The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (5 page)

“So?”

“So? So
the man who shot the Prime Minister said he was Vietnamese.”

“You
heard them speak? Why didn’t you say so before?” The man’s tone was becoming
more pressing, more belligerent by the moment, and Acton wasn’t sure how to
diffuse him.

“Because
you simply didn’t ask, officer,” said Laura for the save, her voice sultry and
sweet. “My husband said we’d cooperate fully. We simply haven’t had an
opportunity to tell you what happened yet, since you’ve been focusing on
who
did the shooting, not how it happened. We would be happy to give you a
statement.”

The man
visibly relaxed, if only for a moment.

“What
was said?” he snapped, his tone back.

Acton
thought back, trying to recall exactly what was said. “He asked the Prime
Minister if he recognized him, and when he said he didn’t, he said they had met
in nineteen-seventy-four when the Prime Minister had led a group of”—he paused,
searching for a word other than ‘Viet Cong’—“
soldiers
that massacred his
village. The Prime Minister said his name as if he recognized him, said the war
was over, then was shot by the man.”

“There
were no Russian soldiers here during the civil war.”

Acton
shrugged, knowing that if he called bullshit on the statement it might just get
him killed. “All I can tell you is what I heard.”

“I think
you’re lying.”

Acton’s
chest tightened. “Why?”

The man
held up the photo again. “Because this man is the shooter, and he’s an American
spy!”

Oh
shit!

Again he
shrugged, trying to remain calm. “
That
man”—he nodded toward the
picture—“might very well be. But he isn’t the shooter.”

The man
turned his head, shouting something, and immediately the entire security detail
descended upon the three innocent bystanders.

Outside Pataliputra, Vrijji Kingdom
Near modern day Indian/Bangladeshi border
401 BC, three months after the Buddha’s death

Asita rotated his arm gingerly and Channa smiled.

“See, I
told you, good as new!”

Asita
frowned, not certain he would describe his healed shoulder that way, but he had
to admit, other than some general weakness which he hoped would go away in
time, it felt remarkably well. Thanks to Channa’s tender ministrations, the
bleeding had been stopped once they had escaped the bloodthirsty mob, and he
had kept it clean and free of infection, treating it with various plants and
herbs as he had been taught by the village elders. Part of his job as companion
was to treat his master’s wounds during and after battle, which meant an
extensive knowledge of medicine.

It had
saved Asita’s life.

He had
feared that should he survive, his arm surely wouldn’t, but Channa had refused
to give up and his confidence infused Asita with his own, allowing him to fight
back from the brink.

But it
had been hard. Once the bleeding had been stopped they had been back on the
horse almost immediately, trying to put as much distance between themselves and
their pursuers. It had been a long, arduous season, the chill in the air
blowing down from the mighty mountains now noticeable, and with all their
supplies left behind at their camp, they had been forced to scavenge.

All they
had had were the clothes on their backs and the clay bowl his father had died
for.

Asita
shrugged his robe back over his shoulder and eyed the bowl sitting on a nearby
tree stump. Whenever they were camped he placed it in plain view—if they were
alone—and contemplated the meaning. Both he and Channa were at a loss.

Trust
in what you see.

“I see a
bowl! A cursed bowl! A bowl that my father died for!”

Channa
nodded knowingly, sitting beside his master and staring at the riddle. “How do
you figure your father died for it?”

Asita’s
head spun toward his friend, his jaw dropping. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Apparently
not.”

A flash
of anger raged through him. “If we hadn’t have waited for the bowl, we would
have left the village long before the Buddha died. My father would be alive and
we would be free of those pursuing us.”

Channa’s
head bobbed as he poked the small fire with a stick, the flames jumping,
burning embers floating in the air in front of them. “You assume too much, Master.”

Asita
sucked in a deep breath, holding back his desire to cuff his friend as he had
every right to do, but had never done. “Explain.”

“You
assume they wouldn’t have been able to find out who your father was, and then
followed us all back to the village. We—” He stopped, his jaw dropping just as
Asita’s did.

“The
village,” whispered Asita, his heart climbing into his throat. “We’ve been gone
so long—”

“If they
knew, they surely would have reached it by now!” finished Channa.

“We have
to go. Now.” Asita began to push himself to his feet when Channa grabbed his
arm.

“No,
Master, we must wait until morning. It is too dangerous to travel at night. We
will rest and leave at the crack of dawn, making all haste home.”

Asita
sat back down, reluctantly agreeing with his friend. And as they both lay down
to sleep, Asita found himself tossing and turning most of the night, his
thoughts consumed with images of his friends and family being massacred because
he hadn’t been man enough to survive the initial battle, then had spent three
months trying to save his own life rather than those of the villagers who would
now call him their leader.

Father,
forgive me!

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day

The car came to an abrupt halt and the door was pulled open. Command
Sergeant Major Burt Dawson stepped out first, nodding to Niner who held the
door. They were at the Echo Two location, the rear entrance to the hotel where
they could avoid the press and public during emergencies. Vietnamese security
had kept it clear and seconds later they were within the walls of the hotel,
the hallways already emptied to the service elevator.

