“But I thought the Americans ordered the cameras on their floors disabled.”
The man looked uncomfortable and remained silent.
Sarkov decided intimidation would work on the diminutive man and glared at him, leaning in while jabbing a finger in the air. “Well?”
“It was!” the man sputtered. “I swear! But when I came on shift they were back on!”
“How?”
He shrugged, but not convincingly so. “I-I don’t know.”
“But you can find out.”
The man’s head bobbed rapidly as he turned back to the computer, furiously hitting keys. He pointed. “I-I can’t be sure, but Duy from the Eco Office must have turned them back on for some reason.”
“Eco Office?”
“It’s an environmental program that monitors individual utility usage.”
“Why would he turn the security cameras on for that?”
“They’re connected. Why, I don’t know. I just watch the cameras.”
“Where is he now, this Duy?”
“At home. His shift ended a few hours ago.”
“I want his employee file. Name, photo, address, phone number.”
“Y-yes.” The man hit a few keys and soon had the employee file printing. He handed it to Sarkov.
“How long have those cameras been on?”
“At least a few hours.”
“Check.”
Some more keys were hit. “They were turned on at 8:17 this morning.”
“And they remained on?”
The man nodded.
“Bring up the footage from this morning.”
The screens flipped from the live action upstairs to the calm of the morning, the eighth floor from several views displayed.
“Fast forward.”
The footage raced forward several minutes before Sarkov pointed. “There!” A hotel staff member appeared from around the corner, pushing a maintenance cart. “Who is that? Is that him?”
“No, that’s Phong,” said the other man.
Sarkov nearly froze. “Did you say Phong?”
The man nodded. “He’s a maintenance worker. He’s been here forever. Since the beginning I think.”
Sarkov watched the man knock on a door then swipe his pass, disappearing inside. “Whose room is that?”
The man shrugged. “They’re all assigned to the American security detail. We aren’t given that information.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his terminal. “Wait a minute.” He hit a few more keys. “He used Duy’s pass!”
Sarkov frowned. “Give me the employee record for this Phong person.” Another printout was handed to him just as the door opened, Phong reappearing and pushing his cart back from where he had come. “Follow him.”
“No need. He left five minutes later for the day, sick.”
Plenty of time to get to the museum.
The more he learned, the more he realized the professors were telling the truth. The American Agent Green had nothing to do with this and it was this maintenance man—he glanced at the printout—Phong Son Quan—who was actually the shooter.
He needed to see the museum footage before it was erased. He had handed the memory stick over to security staff at the embassy but had yet to hear anything. If it too showed this man entering the museum, then it should be an open and shut case.
“Keep the camera on that door. Fast forward until someone comes out.”
The image sped forward then the door opened, as did several others within the frame, agents rushing out, readying their weapons.
Including one Asian American DSS agent named Jeffrey Green.
At 10:02am.
Exactly when the Prime Minister was being shot.
The entire hotel rumbled.
Kentucky Fried Chicken, Nguyen Thai Hoc Street, Hanoi, Vietnam
Niner stretched then flushed to make it sound like he had actually done some business, he having waited for almost twenty minutes before hearing from the professors, or the Actons as he had come to think of them though he wasn’t sure if she had taken his name.
He hoped that if he ever got married his wife would take his. He knew it would make his parents happy, especially his mother. He was a traditionalist when it came to that though he had to admit he wasn’t overly religious. He prayed before each mission, just a quick, informal affair to remind the Almighty that he was on his side and doing his duty to his country. He didn’t enjoy killing with the possible exception of terrorists. Enemy soldiers were at least fighting for their country, just like he was. Terrorists were murdering scum who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as the rest of us.
But the people who were his enemy today were soldiers and policemen, not terrorists. They were just doing their jobs and he would hate to have to kill one of them because of this situation.
Killing was a job, not a joy.
Not to say he didn’t love his job. He did. He wouldn’t trade it in for anything. He loved the adrenaline, he loved the rush, and he loved knowing at the end of the mission, hopefully successful, they had made the world a slightly safer place. Did he take satisfaction in killing the bad guys, especially the terrorists? Yes, it would be a lie to say he didn’t. Did he enjoy it? No, he never went into combat saying to himself or one of his buddies, “Can’t wait to blow some asshole’s head off today because he was born under a different flag!” then live with the memory for the rest of his life.
He killed because it was necessary. He had killed too many to want to count, but he did, his mind simply unable to let go of the carnage. And the number was probably low. Too many times you sent bursts of gunfire around a corner or at a position to know if you actually did or didn’t kill someone.
Yes, the count was probably much higher.
And he didn’t want it to go any higher today.
But he had a feeling things weren’t going to work out the way he wanted.
