The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (38 page)

“Is
there anything you’d like to say?”

“Yes,
yes there is. My friend Duy had nothing to do with this. I lied to him and
tricked him. He didn’t want me to get fired for losing my pass otherwise he
never would have done what he did. Also, also I’m sorry. Not for killing
Petrov—he deserved to die for what he did—but for all the trouble I have caused.
This man”—he pointed toward the American agent—“is innocent. I stole his pass
while he was in the shower. And these people”—he motioned to the professors and
the Vietnamese woman—“are innocent as well. They just happened to be in the
room when I shot Petrov. None of what is happening in the world should be
happening. I’m so sorry that innocent people have been hurt. Please stop the
fighting, please.”

“Thank
you Mr. Quan,” said the man, turning back to the camera. “There you have it,
Terry, a confession, live on the air, to the most notorious assassination of
the twenty-first century. Russian Prime Minister Anatoly Petrov, murdered for a
war crime he allegedly committed almost forty years ago. No conspiracy, no
involvement by the American or British governments, nobody helping him. A lone
gunman, delivering justice for a wrong committed against him in a war that took
away the innocence of so many. I understand you are now showing the analyzed
footage that we were able to obtain from the museum, showing that the man
entering the museum was approximately five-foot-three.” He motioned for the
Asian American to join them. The man stood beside Phong. “I’m five-foot-ten.
You can see Agent Green is essentially my height and Mr. Quan is clearly about
half a foot shorter, matching the height shown in the video.”

“Somebody’s
coming!”

He
turned to see one of the Vietnamese men with guns open the door and stick his
weapon outside, three shots ringing out.

They all
hit the ground as a hail of gunfire responded.

Dong Mac Ward, Hanoi, Vietnam

Sarkov stepped out of his car, clearly in the right place. Two
police officers were inspecting a CNN news van parked and apparently empty. He
was pretty sure the reporters wanted regarding the escape of the Vietnamese
girl were from ABC, so he doubted they were the same crew. That being said, why
a CNN news van would be here at this location at this time of night made little
sense.

Unless
they were here to interview Phong.

Which is
why he had merely shown them his identification and asked them what they had
found rather than tell them why he was there and possibly tip them off. One of the
officers actually spoke Russian, his father having been stationed in Moscow
when he was a child in a diplomatic position.

It was a
pleasant surprise, even if the accent was thick.

Though
he spoke English well, he did find it a slight mental strain to converse in a
foreign language, especially when those he was speaking it with quite often
were speaking a language they sometimes only claimed to speak. And with thick
accents.

He knew
he would sleep like the proverbial log tonight.

But if
Phong were being interviewed by CNN right now, it might be a way for this
entire situation to be defused, and allow him to slip back to his apartment
unnoticed, perhaps escaping Moscow’s wrath.

One of
the officers shouted and pointed. Sarkov turned to see a man slinking along the
street, hiding in the shadows. He couldn’t tell if it was Phong, but a door
opened beside the man and he was pulled inside, the door slamming shut then a
light turning on, highlighting a small square window in the door.

It had
to be him.

Which
now meant there was no way to keep what was happening secret.

You
better hurry up, my friend.

Sarkov
returned to his car, his back sore from walking and standing for pretty much
the entire day except when driving. He sat down, the door open, the evening now
cool with a nice breeze. The Vietnamese were on their radio, calling in
reinforcements. He wasn’t sure they knew what they had gotten themselves into,
but they weren’t taking chances, not with everything that had happened in their
capital today.

Which
meant he had a decision to make.

Stay,
and possibly be found out by Yashkin, and by extension, Moscow, or leave, not
finishing his duty as an investigator, leaving the Americans to still be blamed
for something they had nothing to do with, and his government running roughshod
over international law and continuing to display generally indecent behavior.

He
sighed, his head falling against the headrest as he closed his eyes, fatigue
quickly overwhelming him.

Gunshots
rang out, startling him out of his sleep. He reached for his gun as he regained
his bearings, finding several police cars now lining the street, officers
taking cover behind them as a group of four ran for cover. As soon as they were
out of the line of fire at least a dozen guns opened up on the front of the
building Phong had entered.

And
Sarkov sighed.

I
knew this wasn’t going to end well.

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam

Dimitri Yashkin watched the last of the motorcade pull away then
spun on his heel, entering the hotel. His vehicle was parked in the front but
he wasn’t leaving quite yet. He pointed to Major Yin. “They will have left
luggage and other equipment. I don’t want it touched. A forensics team from
Moscow will be arriving shortly. They will go through everything. If the
Americans arrive from the embassy to pick it up, tell them they can’t because
the entire hotel is a crime scene.”

