The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (15 page)

Nguyen
stepped inside, his rage barely contained. “You have stolen files from a secure
network belonging to the Vietnamese people! When he is done with you,
then
your government will
protect
you!”

Sarkov
looked down at her with a sympathetic smile, waving the memory stick at her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Trinh, but should we find anything on this that shouldn’t be
there, it is out of my hands. Perhaps it would be best to admit to any wrong
doing now?”

Mai’s
shoulders slumped in defeat. She had hidden the files from casual observation.
Anyone with even a basic knowledge of computers would be able to find them.

“I
copied the camera footage,” she mumbled, her chin on her chest.

Nguyen
began a tirade cut off with a single raised finger by Sarkov.

“Did the
Americans ask you to?”

She
looked up at him, eyes wide as she shook her head vigorously. “No! I said I
would get it to prove their friend wasn’t the shooter!”

“Their
friend?”

Mai
gasped, realizing she had made a terrible gaffe. “No, I didn’t say that, I
mean, I misspoke.”

“We both
know you didn’t. So the Americans lied to me. I wonder why they would do that.”

The room
felt like it was starting to spin as Mai’s heart raced and a vicelike grip took
hold of her chest. She steadied herself with a hand on the corner of her desk,
closing her eyes which proved to be a mistake, she nearly losing her balance.
She opened them quickly and focused on the wastepaper basket in the corner.
Sarkov was saying something, the words distant and incoherent.

“Miss
Trinh!”

Sarkov’s
sharp shout brought her back to reality with a roar and she sucked in a sudden
breath, everything coming back into focus. She looked up at Sarkov. “They know
him from somewhere, and they know he wasn’t the shooter, as
I
know he
wasn’t the shooter. If you’re going to kill me because I told you the truth,
then so be it.”

Sarkov
pursed his lips, nodding, giving Mai the impression that he actually respected
her response. He motioned to Nguyen. “Take her away. I’ll want to interview her
later as will my colleague from Moscow.” He turned toward the door then looked
down at the much smaller Nguyen. “And I expect to find her in the exact same condition
she is in now.”

Nguyen
snapped to attention briefly in acknowledgement, his eyes, burrowing into
Mai’s, revealing his outrage at the limitation imposed upon him. Orders were
barked and she found herself between two policemen being hauled bodily down the
hallway, past all of her shocked colleagues.

It would
be humiliating if it weren’t so terrifying.

As she
stepped out in the light of day hundreds of cameras began to snap while she was
pushed into the back of a police car, flanked on either side in the backseat by
the two officers, another two in the front. The siren was turned on and the
vehicle pulled away from the museum and made its way through the police cordon
and onto the street.

Where
she caught a glimpse of the two professors in the museum car, horror on their
faces.

She just
hoped they would tell her family how she died.

With
honor, doing the right thing.

At the
hands of her father’s beloved government.

Outside the Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam

“Get out!”

Acton spun
toward the driver. “Excuse me?”

“Get
out! Get out! Get out!” screamed the man, motioning toward the door.

Acton
decided it was best to follow the order, it clear they were no longer welcome
now that Mai had been arrested. Acton looked back at Laura as she frowned,
opening the rear door. They both stepped onto the street and looked about.

“What
now?” asked Laura, eyeing the guards.

“We walk
straight toward that throng of press people and hopefully get recognized.”

He took
Laura by the hand and walked with purpose toward the street fronting the
entrance to the museum where the police had a cordon set up and international
press—he was sure there’d be few if any local press—were gathered, cameras
rolling.

He
spotted an ABC News reporter that he had met after an incident at the Vatican.
He raised his hand, hailing him as he pushed a broad smile out over his face.

“Charles!”

The man
looked at him, confused for a moment, then an expression of shock mixed with
recognition took over. “Professor Acton? What the bloody hell are you doing
here?”

“We were
visiting the museum when all hell broke loose,” he replied, flashing his ID to
the guards as he continued to walk toward the reporter. And just as he had
hoped, every camera and microphone was now turned toward them, someone finally
engaging them.

“Did you
see the incident?” yelled one.

“Do you
have a ride?” Acton asked Charles Stewart. Stewart nodded.

“Was it
an American?” shouted another.

Security
seemed confused, an officer looking about for instructions on whether or not to
let these two foreigners off the premises. Acton casually looked for their tail
car but it was lost in the crowd.

Suddenly
the cordon parted after somebody shouted something in Vietnamese behind them.

They
were free, Stewart hustling them toward his van. Safely inside the driver
pulled away, the vehicle being chased by the press for a good twenty yards. Stewart
turned back toward them from the passenger seat. He jerked a thumb at the
driver. “Meet Pat Murphy, my cameraman and chauffeur.”

“Bloody
slave would be a more accurate description,” muttered Murphy, flashing a smile
at the new arrivals, his accent thick and Irish.

“He’s a
scholar and a gentleman and a constant pain in my ass. Why they keep putting us
together on assignment I’ll never know.” Stewart suddenly became all business. “Okay,
what gives? How are you two mixed up in this?”

“Wrong
place, wrong time, that’s all,” replied Acton. “We were on a tour provided by
the museum when the assassination took place.”