The
elevator ride to the ninth floor was a flurry of Atwater on the phone along
with her aides who had been there to greet them upon their arrival. All had
cellphones to their ears or in their hands, updates being shouted out, none of
which raised any concerns until the last one.

“They’ve
got a photo of the assassin,” said one, holding up his phone to Atwater.

Her jaw
dropped as she looked at the photo then at Niner.

“It’s
you!” she exclaimed, taking a step backward.

Niner
said nothing, his eyes covered by his sunglasses, ignoring her. His job was to
get her safely to her room then worry about false allegations later. Atwater grabbed
the phone, shoving it in Dawson’s face. “He’s
your
man! You’re supposed
to have vetted him! You let an assassin on your team! On
my
security
detail!”

A chime
sounded and the doors opened. Dawson and Niner stepped out, Spock and Jimmy
there to greet them, the hall cleared, Diplomatic Security Special Agents
lining the walls. They marched quickly toward the Secretary’s suite then
stepped inside. Dawson and Niner cleared the large room then Dawson motioned
for Niner to leave as he turned to face Atwater who hadn’t stopped her tirade
since stepping off the elevator.

“I want
him under arrest, now!” screamed Atwater, pointing at the departing Niner.
“Now!” The screech was shrill, something he had heard rumors about but hadn’t
experienced yet in person.

The
phone rang and Greer jumped at it. “Yes? One moment.” He cupped his hand over
the receiver and looked at Atwater. “The police are here to arrest Agent
Green.”

“We
can’t let that happen. You know he had nothing to do with it,” said Dawson.

“I know
nothing of the sort! For all we know he killed the Prime Minister then returned
to the hotel.”

“Madam
Secretary, with all due respect, that’s ridiculous and you know it.”

“I know
nothing!”

Clearly.

“Madam
Secretary, he’s an American citizen. We can’t hand him over to the Vietnamese
police. We’ll never see him again.”

“It’s
precisely
because
he’s an American citizen that we
will
see him
again.” She inhaled deeply, holding up her hand, telling the world to pause
while she regained control.

Dawson
said nothing, hoping a modicum of sanity would return to the room if Atwater
could check her emotions.

“He’s
your man. Do you trust him?” she asked, her voice remarkably calm compared to
moments before.

“With my
life, ma’am. I am one hundred percent positive he had nothing to do with it. I
saw the shooter. It definitely wasn’t him.”

Her head
bobbed as she dropped into a wingback chair. “Of course you’re right, I
apologize. It’s just—” She stopped as if searching for words.

“We’re
all in shock, ma’am. We witnessed the assassination of the number two man in one
of the most powerful nations in the world. This day is only going to get worse,
and it will get out of control if we give in to their allegations that an
American security agent on
your
detail murdered him in cold blood. We
have to get this situation under control, now.”

“How?”

“
Everyone
gets on a plane, now. Once in Washington we can deal with it—not here.”

She
shook her head. “No, if we run away it looks like we’ve got something to hide.”

“That
may be,” agreed Dawson, “but my responsibility is to ensure your safety, and I
can no longer guarantee that here. The situation has become untenable. Within
hours dozens of Russian security will be arriving, and before tomorrow morning
there will be hundreds, including their own FSB people. Their delegation is in
the same hotel as us, only six floors down. They could assassinate you in
retaliation far too easily.”

Atwater
blanched a little, motioning toward a carafe of water. Greer poured her a glass
and handed it to her. She drank then dipped her fingers in what remained,
wiping some on her forehead and cheeks. “This job will be the death of me,” she
muttered. “Vietnam! Of all the damned places he could have sent me, he had to
send me to Vietnam!”

Greer
put the phone back to his ear. “One moment, please.” He looked at Atwater.
“What do I tell them?”

Atwater
looked at Dawson. “What
can
I tell them? We have to be seen as
cooperating otherwise they’ll think we
were
involved.” She paused,
splashing some more water on her face. “But why do they think he’s involved?”

“I’m
guessing his ID was used to gain access to the museum,” replied Dawson.

“What?”

“Agent
Green reported that his ID had been stolen. I just found out as we were
evacuating you. I haven’t had time to investigate.”

Atwater
shook her head. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.” She sat up straight.
“Tell them that Agent Green will be available for interrogation in one hour,
under
our
supervision on
this
floor.”

Greer
nodded, repeating the message then hanging up before there could be an argument.

“Thank
you, Madam Secretary.”

Atwater
rose and took Dawson aside. “Listen. I know you’re not DSS, and I know your man
isn’t. I have a pretty good idea who you are. You’re right, I don’t believe for
a second your man is involved, but I have to play the diplomat here. If we
can’t prove that he isn’t involved, the Russians will demand he be handed over,
and we’ll have no choice but to do it.”

“I
understand, ma’am.”

“I’m not
sure you do, Agent.” She placed a hand on his chest, lowering her voice further.
“Do whatever it takes to prove his innocence. You might just be preventing a
war.”