His heartache was still fresh, as if it had happened just yesterday.
It did feel raw, more than usual, and he attributed that to all of the memories flooding back the moment he had spotted Petrov. His head dropped, his shoulders sagged and he gripped either side of the sink, a flurry of sobs racking his body for several seconds before he held his breath, stopping himself. He lifted his head and looked in the cracked mirror.
He looked old.
As if he had aged another ten years since yesterday.
And he felt old.
He was exhausted.
It was a mental exhaustion, not a physical one, and he realized that almost forty years of obsession had consumed his life. The first few years, when he had left the village to live with cousins in the next valley, he had been commanded by hatred, but he had eventually let most of that go, realizing there was nothing he could do about it, though he allowed it to continue simmering, preventing almost any joy from permeating the thick crust he had allowed to incase his heart.
It had been a lonely life.
But now his promise was fulfilled.
He had his revenge.
And he could die now in peace, knowing that his family, friends and lineage had been avenged, no matter how contrary to the teachings of the Buddha his act had been.
He was willing to be punished after his passing, to endure the demons and the suffering, to come out the other end a lesser form, but with a chance at redemption in a later life.
For he had no illusions that nirvana was his fate, not in this life. He knew the rest of his life would be tortured with the memories of today, just as it had been tortured by the memories of a teenage boy, helpless against grown men.
He looked into his red eyes, tired eyes.
It’s time to move on.
It had been said to him a thousand times by his cousins, so much so that when he had the first opportunity he had left them behind, leaving his adopted village and moving to the newly renamed Ho Chi Minh City. A few years later, in his early twenties, he had moved to Hanoi with several friends, a brief folly as street vendors wiping out what little savings he had managed to scrape together when the two brothers stole everything.
It had hardened his heart even further.
A life of manual labor had been his lot until he had been lucky enough to get his job at the Daewoo Hanoi. It had changed his life. Though his existence was meager, it was better than most. He had a decent roof over his head, no need for any more than he had, he was well fed, and his hobby of reading was well taken care of by the unbelievable amount of books left behind by hotel guests.
He had used them and the hotel training to learn English, and felt a shameful amount of pride in his ability.
“Tonight we celebrate.”
His voice was rough, it the first words spoken since his retribution had been delivered.
And it lacked confidence. Even he didn’t believe it.
“Tonight, we celebrate!”
He forced a smile on his face, his fairly decent teeth one of the reasons he had scored his good job. It almost made him believe that he could have a good time.
But he knew he’d need some lubrication.
He went into the bathroom and stood on the toilet, reaching into the tank high on the wall. He pulled out the plastic resealable bag and stepped down, wiping it dry with the towel hanging off a rack salvaged from a recent renovation at the hotel.
Inside was his life savings.
A pittance compared to the excess he saw day in and day out at the hotel, but it was his. He had earned it, no one could deny he had. What he was saving it for, he wasn’t sure. There was really nothing he wanted. He had no need for a car, his moped, bought cheap and secondhand, suited him well. He had a small radio that he listened to music on and had no desire for television, it filled with too much news and lies.
Part of him had already decided what the right thing to do was. Leave it to the monks. He pulled out several bills, enough to have a great time tonight, then returned his secret cache to its hiding place. As he stepped down he wondered though who would give the money to the monks if he were to die.
He had friends, but he had learned long ago you couldn’t trust them, not with money, not in a poor country. People were too desperate. He might be able to tell Duy, but Duy also had a gambling problem, losing most of his money each week to the cock fights.
No, there was no one he could trust.
He did have family. Cousins. His adoptive parents might still be alive since they were only about fifteen years older than him when he came to live with them. They’d be old now, but he had no idea if they were still in the village. He hadn’t seen them in over thirty years.
And going back would be too painful.
Death had never really been a topic he dwelled on. He was going to die. Everyone did. It was inevitable and nothing to fear. And it was always so far away. But with what happened today, perhaps that inevitable ending was much closer than it had been just this morning. He must have been caught on camera entering the museum. He had tried to avoid looking at the one camera he had spotted, but really had no clue if there were others. He had no doubt that if they had footage of him it would be all over television by now and someone would recognize him.
He sucked in a deep breath.
You’ll be arrested tomorrow morning at work.
The drums outside his window beckoned. It might be his last night as a free man. His last night in this body, the long process of reincarnation perhaps about to begin before soon.
Or they might torture you for years.
That didn’t frighten him. In fact, he didn’t care at all. There was nothing they could do to him that could match what had happened decades before.
A decision was suddenly made.
He sat down and wrote a letter to his cousins, telling them where to look for the money, but not that it was money, and of the sacred bowl. It deserved to be preserved. It had to be preserved. His entire community, the entire foundation of Buddhism in this region of the world, had been as a result of that bowl, and though it was a patchwork of its previous self, its significance remained.
Especially its contents, kept in a sealed bag so they wouldn’t leak out the too numerous holes.
