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

  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.”

  Gandhara Kingdom

  Modern day Myanmar

  401 BC, four months after the Buddha’s death

  Asita dropped to his knees, burying his head in his hands as sobs racked his body. His shoulders heaved with each cry, his chest tightening, his stomach a knot as bile began to fill his mouth.

  His village was gone.

  His home, his family, his friends.

  Gone.

  His wife and three children.

  Gone.

  He felt the comforting hand of Channa on his shoulder as he too collapsed. For Channa had a family as well. A wife and two daughters.

  The two of them were all that was left.

  “We are alone,” whispered Asita.

  Channa for once said nothing, there no words of comfort that could be said. Instead he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling toward what had been his home, it now a burnt out hulk, the thatch roof gone, the mud and stone walls collapsed to half their former height.

  Asita couldn’t bring himself to look at his own home, the happy memories like daggers to his surviving heart. The horrors his poor wife and children must have endured at the hands of those who would have their revenge had his fists pounding the earth over and over as grief and anger overwhelmed him.

  In a fit of anger he reached into his satchel, grabbed the bowl and flung it into the stream that had once been a small river, just one of the curses their village had suffered over the years. The bowl landed on its side and quickly filled with water, sinking enough to be caught up on the streambed, it too shallow.

  The satisfaction he felt ridding himself of the albatross that had been around his neck all these months was brief, he returning to pounding the ground in grief.

  “They’re gone!”

  It was Channa’s excited voice that had him stop, his fists shoved hard against the dirt as he looked up through tear-burned eyes at the excited utterance.

  He said nothing.

  Channa was running to the next home, then the next, repeating his cry. “They’re gone! They’re all gone!”

  Asita’s pulse was pounding in his ears, drowning out the words of his friend.

  And they were excited words.

  Happily excited.

  It took him a few moments to comprehend that his friend’s mood had changed and he began to look around, to look past the horrors he had initially focused on, and to see what wasn’t there.

  Bodies.

  There were no bodies anywhere. Surely if his village had been massacred then there should be bodies.

  But there were none.

  Scavengers?

  There would be evidence. Bones, blood, something.

  He rose, joining in the search, and after examining the final burnt-out hulk of a former family’s home, he came to a stop. Channa was standing in a clearing used only for solemn occasions.

  Cremation.

  The funeral pyres had clearly been used, a large amount of ash and dust accumulated, more than he remembered seeing. And there were still remains visible, as if there had been no one left behind to tend to the fires to make certain all had been properly dealt with.

  He looked at Channa whose renewed spirit had taken a hit, he again on his knees.

  But Asit
a smiled, a smile that began in the corners of his mouth, then spread across his cheeks as he realized the implications of what he saw.

  Someone had survived.

  For the dead don’t cremate themselves.

  Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam

  Present Day

  James Acton was shoved into a simple wood chair, handcuffs, clasped too tightly, tore into his flesh. He looked over at his wife, Laura Palmer, who had been forced into her own chair just as roughly, and wondered where poor Mai must be.

  I hope they don’t hurt her too much.

  He had no illusions that their passports would protect them. They were in Vietnam, not France. Nothing beyond shouts in Vietnamese had been said to them since their arrest, but everything said had Mai sobbing harder and harder and Acton was pretty sure he had seen her wet her pants.

  That poor woman!

  His own bladder had wanted to let go a few times but he had managed to remember his training, keeping calm through tactical breathing and focusing on Laura instead of the chaos surrounding them. He had done a stint in the National Guard years ago, serving in Gulf War One, and more recently had received intensive training from Laura’s security team, mostly made up of former British SAS.

  The training was paying off.

  The man who had been interrogating them entered and dropped into a chair opposite them, tossing several file folders on the table. The room was a reasonable size, some sort of meeting room at the museum, and the fact they had been taken here instead of some police station or worse had Acton still hopeful they might get out of this relatively unscathed.

  “I am Captain Nguyen, Hanoi Police Department.” He opened the first folder and put a pair of glasses on, peeking over them at Acton then back at the page as he read, his accent thick but his command of the English language clear. “You are Professor James Acton, American citizen residing in St. Paul, Maryland. You teach archeology at St. Paul’s University and were once a member of your National Guard. You have also been involved in a rather large number of international incidents over the past few years.” Nguyen removed his glasses. “Care to explain why you always seem to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, as you Americans might put it?”

  Acton decided glib wasn’t the way to play it. “As an archeologist I often find myself in parts of the world that are inherently dangerous. Unfortunately these are troubled times and I’ve found myself caught in the middle on occasion.”

  “Yet you manage to survive. As if someone is protecting you, almost as if you were meant to be in these situations, not an innocent bystander as you claim.”

  Acton thought of his guardian angels, the Bravo Team and CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane, a former student of his.

  And said nothing, instead merely flashing a ‘what can I say?’ face.

  Nguyen grunted then replaced his glasses. “And you are Professor Laura Palmer, Professor of Archeology at University College London, and now at the Smithsonian. Recently married to Professor Acton, you now live at his residence—”

  “Our,” interrupted Acton, mentally kicking himself for opening his mouth.

  Nguyen smiled slightly. “Forgive me. You now share a residence in St. Paul, Maryland. And you are apparently quite wealthy, inheriting a rather large sum of money from your late brother upon his death at one of your own dig sites.”

  Laura said nothing, merely nodding.

  Acton was impressed at how up to date their files were, however since American’s visiting Vietnam were few in number, they had most likely been vetted well in advance.

  “Where is Miss Trinh” he finally asked.

  “She is being questioned by my colleagues.”

