The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (30 page)

Dawson
spun on his heel as the last of the debris burst through the door. He rushed
inside, weapon high and on full-auto, squeezing short bursts at anything that
moved, Spock joining them, Jimmy covering their asses.

“Clear!”
announced Dawson, the others echoing their confirmation. The entire assault had
taken less than sixty seconds but it wasn’t over. “Ninth floor, you up there?”
he shouted.

“Yeah.
That you, White?”

“Affirmative.
Get as many men down here as you can.” He pointed at a tipped over ladder and
Spock grabbed it, putting it back in place. Almost immediately someone began to
descend the ladder as another update came through the comm.

“Eighth
floor east stairwell secure.”

Dawson
pointed at the first man. “Make sure this room is secure, then begin a room by
room search. Try to stick to the hallways, they won’t risk blowing those.” He motioned
for Spock and Jimmy to follow as he stepped back into the hallway. Flashlights
at either end showed DSS agents in position, weapons being stripped from the
dead. He jogged down the hall toward the room with the hole to the seventh
floor and took a quick peek around the door.

Nothing
was moving and the windows, curtains opened, were providing enough light from
the city for everything to be seen clearly.

Including
the large hole in the center of the room and half a dozen dead or dying men
around it. Shouts and sounds of movement from below could be heard. He tossed
his third and final grenade down the hole, taking cover in the hall.

The
blast was still deafening, even if fifteen feet below. The screams and cries
seemed louder.

Suddenly
the lights came back on, revealing the carnage for them all to see.

And
signaling, Dawson hoped, the end.

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel Lobby, Hanoi, Vietnam

Sarkov looked up as the lights came back on. The hotel had been
rocked by what seemed like a dozen explosions over the last few minutes, the
vibrations carrying through the structure and up his legs, though the sounds
were muffled and distant. He rounded the corner and found Yashkin standing near
the check-in counter with several Vietnamese senior officers and a couple of
suits.

“What’s
going on?” asked Sarkov as he approached. “Why are the lights back on?”

Yashkin
nodded to the men then took Sarkov aside, out of earshot. He lowered his voice.
“The message has been sent.”

“What
message?”

“That
the Vietnamese should be taken seriously in their desire for justice to be
served.”

“Justice?
How is violating international law justice?”

Yashkin
looked at him, almost as if disappointed. “International law? The Russian
Federation does not concern itself with international law when one of its
leaders has been murdered in cold blood. However, that being said,
publicly
we
have implored the Vietnamese to show restraint in dealing with this security
emergency and they have agreed, halting the attack that was so inappropriate a
response.”

“An
attack you ordered.”

Yashkin
shrugged. “Orders from Moscow, though I must admit the Vietnamese were a little
overzealous in blasting through the floor directly under the Secretary while
she was live on international television.”

“A
brilliant defensive tactic on her part.”

Yashkin
pursed his lips, examining Sarkov’s face. “I sense admiration.”

“Perhaps,
though that should not be misinterpreted as doubting where my loyalties lie.
One can always express admiration for one’s enemy’s tactics. The key is to then
use the knowledge gained for a successful counteroffensive against them.”

Yashkin
nodded his head slowly. “I wonder if your time has come.”

Sarkov
felt a pit begin to form in his stomach. “I beg your pardon?”

“Perhaps
it is time for you to retire. I think you are too soft for the job.”

Sarkov
chose his words carefully. “I have only two years left before that fateful day.
However, if I weren’t here today, we would not know that the Americans are
telling the truth.”

Yashkin’s
eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I have
just seen security camera footage of the eighth floor showing that Agent Green
was indeed in the hotel at the exact moment of the Prime Minister’s
assassination.”

“Show me
this.”

Sarkov
led Yashkin to the security office, a bit of hope building within that perhaps
Yashkin might just be interested in the truth after all. “Bring up the footage
showing the American coming out of his room,” said Sarkov as they entered.
Within moments they were watching Agent Green exit his room then run to the
elevators with several others. “See the timestamp? Only two minutes after the
fatal shots were fired.”

Yashkin leaned
in, watching the footage loop. “Interesting.” He stood back up. “How did this
footage come to be? I thought the cameras were supposed to be deactivated on
that level.”

“They
were, but an employee reactivated them to help a man named
Phong
enter
the room, presumably to steal the security pass of Agent Green.”

“And I
assume there is footage of this as well?”

“Yes.
And Phong is what the Prime Minister called his assassin. The same name as the
employee seen entering the DSS agent’s room.”

“So then
this would suggest our theory is wrong.”

Sarkov
almost let out an audible sigh of relief. “Yes.”

