The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (32 page)

And now
it would all end thanks to him.

No! Thanks
to Petrov!

Yes,
Petrov was to blame, but not completely. It wasn’t Petrov that had thrown away
a young life to hatred and despair. It was him. He had done it to himself. He
should have tried to move on, to honor his family by continuing their lineage,
rather than living a lifetime consumed by hate.

Another
swig. Another pass.

“I need
a wife.”

Duy
nearly dropped the bottle. “Were you drinking before you got here?”

The
others laughed as Duy’s wife came up behind her husband and massaged his
shoulders. He leaned his head back against her and smiled. “Phong says he needs
a wife.”

“He’s
still a catch!” she said, winking. “I’m sure I can find him one. There’re some
good widows around here.” She motioned toward an old grandmother with no teeth,
mushing her rice with her gums. “Old Qui is available.”

Qui
reached out her hand to Phong, her fingers covered in sticky rice. “Come here,
baby, I’ll give you a good time!”

Everyone
roared in laughter.

“I need
to have babies, lots of babies,” said Phong, oblivious to the humor at his
expense. “Sons!”

“I’ll
give you a good time but forget about babies!”

More
laughter.

Duy
seemed to sense Phong’s mood was serious. “What’s wrong my friend, why all this
talk of children?”

“I’ve
wasted my life.”

The
bottle was about to be handed to him again when Duy shook his head, motioning
for them to be skipped. “No you haven’t. You’ve got a great job, good friends.
You’ve made the most of what this country can offer people like us.”

“My
village was wiped out in the war.”

Duy’s
eyes opened wide, this the first time Phong had ever told him anything about
his past. He remained silent, drawing Phong out to share more.

“The Viet
Cong came into our village with a Russian, looking for recruits. I was in the
forest collecting herbs when they came. I watched them murder everyone.”

“I’m so
sorry,” said Duy, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder, his wife dropping to
her knees beside him, taking his hand in hers as tears rolled down her face.

“You
must have been a boy,” she said.

He
nodded. “Fifteen. I tried to kill the Russian but I couldn’t.” His head dropped
to his chest. “I was too weak.”

“You
were only fifteen!” She squeezed his hand, holding it to her chest. “You can’t
blame yourself.”

“I know
that now, but I did. For forty years.”

“Is that
why you never took a wife?” asked Duy. “Never had kids?”

Phong
nodded. “I was ruled by hate and self-pity. I punished myself for surviving by
denying myself happiness.”

“But
you’re finally talking about it,” said Duy’s wife. “You obviously want to move
on.”

“I
finally
can
move on.”

“What do
you mean?”

“I
killed him.”

Everyone
looked at him in shock, the bottle forgotten, the parade only feet away mere
background noise now, the drums a heartbeat they all felt in their chests.

“What do
you mean?” asked Duy, sounding almost afraid to ask. “Who did you kill?”

“The
Russian who slaughtered my family.”

Duy
gasped as did the others. “
You
killed the Russian Prime Minister? At the
museum?”

Phong
nodded, another weight lifted off his shoulders. He realized he was putting his
friends at risk, but he had to tell someone. And part of him hoped they would
turn him in out of fear, thus protecting themselves and ending a future that he
felt was uncertain. “They haven’t arrested me yet, though, so I guess they
don’t know it was me.”

“I guess
they don’t!” exclaimed Duy. “They’re blaming the Americans! They’re saying one
of their agents is the assassin!”

Phong
suddenly snapped out of his self-pity. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You
stole that agent’s ID, didn’t you?”

Phong nodded,
suddenly ashamed he had involved his friend. “Yes. I’m sorry, but as soon as I
realized who he was, I had no choice. I promised him I would kill him the next
time I saw him, and when I heard he’d be at the museum at the same time as the
Americans, I took the ID of the Asian agent from his safe.”

“You
used me!”

He
turned toward Duy. “I’m so sorry, Duy. I didn’t mean to, but if they knew you
were involved they’d be here, wouldn’t they?”

Duy
grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He
was about to hand the bottle down the line when his wife grabbed it and took
her own swig. “You’d think so.” He sighed, lowering his voice from its excited
state. “Phong, don’t you realize what’s been happening today?”

Phong
shook his head.

“They’re
talking war! The Russians are accusing the Americans of assassinating their
Prime Minister. Two professors who were guests at the hotel and a grad student
at the museum have been named as being involved. The Russians have invaded a
country already and there was some sort of air battle. An American plane
crashed!”

“And
don’t forget the hotel!” added his wife, jabbing at the air. “Don’t forget
what’s happening there!”

“Yeah,
the police went in and attacked the floors the Americans are on.”

“What
happened?” asked Phong, his chest tight as he realized everything happening was
his fault.

“I don’t
know. They shut down the Internet and cellphones. I saw it down the street on a
television with a satellite dish.”

Phong
wasn’t sure what to say. “Has anybody died?”

“Phong,
they invaded a country! Of course people have died!”

His
chest dropped to his knees as he leaned over, grabbing at his hair. “What have
I done?!”

No words
of comfort came from his friends. Everyone was in shock. The events a world
away never affected their day to day lives. Yesterday if someone had said
Russia had invaded a country, he would have paid it no mind as long as it
wasn’t Vietnam they had invaded. But the events at the hotel were on everyone’s
mind since it was where most of them worked. It affected them immensely.

And it
was all his fault.