“You saw
it?”

“From
the context of ducking, yes.”

“Did you
get a good look at the shooter?”

Acton
exchanged a quick glance with Laura that the trained Stewart caught.

He
pounced. “You did, didn’t you? Was it an American like they claimed?”

Acton
decided coming clean on that part at least should be not only safe, but his
duty. “No, he was definitely Vietnamese.”

“How can
you be sure?”

“I guess
I can’t be sure he was Vietnamese, but he looked like he was from this
region
,
shall we say.”

“They’re
claiming an Asian American attached to the Secretary of State’s security
detail.”

Acton
frowned. “They’ve already released that?”

“Unofficially
of course, but they’re not denying it, and they’ve got his ID on circulation
none too discretely.”

“We’ve
seen that photocopy and he definitely wasn’t the shooter.”

“How do
you know? You said he was Asian.”

“Yes,
but they knew each other.”

Stewart’s
eyes narrowed. “Huh? Who? You mean the shooter and this Asian American?”

Acton
shook his head. “No, the shooter and the Russian Prime Minister.”

“How do
you know?”

“They
spoke,” said Laura. “He claimed the Prime Minister had massacred his village
during the war.”

“The
Vietnam War?”

Acton
cocked an eyebrow indicating how stupid he felt the question was.

“Sorry,
obviously. And the Prime Minister didn’t deny it?”

Laura
shook her head. “No, in fact he seemed quite proud of the fact he had, even
told the man he’d have to be more specific since he’d cleansed lots of villages
during the war.”

“Then
the guy showed him a clay bowl and that’s when Petrov said the man’s name.”

Stewart’s
jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

Acton
shook his head. “Nope. He said, ‘Young Phong, is that you?’ and the man nodded
and spoke of how Petrov killed everyone in his village.”

“There
was no doubt they knew each other,” said Laura. “This was
not
an
American. We saw the photo they’re handing around. It
definitely
wasn’t
him. The guy’s at least twenty years younger!”

Stewart
was scribbling madly on his pad, shaking his head the entire time in awe. “This
is huge,” he muttered. “Are you willing to go on camera?”

Acton
looked at Laura who shook her head slightly. “Not until we’re safely stateside
unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“If
they’re trying to pin this on the Americans, you might have a hard time leaving
the country what with you being there and all.”

Laura
patted the pocket her passport was in. “They already seized our passports but
gave them back. We’d try to leave but we’re afraid that might just make us look
guilty.”

“There
was some suggestion by the Russian investigator that a much more hardline guy
is arriving from Moscow later today. I expect things to get much more difficult
by then.”

Stewart
lowered his voice as if concerned someone might actually be listening within
their vehicle. “Look, this American connection is being pushed, hard. Every
press organization worldwide is running his name and photo. The only saving
grace is that it’s a terrible photocopy, so his identity in the future might
actually be protected still. The Russians are already at a heightened state of
alert but our government hasn’t responded yet, they’re denying any involvement,
promising to cooperate fully, and are scrambling to deescalate. The Russian
President though is already whipping up a frenzy and it hasn’t even been four
hours.”

“Do you
really think this could lead to war?” asked Laura, her own voice subdued, a
tinge of fear lacing it.

Stewart
shrugged. “I doubt it, but that guy’s a nutbar. I’m guessing he’ll use it as an
excuse to take some territory where he feels Russian minorities are
‘oppressed’”—Stewart added air quotes—“and perhaps a few limited skirmishes to
make his point. I just can’t see anyone wanting all-out war, not even that man,
no matter how far he’s got his head shoved up his ass looking for the Soviet
Union’s former glory.”

Action
stifled a grin, Stewart always peppering his conversation with colorful
alliterations.

“We’ve
got a tail.” It was Murphy that startled them all with the revelation.

Stewart
already looking at them in the backseat shifted his eyes. “Yeah. Dark blue
sedan, four people inside. None look happy.”

“We were
followed on the way to the museum,” replied Acton. “Probably the same people.”

“Which
reminds me,” said Laura. “I need to call Mai’s brother.” She reached into her
handbag and pulled out the piece of paper Mai had written on earlier then
dialed the number. She shook her head, covering the mouthpiece. “Voicemail,”
she whispered then raised her voice. “Hi, this is Professor Laura Palmer. I’m a
colleague of your sister Mai. I have important information about her. Please contact
me as quickly as possible as it is urgent.” She left her number then hung up.
She looked at the others. “Let’s hope he understands English.”

Half a
dozen motorcycles suddenly whipped by them on either side, racing up between
the lanes of the wide boulevard.

Chaos
erupted moments later.

Trang Tien Street, Hanoi, Vietnam

Cadeo An Trinh raced between the rows of traffic on his Yamaha,
everyone stopped for the traffic lights ahead. As soon as he had heard this
morning that there had been an assassination at his sister’s museum he had
gathered his gang and headed for the general vicinity. He had one of his men
set up surveillance near the front gate while the rest hung back a couple of
blocks away. His little sister he knew didn’t approve of him, didn’t approve of
the choices he had made over the years, but he didn’t care.