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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. There’s no proof of anything you say. The entire case has been that Agent Green was the shooter. We now know definitively that he wasn’t. This information must be presented to the Vietnamese and the Americans.”

  Yashkin shook his head, a frown on his face. “I’m very disappointed. Moscow will be too.” He turned to the man at the keyboard. “I want all of the eighth floor footage erased. All of it. It should be as if the cameras had never been activated.” He pointed a finger at the man, then his partner, glaring down at them. “And no one, I repeat no one will ever hear about this otherwise there will be dire consequences. Understood?”

  The terror in the men’s eyes made it clear they understood perfectly as they nodded, the first man attacking the keyboard to execute his orders. Yashkin left the room, Sarkov following. When they were alone in the hallway, Sarkov stopped and Yashkin turned toward him.

  “Why?”

  Yashkin squinted. “Why?”

  “Why delete the footage? Why aren’t we pursuing the truth?”

  “Moscow isn’t interested in the truth.”

  Sarkov shook his head. “Why not? We have an opportunity here to shine on the international stage, to bring out the truth ourselves, to show that no matter how much everyone wanted to believe it was the Americans, we were more interested in finding out what really happened, and when we did, we revealed it to the world, showing we aren’t the monsters so many think we are. By destroying this footage we become the very people the West accuses us of being!”

  “You are indeed naïve,” replied Yashkin, his head shaking slowly from side to side. “You have no idea what is going on here. We’ve had troops massed on the Ukrainian border for months just waiting for something like this to happen. And it finally has. Ebola and ISIS provided the distraction so the Western public would forget about what had happened in Eastern Ukraine and the Crimea, and now this event, this one, single event, carried out by a madman, gave us the opportunity to pull the trigger. Our troops at this very moment are invading and should have control of the traditionally Russian portions of the Ukraine within days. There is nothing the West can do to stop it, and there’s nothing they will do because with this murder of our leader by an American, they have no credibility on the world stage.

  “The truth as you call it is unimportant, and it may very well come out in time. But at this time, it is more important to further the ambitions of Mother Russia and its diaspora by bringing them back into the fold. Once we have done this, the world will once again tremble at the might of Russia and will never dismiss us again.”

  Yashkin’s face was beet red, the passion in which he had delivered the last few sentences was terrifying in its zeal, and Sarkov had taken a step backward as the onslaught of the diatribe had hit home.

  The man was mad.

  The men he followed were mad.

  And Cold War Two had begun with the actions of a single Vietnamese man seeking revenge for an affront carried out forty years ago.

  Sarkov remained silent as Yashkin’s face returned to its normal pale self. The man pulled in a deep breath, pursing his lips as he seemed to examine Sarkov for a reaction.

  Sarkov gave him none.

  Yashkin finally spoke. “I think we will no longer require your services today. Go home and report to the embassy tomorrow morning for instructions.”

  Sarkov said nothing, merely nodding as Yashkin continued to stare at him, then spun on his heel and walked briskly away.

  Go home.

  Sarkov shook his head. He knew his dreams of retirement in a foreign land were finished. He’d be ordered back to Moscow in quiet disgrace and probably stored in some hole for years or decades. And some way, somehow, he’d die accidentally or in a staged prison fight.

  A wave of self-pity swept over him and his shoulders collapsed, his chin dropping as he reached for a wall, both hands held high, holding his body up as he fought for control.

  He thought of his wife.

  She had been a good woman, not political in the slightest, but supportive of his career from the start, putting on the public face required and tolerating his sometimes late hours and long absences.

  And it had been her dream to retire outside of Russia as well.

  She hadn’t made it.

  And neither would he.

  He shoved himself away from the wall, squaring his shoulders.

  And if he was going to go down for doing the right thing, he was going to give them a real reason.

  Too soft my ass.

  Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Dawson took the stairs two at a time to the tenth floor as the bulk of the security team redeployed to the eighth and ninth floors. He entered the room Atwater was now located in and found the woman sitting on a chair near the hallway door. He pointed at the open windows.

  “Why aren’t those covered?”

  “Sorry, sir. We just relocated here sixty seconds ago when one of the guys said there was a support beam here. We figured they won’t risk taking the entire floor down.” Two agents closed the curtains over as the explanation was given.

  “Good thinking,” said Dawson as he turned to brief Atwater. “The Vietnamese have pulled back. We’ve retaken the eighth floor and with the lights back on, I’m thinking we’ve got a reprieve, at least temporarily. We should take the opportunity to relocate our equipment to this floor, recharge our batteries and pool all the resources we can including food and water.”

  “The water’s back on,” said one of the staff.

  “Good. Refill every water bottle we’ve got and everyone, I mean everyone, use the bathroom now while we’ve got toilets that can flush. Search every room on the floor and evacuate any civilians if there’s any left. Empty their bar fridges and distribute food. I want everyone fed and hydrated. Police all weapons and ammo from the bodies of the fallen, ours and theirs.” He looked about. “Where’s the wounded?”

