The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (23 page)

The
arrows pointed him to the third level and he climbed some more steps, soon
finding the bathroom on the top floor. He prepared himself for disgusting but
was pleasantly surprised at how clean they were, especially by Third World
standards. He had been on assignment in the Middle East and South Asia enough
to know that the dirty water bucket beside the hole in the ground was for
rinsing off your left fingers.

Here
there was modern plumbing.

He
locked himself in the far stall, stripping out of the police uniform and
donning his Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and sneakers. He rolled up the
uniform, removed the bullets and firing pin from the AKM, then making sure he
was alone, stuffed them all above the tiles in the drop ceiling. He tucked his
Glock behind his back, the shirt covering it, then took care of some overdue
business while flicking through his phone contacts.

He
decided his best bet would be to reach out via text rather than voice.
Selecting Professor Acton’s number, he sent a quick text.

this
is niner. contact me asap.

He
waited.

And
waited.

Then he
grew concerned.

Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam

Phong woke, still curled in a ball, the sounds of ceremonial drums
beating rhythmically on the street below waking him. He looked at the ancient
alarm clock sitting on the floor by his bed. It was barely evening, the sun
still casting a gentle glow through the dirty window. He sat up, wiping his
eyes with his knuckles, moistening his teeth with his tongue.

They’re
starting early.

The
drums and the festive sounds of happy revelers wafted through the half open
window, and as he realized he had finally avenged his loved ones, he decided it
was time to celebrate. He stepped behind the only wall outside of the four
framing his one room flat and used the toilet he considered himself lucky to
have. Showers in his building was shared, but he was fortunate to be allowed to
do so at the beginning and end of his shift at the hotel, management wanting
their staff to be clean and well groomed.

They
even supplied the soap and antiperspirant, a concoction he had never heard of
until getting his job.

Now he
couldn’t live without it.

He now found
the pungent smell of body odor almost unbearable, and almost felt ashamed that
he had gone through more than half his life smelling the same way. But with too
many of his neighbors poorer than he, it just wasn’t something brought up in
polite company.

He
washed his hands and face, straightened his hair and checked his clothes.

His
heart almost stopped.

There
was blood on the front of his shirt, as if he had been sprayed by it. He
quickly pulled it off and his mind raced along with his heart as he wondered if
anyone could have seen it before he got home. He began to rinse it out in the
sink, the dried blood quickly coloring the water, thankfully most of it washing
out, but he knew he’d have to get rid of it.

He
frowned.

It was
his best shirt. His only dress shirt. And it had been more expensive than any
other shirt he had ever bought. He could count on one hand how many times he
had worn it. During the day he wore the clothes supplied by the hotel, far
nicer than anything he could justify, then in the evenings and his days off he
wore simple, cheap but respectable clothes. He took pride in his appearance,
never wearing dirty or overly worn clothing, but he didn’t believe in dressing
to impress when outside of the work place.

He was a
lonely man who led a lonely existence. What had happened to him as a boy had
stained his entire life, avoiding any type of relationship that might lead to
an attachment that would break his heart should it end.

He
couldn’t, he wouldn’t, go through that pain again.

There’s
nothing worse than loss.

The pain
of loneliness, of seeing everyone around him eventually meet people, get
married, have children, have someone to talk to at night, was nothing compared
to the loss of that day, of knowing you would never see the ones you loved
again.

His
heartache was still fresh, as if it had happened just yesterday.

It did
feel raw, more than usual, and he attributed that to all of the memories
flooding back the moment he had spotted Petrov. His head dropped, his shoulders
sagged and he gripped either side of the sink, a flurry of sobs racking his
body for several seconds before he held his breath, stopping himself. He lifted
his head and looked in the cracked mirror.

He
looked old.

As if he
had aged another ten years since yesterday.

And he
felt old.

He was
exhausted.

It was a
mental exhaustion, not a physical one, and he realized that almost forty years
of obsession had consumed his life. The first few years, when he had left the
village to live with cousins in the next valley, he had been commanded by
hatred, but he had eventually let most of that go, realizing there was nothing
he could do about it, though he allowed it to continue simmering, preventing
almost any joy from permeating the thick crust he had allowed to incase his
heart.

It had
been a lonely life.

But now
his promise was fulfilled.

He had
his revenge.

And he
could die now in peace, knowing that his family, friends and lineage had been
avenged, no matter how contrary to the teachings of the Buddha his act had
been.

He was
willing to be punished after his passing, to endure the demons and the
suffering, to come out the other end a lesser form, but with a chance at
redemption in a later life.

For he
had no illusions that nirvana was his fate, not in this life. He knew the rest
of his life would be tortured with the memories of today, just as it had been
tortured by the memories of a teenage boy, helpless against grown men.

He
looked into his red eyes, tired eyes.

