“Then just go.”
Another headshake, accompanied by a finger pointing ahead.
“No can do.”
Dawson looked and cursed as he saw a police vehicle parked in the way.
Approaching Noi Bai International Airport, Hanoi, Vietnam
Acton was sitting in the rear seat of Sarkov’s car with Laura, Mai and Phong, Niner up front in the passenger seat. It wasn’t that tight a fit, Mai and Phong both slight, but it meant there weren’t enough seatbelts and Oh Jesus! handles to go around. Sarkov was clearly an expert driver, taking corners at breakneck speeds, urging their Vietnamese escort on with his bumper, at times leaving their news crew safety net behind as the van’s acceleration couldn’t match the car’s.
But Sarkov appeared to always make sure they were never out of sight.
“How much farther?” asked Laura, leaning forward.
“We’re almost there,” said Sarkov, motioning with his chin instead of taking his hands off the wheel. “This is a straight road all the way to the airport. We should be okay.”
Niner pointed. “Road block?”
Acton’s chest tightened as he leaned over to see past Niner’s head. Several police cars were on either side of the road, about a dozen officers standing nearby, all turning toward the mini-motorcade.
They blasted through, unmolested.
“It looks like somebody took out two of those cars,” observed Niner from the front seat. “Probably our motorcade.”
“But they made it aboard,” said Acton. “That’s the important thing.”
“Let’s just hope that we’re doing the right thing,” said Laura, squeezing Acton’s hand. “This whole idea of putting our trust in the Russian government has me nervous.”
“Me too,” said Acton.
“Me three,” said Niner. “But we have no choice. We’re dead here.”
Sarkov said nothing, instead following the police vehicle in front of them as it turned onto the airport property. They could see the Secretary of State’s jet less than half a mile away, tantalizingly close, but the police turned in the opposite direction, heading toward the terminal.
Sarkov locked up his brakes then turned hard to the left, toward the airplane, then hit the gas, gunning his car toward the cordoned off area. The troops surrounding it, filled now with over half a dozen vehicles from the motorcade and the large Boeing, raised their weapons and opened fire. Mai screamed as they all ducked, but Sarkov kept accelerating forward, the windshield splintering, the bullet resistant glass of the embassy issued vehicle holding.
He blasted through the cordon, dragging the stanchions with them as he screeched to a halt, deftly avoiding slamming into any of the other vehicles. He looked in his rearview mirror.
“They’re not crossing the barrier. Let’s go! Everyone on the plane!”
All four doors flew open and Acton jumped out, pulling Laura with him. They sprinted toward the stairs as the news van came to a halt behind them. He glanced back and saw Stewart and Murphy running toward them, Stewart carrying the camera since Murphy had been driving. Acton frowned as he saw Murphy gripping his shoulder. That’s when he noticed the bullet holes in their windshield.
But there was no time to worry about that now.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” cried a voice from up the stairs. He looked to see Dawson urging them forward. Niner reached the stairs first, turning to push Mai then Phong up. Laura was next, Acton on her heels as Niner went back to grab Murphy and help him along. He pointed at the camera.
“Keep that rolling!”
Stewart nodded and took up the rear, turning the camera on the Vietnamese troops still outside the cordon, uncertain as to what to do. Acton crossed the threshold, entering the cabin, his heart racing a mile a minute as all thoughts of tactical breathing had been forgotten. He found everyone seated except for DSS agents who quickly showed them to seats. He and Laura were sat together with Sarkov, Mai and Phong across the aisle. Stewart went to the rear with Murphy, Niner, a trained medic, going with them.
Acton turned to Sarkov. “What made you change your mind?”
Sarkov said nothing, simply staring out the window. He finally spoke after a deep sigh.
“My wife and son.”
Sarkov’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, curious. “How’s this working?” he asked. “I thought the cellular network was down.”
A DSS agent standing nearby overheard. “The plane is equipped with its own cellular network with satellite relay. All your phones should now work.”
The revelation caused almost every phone on the plane to appear. Sarkov took the call. “Hello?”
“What the hell are you doing?” It was Yashkin’s voice, his rage crystal clear even if the signal wasn’t.
“Saving Russia from itself.”
“What?”
“These people are innocent and we are being made to look the fools on the international stage. The entire world knows what is going on yet our country under your orders pretends to continue believing Agent Green is the assassin. It’s time to end the charade and show we aren’t the fools the world would think us.”
“You are a traitor!”
“No, I am a patriot, but to what the New Russia was to become, not this bastardized version the leadership of the Kremlin would have us believe is anything different from the former Soviet Union. The past should stay in the past. To try and recreate those perceived glory days of old is foolish and dangerous, and I won’t let this continue.”
“You will be hanged.”
“If our glorious leader succeeds in bringing back the death penalty, then yes, I fully expect to be hanged. But since we don’t have capital punishment anymore, I fully expect to die by some mysterious accident, a mere line item in some state controlled local newspaper.”
“You’ll never leave the ground.”
Acton elbowed him and he looked to where he was pointing. The overhead television screens were showing CNN, a shot of their plane surrounded by troops with replays of the earlier action from Murphy’s camera replayed in an inset.
