The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (2 page)

“We
don’t know them,” he whispered, turning to Mai. “Perhaps we should move on?”

Mai
emphatically agreed, leading them to an archway that opened into another room,
but before they could make it through, another delegation entered, blocking
their path. Mai stepped aside, as did Acton and Laura, this delegation similar
in nature to the American one, the center of attention vaguely familiar looking
but the man’s name escaping him for the moment.

Until he
heard them speaking Russian.

Anatoly
Petrov, Prime Minister of Russia!

He
whispered the name to Laura who nodded, taking another step backward. Neither
of them were fans of the Russians, especially since they had reverted to their
old Soviet ways. There was some debate among the group of friends on who had
coined the term Soviet Union 2.0 first, Acton thinking he had, but Milton had
begged to disagree. It didn’t matter who had come up with it first, it simply
mattered that the nickname had stuck, and that it was far too apropos to be
laughed at.

The
Soviet Union was back, with oil money behind it, and Europe on its knees, too
dependent upon Russian natural gas to heat their homes, leaving them powerless
to counter Russian aggression in the Ukraine and elsewhere.

“Ahh,
Secretary Atwater,” bellowed Petrov, holding his arms out as he stepped past
his security. Acton saw Dawson imperceptibly nod at Spock as they both moved
aside, allowing the two dignitaries to greet one another.

“Prime
Minister Petrov, an unexpected pleasure.”

The
smiles were genuinely forced, the long practiced art of diplomacy on display as
Acton, Laura and their guide stood off to the side, both exits from the room
now blocked with the two delegations.

“If I
had known you were coming here today, I would have joined you,” said Petrov,
shaking Atwater’s hand. “But our hosts neglected to mention it.” The look he
gave the Vietnamese delegate who was accompanying him was withering in its
polite disparagement.

“An
oversight, I am sure,” mumbled the man, bowing deeply and taking a step back.
“The appropriate people will be disciplined, I assure you.”

Petrov
laughed, waving off the assurance. “No need. This is merely a pleasant
coincidence, nothing more. Why should I care where the Secretary of State will
be on any given day?”

Acton
found it impossible to believe that Petrov hadn’t known exactly where Atwater
would be, this being the highest level visit since the normalization of
relations by President Clinton in 1995. It was all over the news with large
crowds welcoming Secretary Atwater upon her arrival. Acton had been shocked to
learn that almost 75% of the Vietnamese people had a favorable view of
Americans—he had done a little research before accepting the invitation to
visit the museum. It had been proffered by Professor Duc Tran while on exchange
to St. Paul’s University where Acton taught archeology, and eagerly accepted.
When they had arrived two days before Acton had been devastated to learn that
Professor Tran had been killed in a car accident while they were in the air.

Mai had
met them instead with the tragic news.

It was
too late to simply turn around and Mai had convinced them that Professor Tran
would have wanted them to complete their visit as a matter of honor. Tran was
proud of his collection and Acton was anxious to see artifacts that few
Americans had seen in nearly forty years.

They had
agreed to stay.

If he
had known the Russians were going to be here today, however, he might have
suggested another venue to visit.

“I
understand we are staying at the same hotel,” said Petrov.

“Yes, my
team informed me that you had requested to stay there.”

Petrov’s
eyes narrowed. “Odd, I thought we had booked first, and it was
your
people who wanted to stay at the same hotel as
me
.”

Atwater
laughed—slightly. “I’m sure the truth must lie somewhere in the middle, Prime
Minister. But not to worry, my security chief”—she nodded toward
Dawson—“assures me the hotel is quite secure, so we are both safe.”

“As does
mine,” said Petrov, nodding toward one of his own sunglass sporting men.
“Perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me for dinner? I understand the
restaurant in our
secure
hotel is quite excellent.”

Atwater
smiled, her hands out, palm upward. “Unfortunately, Prime Minister, I have a
full schedule. Perhaps another time?”

“I look
forward to it,” bowed Petrov.

A
Vietnamese man walked out from behind a tapestry, marching straight toward
Prime Minister Petrov, gun extended in front of him, lead already belching from
the barrel. Acton spun, extending his arms as they enveloped Laura and Mai,
pulling them all to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dawson and
Spock grab Secretary Atwood and put themselves bodily between her and the
shooter, the entire delegation exiting the room within seconds, apparently
deciding ensuring the safety of their charge more important than taking out the
shooter.

Looking
over his shoulder he saw Petrov’s four security men down, the rest of his
delegation gone, Petrov now alone with the man’s gun pressed against his chest.

“I swore
the next time I saw you I would kill you,” said the man, his eyes narrowed,
glaring up at the taller Petrov, his gun hand steady, there no fear here.

“How
dare—”

“Silence!”
barked the man. “You do not recognize me, Anatoly Petrov?”

Petrov
shook his head slowly. “Have we met?”

“Nineteen-seventy-four.
You led the Viet Cong who massacred my village.”

Shouts
could be heard, heavy boots drumming the marble floor as security from
elsewhere in the building sped toward the shooting. Acton rose to his feet,
still crouching, ushering Laura and Mai toward the opposite door, all the while
keeping a wary eye on the shooter.

“I
cleansed a lot of villages in those days, all sanctioned by the legitimate
government.” He glared down at the man, one corner of his mouth curling into a
smile. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

The gun
was pressed harder against Petrov’s chest. The man reached into a bag hanging
at his side, producing a clay bowl, painstakingly glued together from
previously shattered shards. “Now do you remember?”