In his
wildest nightmares he couldn’t have imagined things spiraling so far out of
control. He had killed a bad man and those protecting him. He had delivered
justice, restored balance, then moved on. There were witnesses who should have
been able to tell the police that the shooter wasn’t the American whose pass he
had used. There were cameras at the museum.

We
spoke!

And the
conversation was in front of witnesses.

Why
are they doing this?

“What am
I going to do?”

Duy put
the bottle on the ground. “You have to disappear.”

Phong
sat back up, wiping the tears off his cheeks. “No, I need to turn myself in, to
tell everyone that it was me.”

“They’ll
kill you before you get a chance to tell your story,” said Duy. “People are
dying because of this. The news says they don’t care who did it as long as
there’s confusion.” Duy shrugged. “You know me, I don’t know anything about
politics, all I do know is this situation is dangerous.”

A phone
rang and Duy’s wife jumped in shock. She stepped over to where she and several
of the wives were sitting and picked up the cordless phone. “Hello…one moment.”
She handed the phone to her husband. “It’s for you. It’s the hotel.”

Duy
exchanged a scared look with Phong. He took the phone and Phong leaned it to
hear the conversation. “This is Duy.”

“Duy,
it’s Bao. I’ve only got a minute.”

“Bao?
You’ve got to speak up, the festival has started.”

“They’re
after you and Phong!”

Phong’s
heart nearly stopped.

“What do
you mean?” asked Duy.

“Some
Russian guy was in here looking at the tapes from the eighth floor—”

“The
eighth floor cameras are disabled.”

“Yes,
but you turned them back on. There’s footage of Phong going into the American
agent’s room using
your
pass, the same agent they’re saying killed the
Russian guy. But the footage showed that he couldn’t have done it because he
was here when it happened.”

“That’s
good, isn’t it? It means they can prove the Americans didn’t do it?”

“No,
it’s not! Another Russian ordered me to delete all the footage. But Duy, the
first Russian guy had me print your personnel file and Phong’s too. He knows
where you guys live. You’ve got to warn Phong and the two of you have to
disappear. I don’t know why you did it, but killing the Russian Prime Minister?
What were you thinking?”

“I-I
didn’t! I mean, it wasn’t me! I—”

Duy
stopped, looking at Phong, uncertain what to say. Phong took the phone. “This
is Phong. I killed the Russian Prime Minister. Duy thought he was helping me
get my key pass from the American’s room. I told him I had forgotten it there.
He didn’t know anything. I’m the one they want.”

“I don’t
think they care,” said Bao. “They deleted all the footage.” There was a pause.
“Does that mean you got away with it?”

Phong
wasn’t sure, but with this footage not existing anymore, then it did make him
wonder whether or not he was actually safe.

“Why did
you kill him?” asked Bao. “Did the Americans hire you?”

And that
was when Phong knew this would never end. Too many people knew now, and if he
didn’t tell his side of the story, unmolested, the truth would be twisted into
whatever story the authorities wanted.

This
has to end.

“No,
nobody hired me.” He took a deep breath. “Thanks for letting us know.” He hung
up, handing the phone back to Duy’s wife. He turned to his friend. “I have to
get my story out.”

“But
how?”

“I need
to tell the Americans.”

Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam

Igor Sarkov pulled his car to the side of the street, yet another
festival filling the night with revelers. He couldn’t remember which one this
was, he didn’t care. It was just another party. Almost every month there seemed
to be some sort of celebration in the city, but they were things to be enjoyed
by the younger people at the embassy, not him.

If there
wasn’t air conditioning, he wasn’t interested.

And
these celebrations took place on the streets where the air was thick and hot far
too often for his liking.

Colorful
clothing, tissue paper lanterns, rattles and drums—it was all an assault on the
senses. His late wife would have loved it, she being much more interested in
the culture of the places they visited, but he could care less.

Which
was probably his loss.

But none
of that mattered now.

By
disobeying Yashkin’s order to go home he was putting his life at risk. But he
didn’t care. He had to know the truth, and the world had to know the truth. His
loyalties were no longer to “Mother” Russia, the very term poisonous now, his
country a disappointment that crushed his will more every day.

Only
two more years were left!

It was
devastating. A lifetime wasted. He had lost his wife, his son had died with no
family of his own, his parents were long dead, and his only brother was lost to
vodka a decade ago.

He was
truly alone.

With no
one to share his retirement years with.

He looked
up at the apartment and felt an affinity for this man, Phong. If what the
Americans said was true, if his family and village had been wiped out by Petrov
forty years ago, then he too was alone, having lost everything.

It
would almost be a shame to bring him in.

He
turned off the car, killing the exquisite flow of chilled air and opened the
door, the rapidly cooling evening still an assault on his overly large frame.
It was a four story apartment building with a small grocery on the main floor.

And Phong
Son Quan lived on the third floor.

At
least it’s not the fourth.

The
stairwell to the apartments was on the left side of the building. He stepped
through the doorway, there no door to be found, and began the long climb up the
stairs. By the time he reached the third floor he was wheezing far too much for
someone involved in security.

That’s
new.

He held
his hand on his chest for a moment, feeling his heart as it fluttered slightly
before settling down. He pulled in a few steady breaths and felt himself begin
to return to his normal self. He was getting old—was already old he had no
doubt in the minds of those like Yashkin. Time was catching up, a lifetime of
enjoying fine foods, then two years of not having his shutoff valve at his side
to stop him from overindulging.

Which
had resulted in him packing on thirty pounds in two years, on top of the extra
thirty he had already been carrying.