“It
would appear then that this Phong was acting on behalf of the Americans. He
went to Agent Green’s room, Agent Green gave his security pass to this Phong,
who then assassinated the Prime Minister and his security detail, while the
American delegation did nothing to stop it, then two witnesses, both with known
ties to several international incidents involving the American government and
its military just
happen
to be in the room at the same time, to name
this Phong patsy as the killer, claiming that the Prime Minister knew him and
he was killed for something he allegedly did during the war and not for
political reasons.” Yashkin shook his head. “I’m afraid this proves nothing.
All it proves is how the professors knew the name of the individual. They were
all
in on the plot to assassinate the Prime Minister. All that has changed here is
that the actual shooter is a different person than we thought, and that the two
professors are
definitely
involved.”

Sarkov’s
eyes had opened wide, his eyebrows climbing his forehead as he resisted all
temptation to let his jaw drop. The story being spun by Yashkin was brilliantly
ridiculous, exactly the type of thing the Kremlin would come up with in
situations like this. Yashkin definitely had a bright future, unfortunately it
was a future Sarkov wanted no part of.

He shook
his head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. There’s no proof of anything you
say. The entire case has been that Agent Green was the shooter. We now know
definitively that he wasn’t. This information must be presented to the
Vietnamese
and
the Americans.”

Yashkin
shook his head, a frown on his face. “I’m
very
disappointed. Moscow will
be too.” He turned to the man at the keyboard. “I want all of the eighth floor
footage erased.
All
of it. It should be as if the cameras had never been
activated.” He pointed a finger at the man, then his partner, glaring down at
them. “And
no one,
I repeat
no one
will ever hear about this
otherwise there will be
dire
consequences. Understood?”

The
terror in the men’s eyes made it clear they understood perfectly as they
nodded, the first man attacking the keyboard to execute his orders. Yashkin
left the room, Sarkov following. When they were alone in the hallway, Sarkov
stopped and Yashkin turned toward him.

“Why?”

Yashkin
squinted. “Why?”

“Why
delete the footage? Why aren’t we pursuing the truth?”

“Moscow
isn’t interested in the truth.”

Sarkov
shook his head. “Why not? We have an opportunity here to shine on the
international stage, to bring out the truth ourselves, to show that no matter
how much everyone wanted to believe it was the Americans, we were more
interested in finding out what really happened, and when we did, we revealed it
to the world, showing we aren’t the monsters so many think we are. By
destroying this footage we become the very people the West accuses us of
being!”

“You are
indeed naïve,” replied Yashkin, his head shaking slowly from side to side. “You
have no idea what is going on here. We’ve had troops massed on the Ukrainian
border for months just waiting for something like this to happen. And it
finally has. Ebola and ISIS provided the distraction so the Western public
would forget about what had happened in Eastern Ukraine and the Crimea, and now
this event, this one, single event, carried out by a madman, gave us the
opportunity to pull the trigger. Our troops at this very moment are invading
and should have control of the traditionally Russian portions of the Ukraine
within days. There is nothing the West can do to stop it, and there’s nothing
they
will
do because with this murder of our leader by an American, they
have no credibility on the world stage.

“The
truth
as you call it is unimportant, and it may very well come out in time. But at
this
time, it is more important to further the ambitions of Mother Russia and its
diaspora by bringing them back into the fold. Once we have done this, the world
will once again tremble at the might of Russia and will never dismiss us
again.”

Yashkin’s
face was beet red, the passion in which he had delivered the last few sentences
was terrifying in its zeal, and Sarkov had taken a step backward as the
onslaught of the diatribe had hit home.

The man
was mad.

The men
he followed were mad.

And Cold
War Two had begun with the actions of a single Vietnamese man seeking revenge
for an affront carried out forty years ago.

Sarkov
remained silent as Yashkin’s face returned to its normal pale self. The man
pulled in a deep breath, pursing his lips as he seemed to examine Sarkov for a
reaction.

Sarkov
gave him none.

Yashkin
finally spoke. “I think we will no longer require your services today. Go home
and report to the embassy tomorrow morning for instructions.”

Sarkov
said nothing, merely nodding as Yashkin continued to stare at him, then spun on
his heel and walked briskly away.

Go
home.

Sarkov
shook his head. He knew his dreams of retirement in a foreign land were
finished. He’d be ordered back to Moscow in quiet disgrace and probably stored
in some hole for years or decades. And some way, somehow, he’d die accidentally
or in a staged prison fight.

A wave
of self-pity swept over him and his shoulders collapsed, his chin dropping as
he reached for a wall, both hands held high, holding his body up as he fought
for control.

He
thought of his wife.

She had
been a good woman, not political in the slightest, but supportive of his career
from the start, putting on the public face required and tolerating his
sometimes late hours and long absences.

And it
had been her dream to retire outside of Russia as well.

She
hadn’t made it.

And
neither would he.

He
shoved himself away from the wall, squaring his shoulders.

And if
he was going to go down for doing the right thing, he was going to give them a
real reason.

Too
soft my ass.

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam

Dawson took the stairs two at a time to the tenth floor as the bulk
of the security team redeployed to the eighth and ninth floors. He entered the
room Atwater was now located in and found the woman sitting on a chair near the
hallway door. He pointed at the open windows.