Another swig. Another pass.
“I need a wife.”
Duy nearly dropped the bottle. “Were you drinking before you got here?”
The others laughed as Duy’s wife came up behind her husband and massaged his shoulders. He leaned his head back against her and smiled. “Phong says he needs a wife.”
“He’s still a catch!” she said, winking. “I’m sure I can find him one. There’re some good widows around here.” She motioned toward an old grandmother with no teeth, mushing her rice with her gums. “Old Qui is available.”
Qui reached out her hand to Phong, her fingers covered in sticky rice. “Come here, baby, I’ll give you a good time!”
Everyone roared in laughter.
“I need to have babies, lots of babies,” said Phong, oblivious to the humor at his expense. “Sons!”
“I’ll give you a good time but forget about babies!”
More laughter.
Duy seemed to sense Phong’s mood was serious. “What’s wrong my friend, why all this talk of children?”
“I’ve wasted my life.”
The bottle was about to be handed to him again when Duy shook his head, motioning for them to be skipped. “No you haven’t. You’ve got a great job, good friends. You’ve made the most of what this country can offer people like us.”
“My village was wiped out in the war.”
Duy’s eyes opened wide, this the first time Phong had ever told him anything about his past. He remained silent, drawing Phong out to share more.
“The Viet Cong came into our village with a Russian, looking for recruits. I was in the forest collecting herbs when they came. I watched them murder everyone.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Duy, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder, his wife dropping to her knees beside him, taking his hand in hers as tears rolled down her face.
“You must have been a boy,” she said.
He nodded. “Fifteen. I tried to kill the Russian but I couldn’t.” His head dropped to his chest. “I was too weak.”
“You were only fifteen!” She squeezed his hand, holding it to her chest. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“I know that now, but I did. For forty years.”
“Is that why you never took a wife?” asked Duy. “Never had kids?”
Phong nodded. “I was ruled by hate and self-pity. I punished myself for surviving by denying myself happiness.”
“But you’re finally talking about it,” said Duy’s wife. “You obviously want to move on.”
“I finally can move on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I killed him.”
Everyone looked at him in shock, the bottle forgotten, the parade only feet away mere background noise now, the drums a heartbeat they all felt in their chests.
“What do you mean?” asked Duy, sounding almost afraid to ask. “Who did you kill?”
“The Russian who slaughtered my family.”
Duy gasped as did the others. “You killed the Russian Prime Minister? At the museum?”
Phong nodded, another weight lifted off his shoulders. He realized he was putting his friends at risk, but he had to tell someone. And part of him hoped they would turn him in out of fear, thus protecting themselves and ending a future that he felt was uncertain. “They haven’t arrested me yet, though, so I guess they don’t know it was me.”
“I guess they don’t!” exclaimed Duy. “They’re blaming the Americans! They’re saying one of their agents is the assassin!”
Phong suddenly snapped out of his self-pity. “What? What are you talking about?”
“You stole that agent’s ID, didn’t you?”
Phong nodded, suddenly ashamed he had involved his friend. “Yes. I’m sorry, but as soon as I realized who he was, I had no choice. I promised him I would kill him the next time I saw him, and when I heard he’d be at the museum at the same time as the Americans, I took the ID of the Asian agent from his safe.”
“You used me!”
He turned toward Duy. “I’m so sorry, Duy. I didn’t mean to, but if they knew you were involved they’d be here, wouldn’t they?”
Duy grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was about to hand the bottle down the line when his wife grabbed it and took her own swig. “You’d think so.” He sighed, lowering his voice from its excited state. “Phong, don’t you realize what’s been happening today?”
Phong shook his head.
“They’re talking war! The Russians are accusing the Americans of assassinating their Prime Minister. Two professors who were guests at the hotel and a grad student at the museum have been named as being involved. The Russians have invaded a country already and there was some sort of air battle. An American plane crashed!”
“And don’t forget the hotel!” added his wife, jabbing at the air. “Don’t forget what’s happening there!”
“Yeah, the police went in and attacked the floors the Americans are on.”
“What happened?” asked Phong, his chest tight as he realized everything happening was his fault.
“I don’t know. They shut down the Internet and cellphones. I saw it down the street on a television with a satellite dish.”
Phong wasn’t sure what to say. “Has anybody died?”
“Phong, they invaded a country! Of course people have died!”
His chest dropped to his knees as he leaned over, grabbing at his hair. “What have I done?!”
No words of comfort came from his friends. Everyone was in shock. The events a world away never affected their day to day lives. Yesterday if someone had said Russia had invaded a country, he would have paid it no mind as long as it wasn’t Vietnam they had invaded. But the events at the hotel were on everyone’s mind since it was where most of them worked. It affected them immensely.
And it was all his fault.
