The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (33 page)

Fortunately
his job hadn’t been to chase people for a long time. In fact, he couldn’t
remember ever chasing anyone as part of Foreign Affairs. It just wasn’t
important enough. He was an investigator, but of diplomatic concerns. In a
diplomatic post he had no jurisdiction to arrest people, so why chase them? And
today, if he ran into the assassin in the apartment he now stood in front of,
he had no intention of chasing him either.

He
pulled out his gun as he had no qualms about shooting the man.

He
knocked.

No
answer.

He
knocked again, KGB style.

Still no
answer.

He tried
the door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. A hard shoulder against the
flimsy door soon had him in the apartment, his weapon sweeping from left to
right, quickly finding the single room apartment clear. It was a simple affair,
spotlessly clean, a habit Sarkov wondered helped get Phong his job, or was learned
from his job. One thing he had found over the years of being in various levels
of developing countries was the common misperception among Westerners that just
because someone was poor their homes were dirty.

This was
rarely the case.

Like
this apartment.

The
paint was peeling, the floor was chipped and scarred, the porcelain of the lone
sink had lost most of its white and the toilet behind a makeshift wall was
equally showing its age.

But the
floor was swept clean, the toilet bowl was free of filth and the bed was made.

Everything
was spotless.

Everything
had its place.

Except
one thing.

Sitting
on the bed was an envelope with no stamp, it clearly waiting to be mailed.

He
picked up the envelope and examined the handwriting. Meticulous. This was a
deliberate man, and deliberate men could be dangerous.

Clearly.

If the
professors were telling the truth, then this was the assassin, not Agent Green.
And if so, this would be exactly the type of apartment he would expect to find
such a man in. He wasn’t crazy. That much was clear. This was a man who had
fulfilled a forty year mission if what the professors overheard was true.

He had
enacted revenge on the murderer of his family.

Something
Sarkov wished he would have had the courage to do when the opportunity arose,
but alas, he hadn’t. He had sat in the courtroom like a coward when the drunk
driver who killed his wife and son was acquitted due to
his
rights being
violated when he was arrested.

Sarkov’s
heart had turned cold against his country when the man had been congratulated
by a senior member of United Russia, a man Sarkov knew reported directly to the
President.

Which
meant there was nothing he could do.

Except
kill the man.

Instead
he had done nothing.

And it
shamed him, especially now, when a man like Phong, poor by anyone’s standards
outside this struggling country, was able to murder one of the most powerful
men in the world.

All by
having the courage of his convictions, and a simple plan that required nothing
more than a gun and some balls.

Sarkov
almost felt sorry that he’d have to arrest the man.

He tore
open the letter and scanned it, his limited Vietnamese able to at least
decipher that it was a letter to his family, telling them of some hidden items
including a religious bowl.

Must
be the one the professors mentioned.

He
finished the letter and smiled, not with any sense of joy, but simply with the
satisfaction of the truth finally revealed.

For at
the end of the letter Phong Son Quan confessed to his crime.

And
Sarkov knew the truth.

He
folded up the letter, stuffed it back in the torn envelope and placed it in his
inside jacket pocket.

Now
to find his friend, Duy.

American Embassy, Hanoi, Vietnam

Charles Stewart sat in the cafeteria sipping a coffee, exhausted.
His cameraman, Pat Murphy, sat across from him, his head on the table, snoring.
The chanting and drums outside continued to drone on, Vietnamese television
looping footage of the rallies here and at the British Embassy non-stop. Of
course the 24 hour news channels were as well, mixed in with talking heads
spouting off about the crisis, and blowing it out of proportion for the viewing
public.

It’s
all about the ratings.

He was
happy he was a hard news man. He reported, he didn’t comment. Commentary was
for commentators, not reporters. And the blurring of that line over the past
few years was a blight on the honored history of his profession. Even he as a
newsman would be the first to admit there wasn’t enough news of interest to
fill 24 hours of television, which was why hour long commentary shows had
become the norm, and now even CNN was airing canned shows, finally realizing
even they couldn’t fill 24 hours with coverage they could call news with a
straight face.

Hopefully
it would lead all the 24 hour networks to trim down the talking heads and
instead return to the time honored tradition of the thirty minute news cast
that was actually news.

But he
wasn’t naïve enough to think it would happen any time soon.

One of
the staffers, Leroy Donavan, waved to him, sitting down at the table with a coffee
and donut. He looked as haggard as they all did.

“What’s
up, Leroy?”

“Hopefully
my blood sugar in a few minutes.” He took a large bite of his Boston cream
donut, the filling spilling out the hole in the other side, a dollop dropping
onto his napkin. He chewed, moaning with pleasure as he wiped up the escaped
custard filling with his thumb, sucking it off with a smile. “So good. I missed
lunch and dinner and I’ve got about five minutes to stuff this into me.”

“Should
have grabbed a sandwich, you’ll just crash in an hour from that.”

He
shrugged. “Shoulda coulda woulda.” He took a sip of his coffee then leaned in,
bumping Murphy’s arm. Murphy jumped in his seat.

“What’s
going on?”

“Life,
liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” replied Stewart, nodding toward their
guest. “I’m guessing he’s about to make us very happy.”

“You
didn’t hear this from me,” said Donavan, “but we were just informed that the
American delegation from the Daewoo will be leaving within an hour for the
airport.”

“The
attack has stopped?”

Donavan
nodded. “The Russians are taking credit for that, and they’re taking credit for
negotiating with the Vietnamese to let the delegation proceed to the airport.”

