The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (37 page)

He
activated his comm. “Everyone stay calm. Follow the plan.”

He
stepped out, leaving his weapon holstered, there no point in drawing with odds
like this. He saw several other DSS agents step out of their assigned elevators
as well. The soldiers inched forward, the sound of boots and magazines rattling
disturbing enough to cause several of his group to begin sobbing, their
attempts to stifle themselves only making it worse.

“Calmly
people, follow me,” he said, stepping to the right, checking over his shoulder
to make sure they all followed, several carrying pieces of equipment, the final
DSS agent nodding the all clear as the group he was responsible for finished
exiting the elevator. The barrels of the guns followed them, but no one said
anything. He spotted the Russian, Yashkin, nearby, staring at them,
particularly him.

I
wonder if he knows who I really am.

Apparently
he had called Dawson ‘Sergeant Major’ so he was pretty sure the Russians had
dossiers on them all. He did a shoulder check and saw the last of the six
elevators open, the delegation emptying into the lobby, shocked expressions from
some along with others covering their eyes, trying to either hide from those
aiming weapons at them, or hide the horror from themselves.

It was a
pitiable sight.

One he
had seen far too often, just never in a five star hotel lobby.

He
activated his comm. “Elevator Zero-Three all clear, proceeding to first turn,
out.”

He heard
the others reporting in as Dawson’s voice broke in.

“We’ve
been blocked by troops, hold at the rear entrance doors, over.”

Shit!

He
reached the corner and looked to his right, down the hallway leading to the
rear exit.

A
hallway lined with soldiers, guns at the ready.

But no
one had fired yet.

This was
a show of force, designed to intimidate, to make someone on their side make a
mistake.

The only
problem with these types of standoffs was the side creating them was just as
scared usually.

Which
meant they might set off their own trap.

If just
one of these dozens of soldiers fired a single shot, the rest of them would
fire as well. The entire delegation would be mowed down in an instant before
the order to cease fire could even be given.

He
simply walked forward, calmly, his hands open at his sides, slightly out in
front, showing he had no weapon at the ready. He walked at a reasonable but not
too quick a pace reaching the rear doors, large glass affairs providing a clear
view of the situation outside.

A
situation that didn’t look good.

He
checked behind him and found the entire delegation bunched together, no
stragglers left behind. Yashkin and his Vietnamese counterparts were walking
toward them.

“We’re
at the rear entrance, awaiting your orders.”

“Proceed
through the doors when you see us and merge with our group. I’ll lead, on my
mark.” Jimmy put a hand on the door to the left of the revolving doors, a DSS
agent doing the same on the right, two queues forming behind them
spontaneously.

“Execute.”

Dawson stepped forward, a DSS agent holding open the door as he led
the delegation forward, directly toward the center of the line of troops. He
glanced to his right and saw Jimmy stepping through the glass doors of the rear
entrance, two lines following through the doors, merging back together, walking
calmly and deliberately toward his group.

Perhaps
calmly wasn’t the right term.

The
civilians were terrified. Even his nerves were on edge. At least he was used to
the prospect of dying at any moment. It was his job. These people had probably
thought they were simply going on an exciting field trip to a country few of
their generation had seen, and far too of their parents’ generation had.

The
Vietnamese weren’t moving.

He kept
closing the distance between them and the vehicles, each guarded by a single
DSS agent who would double as driver, the doors all opened and ready.

He came
face to face with one of the soldiers, staring down at him.

He said
nothing.

Neither
did the soldier, his weapon almost shaking as it was pointed up at Dawson’s
chin. If the kid shook any harder he risked blasting Dawson’s face off.

Jimmy
stepped up beside Dawson, saying nothing, adding his own set of eyes to the
staring match, the poor soldier, clearly out of his depth, nervously glancing
between the two.

“Let
them through.”

Dawson
turned to see Yashkin standing just outside the doors. The order was shouted in
Vietnamese and the young soldier in front of them sighed audibly, lowering his
weapon as the cordon of soldiers quickly parted in the middle, retreating in
two directions leaving the delegation with full access to the vehicles.

“Calmly
people,” said Dawson as he led them toward the vehicles, the DSS agents
splitting off with their groups. Dawson headed for the main limo, stepping
aside as Atwater and her senior aides climbed in. He closed the door behind
them then opened the passenger side door, waiting for the rest of the vehicles
to be loaded. The all clears came in over the comms and Dawson looked at
Yashkin.

The man
smiled. “Until we meet again, Sergeant Major.”

Dawson
nodded at Yashkin, climbing into the passenger seat and closing the door.

Now
let’s see how far they let us go.

Dong Mac Ward, Hanoi, Vietnam

Phong turned the corner and nearly pissed his pants. He had run
almost the entire way and was exhausted, still gasping for breath. He had
always considered himself in reasonable shape, there barely an ounce of fat on
him, but he never actively exercised beyond his morning stretches.

His job
kept him in shape.

But his
job had never involved running for almost thirty minutes.

He had
bolted the moment he saw the white man walking toward them, it obvious he was
there to arrest him. He had shouted a warning to the others but none had
reacted quickly enough. He was dismayed to find himself running alone but knew
the best way to help his friends would be to get the truth out.

Which
meant getting to the address the embassy had given him.

And now
he was here and there were police.

