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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  The Riddle

  A James Acton Thriller

  by

  J. Robert Kennedy

  From the Back Cover

  FROM USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR J. ROBERT KENNEDY

  THE RUSSIAN PRIME MINISTER HAS BEEN ASSASSINATED.

  THE WORLD STANDS ON THE BRINK OF WAR.

  Russia accuses the United States of assassinating their Prime Minister in Hanoi, naming Delta Force member Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung as the assassin.

  Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer, witnesses to the murder, know the truth, and as the Russians and Vietnamese attempt to use the situation to their advantage on the international stage, the husband and wife duo attempt to find proof that their friend is innocent.

  It is a desperate race against time as the innocent involved are hunted down without mercy. Facing impossible odds in a country where they have no friends and no hope of rescue, they stand alone.

  From USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy, The Riddle is a heart pounding thrill ride spanning two millennia that pits Professors Acton and Palmer, along with members of the Delta Force’s Bravo Team, against the might of the Vietnamese military and the political machinations of the Kremlin itself.

  About the James Acton Thrillers

  "James Acton: A little bit of Jack Bauer and Indiana Jones!"

  Though this book is part of the James Acton Thrillers series, it is written as a standalone novel and can be enjoyed without having read any of the previous installments.

  About J. Robert Kennedy

  USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller lists since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.

  "If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy."

  Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer

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  Find out more at www.jrobertkennedy.com.

  Books by J. Robert Kennedy

  The James Acton Thrillers

  The Protocol

  Brass Monkey

  Broken Dove

  The Templar's Relic

  Flags of Sin

  The Arab Fall

  The Circle of Eight

  The Venice Code

  Pompeii's Ghosts

  Amazon Burning

  The Riddle

  Blood Relics

  Sins of the Titanic

  Saint Peter's Soldiers

  The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

  Rogue Operator

  Containment Failure

  Cold Warriors

  Death to America

  The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

  Payback

  Infidels

  The Lazarus Moment

  The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

  Depraved Difference

  Tick Tock

  The Redeemer

  Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

  The Turned

  Table of Contents

  The Novel

  Acknowledgements

  Get a Free eBook!

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  For Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent and Corporal Nathan Cirillo.

  #OttawaStrong

  “The world is on the brink of a new Cold War. Some are even saying that it's already begun.”

  Mikhail S. Gorbachev, November 8, 2014

  On the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall

  “If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?”

  William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Preface

  On June 28, 1914 the Archduke of Austria, Franz Ferdinand, and his wife, Sophie, the Duchess of Hohenberg, were assassinated in Sarajevo, Bosnia. A man named Gavrilo Princip, a Bosnian Serb, was the assassin of the future heirs to the Austro-Hungarian throne, the Empire a significant power in Europe.

  Bosnia was insignificant in comparison.

  The empire had existed at this point for 47 years.

  It would be gone in four, one man and his gun triggering a war the likes of which the world had never seen.

  And hoped would never see again.

  Enter World War II, and almost fifty years of new conflicts, many of them proxy wars between Communism and Capitalism as part of the Cold War.

  Capitalism won.

  With the end of the Cold War the world thought peace might finally be at hand, but with a belligerent Russia inexplicably attempting to return to the old ways of the failed Soviet Union, many think the Cold War we thought long gone is already back.

  And if it is, could a single event trigger another crisis that might lead to a third, and possibly final, world war?

  Author's Note

  A portion of this book recreates the night the Buddha died. It is inspired by the actual accounts of that evening, with fictional intrigue added, the death a backdrop to the historical portion of the novel.

  No disrespect is intended.

  Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Present Day

  Archeology Professor James Acton leaned forward, examining the ancient drum crafted by the Dong Son civilization of the Red River Delta in Northern Vietnam over two thousand years ago. Made of bronze and intricately carved, it was nearly three feet tall and according to their guide, weighed in at over two hundred pounds.

  “It’s beautiful,” gushed his wife, Archeology Professor Laura Palmer as she circled the roped off artifact. “I’ve seen pictures of these but I’ve never seen one in person.”

  Acton dropped to a knee. “Me neither.” His finger twitched, the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the artifact killing him.

  “Would you like to get closer?” asked their guide, Mai Lien Trinh, grinning.

  Acton’s head bobbed rapidly, Laura slightly more dignified in her response. “Could we?”

  “Only honored guests are allowed—” began Mai.

  “I guess that means ‘no’,” winked Acton at Laura.

  She gave him the eye.