In his wildest nightmares he couldn’t have imagined things spiraling so far out of control. He had killed a bad man and those protecting him. He had delivered justice, restored balance, then moved on. There were witnesses who should have been able to tell the police that the shooter wasn’t the American whose pass he had used. There were cameras at the museum.
We spoke!
And the conversation was in front of witnesses.
Why are they doing this?
“What am I going to do?”
Duy put the bottle on the ground. “You have to disappear.”
Phong sat back up, wiping the tears off his cheeks. “No, I need to turn myself in, to tell everyone that it was me.”
“They’ll kill you before you get a chance to tell your story,” said Duy. “People are dying because of this. The news says they don’t care who did it as long as there’s confusion.” Duy shrugged. “You know me, I don’t know anything about politics, all I do know is this situation is dangerous.”
A phone rang and Duy’s wife jumped in shock. She stepped over to where she and several of the wives were sitting and picked up the cordless phone. “Hello…one moment.” She handed the phone to her husband. “It’s for you. It’s the hotel.”
Duy exchanged a scared look with Phong. He took the phone and Phong leaned it to hear the conversation. “This is Duy.”
“Duy, it’s Bao. I’ve only got a minute.”
“Bao? You’ve got to speak up, the festival has started.”
“They’re after you and Phong!”
Phong’s heart nearly stopped.
“What do you mean?” asked Duy.
“Some Russian guy was in here looking at the tapes from the eighth floor—”
“The eighth floor cameras are disabled.”
“Yes, but you turned them back on. There’s footage of Phong going into the American agent’s room using your pass, the same agent they’re saying killed the Russian guy. But the footage showed that he couldn’t have done it because he was here when it happened.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? It mean
s they can prove the Americans didn’t do it?”
“No, it’s not! Another Russian ordered me to delete all the footage. But Duy, the first Russian guy had me print your personnel file and Phong’s too. He knows where you guys live. You’ve got to warn Phong and the two of you have to disappear. I don’t know why you did it, but killing the Russian Prime Minister? What were you thinking?”
“I-I didn’t! I mean, it wasn’t me! I—”
Duy stopped, looking at Phong, uncertain what to say. Phong took the phone. “This is Phong. I killed the Russian Prime Minister. Duy thought he was helping me get my key pass from the American’s room. I told him I had forgotten it there. He didn’t know anything. I’m the one they want.”
“I don’t think they care,” said Bao. “They deleted all the footage.” There was a pause. “Does that mean you got away with it?”
Phong wasn’t sure, but with this footage not existing anymore, then it did make him wonder whether or not he was actually safe.
“Why did you kill him?” asked Bao. “Did the Americans hire you?”
And that was when Phong knew this would never end. Too many people knew now, and if he didn’t tell his side of the story, unmolested, the truth would be twisted into whatever story the authorities wanted.
This has to end.
“No, nobody hired me.” He took a deep breath. “Thanks for letting us know.” He hung up, handing the phone back to Duy’s wife. He turned to his friend. “I have to get my story out.”
“But how?”
“I need to tell the Americans.”
Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam
Igor Sarkov pulled his car to the side of the street, yet another festival filling the night with revelers. He couldn’t remember which one this was, he didn’t care. It was just another party. Almost every month there seemed to be some sort of celebration in the city, but they were things to be enjoyed by the younger people at the embassy, not him.
If there wasn’t air conditioning, he wasn’t interested.
And these celebrations took place on the streets where the air was thick and hot far too often for his liking.
Colorful clothing, tissue paper lanterns, rattles and drums—it was all an assault on the senses. His late wife would have loved it, she being much more interested in the culture of the places they visited, but he could care less.
Which was probably his loss.
But none of that mattered now.
By disobeying Yashkin’s order to go home he was putting his life at risk. But he didn’t care. He had to know the truth, and the world had to know the truth. His loyalties were no longer to “Mother” Russia, the very term poisonous now, his country a disappointment that crushed his will more every day.
Only two more years were left!
It was devastating. A lifetime wasted. He had lost his wife, his son had died with no family of his own, his parents were long dead, and his only brother was lost to vodka a decade ago.
He was truly alone.
With no one to share his retirement years with.
He looked up at the apartment and felt an affinity for this man, Phong. If what the Americans said was true, if his family and village had been wiped out by Petrov forty years ago, then he too was alone, having lost everything.
It would almost be a shame to bring him in.
He turned off the car, killing the exquisite flow of chilled air and opened the door, the rapidly cooling evening still an assault on his overly large frame. It was a four story apartment building with a small grocery on the main floor.
And Phong Son Quan lived on the third floor.
At least it’s not the fourth.
The stairwell to the apartments was on the left side of the building. He stepped through the doorway, there no door to be found, and began the long climb up the stairs. By the time he reached the third floor he was wheezing far too much for someone involved in security.
That’s new.