It’s
time to move on.

It had
been said to him a thousand times by his cousins, so much so that when he had
the first opportunity he had left them behind, leaving his adopted village and
moving to the newly renamed Ho Chi Minh City. A few years later, in his early
twenties, he had moved to Hanoi with several friends, a brief folly as street
vendors wiping out what little savings he had managed to scrape together when
the two brothers stole everything.

It had
hardened his heart even further.

A life
of manual labor had been his lot until he had been lucky enough to get his job
at the Daewoo Hanoi. It had changed his life. Though his existence was meager,
it was better than most. He had a decent roof over his head, no need for any
more than he had, he was well fed, and his hobby of reading was well taken care
of by the unbelievable amount of books left behind by hotel guests.

He had
used them and the hotel training to learn English, and felt a shameful amount
of pride in his ability.

“Tonight
we celebrate.”

His
voice was rough, it the first words spoken since his retribution had been
delivered.

And it
lacked confidence. Even he didn’t believe it.

“
Tonight,
we celebrate!”

He forced
a smile on his face, his fairly decent teeth one of the reasons he had scored
his good job. It almost made him believe that he could have a good time.

But he
knew he’d need some lubrication.

He went
into the bathroom and stood on the toilet, reaching into the tank high on the
wall. He pulled out the plastic resealable bag and stepped down, wiping it dry
with the towel hanging off a rack salvaged from a recent renovation at the
hotel.

Inside
was his life savings.

A
pittance compared to the excess he saw day in and day out at the hotel, but it
was his. He had earned it, no one could deny he had. What he was saving it for,
he wasn’t sure. There was really nothing he wanted. He had no need for a car,
his moped, bought cheap and secondhand, suited him well. He had a small radio
that he listened to music on and had no desire for television, it filled with
too much news and lies.

Part of
him had already decided what the right thing to do was. Leave it to the monks.
He pulled out several bills, enough to have a great time tonight, then returned
his secret cache to its hiding place. As he stepped down he wondered though who
would give the money to the monks if he were to die.

He had
friends, but he had learned long ago you couldn’t trust them, not with money,
not in a poor country. People were too desperate. He might be able to tell Duy,
but Duy also had a gambling problem, losing most of his money each week to the
cock fights.

No,
there was no one he could trust.

He did
have family. Cousins. His adoptive parents might still be alive since they were
only about fifteen years older than him when he came to live with them. They’d
be old now, but he had no idea if they were still in the village. He hadn’t
seen them in over thirty years.

And
going back would be too painful.

Death
had never really been a topic he dwelled on. He was going to die. Everyone did.
It was inevitable and nothing to fear. And it was always so far away. But with
what happened today, perhaps that inevitable ending was much closer than it had
been just this morning. He must have been caught on camera entering the museum.
He had tried to avoid looking at the one camera he had spotted, but really had
no clue if there were others. He had no doubt that if they had footage of him
it would be all over television by now and someone would recognize him.

He
sucked in a deep breath.

You’ll
be arrested tomorrow morning at work.

The
drums outside his window beckoned. It might be his last night as a free man.
His last night in this body, the long process of reincarnation perhaps about to
begin before soon.

Or
they might torture you for years.

That
didn’t frighten him. In fact, he didn’t care at all. There was nothing they
could do to him that could match what had happened decades before.

A
decision was suddenly made.

He sat
down and wrote a letter to his cousins, telling them where to look for the
money, but not that it was money, and of the sacred bowl. It deserved to be
preserved. It
had
to be preserved. His entire community, the entire
foundation of Buddhism in this region of the world, had been as a result of
that bowl, and though it was a patchwork of its previous self, its significance
remained.

Especially
its contents, kept in a sealed bag so they wouldn’t leak out the too numerous
holes.

He eyed
the floorboards where he kept it hidden, counting them out from the wall and
writing exactly where to find it. Folding up the letter, he stuck it in an
envelope with the hotel logo in the corner then left it on his bed, happy this
final duty was almost complete. He’d mail the letter tomorrow morning at work,
then not worry about his legacy again.

He left
the apartment, locking the door behind him and descended the flights of stairs
to the streets below. They were filled now with revelers, the Vong Thi Festival
in full swing. Colorful garb ruled the evening and he felt a little out of
place in his drab shorts and t-shirt, but he didn’t care. He watched the young
people laughing and dancing, his generation joining in at times, the elders
lining the streets, clapping in unison with the drums.

A smile
slowly creased his face.

A hint
of joy, just a hint, began to invade that darkened heart. His people could rest
in peace now, and so could he. He found his hands clapping to the beat, a
bounce in his step as he headed for Duy’s apartment, hoping his friend was
still home. He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to celebrate the end of a long
dark chapter of his life.

And
forget that tomorrow might be the short, final chapter.