His secure phone had satellite web access so he had spent his time reading about the latest developments in Hanoi and around the world. The latest showed over ten thousand Russian troops along with armor, artillery and air support were surging into Eastern Ukraine in what appeared to be a well-planned, well-executed invasion. The Russian’s were of course denying it, saying it was Western propaganda, despite footage rapidly filling the Internet of Russian vehicles and men pouring across the border.
Russia’s “new” KGB mindset simply didn’t understand the modern reality of social media and a free press, having such tight controls in place in their so-called democracy. Russia ranked a dismal 148th out of 179 countries for freedom of the press in 2013.
It was sad how much potential had been lost so quickly under a single leader stuck so far in the past.
Niner stepped out, washed his hands in the for the moment empty bathroom, making sure his Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts were hiding his Glock tucked in the waistband.
Shades and his ball cap completed his look as he exited the bathroom, descending the three floors to the ground level and exiting, turning east, walking at a brisk pace, but not too brisk. He couldn’t risk standing out, but the coordinates he had been given were almost a ninety minute walk from his current position. Apparently the Actons had somehow holed up near the Red River, a silt-laden source of water that actually appeared red.
How they had gotten there he had no idea, but he had to get to them, not only to protect them, but for his own protection. Those two were good in a fight and there was strength in numbers. The three of them would become a team, self-preservation and the truth their motivation.
How he could contribute toward the truth he had no idea.
All he could testify to would be that he had been at the hotel when the Prime Minister had been shot, and that his pass had been stolen. Nothing more. Which meant that they had to take his word for it. Sarkov had been right. He very well could have taken a motorcycle from the museum and been back at the hotel in no time.
But right now the truth could wait. Dawso
n needed to get Atwater and her entourage to safety, and he needed to take himself out of play by somehow getting into the American Embassy, ideally with the Actons in tow.
For now the embassy, according to the news reports he had read, was completely surrounded.
Inaccessible.
Which would mean the waiting game.
He spotted a bicycle in an alleyway, no evidence of a lock or owner.
He walked up to it and climbed on as if it was his own, pushing away and immediately blending in with the traffic, turning down the first road heading south that he could and out of sight of the scene of the crime. As he rode however one thing became painfully clear.
His Hawaiian shirt was screaming tourist.
Unfortunately he had simply tossed a couple of casual shirts in his suitcase for wearing off duty, and both had been from his “fun” drawer since there would be zero time available for socializing outside the hotel. His current outfit was for hanging around with the guys in one of the rooms, shootin’ the shit and playing cards.
Not blending in with the public while on the run from authorities.
He spotted a small shop with a few racks of t-shirts and stopped. They were all printed tees with crazy slogans and bright colors. He spotted a black one and grabbed it, handing the clerk twenty bucks, much to their delight. He biked to a nearby alley and pulled off his Hawaiian shirt, taking the opportunity to move his Glock to the front, it a little too exposed when leaning forward on a bike. He pulled the new shirt on, saying a silent prayer of thanks when it actually fit decently, then looked down at the words emblazoned on the front and laughed.
THINK LESS.
STUPID MORE.
He shoved down on the pedal, pushing himself back into traffic, quickly picking up speed as he continued to chuckle.
I should take a picture for Engrish.com.
The sun was setting rapidly, the buildings lining the streets casting long shadows when he heard drums in the distance. He pulled his phone from his pocket and memorized the upcoming few turns, taking the next street east toward the river. Stopping at a light, queuing up with a gaggle of other cyclists, mopeds and cars ignoring the painted lines, he looked straight forward, his head slightly down as he debated whether or not the sunglasses were attention grabbing at this level of brightness or not.
“Nice shirt, mate!”
Niner turned toward the Aussie accent. A young guy was grinning at him, early twenties with a gorgeous Vietnamese seat cover perched enticingly on the back of his motorcycle.
Niner smiled, deciding being rude would just attract more attention.
“Hey wait a minute, you’re the guy that’s all over the television. The assassin! You’re that American they’re all looking for!”
Fear suddenly shoved the tourist’s smile aside as he realized his gaffe and he gunned his engine, looking for a way to put some distance between them and a killer. Which was fine by Niner, but unfortunately the word ‘American’ seemed to have caused almost every head to swivel toward him.
This can’t be good.
The light changed and he pushed forward, weaving between the gawking cyclists just as one finally shouted something in Vietnamese. More shouts from just across the intersection had him cursing as two police officers rushed toward him.
He pulled his Glock, aiming it directly at the first officer’s chest as he gained speed through the intersection, the man and his partner throwing up their hands. He kept pumping forward, aiming the gun behind him as he put some distance between them, finally turning back, the gun still in his hand as he raced forward, suddenly jerking the bike to the left, cutting across two lanes of traffic and down an alleyway. He shoved the gun in his belt and rose off the seat, pumping hard, a siren nearby adding to the urgency.
He banked hard to the right, back onto a busy street, the sidewalks filling with people in colorful clothes and costumes, some with drums strapped to their shoulders, a rhythmic beat beginning as what was clearly some sort of festival was just getting underway.