He held his hand on his chest for a moment, feeling his heart as it fluttered slightly before settling down. He pulled in a few steady breaths and felt himself begin to return to his normal self. He was getting old—was already old he had no doubt in the minds of those like Yashkin. Time was catching up, a lifetime of enjoying fine foods, then two years of not having his shutoff valve at his side to stop him from overindulging.
Which had resulted in him packing on thirty pounds in two years, on top of the extra thirty he had already been carrying.
Fortunately his job hadn’t been to chase people for a long time. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever chasing anyone as part of Foreign Affairs. It just wasn’t important enough. He was an investigator, but of diplomatic concerns. In a diplomatic post he had no jurisdiction to arrest people, so why chase them? And today, if he ran into the assassin in the apartment he now stood in front of, he had no intention of chasing him either.
He pulled out his gun as he had no qualms about shooting the man.
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, KGB style.
Still no answer.
He tried the door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. A hard shoulder against the flimsy door soon had him in the apartment, his weapon sweeping from left to right, quickly finding the single room apartment clear. It was a simple affair, spotlessly clean, a habit Sarkov wondered helped get Phong his job, or was learned from his job. One thing he had found over the years of being in various levels of developing countries was the common misperception among Westerners that just because someone was poor their homes were dirty.
This was rarely the case.
Like this apartment.
The paint was peeling, the floor was chipped and scarred, the porcelain of the lone sink had lost most of its white and the toilet behind a makeshift wall was equally showing its age.
But the floor was swept clean, the toilet bowl was free of filth and the bed was made.
Everything was spotless.
Everything had its place.
Except one thing.
Sitting on the bed was an envelope with no stamp, it clearly waiting to be mailed.
He picked up the envelope and examined the handwriting. Meticulous. This was a deliberate man, and deliberate men could be dangerous.
Clearly.
If the professors were telling the truth, then this was the assassin, not Agent Green. And if so, this would be exactly the type of apartment he would expect to find such a man in. He wasn’t crazy. That much was clear. This was a man who had fulfilled a forty year mission if what the professors overheard was true.
He had enacted revenge on the murderer of his family.
Something Sarkov wished he would have had the courage to do when the opportunity arose, but alas, he hadn’t. He had sat in the courtroom like a coward when the drunk driver who killed his wife and son was acquitted due to his rights being violated when he was arrested.
Sarkov’s heart had turned cold against his country when the man had been congratulated by a senior member of United Russia, a man Sarkov knew reported directly to the President.
Which meant there was nothing he could do.
Except kill the man.
Instead he had done nothing.
And it shamed him, especially now, when a man like Phong, poor by anyone’s standards outside this struggling country, was able to murder one of the most powerful men in the world.
All by having the courage of his convictions, and a simple plan that required nothing more than a gun and some balls.
Sarkov almost felt sorry that he’d have to arrest the man.
He tore open the letter and scanned it, his limited Vietnamese able to at least decipher that it was a letter to his family, telling them of some hidden items including a religious bowl.
Must be the one the professors mentioned.
He finished the letter and smiled, not with any sense of joy, but simply with the satisfaction of the truth finally revealed.
For at the end of the
letter Phong Son Quan confessed to his crime.
And Sarkov knew the truth.
He folded up the letter, stuffed it back in the torn envelope and placed it in his inside jacket pocket.
Now to find his friend, Duy.
American Embassy, Hanoi, Vietnam
Charles Stewart sat in the cafeteria sipping a coffee, exhausted. His cameraman, Pat Murphy, sat across from him, his head on the table, snoring. The chanting and drums outside continued to drone on, Vietnamese television looping footage of the rallies here and at the British Embassy non-stop. Of course the 24 hour news channels were as well, mixed in with talking heads spouting off about the crisis, and blowing it out of proportion for the viewing public.
It’s all about the ratings.
He was happy he was a hard news man. He reported, he didn’t comment. Commentary was for commentators, not reporters. And the blurring of that line over the past few years was a blight on the honored history of his profession. Even he as a newsman would be the first to admit there wasn’t enough news of interest to fill 24 hours of television, which was why hour long commentary shows had become the norm, and now even CNN was airing canned shows, finally realizing even they couldn’t fill 24 hours with coverage they could call news with a straight face.
Hopefully it would lead all the 24 hour networks to trim down the talking heads and instead return to the time honored tradition of the thirty minute news cast that was actually news.
But he wasn’t naïve enough to think it would happen any time soon.
One of the staffers, Leroy Donavan, waved to him, sitting down at the table with a coffee and donut. He looked as haggard as they all did.
“What’s up, Leroy?”
“Hopefully my blood sugar in a few minutes.” He took a large bite of his Boston cream donut, the filling spilling out the hole in the other side, a dollop dropping onto his napkin. He chewed, moaning with pleasure as he wiped up the escaped custard filling with his thumb, sucking it off with a smile. “So good. I missed lunch and dinner and I’ve got about five minutes to stuff this into me.”
“Should have grabbed a sandwich, you’ll just crash in an hour from that.”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 22
