The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (34 page)

“Are you
sure?”

“There’s
no doubt. All anyone would need to do is measure something in that room for a
reference point like the metal detector.”

Stewart
was nodding, furiously scribbling notes, Murphy reading them in stunned
silence. “Can you send us the footage?”

“No, the
Internet is down and the computer we have access to has no way to connect to
our satphone. We’re stuck here with probably the only copy of the proof with no
way to send it.”

“What’s
your location?” He jotted down the address, Murphy already entering it into
Google Maps. “We’re coming to you.”

“Is that
wise?”

“Probably
not, but I’m a newsman and the truth must be set free, or some bullshit like
that.”

Acton
laughed. “It’s your neck.”

“Don’t I
know it.” He looked at the notebook with the directions plotted. “We’re not
actually that far from you. If we can get out of here, we should hopefully be
there in about twenty minutes.”

“Okay,
good luck.”

Stewart
ended the call as he rose from the table, Murphy already packing up their
equipment. His cameraman looked at him. “Just how do you think we’re going to
get out of here? Aren’t we wanted?”

“I’ve
got an idea on that.”

He
strode over to a nearby table, a CNN crew sitting around it. “Can I borrow your
keys?”

Murphy
laughed. “Bloody hell.”

Tay Ho District, Hanoi, Vietnam

“Are you crazy?” asked Duy. “You want to tell the Americans that
you’re the cause of all this insanity?”

Phong
nodded. “It’s the only way to stop it.”

“But
you’ll be killed!”

He shrugged.
“So? My life’s purpose, a purpose that was never supposed to have been
fulfilled, has been. If I die now, today, I die in peace.”

“You
will
die, don’t doubt that.”

“And I
can live with that.” He held up his hand, smiling. “Sorry, no pun intended.”

Duy
shook his head. “This is no time for morbid jokes.” He paused then picked the
bottle back up, taking a long swig. “What are you going to tell them?”

“The
truth. The entire truth.” He motioned to Duy’s wife. “Can you hand me the
phone?”

She
didn’t budge. “You don’t even know the number.”

“I’ll
ask the operator.”

“They
charge for that!” She pointed at her son. “Go to the store, they’ve got a phone
book for tourists. It might have the American Embassy number.”

He
jumped to his feet and disappeared, running back a few minutes later, the
bottle making another couple of rounds, Phong partaking again as he fueled
himself with courage, his hands shaking slightly as he realized what he was
essentially doing was committing suicide.

Something
he had been tempted on many occasions to do in his youth.

But this
time at least it would serve a purpose. It would save lives.

And
perhaps atone for those lost already due to his actions.

He had
no sympathy for Petrov, and only a little for his guards, all men who were
protecting a murderer, which in his mind made them little better. He wondered
how much they knew of their leader’s past, and if they knew, would they have
still tried to defend him, or would they have stepped aside, letting justice be
served.

Phong
took the piece of paper with the number, Duy’s wife handing him the phone. He
dialed.

“American
Embassy, Hanoi, how may I direct your call?”

“I need
to talk to someone in charge.”

“In
regards to?”

“I’m the
man who shot the Russian Prime Minister.”

“One
moment please.”

The
woman at the other end sounded scared after his revelation, the phone ringing
again several times as he was transferred he hoped to the right person. “This
is Leroy Donavan. How can I help you?”

“My name
is Phong Son Quan. I am the man who shot the Russian Prime Minister this
morning.”

American Embassy, Hanoi, Vietnam

Leroy Donavan’s jaw dropped. “Everyone quiet!” he shouted as he hit
the button on his phone, placing the call on speaker. The bustling office area
was suddenly silent, Charles Stewart and his cameraman, just bringing him up to
date on the two professors and their plan to meet them, were sitting in front
of his desk, equally as curious as the rest of the room.

“Can you
repeat your name for me?”

“Phong
Son Quan.”

Donavan
jotted it down, ripping the paper off the pad and waving it in the air. It was
snatched within seconds. “And you said you shot Prime Minister Petrov and his
security detail this morning.”

“Yes.”

Some of
the room gravitated toward the desk scribbling notes, the rest hitting their
phones and computers, immediately trying to gather as much information as they
could based upon what they were hearing.

“What
proof do you have?”

“I work
at the Daewoo Hanoi.” Donavan’s hand shot up, pointing down at the phone,
indicating someone should pick up on that tidbit. “I tricked my friend into
giving me his key pass. I told him that I forgot mine in your agent’s room and
I was afraid of being fired. I then used his pass to enter the room, used the
factory security code for the safe and stole the security pass while your agent
was in the shower.”

