The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (10 page)

Sarkov
nodded his appreciation. “Unfortunately we have not taken him into custody,
however we have him contained.”

“Oh, so
you found him!” Acton decided to play dumb. “I’m happy to hear that. The police
were after the wrong man for a while there so I’m glad that’s been cleared up.
Do you know why he did it?”

Sarkov’s
eyes narrowed. “Wrong man?”

Acton
continued his charade deciding it was best he continue with the truth with the
stakes so high. “Yeah, they showed us a photo of a man, some Asian American I
guess, saying he was the shooter. But I had a clear look at him and it wasn’t
the same man. I’m glad they got that sorted out.” He took a sip of his water,
sweat trickling down his back.

“I’m
afraid you’re mistaken, Professor. We know who the shooter is, and we know
where he is. At the moment however your government is shielding him. I wonder
why that is?”

The
bathroom door opened and Laura stepped out in a bathrobe, her hair tied up in a
towel atop her head, her face flushed. Acton noticed she left the door open
only slightly. “Forgive my appearance,” she said, smiling. “You caught me in
the shower.” She paused, her smile still in place. “I’m sorry, I was expecting
Vietnamese police.”

Sarkov
struggled out of his chair. “Igor Sarkov, Professor Palmer, Russian Ministry of
Foreign Affairs,” said the man, walking over and shaking Laura’s hand with a
bow. “A pleasure to meet such an accomplished woman.”

Laura
returned the handshake. “Thank you, Mr. Sarkov. Do I have time to dress? It
will only take a moment.”

“Of
course, madam, please.”

Laura
disappeared into the bedroom, the door closing behind her. Sarkov returned to
his seat. “You are a very fortunate man, Professor. Not only is your wife a
wealthy woman and accomplished in her field, she is remarkably beautiful.”

“Thank
you, I shake my head every day that she agreed to marry me,” Acton said with a
smile. “You said I was mistaken. How?”

“In your
insistence that the man we know entered the museum and assassinated our Prime
Minister is not the man you saw.”

Acton
shrugged, slightly. “All I can tell you is what I saw. The man I saw was at
least fifty years old and the man in the photo looks twenty years younger.
Besides, the ID you had photocopied said his name was Jeffrey Green. The man
who was the shooter was named Phong.”

“Phong?”

“Yes,
Phong.”

“How do
you know this?”

“Because
they spoke. And your Prime Minister knew him from the Vietnam War.”

“Tell me
more.” Sarkov seemed genuinely interested, which gave Acton some hope that
perhaps this man
was
actually after the truth.

“This
man, Phong, claimed the Prime Minister had massacred his village in
nineteen-seventy-four.”

Sarkov
leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Did the Prime Minister deny this?”

Acton
shook his head. “No, in fact he claimed he had wiped out many villages then he
seemed to remember the man when he was shown a bowl, saying Phong’s name first.”

Sarkov’s
head slowly shook back and forth, as if in disbelief. “
If
what you say
is true, then the man would easily be in his fifties.”

“Agreed.”

A sudden
burst of air from between his lips was accompanied by a one-handed scalp
massage. “Again,
if
this is true, and I’m not saying I necessarily
believe you, but
if
it is true, we will need proof of this. And
quickly.”

Laura
appeared and both men rose, Sarkov again with effort. “Lovely lady!” he
exclaimed, admiring her simple outfit. “Isis herself couldn’t be more
beautiful!”

Laura
smiled as she took a seat near Mai. “You flatter me, sir.”

Sarkov
bowed slightly. “I hope it is not unwelcome.” He looked at Acton. “And it is
all in good taste, I assure you.”

It was
Acton’s turn to bow. “Your flattery honors me, sir.” He motioned for Sarkov to
sit down and the man plopped once again in his seat.

“Madam,
you I suppose support this story of your husbands?”

“I do,”
replied Laura. “I saw the shooter and he was definitely not the man in the
photograph. And they definitely knew each other.”

Sarkov
shoved his lips in and out several times. “And how old would you say he was?”

Acton
assumed Laura hadn’t heard the conversation and just prayed her estimate was in
at least the same ballpark as his. “I’d guess fifty or sixty. I only caught a
few quick glimpses of him, but definitely an older man.”

“Yet he
jumped through a window and made his escape. Fairly spry, would you not say?”

“Hey,
Stallone is late sixties, Chuck Norris is in his seventies,” replied Acton,
hoping the references weren’t lost on their Russian “guest”.

Sarkov
nodded. “This is true.” He leaned forward slightly. “I must confess I love the
Expendables movies. Sylvester Stallone is one of my favorites, though I must also
confess that in my country Rambo Three is considered a comedy.” Sarkov roared
in laughter and the others joined in, albeit with a little discomfort, this man
quite possibly holding their lives in his hands.

“What
now, sir?” asked Acton. “When will we get our passports back?”

Sarkov’s
face was red from laughing. As he sucked in several deep breaths and a few more
gulps of water, he returned to a more normal pasty white with red blotches. “I
am confident that you are innocent bystanders,” he said. “Your stories however
don’t match what my Vietnamese counterparts are insisting is accurate. If it
were up to me, I would let you go about your business now, however,
unfortunately for us all, Moscow has sent a senior investigator, Mr. Dimitri Yashkin,
who will be arriving this afternoon.” Sarkov sighed. “I’m afraid he won’t be so
easily convinced.” Sarkov spread his hands out in a conciliatory fashion. “I am
but a bureaucrat, exiled to this horrible posting because I have not kissed the
proper asses as you Americans might say. Where I see innocence, my counterpart
might see conspiracy.” He pushed himself out of his chair, the others rising
with him. “I will have your passports returned, but I believe you may have a
limited window in which to take advantage of them, if you know what I mean.” He
tapped the side of his nose then headed for the door. Opening it he turned back
toward Acton and Laura, Mai remaining behind in the living area. “It was a
pleasure meeting you both,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.” He snapped his
fingers. “The papers for these good people!”