  Mai looked at him curiously, then apparently decided he must be joking. She lifted the belt from the retractable stanchion and waved them inside. It was almost symbolic, the barrier only a couple of feet from the drum, but Acton felt like he did the day Guns ’N Roses had released their Use Your Illusion double-album and the clerk at Tower Records off Broadway had unlocked the doors letting the gathered throng inside.

  He had bought his two CDs and it had only cost him three hours in line and a Classical Literature class. He had torn the plastic wrapping off before he had even paid, clicking the first CD in his Sony Discman before handing over the cash to pay for his purchase, falling in love with Right Next Door to Hell before he had even left the store. By the time he had reached his apartment, Coma’s bass drum had him hypnotized.

  It had been a great day.

  His best friend and mentor, Gregory “Corky” Milton had chastised him, not understanding the appeal. “They’re pussy metal. Give me Megadeth or Metallica any day.”

&nb
sp; “Don’t forget Anthrax!”

  “Don’t act like you listen to it. You only like Bring the Noise, poser.”

  Acton smiled at the memory as his fingers danced tantalizingly close to the ancient drum, tracing the repetitive carvings ringing the instrument.

  “Fantastic!” he hissed as he bumped into Laura who was rounding it in the opposite direction.

  “It is one of our greatest treasures. It is called the Ngoc Lu drum. It was discovered by accident south of Hanoi in 1893 by a crew building a dike. It is thought to be well over two thousand years old.”

  Acton’s head bobbed in appreciation. “The carvings are remarkably well preserved. It almost looks like you could play it right now. He rose slightly, positioning his hands to play.

  “No!” cried Mai.

  Acton laughed, grinning at her. “Just joking.”

  Mai’s hand darted to her heart as she ushered them outside the barrier, quickly blocking off the artifact once more.

  “I’m sorry, Mai, I shouldn’t have scared you like that.”

  Laura punched him in the shoulder. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  Mai smiled shyly. “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to dealing with Americans.”

  “I’m British. We’re even stranger,” said Laura with a laugh. “At least to Americans.”

  Mai shook her head then suddenly paled slightly as her eyes darted toward the entrance to the room they were in. “Oh no, we shouldn’t be here.”

  Acton turned and saw a group of about ten or fifteen people enter, immediately recognizing the United States Secretary of State, Jill Atwater. She had several others with her, clearly American, several Vietnamese and a four man security team.

  Acton smiled, recognizing two of them immediately, despite the dark sunglasses hiding where they were looking. The two who had entered the room first he knew quite well, Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson and Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman, two members of the Delta Force’s Bravo Team. Acton took a step toward them to say hi when he noticed Dawson shake his head almost imperceptibly. He caught Laura by the arm as she made toward them.

  “We don’t know them,” he whispered, turning to Mai. “Perhaps we should move on?”

  Mai emphatically agreed, leading them to an archway that opened into another room, but before they could make it through, another delegation entered, blocking their path. Mai stepped aside, as did Acton and Laura, this delegation similar in nature to the American one, the center of attention vaguely familiar looking but the man’s name escaping him for the moment.

  Until he heard them speaking Russian.

  Anatoly Petrov, Prime Minister of Russia!

  He whispered the name to Laura who nodded, taking another step backward. Neither of them were fans of the Russians, especially since they had reverted to their old Soviet ways. There was some debate among the group of friends on who had coined the term Soviet Union 2.0 first, Acton thinking he had, but Milton had begged to disagree. It didn’t matter who had come up with it first, it simply mattered that the nickname had stuck, and that it was far too apropos to be laughed at.

  The Soviet Union was back, with oil money behind it, and Europe on its knees, too dependent upon Russian natural gas to heat their homes, leaving them powerless to counter Russian aggression in the Ukraine and elsewhere.

  “Ahh, Secretary Atwater,” bellowed Petrov, holding his arms out as he stepped past his security. Acton saw Dawson imperceptibly nod at Spock as they both moved aside, allowing the two dignitaries to greet one another.

  “Prime Minister Petrov, an unexpected pleasure.”

  The smiles were genuinely forced, the long practiced art of diplomacy on display as Acton, Laura and their guide stood off to the side, both exits from the room now blocked with the two delegations.

  “If I had known you were coming here today, I would have joined you,” said Petrov, shaking Atwater’s hand. “But our hosts neglected to mention it.” The look he gave the Vietnamese delegate who was accompanying him was withering in its polite disparagement.

  “An oversight, I am sure,” mumbled the man, bowing deeply and taking a step back. “The appropriate people will be disciplined, I assure you.”

  Petrov laughed, waving off the assurance. “No need. This is merely a pleasant coincidence, nothing more. Why should I care where the Secretary of State will be on any given day?”

