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

There
were murmurs of nervousness and excitement, most happy a decision had been
made, others not so certain. The village broke off into small groups, debates
beginning to rage, but Asita ignored them, instead waving to Channa who
directed him to a temporary shelter that had been waiting for them just in case
they arrived.

Settling
in for the night, out of sight of the others, Asita broke into a cold sweat,
shivering from head to toe as fear and doubt set in.

How
can I trust in what I see when I don’t even trust in myself?

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day

Igor Sarkov rode the elevator down to the ninth floor for his
scheduled meeting with the American assassin. In silence. He had read the
dossiers on the two professors before meeting them. They were well respected,
well connected and well financed. With a knack of being in the wrong place at
the wrong time.

He
tapped his chin. If he was a more cynical man, he might think that they were
always exactly
where
they were supposed to be, exactly
when
they
were supposed to be. FSB files on them suggested they had been involved in more
than one American Special Forces operation over the past several years beginning
with the assassination of the American President a few years ago. And the
assassination of the Pope. And the kidnapping of the next Pope. And the assault
on the Vatican. There was even an unsubstantiated rumor that they were involved
during the Qing coup attempt in China.

They
either weren’t who they said they were, or they were the unluckiest two people
he had ever met.

How
they found each other…

The door
chimed and he stepped out into the hallway, immediately greeted by several men
who were clearly security, and one woman he had no doubt was sent to disarm him
with her smile.

“Mr.
Sarkov?”

He
nodded with a slight bow.

“I’m
Secretary Atwater’s aide, Cynthia Boyle. Please follow me. I’ve been instructed
to tell you that you have fifteen minutes with our agent, and one of our people
will be in the room at all times. You may ask him anything you want.”

Sarkov
said nothing, there being no point. He was actually a little shocked the
Americans were giving him any time with the suspect, which suggested to him
either they thought he wasn’t involved, or he was and they wanted it to appear
they were cooperating.

He
wasn’t sure what to think. The Vietnamese were convinced this Mr.
Green—obviously an alias—was the shooter, but for some reason he believed the
two professors. Their dossiers would suggest he shouldn’t, but he never put
much stock in FSB files any more than he had in KGB files when he was a younger
man.

He had
always wanted to be a police officer, or more accurately a detective, but the
Communist government, through his father, had other plans for him. He had
become KGB, then after the fall, FSB, then finally part of Foreign Affairs,
dealing with embassy and diplomatic security. It had been glamorous work at
times and his dear, dear wife had loved it so.

His
chest tightened slightly at the thought of her. She had died only two years ago
in a car accident in St. Petersburg, their son who was driving dying days later
from his injuries.

T-boned
by a drunk connected to what many in Russia now called the Party. The Communist
party still existed, but it was United Russia that now called the shots, the
Communists relegated to the sidelines, and the Russia he had such high hopes
for after the collapse was quickly regressing into the old ways.

And it
shamed him.

He
didn’t like Hanoi, it was too hot for his large frame, but it was about as far
from Moscow politics as you could get because Moscow really didn’t care what
happened here. As far as they were concerned Hanoi would remain within the
Russian sphere of influence no matter what happened. Their efforts were focused
elsewhere.

But now
with the Prime Minister assassinated, everything could change. He was now in
the limelight, and he didn’t like it. He had two more years then he’d get his
meagre pension and retire to some place cold.

Perhaps
Canada.

But if
this investigation didn’t turn out the way the leadership wanted, he just might
find himself in Siberia.

Six feet
under the permafrost.

“Right
in here, Mr. Sarkov.”

He was
shown into a small conference room flanked by two DSS agents. Inside sat the
man he recognized from the photocopied identification card, and another he
recognized by the look on his face as a very dangerous man. His dossier
supplied by the Vietnamese said he was Mr. White—what is with the colors?—but
FSB pegged him as American Special Forces.

Sarkov
sat in the uncomfortable chair, noticing with a slight smile that his suspect
was seated quite comfortably. A pitcher of ice water sat on the table and he
poured himself a tall glass, downing half of it before refilling. He pulled his
chair in and crossed his arms on top of the table. “I am Igor Sarkov, Ministry
of Foreign Affairs. Russian, if you don’t recognize my accent.” He smiled at
the suspect as the door closed, leaving him alone with the Asian American and
the Special Forces operator in the corner of the room, standing by the window.

If
he’s here, then this is one of his men.

Which
had his mind racing. If the suspect was American Special Forces, then perhaps
this
was
an assassination by the Americans after all. His ID had
definitely been used to gain access to the Museum, the witnesses who said it
wasn’t him had a long history of being involved in international events,
therefore could be spies themselves, which meant none of their answers could be
trusted. And if they were lying, then there was a conspiracy here, which meant
this man hadn’t acted alone.

He
hadn’t gone rogue.