  “Next room. We’ve got two serious that need immediate medical attention, five walking wounded that will need attention and half a dozen with minor scrapes and bruises.”

  “Dead?”

  “Two caught in the initial blast. We got lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  When Atwater finally spoke she sounded beaten. Dawson took a knee and lowered his voice. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  Atwater shook her head. “They tried to kill me.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It appears that way. But your team did its job and you’re uninjured. If need be, we’ll do our job again and protect you.”

  She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes red. Someone handed him a bottle of water. “You do this every day?”

  He chuckled. “No, not every day.” He leaned in a little closer. “Listen, ma’am, it’s okay to be scared. We all are. That’s human nature. The immediate danger is over. Your people need you. Now I’m going to teach you a trick. In situations like this control has been taken away from you and given to your security staff. That’s procedure. While you don’t have to make decisions, use the time to get control of your adrenaline. It’s your adrenaline that’s got you shaking and it feeds your fear. Think of fear as a chemically induced artificial state rather than some personal failure. If you can get control of the adrenaline flowing into your bloodstream then you’ll be able to calm down. You know when you’re really angry sometimes you shake?”

  She nodded, looking up at him.

  “Well that’s adrenaline, not fear. So if anger can be fueled by adrenaline, it’s time to turn the fear you now have into anger at what’s happened to you. You should be indignant, mad. Frankly, it’s time to get pissed off. So here’s the trick. While you’re in a situation where you’re not talking and running around, use tactical breathing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a trick us soldiers do to keep us calm and it’s very easy. Just breathe in through your nose for four seconds, hold it for four, breathe out through your lips for
four, then hold for four, and repeat. Just keep doing that and eventually you’ll calm down. If you remember to do it enough, it just becomes habit.” He smiled as she began doing it. “It also works at the negotiation table. Do it while the other guy is talking, then when it’s your turn, you appear calm, no matter how idiotic the other guy’s demands are.”

  She nodded, smiling slightly, as she continued the breathing technique.

  Dawson heard a phone ring down the hallway, the doors of the rooms obviously now opened by the staff. It went unanswered then another rang. “I think they’re attempting to make contact,” he said, looking at Atwater. “Do you want me to deal with it?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll do it.” She pushed herself to her feet, taking a breath, the color returning to her cheeks. She smiled slightly at Dawson and placed a hand on his arm. “You’re a good man, Mr. White.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The phone rang and she nodded toward one of her staff who picked it up. She covered the receiver. “It’s Mr. Yashkin for you, Madame Secretary.”

  “Put it on speaker and someone record this.”

  Several cellphones quickly appeared.

  “This is Secretary Atwater.”

  “Thank goodness you are okay, Madame Secretary. As soon as I heard what was happening I requested the attack be stopped at once.”

  Atwater rolled her eyes, seeming back to her normal self. “I’m happy to hear that the Russian government was not responsible.”

  “Of course we weren’t, Madame Secretary. We are a peaceful people”—the entire room rolled their eyes—“and only want justice to be served. Clearly that does not involve further violence.”

  “I am happy to hear that, Mr. Yashkin. Now there is a matter of the wounded. We have two people who need emergency access to a hospital and several others who will need medical attention. Can I trust that you will see to it?”

  “At once, Madame Secretary, at once. In fact we have medical personnel already here just waiting for your approval.”

  “Sent them up at once. Make sure they are unarmed.”

  “Of course.”

  “And we have four dead. We will require body bags for them and transportation of the bodies to the Embassy.”

  “I am indeed sorry to hear that. It will be arranged.”

  Atwater took a deep breath, almost glaring at Yashkin through the speaker. “Now there is the matter of our departure. Since you seem to have significant influence with the Vietnamese authorities, I expect you will be able to convince them to allow us to leave at once.”

  “I have already spoken to them and they have agreed that you may leave in one hour, provided all of your personnel lay down their weapons and submit themselves for a visual inspection to confirm Agent Green is not among them.”

  Dawson shook his head slightly.

  “I’m afraid we can’t agree to disarming, Mr. Yashkin. I’m sure you’ll understand that after what has just happened we simply cannot put our lives at risk.”

  “So you do not trust our Vietnamese hosts?”

  His mock shock was almost comical. “Would you?”

  Yashkin laughed heartily, the man clearly a well-trained diplomat. “No, I suppose I would not. I will speak to our hosts on your behalf. Perhaps they will allow your staff to at least keep their sidearms.”

  Dawson nodded slightly.

  “That would be acceptable. And please inform our hosts that I will be resuming my interview with CNN and conveying our expectations and our thanks to the Russian government for their assistance. Good evening, Mr. Yashkin.”

  She signaled with a hand in front of her throat to end the call then dropped back into her seat, sucking a breath in through her nose, her head bobbing almost imperceptibly as she counted.

