Mai stepped forward. “There are cameras in the museum.”
“Can you get the footage?” asked Laura, turning toward her.
“Possibly. But they would already have seized it I would think.” She paused. “Wouldn’t they?”
“Most likely,” agreed Dawson. “Are they digital or tape?”
“Digital.” Mai’s mouth opened a little wider. “Ahh, yes, maybe they just copied them!”
“Let’s hope,” said Dawson. “I’ll call in some favors to see if we can get our hands on that footage.” He paused for a moment as he saw the evidence of Mai’s interrogation. “Did they do that?”
She nodded.
“What about you two? Did they hurt you?”
Laura shook her head. “No, but they tried to intimidate us into agreeing Niner was the shooter.”
“Who is this Niner?” asked Mai. “You know the shooter?”
Acton looked at Dawson who nodded slightly. “No, we don’t know the shooter, but we do know who they think is the shooter. He’s a friend of ours and definitely not involved.” Acton’s eyes narrowed. “You did see the shooter, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“And you agree it wasn’t our friend?”
She nodded again. “Yes, sorry, I’m just upset.” Her eyebrows popped. “I could describe him! Maybe someone could draw him.” She smiled slightly at Acton. “After all, all Vietnamese don’t look alike to me.”
Acton felt his cheeks burn red. “I—” He stopped himself, not sure what to say, Laura delighting in his discomfort.
“I think that’s a great idea, Mai.” Laura frowned. “But where are we going to find a sketch artist?”
Dawson shook his head. “No need. We’ve got software. I’ll have a tablet brought down to you. In the meantime I’ll try to get a hold of the footage. This is going to turn into a he said-she said incident and we need to get it before they erase it.”
“I don’t think your people will be able to access the tapes,” said Mai. “I remember somebody saying that the security computers weren’t networked.”
Acton cursed. “We need that footage if we’re going to prove Niner’s innocent.”
“I can get it.”
All eyes turned to Mai.
“How?” asked Laura.
“I work there. I could go back and get it. The office computers are networked, but only a few isolated computers are connected to the Internet for research purposes.” She dropped her head shyly, looking up as if ashamed of her country. “They don’t want us communicating with the outside world too much.”
Acton shook his head. “Ridiculous. You’re educators. How are you expected to do your job?”
Mai shook her head quickly, as if wanting to defend her native land. “No no, don’t misunderstand me. Things are getting much better. Just slowly.” She sighed. “I went to Australia once and couldn’t believe how they lived. Such…” Her voice drifted off as she was lost in a memory.
Dawson brought them back to business. “We’ll need to get you out of the hotel.”
“How?” asked Acton.
“We’ve got a secure egress route manned with our personnel through the basement and into the parking garage. We can get her into a diplomatic vehicle and off the premises then into the American Embassy. From there she can just leave as one of the visitors.”
Laura shook her head. “No, they took her ID as well.”
“I need to get to my brother. He can get me ID.”
“Fake ID. If you’re caught…” Laura was clearly not happy with the idea.
“Out of the question,” said Acton. “We can’t have you risking your life for something you have nothing to do with.”
Mai shook her head. “I’m involved. I was there. If we don’t get proof that your friend is innocent then they will eliminate anyone who might deny the official story. You two are probably safe because you’re foreigners. Me? I and my family will be thrown in prison or worse.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “If I don’t help you, I’m dead,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Laura took the diminutive woman in her arms, comforting her as a few sobs escaped. Acton looked at Dawson whose face was grim. Dawson motioned toward the door with his head and they both moved away from the two women.
“She’s right,” Dawson said quietly. “Right now they seem hell bent on pinning this on Niner. Unless we get irrefutable proof that he’s innocent, they’ll eliminate anyone who doesn’t support the party line. And we are talking the Party line. This is a communist country and we’re being accused of assassinating the Russian Prime Minister. Ten years ago that wouldn’t have worried me too much, but now that they’re essentially the second-coming of the Soviet Union, it does worry me. They’ll use this as an excuse to get away with an awful lot.”
“Such as?”
Dawson shrugged. “Who knows? He could take the Ukraine within a few weeks with relative ease and NATO will do nothing about it because they’re not a member. They could become even more uncooperative at the UN using their Security Council veto to block efforts to fight Ebola, ISIS, Assad, Iran’s nuclear program, Chinese belligerence in the South China Sea. Hell, they might even try to sink a few of our ships then quickly call a truce after they’ve done some damage. Remember, these people aren’t Western European in their thinking no matter how much they like to think they are. Their thinking is much different. I fully expect retaliation at any time unless we can get ahead of this. And video footage showing someone other than Niner entering the museum would be gold.”
Acton had to admit he agreed with every word Dawson had said. The Russian mindset was still buried in its Communist past, distrust of all with an ingrained superiority complex had them thinking they could do no wrong, that they were always right. And with their President controlling the press with an iron fist, their main source of information was spoon fed to them from their essentially renamed Politburo. Americans liked to think the Cold War had been won and Russia was now democratic because they had elections.
Saddam Hussein had elections too.