“Your
name is Mr. Jeffrey Green. You’re a Special Agent with the Bureau of Diplomatic
Security.”

“Yes.”

“In
fact, you’re actually a member of the United States Special Operations
Command.”

Remarkably
the man showed no sign of surprise.

“I beg
your pardon?”

“What is
your motto? Sine Pari? Without equal? I believe some of our Spetsnaz soldiers
would disagree.”

The man
shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m a DSS agent
on temporary assignment to the Secretary of State’s detail while in Hanoi.”

“Temporary.
And where is your permanent posting? Fort Bragg? Coronado?”

“Washington,
DC.”

“Interesting.”
He leaned back. “Now, how do you explain that your ID card was used at the National
Museum of History today?”

“I
reported my card stolen this morning from my hotel room safe.”

“How
convenient.”

“It’s
the truth.”

“Of
course it is. A DSS agent would never lie.”

“I don’t
know about that, but I’m not.”

“So
where were you when the shooting took place?”

“In my
room.”

“Can
anyone verify that?”

“No, I
won the bet and got the odd man out room. I’d been on the nightshift and went
to bed a few hours before I got the call about the emergency recovery.”

“Which
took how long?”

“Under
ten minutes.”

“So you
mean to tell me that in under ten minutes you were found, woken, got dressed
and into position? Where was your position?”

“At the
rear entrance of the hotel where the Secretary would be arriving.”

“And you
did all that in ten minutes.”

“Yes.
But I had already showered and dressed beforehand.”

“But we
only have your word for that. For all we know you weren’t in your room at that
time and instead were busy assassinating the Prime Minister then returning
here.”

“How
would I have gotten here, sir?”

“A
motorbike would get you here
very
quickly. In fact, I wouldn’t be
surprised if you were in disguise as part of the motorcade. Or perhaps in the
Secretary’s limousine?”

“That’s
ridiculous, sir. I’m sure there’s security footage at the museum that will show
it wasn’t me that used the ID.”

“Vietnam
is a rather primitive country, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t count on any video
footage being found.”

“This is
a fairly high-end hotel. I’m sure there are cameras here that could prove I was
where I say I was.”

Sarkov
threw up his hands, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry, but at the insistence of
your own DSS agents, all cameras on this floor were disabled.”

“That’s
unfortunate.”

“You may
find your attitude won’t play well with my colleague who will be arriving
shortly. He will no doubt want to interview you, and I am certain will insist
it be done, elsewhere, shall we say?”

“I’ve
got nothing to hide.”

Sarkov
rose, as did his suspect. “Unfortunately, Mr.
Green
, I know you are
lying to me about at least one thing.”

“And
what is that?”

“Your
name. And when you lie to me about your name, that means you are lying to me
about who you really are. I know you are Special Forces, which means you are
quite capable of killing the Prime Minister and his security detail. You are
among the best in the world, of that I have no doubt. Your identification was
used, that fact is not in dispute. And you are a liar, I think we can all agree
on that fact as well.” Sarkov shrugged, raising his hands palm upward. “I tried
to get the truth from you, and you chose to stick to your story. If you were to
confess, then this could be handled through diplomatic channels where your
government would most likely have you disappear, or fake your death, or
something, sabre rattling would ensue, then life would go on. But since you are
going to try and hide your involvement, this will turn into a battle of wills
that may erupt out of control.” Sarkov walked to the door, putting his hand on
the knob. “Remember where you are, gentlemen. You have no friends here, no
power here, no influence. Like the last, this is a war you cannot win.”

Sarkov
excited the room, nodded to Miss Boyle, then walked toward the elevator,
boarding the one held for him. He returned to the ground floor, joined by his
Vietnamese counterpart, Major Yin.

“Did you
find out anything?” asked Yin.

“Only
that they are lying.”

“Which
ones?”

“All of
them.”

“Should
I have the professors arrested?”

Sarkov
shook his head. “No. Let’s see what they do.”

Valley of the Red River
Modern day Vietnam
388 BC, Thirteen years later

The constant shivers continued to rack Asita’s bones. His trusted
companion, Channa, fixed the blanket draping his shoulders as four of the
younger men carried the chair that had been fashioned for him after the
sickness had taken over long ago. His fever had come and gone over the years,
but it had been bad now for many moons, his body weak though his years numbered
less than forty.

The
journey made it tougher.

They had
been travelling for so long another generation had been born, the eldest lost.
Grandfather had been right—he was too weak for the journey. He died only weeks
after starting, despite being carried. Asita himself had fallen ill that very
night but used it as proof from the divine that this place was cursed and they
should leave in all haste.

But
nothing he could construe as a sign had made itself known to him. They had
tried settling on numerous occasions only to find something to drive them away
either days or weeks, sometimes months later.

So they
continued.

He knew
his people were frustrated and some wanted his son, barely sixteen, to take
over. Which would mean Asita would have to die.