Major
Yin stepped forward, producing two passports.

“And
Miss Trinh’s papers?” asked Acton as he took the passports.

“Of
course,” said Sarkov, giving a wink only they could see. He snapped his
fingers, holding out his hand without looking. Mai’s ID was quickly placed in
his palm and Sarkov handed them over. “Have a good day.” He closed the door
behind him, leaving everyone sighing in relief.

Acton
carefully looked out the peephole and saw the procession just disappearing out
of sight. He returned to the sitting area as Laura opened the bathroom door.
“It’s safe to come out now.”

Dawson
stepped into the room.

“Did you
hear that?” asked Acton.

Dawson
nodded. “We might just have an ally.”

“For a
few hours at least,” said Laura, plopping onto the couch. “Once this new guy
arrives none of us are safe.”

“Here’s
what we’re going to do. Miss Trinh, you’ll leave as planned with your
legitimate identification papers. Go to the museum and see if you can get the
camera footage. I’m going to return to the Secretary’s floor; they’re due to
interrogate Niner any minute now and I want to be there.”

“What
about us?” asked Laura.

“I’m
afraid you two are stuck. There’s no way you’re getting on an airplane without
being stopped. I’d suggest you try to leave the hotel with the excuse you’re
going for a walk. Then try to get to the embassy.”

“But
she’s British.”

“They’ll
let her in. I’ll phone ahead so they know.”

“Then?”

“Hole up
until the dust settles.”

Gandhara Kingdom
Modern day Myanmar
401 BC, four months after the Buddha’s death

Asita hadn’t been hugged this much since his mating ceremony. The
tears of joy and relief, mixed with fear and sorrow, were overwhelming, but he
kept a smile on his face and a steady timbre to his voice, realizing that his
people, for they were now
his
people, needed strength. They needed a
leader and his father was gone.

All the
pressures of these dangerous and uncertain times now fell on his shoulders.

Already
he didn’t like the burden of leadership.

He
raised his hands to quiet the crowd that surrounded him, Channa and his
grandfather keeping a respectful distance, his wife and children at his side,
clinging to him as if they feared he might not be real.

“Thank
you for your warm welcome. It has been a long, hard journey, but it would
appear my hardships were trivial compared to yours.”

“What of
your father?” asked someone.

A deep
sadness spread across Asita’s face. “He is dead.” He drew in a breath, looking
from person to person. “Killed by the same people who destroyed our village.”

“They
said he killed the Buddha!”

“That’s
a lie!” barked Asita, immediately lowering his voice as the crowd jumped. “That
is a lie told by these murderous fiends. My father was given the honor of
preparing a meal for the Buddha. We did, and sampled it ourselves. It was not
poisoned. The Buddha fell sick after eating, but his companion assured us that
the Buddha had been ill before and had come to the village where we met him in
order to prepare for Parinirvana as he knew he was dying.

“The
Buddha gave us all his blessing”—this elicited murmurs of excitement—“and this
blessed vessel”—he retrieved the clay bowl from his satchel and held it up to
oohs and aahs—“along with the answer to the question my father asked of him.”
He paused as he slowly turned, the bowl held high in the air so everyone could
see it. “We have suffered, my friends, for many years. The question had been
whether or not to move. As you know, both my father and I have been of the
opinion that we should move to more fertile ground, no matter how long this has
been our home. But others disagreed.”

He
lowered the bowl, stopping his spin as his eyes rested on the most vocal
opponent to moving. Their eyes dropped and Asita turned, looking at those who
had supported his father. “To assuage any doubt, it was agreed that my father
would seek the wisdom of the Buddha, and he did, quite possibly the last person
to do so before the Buddha’s death, which I think to be a great honor and omen,
it important we heed the Buddha’s words since they were among his last.”

“What
did he say?” asked someone, desperate for Asita to come to his point. But Asita
wouldn’t be rushed. There were many here who had forced this journey upon his
father, and if it weren’t for them, his father would be alive right now.

“When
the Buddha gave my father his wisdom, he gave him this bowl. His message was,
‘Trust in what you see’, and it was left to us to figure out what he meant.
Before my father could contemplate the wise one’s words, we were set upon by a
mob who falsely accused my father of poisoning the Buddha. My father fought a
hundred men if it were one, and valiantly held the mob off until we could make
our escape, ensuring the Buddha’s words and gift would find his people.” He
held the bowl up again. “And I have succeeded in doing so, in fulfilling my
father’s dying wish that this gift and the wisdom offered with it reach his
people.”

“But
what does it mean?”

Asita
smiled. “I have puzzled over that for many a night, I assure you, but in a
moment of grief upon discovering the destruction of our village, the wisdom of
the great Buddha became clear to me as I looked into the bowl, filled with
water from our own stream.”

“What
did you see?”

“Myself.”

He let
the word sink in for a moment, then continued before anyone else spoke. “I saw
the reflection of myself, and realized what the Buddha meant. He said, ‘Trust
in what you see’, and I saw myself. In other words, I should trust myself. If
it had been my father who had looked in the bowl, he would have seen himself,
and known the Buddha meant to trust in himself.”

Asita
squared his shoulders, inflating his chest to make himself appear even larger
than he already was, an imposing figure on any battlefield.

“Therefore
I shall trust in myself, as the Buddha has instructed, and trust in my father’s
wishes. We will move the village. In the morning, we head east, toward the
rising sun, until we receive a sign from the Buddha that our new home has been
found.”