He was the only name on the ballot.
In today’s Russia, in order to run, your party had to be approved, and their President has simply changed the rules as needed if a significant challenger appeared. The icing on the cake was the rule that if someone wanted to run for President, their party had to have at least 7% of the seats in the Duma, their equivalent to Congress. But in order to have a new party register their leader, they had to have 7%, but how could they have 7% if their party hadn’t existed in the previous election to earn that 7%? It was now impossible for a new party to have a candidate for President.
An iron fist.
The Russian President was KGB, loved the Soviet Union, had repeatedly implied its demise was a great catastrophe, and his ultimate desire was to undo that mistake in history.
And an assassination blamed on the United States could be his ticket to do just that.
Somebody hammered on the door.
Gandhara Kingdom
Modern day Myanmar
401 BC, four months after the Buddha’s death
Asita spun toward the sound, peering into the darkness, the canopy of the forest thick beyond the clearing of the village, little light penetrating it.
“Master, is that you?”
The voice was old, weak, rough as if having gone unused for a long while.
And it was instantly recognizable.
“Mutri! Is that you?”
“Yes, my Master!” cried the old voice as an emaciated man emerged from the darkness, a cane fashioned from a branch helping him along.
“Grandfather!” Channa rushed toward the old man, embracing him before Asita could. “You’re alive!”
The old man’s head bobbed up and down as the rest of his body shook with fatigue. “Yes, yes, obviously. Though for how much longer, I can’t be sure.” He motioned toward the village. “Gather your things, it isn’t safe to remain here.”
“Why
not?” asked Asita as he embraced the old man. “What danger is there?”
“Those who attacked us continue to return. I think they have a camp nearby, downriver. They return each evening to try and surprise us. After we managed to tend to the dead and salvage what we could, we left, only I remained behind.”
“Why, Grandfather, why did you stay?”
The old man jabbed at the air. “Why do you not listen to an old man? Gather your things, we must leave now!”
Channa smiled, patting his grandfather on his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” Channa hurried into the village and grabbed the bags they had been carrying for so long, the horse long dead from a fall, returning moments later, tossing the satchel to Asita. Asita returned the bag to its too familiar spot on his shoulder, then emptied the clay bowl of the water that had revealed the secret to the Buddha’s riddle, and placed it gently inside, thankful his momentary lapse hadn’t shattered the now precious vessel. He looked at Mutri’s back as the man led them into the forest.
“You haven’t answered our question, Grandfather. Why did you stay?”
“Because I am too old to make the journey.”
Channa stopped. “I don’t believe that for a second. There are others as old as you. Surely—” He gasped as he came to the same realization as Asita had just.
“They’re all dead, aren’t they?” asked Asita, his heart heavy.
“I was the only one of the elders to survive, the others were cut down as they tried to flee.” The old man paused for a moment. “My wife”—he nodded toward Channa—“your grandmother, was among the first. She was washing clothes in the stream when they arrived. It was her cries of warning that saved most of the others.”
“Most?” asked Asita, hope surging within.
The old man nodded, resuming his slow shuffle into the trees. “It was midday, everyone was gathered to eat so few were in their shelters. At the first sight the men sent the women and children into the trees, fighting off the attackers who were thankfully few in number at first and exhausted, they had apparently been running for some time.” The old man stopped and looked over his shoulder toward the now out of sight funeral pyre. “They fought bravely, repelling the first attack, but their numbers were too few when the second wave arrived. Most fled into the forest knowing it was hopeless, a few, cut off, fought like tigers, delaying the murderers so the others could escape.”
“When was this?” asked Asita.
“Almost two moons ago.”
A lump in his throat silenced him as he realized they would have had been able to warn the village if they hadn’t spent so much time trying to evade their pursuers and allowing him to heal.
“We should have come here directly,” he whispered.
“Then we would both be dead,” admonished Channa. “There was no way the two of us on one horse could have made it this far without being caught. And besides, you were in no condition to travel.”
Asita’s head sank into his chest as he realized his friend was right, the words bringing little comfort.
“He’s right,” agreed Mutri. “You are here now. That is what matters. Your people need you. They need a leader.” He paused. “Your father?”
“Dead.”
“Did he receive the counsel of the Buddha?”
“Yes.” Asita tapped the bowl. “Just before he died.”
“The Buddha is dead?” the old man paused, shocked. His step faltered for a moment, Channa grabbing him to steady the frail bones. “How?”
“They blamed us,” said Asita. He sucked in a breath, steeling himself as he relayed the story of the last meal, the bowl, the riddle, the pursuit, then his father’s valiant last battle.
“He was a brave man,” smiled the old man, patting Asita on the arm. “A very brave man.” He held up a thin finger as he resumed walking through the near pitch black. “And a wise leader. He would have figured out the riddle of the Buddha’s riddle.” He nodded toward the satchel containing the bowl. “Have you, the new leader of our people, deciphered it?”
