The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (19 page)

The
priority here was to get the personnel and classified equipment out of the
hotel and onto their airplane as quickly and efficiently as possible without a
panic.

He
looked at his watch.

Five
minutes.

They
would leave in two waves, the first with his team and other DSS agents, would
evacuate Atwater and the senior staff—essentially anyone who could fit on the
first elevator. The second wave would be larger and would be purely DSS agents
providing security. They would wait until all staff had been evacuated then
follow the first motorcade. The delay should be no longer than ten minutes between
the two, and should it become absolutely necessary, the Secretary’s plane would
leave without them.

He hoped
it wouldn’t come to that.

The
elevator chimed and he and Spock stepped on, two Vietnamese police with assault
rifles standing in the rear corners. They both held up their passes and turned
their backs on them, Dawson watching their reflections in the polished elevator
doors just in case.

They
rode in silence as the floors ticked down without any additional passengers
boarding.

Everyone
is probably too terrified to leave their rooms.

The
doors opened to shouting. Dawson immediately spotted several police chasing a
man in shorts and a t-shirt with ball cap and sunglasses.

Niner!

His
comrade whipped around a column and made eye contact just as Dawson heard the
distinct rattle of a weapon being moved behind him. He swung his left hand,
chopping at the side of the man’s neck as Spock whipped around, collapsing his
man’s windpipe. Dawson finished the soldier off with several rapid punches to
the face, Spock’s still gasping for air, his hands nowhere near his weapon. The
doors began to close and Dawson turned, grabbing it just as Niner dove inside.

He hit
the rear of the elevator just as gunfire erupted from the lobby. Dawson jumped
back, hugging the wall as Spock did the same, Niner grabbing the gasping guard
and using him as a human shield as he dropped prone on the floor. Dawson hit
the button for the eighth floor then kept jamming his finger on the
Close
button as the glass in the rear shattered, shards raining down on Niner and the
two police officers.

Dawson
had his Glock in his hand but refrained from shooting, hoping to not make the
situation worse, they hopelessly outnumbered regardless. The doors finally
began to close, the bullets now impacting the metal on the other side but none
penetrating completely. He activated his comm.

“Code
Red, Code Red, Code Red. We have taken fire, I repeat, we have taken fire.
Secure the package and prepare for hostile assault, over.” He looked at Niner
as the acknowledgement came in over his earpiece, Niner pushing the now dead
cop off him. “You okay?”

He
nodded. “I’m having a better day than him.”

The
second cop groaned and Niner punched him in the face, knocking him out cold
again. He leaned over and pushed the button for the fifth floor. The doors
opened and he peeked out. “Not a soul.” He dragged the now unconscious cop out
of the elevator. “See you soon.”

Dawson
simply shook his head. “I assume you’ve got a plan?”

“Yup. I
intend to blend.” He motioned toward the guard’s weapon that still lay on the
floor of the elevator. Dawson bent over and tossed it to him. Niner snatched it
and winked. “See you on the other side.”

The
doors closed leaving Spock and Dawson looking at each other.

The
police officer moaned.

Spock looked
down at the man. “Whadaya know? He’s alive.”

Dawson
kicked the man in the head, silencing him.

Noi Bai International Airport, Hanoi, Vietnam

Igor Sarkov stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up as Dimitri
Yashkin surveyed his surroundings from the door of the Aeroflot Airbus A320. He
was younger than Sarkov by twenty years, but his squared jaw and determined,
arrogant eyes suggested a throwback to the Soviet era.

He
would have fit right in.

It was
the new Russia.
Or was it the
new
new Russia?
More like the old
than ever before, and those who would go far would be those who agreed with
ironfisted rule from a single, central authority led by a single, charismatic
leader who yearned for the glory days.

The
problem was Sarkov remembered those glory days. He had spent the first almost
forty years of his life living in the Soviet Union during those glory days.

And they
weren’t very glorious.

Their
President was drinking his own Kool-Aid, as the Americans might say, believing
his own propaganda about how great things once were, and how great they would
be once again. The only thing that had been good before was that the Soviet
Union was indeed a superpower with an arsenal that could destroy the world a
dozen times over. The world respected it, and for good reason.

Because
they feared it.

But for
the Soviet people themselves life was anything but glorious. Food shortages,
sketchy utilities, no freedoms of any kind. Why anyone would want to return to
such times was beyond him. Yes things weren’t perfect now, far from it. But the
new Russia was less than 25 years old. It still needed to grow and develop, to
learn what it truly meant to be a democracy, to have freedom of religion,
speech and a free press.

Unfortunately
almost none of those existed anymore thanks to their glorious President.

The new
Russia was dead.

And who
might resurrect it he had no clue. Unfortunately it would probably take an old
Soviet style coup to actually deliver democracy back to the people, and with
their new dictator shoveling money into the armed forces, he doubted
deliverance would come from them.

It made
him sad.

It made
him look forward to retiring elsewhere soon.

He
forced a smile on his face as Yashkin descended the steps. Hugs and the
traditional cheek kisses were exchanged, another thing he didn’t miss about
Mother Russia, then they quickly climbed into the back of a waiting SUV
supplied by the Embassy.

Pleasantries
were pushed aside as soon as the doors closed.

“Have
you arrested the American assassin yet?”

Sarkov
shook his head. “No, the Americans have refused to hand him over.”

“Is he
still on the Secretary of State’s floor at the Daewoo?”

“Yes.
But some doubt has been raised as to his involvement.”

“Explain.”