He eyed the floorboards where he kept it hidden, counting them out from the wall and writing exactly where to find it. Folding up the letter, he stuck it in an envelope with the hotel logo in the corner then left it on his bed, happy this final duty was almost complete. He’d mail the letter tomorrow morning at work, then not worry about his legacy again.
He left the apartment, locking the door behind him and descended the flights of stairs to the streets below. They were filled now with revelers, the Vong Thi Festival in full swing. Colorful garb ruled the evening and he felt a little out of place in his drab shorts and t-shirt, but he didn’t care. He watched the young people laughing and dancing, his generation joining in at times, the elders lining the streets, clapping in unison with the drums.
A smile slowly creased his face.
A hint of joy, just a hint, began to invade that darkened heart. His people could rest in peace now, and so could he. He found his hands clapping to the beat, a bounce in his step as he headed for Duy’s apartment, hoping his friend was still home. He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to celebrate the end of a long dark chapter of his life.
And forget that tomorrow might be the short, final chapter.
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Dawson stood at the doors of the elevator on the eighth floor, the only one they hadn’t blocked, the rest all held on one of the two floors they controlled. They had swept the upper floors and he had a spotter on the roof just in case the Vietnamese tried to insert troops by helicopter. Medical personnel had arrived to tend to the Vietnamese wounded, and unarmed soldiers, as agreed to, had retrieved the bodies, all stripped of their weapons.
Dimitri Yashkin had upped the stakes, however.
Electricity a
nd water had been cut off about twenty minutes ago, power just now restored for the meeting.
Apparently no one wanted to climb nine stories.
With their egress halted, comm gear had been set back up again, batteries powering it. It was almost nighttime outside now, leaving the floor and rooms eerily dark with all the drapes closed to prevent snipers from spotting their targets easily. The Secretary’s room had custom drapes that blocked thermal sensors from picking up the bodies moving around, but the security meant even the light of the city couldn’t provide comfort.
Fortunately these were luxury suites and one of Atwater’s staff had found bags of tea lights in the maid’s supply closet. These had been broken out and lit to surprising effect once the eyes were adjusted.
Spock joined him, looking at the tiny candles lining the hallway, no longer necessary now that the power was back on. “It was almost romantic.”
“Don’t get any ideas. I’m a taken man.”
“So how are things going with Maggie?”
Dawson shrugged. “Good, I guess. We’re still seeing each other, if that’s what you mean.”
Spock chuckled. “Nooo, that’s not what I mean. She’s at all the events with you, so obviously you’re still together. I mean, how’s it going?”
Dawson glanced over at his friend. “How are things with your girlfriend?”
“Stacey?” Air burst from Spock’s lips. “That’s going nowhere. We’re just having a good time.”
“So am I.”
Spock cocked an eyebrow causing Dawson to immediately regret his dismissive response. “Really? I thought you two were more serious.”
“We are. I just mean we’re having a good time.”
“Uh huh.” Spock didn’t sound convinced. “Wedding bells in the future?”
The elevator chimed, saving Dawson from answering. The doors opened revealing Sarkov and another man whom Dawson assumed was Yashkin, the man he had spoken to earlier and Sarkov’s boss.
“I’m Special Agent White,” said Dawson.
“Dimitri Yashkin.”
“Follow me, please.” Dawson was about to start walking when Yashkin stopped him.
“First I want to speak to you.” Dawson paused, turning back toward their “guests”. “You are in charge here?”
“No, Secretary Atwater is.”
Yashkin smiled, shaking his head. “I mean in charge of security.”
“Yes.”
“I have confirmed your man escaped, disguised as a Vietnamese police officer. He also had an assault rifle with him, and perhaps other weapons. We also found the body of the man he killed to get the uniform.
That doesn’t sound like Niner.
“If Agent Green killed one of your men, then I have no doubt it was in self-defense.”
“They are not my men, but those of the Vietnamese government, your hosts while you are guests in this country.”
Dawson said nothing, semantics a waste of time.
Yashkin waited a moment before realizing Dawson wasn’t taking the bait. “You say your man is innocent. Why would he run?”
“I ordered him to.”
Yashkin’s eyebrows popped. “Interesting that you would do such a thing.”
“My responsibility is Secretary Atwater’s safety. By separating the two of them, she is safer. Now that he is gone, I fully expect that our Vietnamese hosts will respect international law and allow us to leave.”
Yashkin shrugged. “I have no control over the Vietnamese.”
Bullshit!
“We expect your people to hand over Agent Green immediately.”
“I have no idea where he is.”
“You no doubt have some way of contacting him.”
It was Dawson’s turn to shrug. “I’m afraid he’s gone silent until he makes it to safety.” Dawson glanced at Sarkov. “Have you retrieved the footage from the museum?”
Sarkov was about to open his mouth when Yashkin replied for him. “No. Unfortunately none of the cameras were functioning this morning.”