Which might be just the diversion I need.
He removed his sunglasses, hooking them over his t-shirt under his chin and slowed, plastering a smile on his face as he exchanged looks with the gathering crowds, trying his best to blend in. The sun was almost set now, streetlamps, light from shop windows and apartments along with lanterns and candles carried by revelers provided a comforting glow, the dim light his friend.
The chances of being recognized now were slim unless he stopped and someone got a good look.
Instead he made sure he never stopped. He set a leisurely pace, weaving slowly among the crowd now spilling onto the streets. There were few cars that weren’t parked, those that were on the road had people hanging out the windows, joining in what was turning into a parade. He checked his phone’s GPS and he was less than ten minutes from his destination.
Multiple sirens in the distance suddenly became very loud. He looked over his shoulder and saw three police cars, lights flashing, sirens blaring, turn onto the street.
He smiled.
The crowd was large now, the street thick with humanity as he picked up a little speed, much of the crowd having stopped and turned toward the noise. A loudspeaker announced something and the crowd started to part, the police obviously ordering them to make a hole.
He turned leisurely into another alleyway, gaining some speed but nothing that might suggest to the revelers he passed that he was fleeing. Several more quick turns and the sirens were again distant, and according to his GPS, he was nearly at the location.
Making the final turn, he began looking for street numbers and quickly realized that there were none that he could see. He pulled out his phone and prayed it would at least get him close.
He stopped where the phone indicated, finding a shitty building with a garage door, suggesting it was or had been some sort of business, nestled between more shitty buildings.
This wasn’t a good neighborhood, though there were lots of colorfully dressed people milling about, some gathering into small groups who looked perfectly friendly, clearly getting ready to head for the festival or perhaps create their own party right here.
He tried calling Acton’s phone but got his voicemail, the cellular network still down.
He didn’t leave a pointless message.
He thumbed through the contacts and found Laura’s phone which he knew from previous experience was a satellite phone.
She answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“I’m outside, but I’m not sure which building.”
“Just a second.”
He heard muffled talking then a garage door, three doors down from where he was sitting on his bike, opened, a Vietnamese man stepping out, looking about. Niner slowly biked toward him, holding the phone to his ear.
“Garage door? One man smoking a cigarette?”
“That’s it,” said Laura.
He pushed a little harder, the man nodding at him, tossing his cigarette out onto the street as he dropped the door closed behind Niner entered the nearly pitch black entrance. The moment the door hit the ground with a shudder and a clang lights were turned on and he breathed a sigh of relief, the two professors rushing toward him, Laura giving him a hug as he climbed off the bike, Acton shaking his hand.
“Thank God you’re safe!” cried Laura. “We were starting to get worried.”
“You should know better than that,” grinned Niner as he surveyed their surroundings. It appeared to be some sort of hangout, about half a dozen young men milling about looking like they had never been up to any good in their life. A television showing CNN had been turned toward a table with half a dozen chairs surrounding it, a laptop with a Vietnamese girl sitting at it had what looked like security footage playing on it. “So, where are we?”
Acton motioned toward the girl at the computer. “We’re at Mai’s brother’s…place, shall we say. They rescued her from the police then saved our asses a little while later.”
“They cut cellphone and Internet access a little while ago. This is from a satellite dish on the roof,” explained Acton. “I’m pretty sure that’s BD”—he pointed at the screen, Niner nodding in agreement with the identification—“and since that explosion nothing else has been heard, it’s just talking heads right now.”
“I pulled some updates down while I was waiting for you guys but didn’t see this. Apparently the Russians have sent troops into the Ukraine?”
Acton nodded. “Yeah, over ten thousand of them. It looks like they basically sent everything they had in the area across. The NATO Secretary General has already given a press conference suggesting it was a well-planned, well-coordinated attack.”
“Timing?”
“They think coincidental. The troops had already been in place for weeks if not longer. The Russians are simply taking advantage of the situation.”
“How are the Ukrainians doing?”
Acton shook his head. “Not good. The Russians basically splashed anything in the air within the first hour, bombed the airfields so nothing else could launch, and have told the Ukrainians that any military units that don’t lay down their arms in Eastern Ukraine by midnight will be eliminated, and any units moving into the east will be bombed.”
“Christ. Can’t say that’s a surprise though.”
“Nope. Everyone knew it was just a matter of time. NATO’s scrambling to send as many forces as they can to the Baltic States. Russia’s got dozens of bombers in the air right now.”
“And us?”
“The President’s saying he won’t play their game so has kept ours on the ground for now.”
“I’d have to say I agree with that. De-escalation is the key right now. The Ukraine was lost long before today. We should have put a few hundred advisors in there months ago. The Russians wouldn’t dare risk killing American troops.” He looked at the laptop. “But world politics aren’t our concern right now. Right now we need to figure out how the hell to get out of here.”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 19