“They’re
claiming his pass was stolen, and witnesses to the shooting have said the
assassin was an older Vietnamese man who knew the Prime Minister, not this
younger American.”

“And
these witnesses are these two professors you reported on earlier?”

Sarkov
nodded. “Yes, Professor James Acton—”

“An
American.”

“—and
Professor Laura Palmer.”

“A
British subject, married to an American, now living in the United States.”

“Yes.
And one Vietnamese national who says she saw nothing but I’m pretty sure she
did. She even went so far as to try and steal a copy of the camera footage from
the museum to prove their story.”

“And you
arrested her?”

“Yes,
but she escaped.”

Yashkin’s
head dropped slightly as he expressed his surprised outrage. “Explain.” The
single word was delivered as hard as any Sarkov had ever heard. He almost
shivered with the memories it brought back.

“According
to the Vietnamese Police a dozen men on motorcycles assaulted the officers
escorting the suspect to the police station. Several were hurt in the attack.
They fought valiantly but there were only four of them and a dozen attackers
with automatic weapons.”

Yashkin
grunted. “More likely there were half a dozen men, few weapons, and these
police officers are telling a tall tale to cover their collective behinds.”

Sarkov
had to admit it appeared Yashkin had a firm grip on how any story from the
Vietnamese authorities should be interpreted.

“These
professors. I’ve read their dossiers. They’re clearly involved.”

Sarkov
indicated his disagreement with a tilt of the head and a bounce of the
eyebrows. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so.”

“You
have
read their files, haven’t you?”

“Of
course. I admit they are colorful, but having met them, I get the distinct
impression they are simply what they are—unlucky.”

“You are
naïve, Comrade.”

Sarkov bristled at the word.
Comrade!
This man was definitely yearning
for yesteryear. He hadn’t heard the word used in years, the mere thought of it
bringing back the sickening feelings of decades ago. The traditional greeting
of Party members to each other, or those who wanted to look good when they
thought they were under surveillance.

Tovarishch.
Comrade.

It
hadn’t been nearly as common as Hollywood would have you believe, though it was
all too common, there being millions in the Communist Party and the military
who used it habitually.

And here
this young Kremlin stooge would dare use it on him.

His
displeasure clearly had registered with Yashkin.

“You are
offended?”

Sarkov
caught himself, knowing full well how he handled himself over the next few
days, perhaps hours, would determine if he retired in peace like he had
planned, or met his maker far sooner than intended. “Not at all. But we need to
examine the footage before we jump to conclusions like the Vietnamese did.”

“Have
you seen it?”

Sarkov
nodded. “Yes, but there’s only a camera at the front entrance. We can see the
man enter who used the pass but it is of poor quality.”

“Does he
at least meet the description?”

Sarkov
shrugged. “He was Asian, male, that’s about it. I’ve asked the embassy to send
it to Moscow for enhancement. But like I said, I think these professors are
telling the truth.”

“I will
want to speak to them.”

“We
don’t know where they are. The Vietnamese have ordered their arrest for
involvement in the escape of their citizen from police custody, but they
managed to escape.”

“So they
are definitely involved then.”

Sarkov
pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t want to be arrested by the Vietnamese any more
than I’m sure they would. If I were them I’d be trying to get to either the
American or British embassies.”

“Have
they tried?”

“They
might have, but the Vietnamese authorities organized protests around both
embassies so they’ve been cordoned off. I doubt they’d be able to get anywhere
near either building.”

“I want
people put on all Western embassies plus other traditional allies. Australia,
Japan. All of them. The Americans are liable to swing some sort of deal to hide
their accomplices.”

“I
already sent the order immediately after their escape.”

Yashkin
smiled broadly. “Good work, Comrade! Perhaps we think alike after all.”

That
I sincerely doubt.

“Now
that the professors have nowhere to go, they will get desperate. They will
stick out among a sea of Vietnamese and soon be arrested.” He lowered his
voice. “You should know, I am under direct orders from Moscow to make certain
that the story of the American assassin sticks. Any evidence that shows
otherwise is to be destroyed or eliminated.”

“Including
people?”

“Especially
people. We must recover the escaped Vietnamese witness, destroy the video
evidence from the museum if it doesn’t show what we need, and eliminate the
professors before they can talk to their own officials.” He jabbed the air with
his forefinger. “There can be no dissenting voices.”

“But
what of the truth?”

Yashkin
tossed his head back. “So you
are
naïve.” He shook his head as if
pitying Sarkov. “My dear old man, there is no such thing as the truth, only the
story. The story here is that an American on the Secretary of State’s security
detail, with the assistance of at least one American, one British and one
Vietnamese national, assassinated the Prime Minister and his security detail in
cold blood, then was given the protection of his government from immediate
prosecution.” Yashkin almost looked like he wanted to rub his hands together in
glee. “The public relations coup this will bring is immense. The sympathy at
the UN is already unprecedented. Almost every country has expressed their condolences
and over one hundred have condemned the United States for their involvement or
lack of cooperation.”

“Mostly
Arab and African countries, I would assume.”

“Yes,
but it’s the optics. So many in the West believe the UN is an institution that
is of value because they think it is made up of countries like theirs. They
can’t fathom the fact that only eighty-seven of the hundred-ninety-three
countries are actually democracies. When the news reports that the majority on
the Security Council or in the Assembly passed resolutions condemning the
United States, they have no idea it’s simply a bunch of dictators and
theocracies pushing their own agenda. The United Nations is like the useful
idiot that serves its purpose on days like today.”