Sarkov smiled.
“I think you should watch the news, Comrade. The entire world is watching what happens next.”
“I could care less about what the world thinks. You. Aren’t. Leaving.”
“Very well.”
Sarkov rose, looking for the head of security, Agent White, a name he knew to be an alias. He spotted him talking to Secretary Atwater in the first class section. “Agent White!” The man turned. “Mr. Yashkin says he will never let this plane leave. We have little time. I think he means to board us.”
“Get this plane in the air!” ordered Atwater, the pilot standing behind Agent White. “I don’t care what you have to do!”
“I can’t leave until we get those stairs out of the way,” he said. “Somebody is going to have to go out there and move them.”
Phong had been listening, only a few rows back from where the conversation had been happening. He had been relieved when the Russian had agreed to take everyone to Moscow. He had resigned himself to his fate and was prepared to spend the rest of his life in prison, possibly being tortured. He had committed a horrible crime. Not in killing Petrov, but in not immediately turning himself in so the hundreds if not thousands of lives lost today might have been saved.
His shame knew no bounds.
And now he might be heading to America, where he wondered if justice would still be served. Balance in the universe was necessary, it was an inevitable imperative proven by the fact he had been able to deliver karmic justice forty years later. But his selfishness after this restoration had once again thrown things out of balance and there was only one way he could ensure things didn’t go further astray.
Deliver himself to guaranteed justice.
He rose, striding quickly forward and past the conversation. The man who appeared in charge looked at him. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll move the stairs,” said Ph
ong as he walked past.
“I can’t let you do that.” He felt a hand grab his arm and he yanked himself free, jumping toward the door. He pushed the guard at the door aside, hurtling himself toward the stairs and down the steps as shouts erupted behind him. He rounded the platform at the bottom, positioning himself behind the stairs and under the fuselage.
He pushed.
Nothing. The stairs swayed slightly, but didn’t budge.
He looked and saw two manual brakes. He kicked them off with his feet and tried again.
This time it started to roll forward. He pushed, blind as to where he was going, instead looking at the wing. He continued forward when he heard the female professor’s voice.
“Phong, come back!”
He turned to look up at the door. The two professors were there, waving for him to return, but he shook his head. “Leave! Now! Before it’s too late!” he shouted. Car tires screeched nearby and he looked. A white man stepped out, pointing at him.
“Arrest that man!”
He pushed harder, picking up speed as he tried to clear the wing. Boots pounding on asphalt neared as he continued to shove the stairs. He collapsed to his knees, the end of the wing finally visible, and was quickly surrounded.
Somebody hit him across the shoulders, hard.
He fell forward, his hands breaking his fall as blows rained down on him, boots, clubs and rifle butts delivering agonizing punishment like he could never have imagined. He heard the female professor cry out, but also the sound of the plane’s engines getting louder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it begin to roll forward, the pilot turning sharply to avoid the vehicle blocking them.
He looked up at the doorway and saw the agent who had been accused of the assassination standing there. The man saluted him then closed the door, troops running after the plane, but none shooting.
And as the blows continued to fall, he prepared himself for the next life, a smile battling the grimaces on his face as he knew he had done the right thing in the end, and restored the balance that had been lost for so long.
Sarkov watched through the window in dismay as Phong was beaten to death, Yashkin watching on, nobody stopping the street justice being delivered. The door was now closed, Professor Acton helping his crying wife to her seat, most people, their faces pressed against windows watching the brutal horror unfold outside, unable to control their own tears.
But it wasn’t over yet. The cockpit door was open, Agent White splitting his attention between the cabin and the view ahead.
“They’re not getting out of the way!” shouted the pilot as they rolled forward. Sarkov looked up at the television screen and could see dozens of vehicles on the runway, blocking their path as they taxied toward it. He raised the phone to his ear.
“Are you still there?”
“You’re a dead man.”
“You fool! Look behind you! Look at the terminal! There’s thousands of people recording this on their cellphones and who knows how many camera crews beaming it out to the entire world! Do you really think Moscow will be happy if you cause this plane to crash or worse, explode? These people are determined to leave, they will not stop!”
There was silence on the other end.
“Take action, you fool! Order them to let these people leave!”
There was an angry growl. “I will not rest until you are dead.”
“So be it.”
The call ended and Sarkov watched on the television screen the live shot from what apparently was a BBC film crew at the airport.
“They’re moving!”
Somebody from behind him was first to notice one of the vehicles pulling away, followed by another, then suddenly they were all moving, bailing off the runway, leaving them a clear path as the plane turned off the taxiway and onto the runway.
The Captain’s voice came over the PA system. “Everybody strap yourselves in, this is going to be an emergency takeoff and ascent. We’re going to hit thirty thousand feet as fast as we can.”
A flurry of activity filled the cabin as people who had been staring out the window at poor Phong’s heroic death returned to their seats, the sounds of belt buckles clicking up and down the cabin. The DSS agents took their seats, including the man in charge as Laura Palmer continued to sob beside him, her husband’s own cheeks stained with tears.
