The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (13 page)

Phong
held his breath as the men of the village exchanged glances, the terror in
their eyes clear. They were farmers, not fighters. The days of fighting between
villages was long gone, generations of peaceful coexistence shattered in one
day as these strangers forced an impossible decision on his friends and family.

But to
their credit, none moved, none stood to join what was clearly an evil cause,
for it must be evil. If it were just, then why threaten those you would ask to
join you with death?

The
white man stepped forward, aiming a handgun at his cousin Duc’s head and fired.
Duc’s body crumpled to the ground eliciting wails from his wife and children,
his mother passing out.

“Who’s
next?” shouted the translator.

Duc’s
brother jumped to his feet and charged the white man only to be cut down by one
of the Viet Cong soldiers’ rifles. He writhed on the ground in agony, his wife
crawling toward him, pleading with their captors to let them live. The white
man straddled her, waving his gun at the others.

“Who
will join us to save her life?”

Nobody
stood, but several hesitant attempts were halted by others with the grab of a
shoulder. Phong wept silently as his heart filled with pride at the brave
display he was witnessing, those who had at first hesitated now stoic in their
resolve. They had heard the stories and knew that anyone who didn’t join would
be shot, including women and children. And should they join these men they’d be
forced to commit unspeakable atrocities that went against all the teachings of
Buddhism.

Another
orange robe was stained with red as the white man fired his weapon.

Phong
closed his eyes.

“Kill
them all.”

Immediately
the loudest sound Phong had ever heard erupted as multiple guns opened up on
his family. He buried his head in the grass, covering his ears, but nothing could
drown out the sound of the guns or the screams of his people.

And then
there was silence.

He
looked up and his chest heaved with anguish as he saw everyone he had ever
known and loved lying in a pile of bloodied flesh, some still alive, though too
near death for it to matter. The white man walked around the mound of flesh and
put bullets in each of those who still struggled to survive and within minutes
there was absolute silence save one baby, still held in his dead mother’s arms.

Phong
buried his head once again as the final shot rang out, silence reigning, the
horrors of moments before lost to the white noise of fluttering leaves.

The
sound of the white man speaking Vietnamese had his head lifting from the
ground. He wiped his eyes clear as the words set it.

“Destroy
everything.”

“Yes,
sir!”

Torches
were lit and the homes he had grown up in, played in, ate in and slept in were
quickly set ablaze, memories of a childhood wiped from history as the crackling
of fire replaced the gentle rustling of the leaves and the harsh, acrid smoke
overwhelmed the sweet smell of the grass he lay on. He cried as he finally
spotted the body of his father, draped protectively over his mother, and felt a
rage build inside him as he rose to his knees, still unseen by the murderous Viet
Cong and their white overlord.

The man
turned toward the shrine, stepping under its small roof.

“What’s
this?” he asked, picking up the bowl and looking inside.

“Some
religious icon,” replied his translator.

The man
threw the bowl against the stone surrounding the shrine, the clay shattering
into dozens of pieces, the precious ashes it contained spilled on the ground.

“There
is no room for religion in Communism.”

Phong
roared in anger as he jumped to his feet, charging toward the man who had massacred
his village, destroyed Buddha’s bowl, disrespecting the founder of their
village and their entire culture. Phong didn’t care as the weapons were turned
toward him, didn’t notice that the white man waved off the soldiers, instead
walking toward Phong, an amused smile on his face.

He
grabbed Phong by the top of the head, halting his advance. Phong’s arms swung
at the murderer as he pushed forward with all his might but it was useless, and
as the Viet Cong soldiers around him began to laugh at his futile efforts to
exact revenge, he felt humiliation begin to overwhelm him as he realized there
was nothing he could do, his small fifteen year old body no match for the fully
grown man in front of him.

And it
probably saved his life.

“What is
your name, boy?” asked the man in near perfect Vietnamese.

Phong
collapsed to his knees, his shoulders heaving in sobs as he fell back on his
haunches, crying, self-pity overwhelming him.

“Kill
me,” he whispered.

“What is
your name?”

“Phong.”

The man
motioned toward the pile of bodies now burning, the sickly sweet smell filling Phong’s
mouth with bile. “Is your family in there?”

Phong
nodded, closing his eyes as he saw the flesh of his father’s jaw melt off in
drips, his once proud visage now a smoldering mass of sticky goo on the
bloodstained ground.

“It’s
too bad you didn’t die with them.”

“Kill
me, please!”

“Why
would you die so readily?”

Phong
looked up at the man, dumbstruck at the question. “You killed everyone I have
ever known! You have destroyed the Founder’s Bowl, gifted to his father by the
great Buddha himself on the day of his death. You have scattered the Founder’s
ashes! And you ask why I want to die? My heart is filled with such rage and
sorrow I am no longer worthy to be with the living. I must leave this existence,
endure the bardos and be reincarnated to once again live a life worthy of
perhaps one day reaching Nirvana.”

The
white man shook his head slowly, frowning. “So much of your life has been
clouded with the nonsense of religion. Buddha? Karma? Reincarnation? These are
the ideas of a weak mind, an existence so frail and worthless that one looks
forward to death so they can escape their own pathetic selves in the hopes they
will be reborn into some form that might actually be worthy of existence, or to
join some imaginary deity in an afterlife of eternal bliss.” The man spat on the
ashes of the Founder Asita causing the rage to return. Phong’s fists clenched.