“Are
they going to let them lift off?”

“No word
on that, but don’t be surprised if they don’t. The statement was
very
carefully worded.”

“At
least though they’ll be on the airplane. That has to be safer than at the
hotel,” said Murphy, swirling his now cold coffee in his cup.

“I don’t
know about safer,” said Stewart. “How do you defend against an assault on an
airplane filled with jet fuel?”

“But
isn’t the aircraft considered American soil?” asked Murphy. “Attacking it would
be like attacking the embassy.”

“True,”
said Donavan, swallowing the last of his donut. “But who would have ever
thought they’d attack the damned Secretary of State’s hotel!” He shook his
head. “This whole thing is nuts. The goddamned Russian bastards have launched a
full-blown invasion of the Ukraine and they’re rattling their sabers at the
Baltic States. NATO is shitting right now. They’ve got a mutual defense pact
with them.”

“So what
are they doing? The news is pretty thin.”

“From
what I can gather NATO is on full alert and a rapid reaction force is already
on its way to Lithuania. Air patrols have been stepped up and the navies are
sending pretty much everything they’ve got in the area toward the Baltic Sea. I
think everyone is just praying this settles down.”

“Any
word from Professor Acton or his wife?” asked Stewart.

Donavan
shook his head. “No. I’ve got one of my staff trying to track them down but
there’s not much we can do. The cell network is down and so is the internet.
The number you gave us for him is obviously down. We’ve tried sending some
emails, but haven’t heard anything. My guess is they’re stuck just like we
are.”

“Did you
try his wife’s number?”

“We
don’t have it. Hers wouldn’t work either.”

“No,
she’s got a satellite phone.”

Donavan
paused in mid sip.

“Pardon
me.”

“Satellite
phone. She’s got one. We need to get that number. They need to know about the
plane leaving so they can get on it.”

Donavan
pursed his lips as Murphy jacked his own satellite phone into his laptop,
creating a painfully slow internet connection. “I’m not sure if that could be
swung.”

“Even if
it can’t, just knowing that the plane is leaving could be valuable. At least if
they are safe for the moment, they’ll know to keep their heads down until the
delegation leaves. Then things should start to settle and maybe this security
cordon will be lifted.”

“I don’t
think the police are going anywhere until Agent Green is arrested.”

Murphy
swung the laptop around. “Maybe we should call her university? See if they have
the number?”

Stewart
picked up the satellite phone and dialed the number for University College
London. It turned out she was splitting her time at the Smithsonian and was
supposed to be there now, but with most people still asleep in Washington, he
persisted with the London call. It took several transfers but he was soon
speaking to one of her grad students, it still mid-afternoon in London.

“Terrence
Mitchel here.”

“Mr.
Mitchel, Charles Stewart, ABC News. I’m trying to reach Professor Laura Palmer
and her husband, Professor James Acton. Do you have a satellite phone number
for them?”

There
was a pause, then a reply he was used to hearing. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give
out the professor’s private number. If you give me your number I’ll see what I
can do.”

Stewart
gave the number for Murphy’s satellite phone, his own just a straight cell.
“Now listen, Mr. Mitchel. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but they have
become mixed up in this Hanoi business.”

“I know!
I know! It’s always something with them! If she had never met Professor Acton
her life would be so much safer!”

Stewart smiled,
the concern in the young man’s voice plain to be heard.

Something
tells me someone has a crush on his teacher!

“Marital
situations aside, it is essential I speak to them at once. I have urgent
information they need to know. Can you try calling them immediately?”

“Yes,
I’ll do it at once. Thank you, good bye.”

The call
ended and Stewart checked the phone battery just to be safe.

Half a
charge.

“Hopefully
we’ll hear something soon.”

Donavan
rose. “If you hear anything, let me know right away. And get their number. We
need to be able to contact them so we can arrange a pickup if it becomes
possible.”

“Will
do.”

Donavan
walked away leaving both Stewart and Murphy staring at the phone.

Ring
dammit!

It rang.

Two
hands darted for it on instinct, Murphy’s winning. He shrugged sheepishly and
handed the phone over.

“Hello?”

“Hello,
Charles?”

Stewart
smiled, breathing a sigh of relief and giving a thumbs up to Murphy as he
recognized Acton’s voice. “Thank God you’re okay!” he said, pulling out his pad
and pen. He paused. “You
are
okay, right?”

“For the
moment. We managed to hook up with Mai at her brother’s place, and we have
Agent
Green
with us.”

“He’s
with you?!” Stewart looked around, lowering himself and his voice as he
realized the entire cafeteria was now looking at him. “How did you manage
that?”

“He
reached out to us.”

“He
knows you?”

“Yes.
Don’t ask me more.”

“I
won’t, I won’t. Here’s the skinny. The American delegation is leaving for the
airport in about an hour. Any chance you can get there? Maybe sneak onto the
airfield?”

“I don’t
see how. We might be able to get to the airport but there’s no way we’re
getting on that plane with all the security I’m sure they’ll have. But listen,
we might not have to.”

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

“We’ve
got proof that Green isn’t the shooter.”

“Really?”
He wrote ‘PROOF NOT GREEN’ and underlined it three times, Murphy raising his
eyebrows. “What kind of proof?”

“We’ve
got the footage from the museum showing the shooter. You can’t really see his
face, but analysis should be able to show that the man in question is easily
six inches shorter than the agent.”