As they were pushed back into their seats, he made eye contact with Professor Acton who mouthed the words “Thank you.”
Sarkov nodded, turning his head toward the window and watched as the plane left the ground, the cabin erupting in cheers, quickly stifled by the terrifying ascent the pilot began.
Sarkov closed his eyes and thought of his wife who had died instantly, then of his son who had suffered for days before finally being delivered from his pain.
And he silently prayed that poor Phong would be delivered quickly from his.
The Pentagon, Washington, DC
The next day
Acton looked up as Sarkov entered the room. It was some sort of fancy informal meeting room filled with comfortable leather chairs and couches. He was sitting on one of the couches with Dawson, Laura across from them with Mai. Niner was perched on a windowsill chatting with Jimmy and Spock who had taken up residence in two of the finer chairs.
Sarkov dropped into a chair beside him.
“How’d it go?” asked Acton.
“It looks like I will be given a new identity and a pension for my assistance.”
“That’s good,” said Laura, who then sensed Sarkov wasn’t too happy. “Isn’t it?”
Sarkov shrugged. “It is generous of your country, yes, but it wasn’t how I expected to live out my retirement years.”
“You expected to retire in Russia,” said Acton, nodding.
Sarkov surprisingly shook his head. “No, not for a long time. Today’s Russia is not my Russia, and I don’t mean the Soviet Union was either.” He sighed. “It’s hard to explain.”
Acton smiled. “I think I understand.”
Niner walked toward them, sitting on the arm of one of the couches. “For a while there I thought I’d be retiring to Russia.”
Sarkov chuckled. “Yes, you were lucky. We were all lucky.”
“Thanks to Phong.”
Laura’s voice cracked and Mai reached out, squeezing her hand. Word had arrived while they were in the air that the BBC crew had filmed Phong’s body being loaded into the back of an ambulance in a body bag, he thankfully dying from his beating quickly.
It was a small comfort.
Earlier today the embassy had reported that their attempts to contact Duy had failed, he apparently having taken Sarkov’s advice and called in to the hotel announcing he was visiting a sick relative, hanging up before they could ask where or who.
Apparently the Vietnamese had privately promised he wouldn’t be touched, nor would Mai’s brother and associates.
Believe that when I see it.
Mai herself had been offered permission to stay in America and she had accepted. Acton was going to try and get her a position at the university so she could continue her studies.
Bombers had landed, navy’s had parted, and things were settling down everywhere.
Except the Ukraine.
Eastern Ukraine was lost, and the Russians refused to answer questions on whether or not they would pull out. General consensus was they wouldn’t until the separatist rebels were properly equipped and trained, then it would be merged with the Crimea.
A new state in Soviet Union 2.0.
At least the Russians and Vietnamese had acknowledged that the assassin was Phong and he acted alone. They refused however to acknowledge the validity of the motive.
It no longer mattered.
Phong was dead, his family avenged, his pain and suffering, both physical and mental, over.
Murphy was in a Japanese hospital being treated and word was he would be fine. He had lost a lot of blood before they reached Tokyo to offload him for treatment. Stewart had stay
ed behind with his partner, Acton insisting the two of them visit them once they were safely back in America.
They all had a tremendous debt to repay those two men.
It had been a terrifying twelve hours and he was sure his pulse rate hadn’t returned to normal until they actually stepped onto US soil. Niner had actually dropped to the tarmac and given it a kiss, Pope style.
How that man was able to keep his sense of humor through everything he’d never know.
He looked at Laura as they all sat in silence, waiting for their official debriefings to finish. Sarkov had been last. He looked up as the door opened, one of the aides stepping into the room.
“You’re all free to go under the parameters that were explained to you in your individual debriefs. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Good. Then you are free to leave with Secretary Atwater’s thanks.”
Acton rose and waited for Sarkov to struggle out of his seat. “What do you plan on doing now?” he asked.
“Apparently I will be meeting with some of your government officials to plan my retirement.”
“I guess we won’t be seeing you again,” said Laura as they walked out of the room.
“No, I won’t be allowed to see any of you. It is safer that way for all of us.” He sighed, patting his jacket pocket. “But I must tie up one loose end before I leave.”
“What’s that?” asked Acton.
Sarkov smiled. “I’ll never tell.”
The Kremlin, Moscow, Russia
Yashkin sat comfortably in a high backed leather chair, sipping from a bottle of Evian. With the crisis in Vietnam over he had boarded an early morning flight, and with the time zone difference had arrived in Moscow around lunch. A lunch provided to him by the Kremlin, though he had enjoyed it alone.
It didn’t bother him. His return had been unscheduled and he was sure the right officials were being summoned to greet him as a hero of the Russian Federation. He had successfully created the chaos they had demanded and the resulting distraction had allowed his country to send overwhelming forces, Blitzkrieg style, into Eastern Ukraine. Though there was still some fighting, it was sporadic, the Ukrainians not sending any more troops east and NATO sitting on its hands, rattling their sabers still sheathed in their scabbards.
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 28