Petrov’s
eyes popped wide, a smile spreading across his face. “Young Phong, is that
you?”

The man
nodded. “You remember me.”

“Of
course I remember you,” said Petrov, the smile still in place, his arms open
wide as if trying to set the man at ease. “I let you live!”

“After
killing my mother and father and my entire village. After burning everything I
had ever known to the ground.”

Petrov
shrugged. “That was war. It has been over a long time.”

“Not for
me.”

The man
squeezed the trigger, the look of shock on Petrov’s face something Acton knew
he’d never forget. Mai screamed, Laura slapping a hand over her mouth to
prevent her own. The man stepped over Petrov’s gasping body, aiming the weapon
at his head. “Today my village can finally rest.”

He
squeezed the trigger one more time, blood and brain matter squirting across the
floor.

Shouts
from the security team were close now. The man looked at Acton then dove
through a nearby window, shattering the glass with his body, disappearing from
sight as the soldiers charged into the room, guns pointing at the only three
people alive.

Acton
and the others raised their hands as guns were pressed against their backs. Mai
spoke rapidly to no avail, the weapons still held painfully in place as the
room was secured. Another man entered whom Acton recognized from earlier
introductions as the curator of the museum. His words succeeded in lowering the
soldiers’ guns, and once removed, the three of them rose cautiously to their
feet.

“I’m so
sorry, Professor Acton, Professor Palmer. Of course you are not involved in
this most unfortunate incident.”

“Did you
catch him?” asked Laura.

“No, but
we know who he is!” said the man, shaking a piece of paper. “The fool showed
his ID when he entered!” He held the page up so they could see the enlarged
face, a scan of the man’s identification card having been taken when he
entered.

And it
was everything Acton could do to not gasp.

For he
recognized the face despite the poor copy.

It was
Delta Team-Bravo member Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung.

Kusinara, Malla Kingdom
Near modern day Indian/Nepalese border
401 BC

Cunda wept.

For the
Buddha was dying, deathly ill, and it was his fault. It was he who had provided
him with his last meal, a dish made of his favorite local mushrooms, herbs and
other delicacies from the lands surrounding their small village. It was a meal
he had been proud to gather the ingredients for, a meal his hands had trembled
in nervousness while preparing, and a meal he and his only son had delivered
with pride, though pride wasn’t a virtue becoming of a follower of the Buddha.

He was
disappointed in himself for feeling it, and he would meditate on it later
tonight.

At least
that was what he had planned.

Before
he had killed the Buddha.

“He is
an old man,” reassured Ananda, the Buddha’s personal attendant. “He was ready
for Parinirvana which is why he travelled here. He knew before he even sat down
to eat your delicious dish that this would be his final meal. He asked me to
convey to you his thanks and assurances that your meal has nothing to do with
his illness. He said your meal was a source of the greatest merit as it
provided him his last sustenance before leaving his physical form and entering
the next stage of existence.”

Cunda,
still on his knees, his head nearly touching the floor as he humbled himself
beside his son, turned his head to look up at Ananda. “H-he said that?”

Ananda
nodded, reaching out a hand which Cunda accepted. Ananda pulled the bereaved
man to his feet. “You are to be honored for your service in feeding the Buddha
in his final hours.” Ananda turned and took a clay bowl, intricately hand
painted, rings of colorful flowers and plants adorning it from top to bottom,
and handed it to him. “He wanted you to have this.”

Cunda
extended his hands, shaking more than earlier. His son’s hands covered his own,
steadying him.

“I do
not deserve such a gift.”

Ananda
smiled. “The fact you say such a thing is proof you do.”

Cunda
didn’t bother continuing to argue. “Why?” was all he could manage to ask.

“You
came with a question for the Buddha and instead he asked you to prepare him a
meal.”

Cunda
nodded. It had been a challenge, this not his home, but he had managed to find
the ingredients he needed and his wife had sent him with the traditional
seasonings from their tiny village as part of their pilgrimage to see the
Buddha and seek his advice.

It had
been his duty and his honor to undertake this task, though it had left him
bewildered and he had to admit, a bit angry. He had travelled for weeks, their
journey grueling, but necessary. Their village had been beset by years of misfortune.
Flash floods triggered by heavy rains had washed much of their village away
only to be followed by two summers of drought leaving parched earth and a
nearly dry riverbed. And once they thought their prayers had been answered and
their crops had once again blossomed, raids by nearby villages to plunder their
limited resources began under the guise of punishment for following the
teachings of the Buddha.

He had
come to the Buddha to seek an answer to the question that burned in his heart.

Should
we leave our home to find peace elsewhere?

He had
asked the question when granted an audience, but instead had been given the
‘honor’ of providing the Buddha with a meal.

No
answer had been forthcoming.

And now
he was given a clay bowl instead.

With the
luck his village had been having, if word got out that he had provided the last
meal before the Buddha had become violently ill they would be destroyed for
certain.

“But
what of my question? What is the Buddha’s advice?”

Ananda
motioned toward the bowl. “The Buddha says, ‘Trust in what you see.’ Now go, we
must prepare for the passing.”

Cunda
and his son, Asita, were ushered out by guards and found themselves on the
street, the sun having set only minutes before. Word of the Buddha’s illness
had obviously spread, a large crowd already gathering around the home where the
Buddha was staying as a guest.

“Is he
okay?” asked one.

“What
have you heard?” demanded another, grabbing Cunda’s arm. The clay bowl fell
from his hands as his arm was torn away by the man demanding information.