“How did
you know he would be in the shower?”

“My
friend works in the Eco Office. He let me know when the shower was activated
but he had no idea what I planned to do. He was just helping a friend.”

“Then
what did you do?”

“I told
Human Resources that I was sick and went home, changed into a suit, then rode
my moped to the museum. I used your agent’s pass to enter. They thought I was
part of your delegation. I then hid behind a tapestry in the room where they
keep the Dong Son drums—”

“How did
you know he’d go there?”

“Everyone
goes there. It’s the most famous display in the museum.”

“Okay,
continue.”

“When he
entered the room, I waited for a few minutes while he spoke to your delegation,
but I thought I saw one of his security guards notice me so I came out from
behind the curtain, shot his guards then shot him.”

“Why?”

“He
murdered my family and massacred my entire village during the war.”

Donavan
could hear the man’s voice crack, immediately removing any doubt he might have
had, it clear this man was struggling with his confession. “Did you speak to
him?”

“Yes, I
wanted to make sure he knew who was killing him and why.”

“Did he
remember you?”

“Yes.”

“Were
there any witnesses who could prove your story?”

“There
were three, I think. I think they might be who they’re saying helped your
agent, I’m not sure. But they just happened to be there, I’ve never seen them
before.”

“Are you
willing to testify to this?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,
we’re going to need to get you to a safe location as quickly as possible. Is
there anywhere you can go that the authorities wouldn’t know about?”

Phong
shrugged. “Not really. They know where I live and where my friends live since
they almost all work at the same hotel.”

“Okay,
give me your number just in case we’re cut off.” He jotted down the number.
“And where are you?”

“A
friend’s.”

“A
friend that the authorities will know about?”

“Yes,
actually another friend from the hotel just warned us that the Russians are
looking for us.”

Shit!

“Okay,
just a second.”

He hit
the
Hold
button. “Where can we hide this guy? There’s no way we’re
getting him in the Embassy, not with all those police out there.”

“We
could pick him up.”

Donavan
looked at Stewart. “Huh?”

“We’re
taking a CNN truck out in a few minutes to go meet the professors. We could
pick him up and take him with us.”

Donavan
shook his head. “No, it’s more important that you get that evidence transmitted
than it is to pick this guy up.”

“Then
have him meet us,” suggested Murphy. “We can kill two birds with one stone.”

Donavan
nodded, taking the sheet of paper he had been making notes on prior to this
bombshell phone call. It contained the address for where Agent Green and the
professors were, as well as the satellite phone number. He jabbed the hold
button. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I’m
going to give you an address, do you have something to write it down with?”

“One
moment.” Talking in Vietnamese could be heard, muffled, then a moment later
Phong spoke again. “Go ahead.”

Donavan
gave him the address and made him repeat it. “How long would it take you to get
there?”

“If I
get my moped, not long.”

“Where
is it?”

“At my
apartment.”

“No,
don’t go back there under any circumstances. Can you borrow a friends?”

Again
muffled voices. “Yes. I can be there in about ten minutes.”

“Good.
When you get there, have them call us so we know you’re safe.”

“Okay,
thank you. Wait a minute, somebody is coming…oh no!”

There
was a sound as if the phone had been dropped followed by shouts and footfalls
fading into the distance. More scratching, as if the phone were being picked up
and a deep voice in English with a thick Russian accent spoke. “Who is this?”

Donavan
lifted the receiver and dropped it back into its cradle, ending the call.

“Our
assassin may have just run out of time.”

Tay Ho District, Hanoi, Vietnam

Igor Sarkov stepped out of his car, the temperature having dropped
even further since his visit to Phong’s apartment, it no longer stifling with
the humidity now reasonable. It had taken him longer than expected, forced to
almost inch along with the revelers, none paying too much heed to the cars
travelling with them, most drivers appearing to be taking part along with their
passengers.

It made
him dislike the country a little less.

He
didn’t like it here. He didn’t hate it, but he didn’t like it. It wasn’t the
people, though he couldn’t stand most of the senior bureaucrats, their
arrogance rivaling those in similar positions in Moscow. The everyday people he
had to admit were wonderful. They were simple by Western standards in that they
led simpler lives. Consumerism was growing as the economy expanded and barriers
were dropped, but it was nothing like that now seen in Moscow. Meals were
simpler and eaten at home with family, evenings were spent with friends and
family talking and playing games rather than in front of a television or a
phone, and it wasn’t a constant competition of who owned what or drove what.

Simpler.

Just too
hot for his liking, too communist for his liking.