“So you
just might be a man after all,” observed the murderer, nodding toward Phong’s
fists. He kicked him in the chest, knocking him onto his back, a heavy boot
suddenly crushing the air from his chest. Phong gasped, grasping uselessly at
the black boot as the pressure increased. The man leaned forward, looking down
at him. “You will find no quarter with me, little man. Which is why I will let
you live. Tell the other villages what you have witnessed here today, and
should we not get volunteers the next time we come back, they too will suffer
the fate of your village.”

The
pressure was suddenly removed from his chest as the man stepped back leaving Phong
to gasp for breath, his chest heaving painfully as he lay on the ground, his
back soaking in the blood of his people, tears rolling into his ears as his
beaten self wallowed in misery, silently praying for death.

“Let’s
go!” ordered the man, walking away, his back turned on Phong, a final insult to
the boy, he so pathetic he wasn’t even deemed a threat worthy of attention.

Phong
pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at the departing Viet Cong, then
rolled himself over and onto his knees. The translator wasn’t as willing to
dismiss Phong as harmless, keeping his eye on him, raising his weapon as Phong
rose to his feet.

The
white man noticed and turned.

“Until
we meet again, young Phong.” He nodded and was about to turn when Phong finally
found his voice.

“I’m
going to kill you if I ever see you again!”

The man
tossed his head back, laughter roaring from within as the others stopped,
joining in. The man pointed at Phong, smiling. “You’ve finally found your
balls!” The levity wiped from his face as he took a single step toward Phong, Phong
taking a reflexive one back. “I look forward to that day.”

Phong,
trembling with fear and adrenaline, part of him hoping to provoke a quick
death, another enraged by the injustice he had witnessed, retook the lost
ground, advancing another step closer. “You know my name. What is yours?”

The
man’s chest inflated as his hands moved to his hips.

“I am
Captain Anatoly Petrov. And should we meet again, little one, you will die.”

Petrov
turned on his heel and disappeared into the forest, the Viet Cong following,
and within moments Phong was left alone with the dead, his village a mere
memory of what it once was.

And as
the embers of hate began to ignite in his heart, he made a promise to himself
that he doubted he would ever be able to keep.

If I
ever see Anatoly Petrov again, he will die, or I will die.

Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day

Phong Son Quan still couldn’t believe his luck. Yesterday had
started as any other day. A member of the maintenance staff at the Daewoo Hanoi
Hotel, a job he had proudly held for almost twenty years since the opening day
in 1996, he did his job and he did it well, keeping his head down as expected,
ignoring the guests unless spoken to directly.

He was a
model employee.

And
yesterday had changed all that.

For he
had seen a new guest arrive in the lobby, a guest he only caught a glimpse of
by accident.

Then
couldn’t take his eyes off.

It was a
face he’d never forget, and other than some wrinkles and gray hair, there was
no doubt who he was.

His
nemesis.

The
murderer of his entire village.

The man
who had let him live so that he could suffer the memories of that day for the
rest of his life.

The
Prime Minister of Russia.

Anatoly
Petrov.

Phong
didn’t care who he was now, all he cared about was who he was
then
.

Captain
Anatoly Petrov.

And his
vow of almost forty years ago, never forgotten, was suddenly no longer an empty
threat.

Petrov
had looked directly at him as he walked by, apparently not recognizing him. He
had resisted throwing himself at the bastard and was now thankful he had, for
he would simply have been arrested or worse, his family, friends and home
unavenged.

Instead
he had remained quiet, dropping his head down, his chin back on his chest as
the procession walked by. They were the second VIP delegation of the day, the
American Secretary of State having arrived earlier. He knew nothing of
politics, nothing of world events. He lived in a communist country that
controlled the news, instead only letting the people know about things the
Party wanted them to know about.

And
since the Party had been responsible for massacring everyone in his home, he
hated them with a passion that continued to burn to this day.

Which
was why he had moved into the city, taking simple manual labor jobs, eventually
getting his prized job at the finest hotel in Hanoi. He shunned the news,
didn’t have a phone, nor did he have a television. He did his job well, prayed
for those who had passed, and kept himself as healthy as he could for as long
as he could, in the event this day should arrive.

Which
was why he had never known his lifelong enemy had become so powerful a man.

He had
finished his shift then went for his end of day briefing on what was expected
the next day. Today. That was when he found out the Russian Prime Minister
would be going to the National Museum of History, leaving the hotel at exactly
9:45 in the morning, only fifteen minutes after the United States Secretary of
State would be leaving for the same destination.

The
significance hadn’t occurred to him at first until he was sitting in his tiny
apartment eating his evening meal of pho noodles and banh chung sticky rice
cakes. He knew there was no hope in reaching Petrov at the hotel, security was
too tight. But he now knew where the man would be and when.

He had
eyed the drawer of the rickety nightstand where he kept his gun, an old Makarov
he had found after the war years ago. Over time he had learned how to use it
during his mandatory military service and kept it clean and well oiled.

Always
ready for the day he would kill Captain Anatoly Petrov.

But what
was significant about what he had been briefed on was not just when and where
his target would be, but who would also be there.

The
American delegation.

And he
already knew from his duties that there was an Asian looking man on the
security delegation and that his room had a Do Not Disturb request until noon,
he apparently serving on the nightshift. Phong knew that in order to get into
the museum he would need to pretend to be part of one of the two delegations,
since it would surely be closed to the public. He couldn’t risk accessing the
Russian floors since he might be recognized, and he couldn’t speak their
language should the need arise.