Dawson didn’t believe that for a second. “Unfortunate.”
“Indeed. This is Vietnam after all. The government isn’t known for its state of the art security, especially at facilities like a museum with little strategic value.”
“Of course. Fortunately this hotel is private and does have state of the art security.”
Yashkin’s eyebrows narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“No doubt there will be footage of Agent Green leaving the hotel in order to assassinate your Prime Minister.”
“I wouldn’t rely on that, Agent White. After all this is—”
“Vietnam, I know. However I’d have to ask, if the hotel cameras are not functioning, then how did you confirm Agent Green escaped earlier disguised as a police officer?”
Dawson caught a slight smile almost break out on Sarkov’s face and had to admit he took a little delight in catching the slight flare in Yashkin’s eyes.
“I think I’ll speak to Secretary Atwater now.”
“Of course.”
Sarkov grunted. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’m going to see to the security situation downstairs.”
“Yes, yes, of course, go,” replied Yashkin, dismissing Sarkov with a bat of the hand without looking at him. It was clear he had little respect for Sarkov, the older man bowing slightly to Dawson before disappearing into the elevator. Dawson’s impression of the older Russian continued to be that he was interested in the truth, rather than the message, whereas Yashkin had no interest in what had really happened, rather he was only concerned with how to exploit the situation.
And from the intel reports continuing to arrive, it appeared things were only going to get worse if this farce of an investigation continued.
Pushechnaya Street, Moscow, Russia
“What do you think’s going on?”
Jake looked at his girlfriend, Sarah, then back at the television. “I’m not sure.” It was still only mid-afternoon and they had a big day planned. They had already been to Red Square after an early start and were planning to finish it off with a tour of Saint Basil’s Cathedral after a light lunch. His stomach rumbled, their breakfast a little too light for his liking, but Sarah was a health nut and had him watching his calories.
A man’s gotta eat!
Sure he could stand to lose twenty or thirty pounds, but she had met him this way and if she didn’t like it, why had she started dating him? He was trying, but it was hard. She made it easier, the sexual incentives huge having a girlfriend far hotter than he was handsome. But sometimes he just wanted to have the double-quarter pounder with large fries and large diet coke.
And a snack sized Smarties McFlurry.
But now it had become something he hid.
He hated lying to her and he knew it was wrong. But he had his addictions and didn’t want to change, didn’t feel he had to change. The doctor said his cholesterol was fine, he wasn’t diabetic, his blood pressure was normal.
And he was twenty-eight damned years old.
I’m going to eat what I want while I can!
Yet he still hated lying to her.
And on this trip, with them spending 24/7 together, there was no opportunity to cheat. He was eating every meal with her, spending every waking moment with her, which meant his caloric intake was what she had believed it had been for months.
A pittance.
He was starving the entire time.
And it was ruining his dream vacation.
He had always wanted to visit Russia, ever since hearing the stories of the Cold War from his now retired father, a former Colonel in the Air Force. He had never been able to visit the country due to his job but Jack had always wanted to see Moscow. His father had no problem with it, but told him last Christmas at the dinner table when they were all discussing it something that echoed in his head now, as if his father’s words foreshadowed this very day.
“Do it while you can. That country is heading back to Soviet
times and pretty soon you won’t be able to go there. It’s already not very safe, but at least they don’t kill you for being American. I give it tops five years before Cold War Two starts.”
His mother had pshawed him, turning the conversation instead to Jack’s love life, or lack thereof, his extra pounds seeming to always be a hindrance to his success with the ladies.
He had been proud to announce he was dating Sarah at the time. And now here they were, spending one full week in Moscow almost a year later.
It was the longest relationship he had ever been in.
To say he loved Sarah would be an understatement. He adored her. In fact, he had to catch himself on occasion elevating her to a pedestal no one could live up to. She wasn’t perfect. No one was. And he was far from perfect, though he’d admit to being his own biggest critic. But she was the type of girl who made him want to be a better man, so he put up with her healthy ways, knowing her heart was in the right place.
But when he had seen what looked like a good Western style burger on the menu posted in the window, he had been determined to order it, whether she wanted him to or not.
His stomach rumbled again. “Do you see a waitress?” he asked.
Sarah motioned toward the television. “Everyone seems glued to the TV.”
They finally seemed to be noticed and a waitress hurried over. Short and large, she was the type of server he loved—you never felt guilty ordering whatever you wanted. She said something in Russian and Jake replied with the standard Berlitz greeting he had practiced, then asked if she spoke English.
“Da.”
And she said it with a frown.
“Can I get the house salad please, dressing on the side?”
“To drink?”
“A bottle of water, please.”
The waitress turned to Jake. “And you?”
“Cheeseburger with fries and a diet coke.”
“Jake!”
“Hey, I’m on vacation.” He sighed. “Hold the cheese.” He winked at Sarah as the waitress walked away. “That’ll save a few calories.”
“But you were doing so well!”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 16
