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

  “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.

  Asita caught it, tucking it under his arm and grabbing his father, leading them away from the crowd.

  “I-I’ve heard nothing,” he said, shame in the lie already gripping his chest.

  “I heard he became sick after eating!” shouted a woman, her voice laced with anger. “Somebody must have poisoned him!”

  Asita tugged on Cunda’s arm harder as he navigated them through the growing crowd as quickly as he could. Cunda continued to shake, his mind shutting down as the shouts grew, his heart fluttering in his chest as fear gripped him, his stride slowing.

  “Come on!” hissed his son, squeezing his arm sharply, the pinch snapping him back to reality. “We have to get out of here before it’s too late!”

  Cunda nodded, his surroundings coming back into focus as he picked up his pace, following his son through to the edge of the crowd toward a group of houses that led to their camp outside the village.

  “That’s him there!” shouted someone. Cunda looked over his shoulder and nearly soiled himself as the entire throng turned toward him, someone pointing. “He’s the one who brought the meal!”

  “He poisoned him!”

  “He killed the Buddha!”

  Asita and Cunda both broke into a sprint, the younger Asita quicker off the mark, darting between two houses, a narrow alleyway extending almost a dozen houses from the main village square they had just come from. They ran as fast as Cunda’s older legs could carry them, Asita continually slowing down to urge him forward, but Cunda was gripped in fear. He glanced over his shoulder once more as the crowd tried to shove its way through the narrow opening at the beginning of the alley.

  And he tripped.

  His left shoulder hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his body. Powerful hands had him in their grasp quickly, pulling him back to his feet as the crowd surged like ants over an obstacle, a flash flood of humanity on a previously dry riverbed.

  Cunda drew his sword.

  “Go!” he yelled to his son. “I will hold them off.”

  “No, we will fight them together!” His son drew his own sword.

  “No, there is only room for one to fight, and you must survive. Take the bowl and tell our village what the Buddha said. Seek the wisdom in his words.”

  “But, Father, I can’t leave you!”

  The first of the bloodthirsty crowd was almost upon them. “You must! If we both die, the Buddha’s words will be for nothing. Our village must be saved, and after today, you are its leader!”

  He swung his sword hard, sweeping across the breadth of the alleyway, removing the head of one man, cleaving halfway through another.

  “Go, my son! Now!” he shouted as he swung again at the leading edge of the crowd, suddenly slowed, pushed forward by the surge of flesh behind them. He raised the sword over his head and swung down, a startled man’s head splitting like a log, his blood spurting over the man beside him who screamed in fear, pushing back against the crowd-surge that would have him challenge the now recovered Cunda.

  Cunda stole a glance behind him to see his son, halfway down the alley, backing away, keeping a pleading eye on
his father, tears rolling down his cheeks as Cunda took another step back, swinging his sword, slicing through a fleeing man’s back, removing the outstretched arm of the man next to him.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Pray for me!” he shouted, knowing the sins he was committing would condemn him to eternal damnation, the killing of so many unforgivable no matter the reason. He wasn’t a soldier with the luxury of war as an excuse, he was merely the leader of a simple village, leadership thrust upon him purely because of family lineage rather than popular choice.

  A reluctant leader, a desperate leader.

  He swung again but now saw swords held high nearing him as those who were unarmed tried to squeeze back through the alley, those with swords shoving forward to engage the murderer of the Buddha.

  “You will be avenged, Father!”

  He spun toward his son. “No! Do not avenge me! They know not what they do! They are blinded by lies and fear and hatred! Just go! Save yourself! Save our village!”

  Metal scraped the ground behind him as a roar erupted from what sounded like an impossibly loud man.

  Cunda swung around, his sword rising from near his ankles to waist height as he faced the enemy, the blade continuing upward, knocking the man’s blade aside and removing his hand.

  But there were more blades now, rushing toward him, their owners desperate to get into the battle, blocked only by those in front of them. He swung furiously now, left and right, battling two blades at once, neither able to get a full swing at him, each blocking the other.

  Yet he was tiring.

  If energy weren’t his enemy, he could potentially hold them for hours, but it wasn’t, and with each one he took out of the battle, a fresh body faced him moments later.

  He retreated another step and looked behind him.

  Asita was gone.

  Be safe, my son.

  His heavy heart threatened to overwhelm him as he thrust forward, burying his blade into a man’s stomach. As he withdrew the man collapsed on Cunda’s sword, causing the blade to drop to the ground. He fell back several steps quickly, dragging his sword free but it was too late. A blade descended upon his left shoulder, burying itself deep. He screamed out in pain, grabbing the sharp metal with his left hand, pushing it up and out of his flesh, slicing through his palm as he did so.

  He had no time to even look at the bloody stump that now lay dead on his shoulder, instead swinging weakly at the next thrust, his parry almost useless now.

  His sword clattered to the ground.

  His leg was sliced open and he dropped to his still good knee, his now free hand pushing against the dirt as he looked up at the attacker who had finally bested him.

  Rage filled eyes, so much hate it was inconceivable in the heart of this simple villager, glared down at him, freezing his soul with fear, the descending death blow going almost unnoticed as time seemed to slow down. The crowd roared their anger, screams of pain echoed through the alleyway, swords clanged as they tried to get into the fight. His nostrils flared with the smell of his own blood and those of his victims, the smell enough to make his mouth fill with bile. The air, thick with a mist of carnage, had a metallic taste that mixed with the sickness in his mouth, threatening to make him gag.

  And the agony in his neck, as the unnoticed sword sliced clean through, was mercifully short lived, his thoughts of the Buddha’s last words.