He
stepped back into the shadows, weighing his options. There appeared to only be
two of them. They were out of their car, examining a white van with English
writing. His heart leapt as he spotted the CNN logo.

This
is the place!

Another
car rolled up and he nearly fainted as the large white man from earlier stepped
out. He walked over to the police officers, holding up his identification.
Phong could hear them speaking but they were too far for him to make out the
words. He spotted a street number in small black letters on a gold foil
background above the door he was hiding in and determined he was at least on
the right side of the street and only a few doors down from where he needed to
be.

The urge
to run, to disappear into the night was almost overwhelming, but he knew he had
to tell his story, to make right what had gone so terribly wrong. He had had
plenty of time to think while on his way here, and he had come to two
conclusions.

First,
he had no regrets over killing Petrov. The man deserved it.

And second,
he should have stayed, waiting to be arrested rather than escaping through the
window.

Then all
of this could have been avoided. He didn’t care if he was punished. He hadn’t
cared then, either. He wasn’t even sure why he had run. At the time his plan
had been to kill Petrov, nothing beyond that. It hadn’t occurred to him that
he’d actually be successful, so he had made no plan for what would follow.

On
instinct he had run.

If he
had truly thought it out, he would have surrendered.

At least
that’s what he hoped he would do. He had to admit that if the current crisis
weren’t happening, and countries weren’t going to war over what he had done, he
would happily be going on with his life, content he had delivered justice and
done nothing truly wrong.

Maybe
I would have still run.

But he
didn’t have the benefit of hindsight then, and he did now. He had no doubt he
would have stayed if he knew what was going to happen because of his actions.

Which
meant he had to go through with this meeting. It was the only way to stop it.

He kept
to the shadows, moving forward a doorway at a time, unnoticed by the police and
white man whom he presumed was Russian rather than American, since he knew none
had been sent to meet him.

The next
building sandwiched to the side of the one he was currently hiding at was a
couple of stories high with a garage door in addition to a regular door to the
left of it. He darted forward just as one of the police officers turned toward
him and pointed, shouting for him to stop.

Suddenly
the door beside the garage opened and hands reached from the shadows, grabbing
him.

He
screamed.

He was
yanked from the street and into darkness, the door slamming shut behind him
before the lights turned back on. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted, the
hands that had snatched him from the street letting go of him.

Half a
dozen men, Vietnamese, had guns pointed at him. His jaw dropped as he saw the
Asian American security agent standing nearby, gun in hand but at least not
pointing at him. A camera with a bright light turned toward him.

Nobody
said anything for a moment and Phong simply stood there, his hands raised.

“I was
told to come here.”

“Are you
Phong?” asked a white man stepping forward.

He
nodded.

“I’m
Professor Acton. Call me Jim,” said the man, stepping forward, extending his
hand. “Did they see you coming in here?”

“Y-yes,
I think so,” replied Phong, shaking the man’s hand.

“Then we
better hurry,” said a woman as she walked toward him, hand extended. “I’m
Professor Palmer. Call me Laura.”

He had already
forgotten the man’s name and knew he had no hope of remembering hers. He was
too rattled.

“Terry,
we’ve just had some excitement here,” said a man holding a microphone as he
urged the group back toward the camera. “This is live television in a crisis,
folks, so you never know what’s going to happen.” Phong stopped beside the man,
the professors and a young Vietnamese girl standing beside him. “Can you please
tell us your name?”

“Phong
Son Quan.”

“And
where do you work?”

“At the
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel.”

“As?”

Phong
looked at the man, puzzled. “Pardon?”

“What’s
your job?”

“Oh,
sorry. Maintenance man.”

“And
this is the same hotel that Secretary Atwater is staying at.”

He
nodded. “Yes.”

“And it
is also the same hotel that Russian Prime Minister Anatoly Petrov was staying
at.”

“Yes.”

“Had you
ever met him before?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“During
the war.”

“And
what happened then.”

“He
murdered my entire family and village.”

“You saw
him do this.”

“Yes.”

“How did
you survive?”

“He let
me live. I was hiding in the woods when they came. He told them to kill everyone.
I watched and did—” He paused, the words caught in his throat. The female
professor came up behind him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Sorry.
I did nothing.”

“How old
were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“And how
many soldiers were there?”

“I don’t
know. Twenty or thirty. A lot.”

“So
there was nothing you could have really done then is there?”

He
shrugged. “I guess not.”

“And how
do you know he was the same man all these years later?”

“I
recognized him and I recognized his name.”

“He told
you his name all those years ago?”

“Yes. We
spoke for a few minutes when I tried to kill him.”

“You
tried to kill him back then?”

“Yes.
With my bare hands.”

“And he
told you his name.”

“Yes.
First he asked me mine then I asked him his. And I told him if I ever saw him
again I’d kill him.”

“And
when did you see him next.”

“Yesterday
when he arrived at the hotel.”

“And you
recognized him.”

“Immediately.”

“Then
what happened?”

Phong
closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, the interview rapid fire,
the questions non-stop.
Just a little bit more. You’re almost done.
“In
our end of day briefing for what was happening the next day we were told he
would be leaving for the museum.” Phong quickly related the rest of the story,
the interviewer prompting him along when needed, and within minutes the entire
truth had been told, a weight lifting off his shoulders though the terror still
remained.