  Acton found it impossible to believe that Petrov hadn’t known exactly where Atwater would be, this being the highest level visit since the normalization of relations by President Clinton in 1995. It was all over the news with large crowds welcoming Secretary Atwater upon her arrival. Acton had been shocked to learn that almost 75% of the Vietnamese people had a favorable view of Americans—he had done a little research before accepting the invitation to visit the museum. It had been proffered by Professor Duc Tran while on exchange to St. Paul’s University where Acton taught archeology, and eagerly accepted. When they had arrived two days before Acton had been devastated to learn that Professor Tran had been killed in a car accident while they were in the air.

  Mai had met them instead with the tragic news.

  It was too late to simply turn around and Mai had convinced them that Professor Tran would have wanted them to complete their visit as a matter of honor. Tran was proud of his collection and Acton was anxious to see artifacts that few Americans had seen in nearly forty years.

  They had agreed to stay.

  If he had known the Russians were going to be here today, however, he might have suggested another venue to visit.

  “I understand we are staying at the same hotel,” said Petrov.

  “Yes, my team informed me that you had requested to stay there.”

  Petrov’s eyes narrowed. “Odd, I thought we had booked first, and it was your people who wanted to stay at the same hotel as me.”

  Atwater laughed—slightly. “I’m sure the truth must lie somewhere in the middle, Prime Minister. But not to worry, my security chief”—she nodded toward Dawson—“assures me the hotel is quite secure, so we are both safe.”

  “As does mine,” said Petrov, nodding toward one of his own sunglass sporting men. “Perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me for dinner? I understand the restaurant in our secure hotel is quite excellent.”

  Atwater smiled, her hands out, palm upward. “Unfortunately, Prime Minister, I have a full schedule. Perhaps another time?”

  “I look forward to it,” bowed Petrov.

  A Vietnamese man walked out from behind a tapestry, marching straight toward Prime Minister Petrov, gun extended in front of him, lead already belching from the barrel. Acton spun, extending his arms as they enveloped Laura and Mai, pulling them all to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dawson and Spock grab Secretary Atwood and put themselves bodily between her and the shooter, the entire delegation exiting the room within seconds, apparently deciding ensuring the safety of their charge more important than taking out the shooter.

  Looking over his shoulder he saw Petrov’s four security men down, the rest of his delegation gone, Petrov now alone with the man’s gun pressed against his chest.

  “I swore the next time I saw you I would kill you,” said the man, his eyes narrowed, glaring up at the taller Petrov, his gun hand steady, there no fear here.

  “How dare—”

  “Silence!” barked the man. “You do not recognize me, Anatoly Petrov?”

  Petrov shook his head slowly. “Have we met?”

  “Nineteen-seventy-four. You led the Viet Cong who massacred my village.”

  Shouts could be heard, heavy boots drumming the marble floor as security from elsewhere in the building sped toward the shooting. Acton rose to his feet, still crouching, ushering Laura and Mai toward the opposite door, all the while keeping a wary eye on the shooter.

  “I cleansed a lot of villages in those days, all sanctioned by the legitimate government.” He glared down at the man, one corner of his mouth curling into a s
mile. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  The gun was pressed harder against Petrov’s chest. The man reached into a bag hanging at his side, producing a clay bowl, painstakingly glued together from previously shattered shards. “Now do you remember?”

  Petrov’s eyes popped wide, a smile spreading across his face. “Young Phong, is that you?”

  The man nodded. “You remember me.”

  “Of course I remember you,” said Petrov, the smile still in place, his arms open wide as if trying to set the man at ease. “I let you live!”

  “After killing my mother and father and my entire village. After burning everything I had ever known to the ground.”

  Petrov shrugged. “That was war. It has been over a long time.”

  “Not for me.”

  The man squeezed the trigger, the look of shock on Petrov’s face something Acton knew he’d never forget. Mai screamed, Laura slapping a hand over her mouth to prevent her own. The man stepped over Petrov’s gasping body, aiming the weapon at his head. “Today my village can finally rest.”

  He squeezed the trigger one more time, blood and brain matter squirting across the floor.

  Shouts from the security team were close now. The man looked at Acton then dove through a nearby window, shattering the glass with his body, disappearing from sight as the soldiers charged into the room, guns pointing at the only three people alive.

  Acton and the others raised their hands as guns were pressed against their backs. Mai spoke rapidly to no avail, the weapons still held painfully in place as the room was secured. Another man entered whom Acton recognized from earlier introductions as the curator of the museum. His words succeeded in lowering the soldiers’ guns, and once removed, the three of them rose cautiously to their feet.