  Trust in what you see.

  And as his head tumbled to the ground, rolling several times, he died knowing he’d never decipher the riddle meant to save his people.

  Outside the Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Present Day

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson nearly shoved the Secretary of State into the back of the armored limousine, jumping in after her as the driver floored it, the door closing of its own accord. Four escort vehicles, two in the front and two in the rear were manned by his team and Bureau of Diplomatic Security personnel, the entire procession accompanied by half a dozen Vietnamese military vehicles with police motorcycles leading, blocking off intersections as they made the rush back to the hotel.

  “Are you okay, Madam Secretary?”

  Atwater nodded, visibly shaken. “Do we know what happened?”

  Dawson shook his head, activating his comm. “Bravo One-One, Bravo One. Sit rep, over?”

  Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung’s voice came in clear. “Bravo One, we’re secure at Echo Two but there might be a problem, over.”

  “Explain.”

  “My security pass was stolen from my room. I’ve reported it and a new one is being issued. We’re double-checking all IDs here, over.”

  “Roger that, ETA seven minutes, out.” Dawson chewed on his cheek. A stolen ID. He knew Niner and there was no way he had lost it or screwed up. Protocol would be to secure the ID in the room safe, but hotel room safes were notoriously unsecure.

  The question now was whether or not it was a targeted theft, or simply unintentional, the thief grabbing everything he found. He had to assume targeted. He turned to Atwater. “Once you’re secure I’ll find out what happened, but I’m reasonably certain you weren’t the target.”

  “I’m not waiting seven minutes, I want to know what happened now.” She snapped her fingers at her aide. “Call the Embassy, tell them what happened and tell them I want to know the status of the Russian Prime Minister ASAP!”

  Ronald Greer pulled out his cellphone and quickly began dialing. Dawson frowned. “Madam Secretary, that phone isn’t secure, the conversation could be monitored. I highly recommend we wait until we have access to our secure comms.”

  Atwater dismissed his concerns with a bat of the hand. “Nonsense. We have nothing to hide.”

  Dawson turned his head toward the window so as not to betray how moronic he felt the Secretary’s statement was. He had lost count of the number of times they had found themselves in hot water because some politician who thought they knew better ignored the advice of him or one of his team.

  And this day, he had a feeling, wasn’t going to end well.

  He had heard four shots before they had exited the building, all from the same type of weapon, his quick glimpse and the sound of the shots suggesting a Makarov PM, probably a leftover from the war. The man appeared Vietnamese and it was pretty clear he was specifically after the Russian Prime Minister.

  This is probably going to be the biggest international incident since the assassination of Franz Ferdinand triggered World War I.

  Another intersection was cleared, their speed at best thirty, Hanoi’s streets not accustomed to unexpected emergency motorcades. His mental counter ticked down another intersection, six to go. When they arrived and the Secretary was secure in her room, he would be recommending an immediate return to Washington, the Russian response to the assassination of their Prime Minister unpredictable.

  But he already knew the answer would be ‘no’.

  Greer was speaking in hushed tones and Dawson was half-listening, updates coming through his comm from the security detail, he more concerned with securing his package.

  Five to go.

  “The Prime Minister is dead,” said Greer, fear and shock in his voice. “Along with his entire security detail.”

  Dawson resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows. The entire detail? They were clearly caught off guard, the four shots he had heard rapid, the four shots fired within less than three seconds, and with there being no return fire, they were obviously all accurate.

  “Has there been a response from the Russians yet?” asked Atwater.

  “Not yet. We’re not even sure if they know.”

  “Christ, there’s going to be hell to pay, and we were there when it happened!” She jabbed a finger at Dawson. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

  The muscle memory in Dawson’s right hand mimicked tearing her throat out, the accusation idiotic. “I did, ma’am. I immediately evacuated my charge and am in the process of securing them.”

  A
puff of air escaped Atwater’s lips as if she thought it a pathetic answer.

  “The Russians are going to blame us for this. We have an enhanced security detail—what are you, Delta? SEAL?—and you let him get killed!”

  Thanks for blowing my cover, asshole.

  He kept quiet.

  Three more.

  “What?” Greer’s exclamation was one of pure shock as he turned to Atwater. “They’re saying he was killed by an American!”

  Atwater’s jaw dropped and Dawson felt his chest tighten.

  This is going to turn into a Charlie-Foxtrot in a hurry.

  Outside Kusinara, Malla Kingdom

  Near modern day Indian/Nepalese border

  401 BC

  Asita skidded to a halt as he heard his father scream. He turned, gripping his sword but heard the dull thud of the deathblow echo through the alleyway he had left only moments before, then the cheers of the crowd.

  He bent over and vomited.

  Spitting the harsh liquid from his mouth he said a quick prayer and turned, rushing into the forest to the east of the village, weaving left and right through the dense foliage, the roar of the crowd still behind him as they discovered only one of the two they were after had fallen.

  Heading directly for the camp they had made several days earlier upon arrival, tucked on the other side of this small thick of trees, he began to shout to the servants who had accompanied them, hoping they heard him.

  “Pack immediately!” he cried. “We must leave now!”

  He burst through the trees and into their small camp, a large tent shared by he and his father, several smaller ones for their entourage of four and supplies. The servants stood dumbstruck at his shouts, their faces questioning what there was no time to question.

  “They’re coming. They mean to kill us all!”

  Action.

  He dove into his tent, surveying the room and quickly decided nothing was worth saving. He grabbed a small satchel and slung it over his shoulder, placing the now precious clay bowl into it then reemerged to see the supplies inside the tents quickly being tossed from within.