  Dawson pointed to one of the staffers. “Get the equipment set up immediately, I want the Secretary on with CNN in five minutes.” He pointed to one of the DSS agents. “Coordinate the medical evac and let’s get the bodies ready to go to the Embassy.”

  Atwater motioned for him to come closer. He knelt beside her.

  “Any word from Agent Green?”

  Dawson shook his head. “No, but if they had him I’m sure we’d have heard.”

  “Can you reach him?”

  “Not without possibly compromising his location.”

  “They’ll be controlling the phones into here, but he might reach out to the embassy. Make sure they know the plan. He needs to get himself to the airplane if he can.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what about those two professors they’re accusing of being involved?”

  “If I know Agent Green he’s probably already made contact with them.”

  “They know each other?”

  “Some things you’re better off not knowing.”

  Atwater chuckled as she shook her head. “It’s the secrecy of the job that I hate the most.”

  “Funny, I thought it was the gunfire.” Dawson grinned and Atwater swatted at him, finally laughing genuinely.

  “Let’s just hope your friends are able to get to the airplane in time. I don’t know when there will be another opportunity.”

  Dawson nodded, his face grim as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll call the embassy right away.”

  He stepped away to make the phone call as the first paramedics arrived in an elevator down the hall, Spock and Jimmy checking them and their equipment over.

  As he activated the secure phone, part of him wanted to reach out to Niner right then and there, to let him know, but he couldn’t risk that their conversation might be monitored and his friend’s location traced, especially with the Russians and their eavesdropping equipment most likely in play.

  You’re on your own for now, buddy.

  Tay Ho District, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Phong was in a good mood. The best he could remember in a long time. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders that he had forgotten was there, an albatross that had tied him to an impossible promise made by a grieving, angry teenager forty years ago.

  And karma had brought justice and balance back to the world.

  A grave injustice had been done, and the man responsible had been punished.

  And now Phong could rest in peace along with his ancestors.

  A rest he expected to soon find, he having no doubt he would be arrested tomorrow when he went to work. They would surely know by now that the American agent’s pass had been used, they would check the hotel footage for the agent’s room and see it had been him that had stolen it, and he would be immediately arrested. In fact he was kind of shocked they hadn’t arrived at his apartment to arrest him while he slept. It had been over eight hours since he had killed Petrov, plenty of time for them to have discovered the truth.

  Maybe I’ll get away with it?

  He had to admit the thought of continuing his job into his old age like he had planned just yesterday morning appealed to him.

  The cameras were turned off!

  The sudden recollection had him pause, the parade he was marching in surging around him like a stone in a river. He resumed walking, gaping in wonder at the thought. If he had managed to avoid the cameras at the museum, and there was no footage of him stealing the pass, then it could be anyone who killed Petrov.

  They might have no clue who I am!

  It made sense. In fact, it was the only reasonable explanation. They hadn’t arrested him yet because they had no idea who he was, and if they didn’t know yet, there was almost no way they’d ever know.

  His step felt a little lighter as the last of the day’s pressures began to lift. His nemesis was dead, and as if the divine Buddha himself had wished it, he had been the instrument of karmic retribution, and so as not to further imbalance the life forces surrounding them, he would not be punished for being the deliverer.

  He spotted Duy sitting in a lawn chair in front of his apartment building, a bottle of liquor being handed around among him and several others he knew
from the hotel, their wives and girlfriends sitting in their own row behind them.

  He waved.

  Duy leapt to his feet, a smile on his face as he greeted his friend. “Phong! I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it. I guess you’re feeling better?”

  Phong had to think for a quick moment when he remembered he had left work faking stomach issues. He nodded, taking an empty seat. “Yeah, just one of those things that a couple of good visits to the toilet cured.”

  “I hope you lit a candle!” laughed Duy, the others joining in as the bottle was handed to Phong. He took a long swig of the vodka.

  Russian. How appropriate.

  He passed the bottle down the line of chairs and looked at the parade, the colorful garb accentuated by the dancing of the young people.

  To be young again!

  His youth had few pleasant memories, and as he watched the happy couples pass he found himself thinking of a life lost, a life wasted. He took another swig as the bottle passed, nobody saying anything except to point out a particularly beautiful woman.

  There had been plenty of women in his life, plenty of women who had wanted to be with him. But he had denied them all. He didn’t want to bring a child into this world, a world where such hate and evil could exist. He wouldn’t contribute to the misery that was life. His lineage would die with him.

  And at this moment that brought him a profound sadness.

  The great Asita, who had never given up for decades, had founded their village in this land over two thousand years ago.

  And now it would all end thanks to him.

  No! Thanks to Petrov!

  Yes, Petrov was to blame, but not completely. It wasn’t Petrov that had thrown away a young life to hatred and despair. It was him. He had done it to himself. He should have tried to move on, to honor his family by continuing their lineage, rather than living a lifetime consumed by hate.