Asita said nothing, suddenly uncertain, stopping. The old man turned to face him, reaching up a trembling hand and gripping Asita by the cheek. “You are a leader now! Never show hesitation!” Asita nodded, sucking in a breath and squaring his shoulders. “Now, I ask you again, as one of your people. Have you deciphered the Buddha’s riddle?”
Asita nodded, his confidence still buried deep, but realizing the old man was right. He was the new leader. It was his by birthright and there was no refusing it without death. And he being the only son, it could destroy what remained of his people should conflict arise over a successor.
“I have.”
The old man squeezed Asita’s shoulder. “Good!” He continued forward in silence for some time, curiously not asking for Asita’s explanation. Asita glanced at Channa and could see during the occasional shaft of moonlight that broke through the trees overhead that he was dying to know.
And Asita was dying to tell him.
As they continued in silence, Asita’s confidence grew. He was certain now more than ever that he was right. He could see no other way to interpret the Buddha’s last riddle, last counsel, possibly last blessing. Trust in what you see. And he had seen his reflection in the bowl. It made perfect sense.
And perhaps that’s why the old man had not asked him for the answer. He knew his leader needed time to be certain what he had puzzled out was correct, and to gain confidence in the interpretation.
For soon he would have an entire village to convince.
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day
The loud knocking at the door caused them all to jump except Dawson who merely retreated deeper into the room. Acton looked through the peephole then stepped back quickly and quietly. “It’s the police,” he whispered.
Dawson cursed. “I can’t be seen with you.” He looked around. “Is there another way out of here?”
Acton shook his head. “No.” He thought for a moment then pointed at Laura. “Both of you get in the shower, quickly.”
Both Laura and Dawson said, “Huh?”
“They’ll come in, I’ll say you’re in the shower, then get you. You’ll come out and they won’t think to look in there for him.”
Dawson nodded, clearly thinking it was a good idea.
Laura shrugged. “If you want me to get naked with another man, then so be it.” She headed toward the bathroom with a wink. Dawson grinned at him as the hammering on the door resumed, this time accompanied by shouting.
“Just a second!” called Acton as the bathroom door closed and the shower turned on. He opened the door and was surprised to see a white man in a business suit, the uniformed police standing to the sides, including Major Yin.
“I am Igor Sarkov, Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. May I come in, Professor Acton?”
Acton decided cooperation was the name of the game since they had a Special Forces operator in their shower with his wife. He held out his arm, inviting him in. Yin began to follow when Acton decided he should at least pretend to be American.
“Are the police really necessary, Mr. Sarkov. We’re all friends here.”
Sarkov bowed slightly. “Of course.” He looked at the officer that had taken their passports earlier. “Wait outside.” Yin’s eyes flared in momentary anger, but he was immediately subservient, barking an order that had the uniforms scurrying down into the hallway, the door closed behind them.
Sarkov slowly circled the room, glancing into the bedroom, his eyes narrowing. “And where is your lovely wife?”
“In the shower. She needed to relax after what happened. A long shower helps.”
“I’ll need to speak to her, preferably now.”
“Of course.” Acton went to the bathroom and opened the door slightly, poking his head in. “Hon, the police are here. Can you come out?”
“Give me a minute.”
He closed the door and motioned toward the seating area. “Please, h
ave a seat. Can I get you anything?”
“Do you have any bottled water? Preferably cold?” asked Sarkov as he squeezed his large, rotund but imposing frame into a too small chair.
“I’ll check,” said Acton, entering the small kitchenette and opening the fridge. Fully stocked with ten dollar bottles of water. He grabbed three.
He handed one to Sarkov and another to Mai, giving her the opportunity to occupy her hands that were nervously fidgeting about. Acton sat in a chair as far from Mai as he could, hoping to force Sarkov to at least split his attentions, giving Mai a break from constant scrutiny.
The shower turned off.
Sarkov rubbed the ice cold bottle over his forehead and cheeks, finally dragging the perspiring vessel over his neck. He twisted the top off and took a long drag, sighing in satisfaction. “The one thing I hate about being stationed in Hanoi is the heat.” He patted his large stomach. “Men my size were never meant to live in tropical climates,” he said, laughing, his smile quite genuine in appearance.
Remember, this man is most likely a spy.
Sarkov took another drink and Acton decided to open the conversation. “First, Mr. Sarkov, I’d like to pass on my condolences on behalf of my wife and I. This entire situation is horrible. Have you been able to catch the man who did this?”
Sarkov nodded his appreciation. “Unfortunately we have not taken him into custody, however we have him contained.”
“Oh, so you found him!” Acton decided to play dumb. “I’m happy to hear that. The police were after the wrong man for a while there so I’m glad that’s been cleared up. Do you know why he did it?”
Sarkov’s eyes narrowed. “Wrong man?”
Acton continued his charade deciding it was best he continue with the truth with the stakes so high. “Yeah, they showed us a photo of a man, some Asian American I guess, saying he was the shooter. But I had a clear look at him and it wasn’t the same man. I’m glad they got that sorted out.” He took a sip of his water, sweat trickling down his back.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Professor. We know who the shooter is, and we know where he is. At the moment however your government is shielding him. I wonder why that is?”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 6