  “I deman—” Acton stopped himself, smiling conciliatorily. “Sorry, I request to see her. She, like us, is innocent. We were merely bystanders.”

  “So you say. I say you were advance scouts for the assassin.” He opened the third file folder. “Mr. Jeffrey Green, United States Bureau of Diplomatic Security, attached to the Secretary of State’s security detail.” He flipped the page and turned the folder around, the photo shown clearly Niner.

  Thank God they don’t know who he really is.

  “Professor Acton, I ask you, how are you involved?”

  “I’m not.” Acton could feel his chest tighten and he forced himself to take deep, steady breaths without it being too obvious. He leaned forward. “Listen, can we get these handcuffs taken off? It’s really quite uncomfortable, and I’m sure you’re quite safe with your men on the other side of the door.

  A smile climbed one side of Nguyen’s cheek. He barked an order over his shoulder and the door immediately opened, a police officer stepping inside, the cuffs quickly removed. Acton rubbed his wrists as the door closed behind the officer.

  “Thank you,” said Laura, flexing her own. “Can I ask you something?”

  Nguyen leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, an amused expression on his face. “Of course, Professor Palmer.”

  “What possible motivation would we have to assist in killing the Russian Prime Minister?”

  Nguyen shrugged. “Revenge for what has happened in the Ukraine? Revenge for threatening European natural gas supplies? Revenge for the liberation of the Crimea? Revenge for not cooperating with respect to Syria?” He paused then leaned forward slightly. “Or perhaps you just wanted to embarrass Vietnam for you losing the war.”

  Laura smiled pleasantly. “But Captain, I’m British. We weren’t in the war.”

  Nguyen jerked back in his chair. “You live in America and are married to an American. You might as well be American.”

  Laura shrugged. “We are two archeology professors, invited here by your Professor Duc Tran to visit this very museum on this very day. The plans for this trip were begun months ago and finalized weeks ago. The Secretary of State of my husband’s country announced her visit a week ago, and I never heard that the Russian Prime Minister was going to be here. When was his trip announced?”

  Nguyen said nothing, merely tapping on the tabletop for several seconds as he bit his lip repeatedly, the skin turning an uncomfortable white.

  Nothing to say when presented with a logical argument?

  Acton decided to leave the talking to his wife, she apparently better at it than him.

  “Captain,” continued Laura, her voice gentle as she leaned forward, looking up slightly to try and catch his eye. “You strike me as a very intelligent, very capable man”—Way to butter him up!—“and I have no doubt that deep down you know we aren’t involved. I think an officer with your intelligence and experience knows we were simply bystanders. We’re simply teachers who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. If we were involved, we certainly had plenty of time to flee like everyone else did. We were too busy trying to avoid getting shot because we had no idea what was going on. If we knew, we would have fled.” She leaned forward even more. “Surely a man of your intelligence must see this?”

  Nguyen looked away almost as if he were uncomfortable with Laura’s proximity. He clearly seemed flustered, unused to dealing with Western women.

  Acton kept his mouth shut and his expression as earnest yet non-judgmental as he could while he swelled with pride for the woman he loved.

  Nguyen finally spoke, closing the folders and stacking them. “Professor, you have seen through me. Clearly I knew you were not involved, I was merely trying to shock your minds into perhaps revealing something you had seen, but weren’t aware you had.”

  Laura leaned back in her chair, throwing her hands out in appreciation. “See?” she said, looking at Acton. “I knew he was a clever man.” She smiled at Nguyen. “Very clever. You had me completely fooled.”

  Nguyen smiled, looking away awkwardly as he rose. “You are of course free to go. Most likely we will need to talk to you further. Your files indicate you are staying at the Daewoo Hanoi. This is correct?”

  “Yes,” replied Laura.

  “Then you may go, but plea
se do not leave without permission.”

  “Of course, and we’ll need Miss Trinh to accompany us as I’m sure you’ll understand,” said Laura as she rose from her chair. “She’s our guide and also our ride. You wouldn’t want us to get lost in your lovely city, would you?” She laughed, Acton joining in, Nguyen doing a chuckle-grunt.

  “Of course.”

  He opened the door and bellowed an order, clearly not having a problem looking strong in front of his men. As they walked out of the room, Acton still biting his tongue, Nguyen held out his arm, directing them down a hallway. They began to walk, two of Nguyen’s men in the lead, the Captain bringing up the rear.

  A door opened farther down the hall and Mai appeared, makeup smeared, cheeks flush from crying, her hair a mess.

  And her nose bloodied.

  Acton looked at Laura out of the corner of his eye and could tell she was about to erupt. He took her hand and squeezed it tightly.

  Let’s just get out of here!

  Laura squeezed back indicating the message had been received then took Mai by the hand when they reached her, saying nothing. They were led out of the building and to the parking lot where Mai’s car and driver, supplied by the museum, were waiting.

  Laura helped Mai into the backseat then climbed in after her, Acton squeezing in beside her. Nguyen looked inside. “Don’t leave the hotel.”

  He slammed the door shut before Laura could say anything.

  “Take us to our hotel, please,” said Acton. The man nodded, apparently understanding English, and they were soon off the museum grounds. Acton fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Laura who began to clean up a still terrified Mai.

  “Crack a window, would you, dear? It’s stifling in here.”

  Acton rolled his window down about halfway, the din from outside remarkable. The noise seemed distracting to Mai and her face was soon cleaned up, but it was obvious she was going to have two black eyes tomorrow. Acton found one of the bottles of water they had been offered earlier rolling on the floor. He stopped it with his foot and reached down, cracking it open. He handed it to Mai who smiled gratefully then winced. She drank then took a breath.