“You
intend to keep the hotel closed?”

“Yes.”

“But
what of the guests? This is a five star hotel, the most prestigious hotel in
the city, and it holds hundreds of guests.” Yin shook his head. “My superiors
are already demanding updates on when it will reopen.”

Yashkin
stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He could care less if a bunch of rich,
pampered tourists and businessmen were inconvenienced. The Russian Prime
Minister had been assassinated. It took precedence. And his orders from Moscow
were clear.

Maximize
the disruption.

The more
people who were inconvenienced, the more people who were pissed off, the
better, as long as the message was controlled, as long as they all thought it
was the Americans’ fault.

And so
far he felt he was doing a stellar job, especially with the Vietnamese so eager
to please. The weapons deal they were so desperate to close would be the
biggest in their history, and with the Ruble collapsing due to economic
sanctions over the Ukraine, Russia needed foreign cash to add to the reserves
that were quickly being drained to try and stabilize the currency.

The deal
was worth billions. His country wanted the money, the Vietnamese wanted the
equipment, desperate to be able to show some real muscle with a belligerent
China on their border. When he had read his briefing notes on the flight here
he couldn’t believe how arrogant China was over their claims in the South China
Sea. Their aggression was uncalled for, and their claim tenuous at best. But
since they had the military might, their neighbors could do little but protest.

He hoped
the weapons deal went through soon.

For both
countries’ sakes.

But
tonight he needed to tie up loose ends. The two hotel employees had to be
eliminated, the two professors, the Vietnamese grad student, those who rescued
her, and the two reporters who had witnessed the rescue.

He could
care less if the American agent escaped now. The museum footage had been
destroyed, the hotel footage destroyed, and once the witnesses were eliminated,
it didn’t matter what the Americans or their DSS ‘Agent’—for he knew full well
the man was no DSS agent—said to the public. They would never be believed.

He knew
that if you controlled the message, then you controlled the minds of the
people. In Russia a recent poll showed that only 3% of people believed
Malaysian Airlines flight MH17 was shot down by Russian equipped separatists in
the Ukraine. The Kremlin’s message had been accepted by the public, 82% of the
people believing it had been shot down by the Ukrainian Air Force.

It was
propaganda worthy of Goebbels himself.

One of Yin’s
men ran up to them, handing Yin a radio. A flurry of Vietnamese was exchanged, Yashkin
uninterested, his disdain for the Vietnamese knowing no bounds. In fact, he
hated most things that weren’t Russian. Russian music, movies and television
were far more appealing than anything Hollywood could produce. Russian cuisine
was the finest in the world, its vodka and caviar second to none. And its
women! There were none like them.

He
thought of his fiancée, Karina.

She
was a face that would indeed launch a thousand ships.

“There’s
a gunfight near the river,” said Yin, finishing his radio call.

“And
this interests me why?”

“Because
there’s a CNN vehicle there.”

“So,
reporters are at a gun fight. This is to be expected.”

Yin
shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. They were there before the gunfight
started. They aren’t in the vehicle, they think they’re inside with the
gunmen.”

Yashkin’s
eyes opened slightly wider as his heart picked up a few beats. “It just might
be worth checking out.”

As they
walked through the lobby he noticed a large number of the soldiers and police
heading toward the lounge. He followed, curious, knowing full well they
wouldn’t dare to drink on the job. It immediately became obvious what was
attracting their attention. The large television on the far wall was tuned to
CNN International with a large headline emblazoned across the screen.

Russian
Prime Minister’s Assassin Confesses.

On the
left of the screen the museum footage he had ordered destroyed was playing with
computer graphics overlaid showing the height of the individual and on the
right, an interview was playing showing the two professors, the American agent,
the young woman from the museum and an Asian man he assumed was the maintenance
worker that had actually done the killing.

His
blood pressure ticked up a few dozen points as he clenched his fists.

Then he
smiled as he saw the interview was taped, and it had been interrupted by
gunfire.

He now
knew where almost all of his loose ends were located.

Dong Mac Ward, Hanoi, Vietnam

“Stop shooting, you moron!”

Niner
hauled Cadeo’s man back from the door, tossing him onto his back. The man
looked flustered for a moment then jumped to his feet, raising his weapon at
Niner.

“We’ll
have none of that now,” said Acton, his Beretta raised and aimed directly at
the man’s head. “He just saved your life.”