Which meant getting to the address the embassy had given him.

  And now he was here and there were police.

  He stepped back into the shadows, weighing his options. There appeared to only be two of them. They were out of their car, examining a white van with English writing. His heart leapt as he spotted the CNN logo.

  This is the place!

  Another car rolled up and he nearly fainted as the large white man from earlier stepped out. He walked over to the police officers, holding up his identification. Phong could hear them speaking but they were too far for him to make out the words. He spotted a street number in small black letters on a gold foil background above the door he was hiding in and determined he was at least on the right side of the street and only a few doors down from where he needed to be.

  The urge to run, to disappear into the night was almost overwhelming, but he knew he had to tell his story, to make right what had gone so terribly wrong. He had had plenty of time to think while on his way here, and he had come to two conclusions.

  First, he had no regrets over killing Petrov. The man deserved it.

  And second, he should have stayed, waiting to be arrested rather than escaping through the window.

  Then all of this could have been avoided. He didn’t care if he was punished. He hadn’t cared then, either. He wasn’t even sure why he had run. At the time his plan had been to kill Petrov, nothing beyond that. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d actually be successful, so he had made no plan for what would follow.

  On instinct he had run.

  If he had truly thought it out, he would have surrendered.

  At least that’s what he hoped he would do. He had to admit that if the current crisis weren’t happening, and countries weren’t going to war over what he had done, he would happily be going on with his life, content he had delivered justice and done nothing truly wrong.

  Maybe I would have still run.

  But he didn’t have the benefit of hindsight then, and he did now. He had no doubt he would have stayed if he knew what was going to happen because of his actions.

  Which meant he had to go through with this meeting. It was the only way to stop it.

  He kept to the shadows, moving forward a doorway at a time, unnoticed by the police and white man whom he presumed was Russian rather than American, since he knew none had been sent to meet him.

  The next building sandwiched to the side of the one he was currently hiding at was a couple of stories high with a garage door in addition to a regular door to the left of it. He darted forward just as one of the police officers turned toward him and pointed, shouting for him to stop.

  Suddenly the door beside the garage opened and hands reached from the shadows, grabbing him.

  He screamed.

  He was yanked from the street and into darkness, the door slamming shut behind him before the lights turned back on. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted, the hands that had snatched him from the street letting go of him.

  Half a dozen men, Vietnamese, had guns pointed at him. His jaw dropped as he saw the Asian American security agent standing nearby, gun in hand but at least not pointing at him. A camera with a bright light turned toward him.

  Nobody said anything for a moment and Phong simply stood there, his hands raised.

  “I was told to come here.”

  “Are you Phong?” asked a white man stepping forward.

  He nodded.

  “I’m Professor Acton. Call me Jim,” said the man, stepping forward, extending his hand. “Did they see you coming in here?”

  “Y-yes, I think so,
” replied Phong, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Then we better hurry,” said a woman as she walked toward him, hand extended. “I’m Professor Palmer. Call me Laura.”

  He had already forgotten the man’s name and knew he had no hope of remembering hers. He was too rattled.

  “Terry, we’ve just had some excitement here,” said a man holding a microphone as he urged the group back toward the camera. “This is live television in a crisis, folks, so you never know what’s going to happen.” Phong stopped beside the man, the professors and a young Vietnamese girl standing beside him. “Can you please tell us your name?”

  “Phong Son Quan.”

  “And where do you work?”

  “At the Daewoo Hanoi Hotel.”

  “As?”

  Phong looked at the man, puzzled. “Pardon?”

  “What’s your job?”

  “Oh, sorry. Maintenance man.”

  “And this is the same hotel that Secretary Atwater is staying at.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “And it is also the same hotel that Russian Prime Minister Anatoly Petrov was staying at.”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you ever met him before?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “During the war.”

  “And what happened then.”

  “He murdered my entire family and village.”

  “You saw him do this.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “He let me live. I was hiding in the woods when they came. He told them to kill everyone. I watched and did—” He paused, the words caught in his throat. The female professor came up behind him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. I did nothing.”