The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (4 page)

Outside Kusinara, Malla Kingdom
Near modern day Indian/Nepalese border
401 BC

Asita skidded to a halt as he heard his father scream. He turned,
gripping his sword but heard the dull thud of the deathblow echo through the
alleyway he had left only moments before, then the cheers of the crowd.

He bent
over and vomited.

Spitting
the harsh liquid from his mouth he said a quick prayer and turned, rushing into
the forest to the east of the village, weaving left and right through the dense
foliage, the roar of the crowd still behind him as they discovered only one of
the two they were after had fallen.

Heading
directly for the camp they had made several days earlier upon arrival, tucked
on the other side of this small thick of trees, he began to shout to the
servants who had accompanied them, hoping they heard him.

“Pack
immediately!” he cried. “We must leave now!”

He burst
through the trees and into their small camp, a large tent shared by he and his
father, several smaller ones for their entourage of four and supplies. The
servants stood dumbstruck at his shouts, their faces questioning what there was
no time to question.

“They’re
coming. They mean to kill us all!”

Action.

He dove
into his tent, surveying the room and quickly decided nothing was worth saving.
He grabbed a small satchel and slung it over his shoulder, placing the now
precious clay bowl into it then reemerged to see the supplies inside the tents
quickly being tossed from within.

“Never
mind that!” he yelled. “Arm yourselves and leave the rest. We’ll find food and
water on the way.”

The
snapping of branches and shouts from within the trees grew as the crowd surged
forward in an effort to find the one who had escaped. A branch snapped nearby
and a man burst from the forest, his sword wielding arm held high.

“I found
them!” he shouted at Asita rushed forward, drawing his sword, swinging at the
surprised man emboldened from the crowd, but now alone and apparently
inexperienced in the art of war.

His
innards spilled on the ground, a river of crimson flowing on the slight
downslope leading to a meandering stream their camp was straddling.

More
shouts and Asita knew it wouldn’t be long before they were overwhelmed.

“Run!”
he shouted, turning from the forest and sprinting along the streambed, his feet
splashing through the shallow water, the footfalls of his servants, including
his trusted companion Channa close behind.

The
forest belched forth dozens of pursuers at once.

Asita
slowed to defend himself allowing the others to catch up and position
themselves between him and the approaching throng.

“Run,
Master! We will protect you!”

He
hesitated for a moment as the four men, all highly adept warriors advanced on
the crowd, leaving him shivering in the cool mountain runoff.

“Run!”
cried Channa with a final look over his shoulder as swords clashed.

He ran.

The
battle soon began to fade, the clashing of swords crushing his spirit with each
splash in the water, his thoughts of Channa, a servant he had grown up with and
he had chosen to be his official companion upon becoming a man and heir to the
leadership of their tribe.

Channa
had been elated.

And
Asita had been careful to never abuse his friend, instead rarely needing to ask
for anything, Channa knowing him so well his needs were usually anticipated.

And now
his friend would die defending his master.

A
stabbing pain in his right shoulder overwhelmed him, sending him tumbling to
the ground. His grip on his sword loosened and it clattered onto the bed of
small rocks as he reached for the source of the pain, his head turning to look
at what was causing so much agony.

An
arrow, embedded deep, blood flowing freely, stood menacingly upright. He tried
to reach it, but couldn’t, his fingertips irritatingly close but not enough to
grip the shaft and pull it free. He pushed himself to his knees and another
arrow skidded past him. He looked back and saw the archer marching toward him
as he readied another arrow.

He ran.

Or
rather stumbled forward.

The pain
was nearly unbearable and he thought of the agony his poor father must have
gone through. The satchel containing the clay bowl swung out from his body then
back, hitting his hip. His heart leapt. He stole a glance inside the bag and
breathed a painful sigh of relief as he confirmed the bowl hadn’t broken when
he fell.

Another
arrow, this one too close, his stumbling and zigzagging thankfully enough to
keep the man’s aim from being true, his first shot apparently lucky, the man’s
skill thankfully limited.

But his
pace was slowed, less than half his healthy self.

And he
could hear fewer swords now.

I’m
sorry, Channa!

He said
a silent prayer as he continued away from the battle but could feel himself
getting weaker and weaker.

He
dropped to a knee, reaching again for the shoulder, the throb now overwhelming.

He
couldn’t go on.

The
clatter of horses’ hooves on stone had his head turning painfully to the side
and he caught a glimpse of a man on horseback charging toward him, the blood
thirsty mob behind him, stained blades held high as they surged forward, his
companions finished, the numbers against them overwhelming.

His head
sagged as he collapsed on all fours, gasping for breath, exhausted and weak.
The bowl was heavy in his bag, pulling down on his neck, but he refused to
think ill of it, to resent its weight, for it was the last thing his father had
held, and one of the last things the Buddha had held. It contained the key to
saving his village, should he solve the riddle that accompanied it.

Unfortunately
he would never know the answer to that riddle.

And his
village would continue to founder, and eventually fall.

“Master!”

The
voice was instantly recognizable.
Channa!
He looked up as the mighty
beast neared, slowing down, and felt a surge of hope as he saw his friend leaning
over, reaching out for him. He held up his left arm, his right nearly useless,
but knew he had no hope of gripping his friend and companion’s arm.

But he
needn’t have worried.

Channa
grabbed his forearm with an iron grip and pulled him from the ground, swinging him
onto the horse behind him, urging the beast forward once Asita wrapped his one
good arm around his friend’s waist. He looked over his shoulder and saw the
crowd come to a halt in frustration, and he prayed that his ordeal was over.

The
adrenaline that had been fueling him began to wane and within moments his head
fell on Channa’s back, the horror of the day fading to black as he passed out
from the pain and blood loss, the Buddha’s riddle in his head.

Trust
in what you see.

He felt
a moment of frustration and anger at the source of the cryptic message. His
father had died for a riddle when what he needed was sage advice, not clever
words. His eyes burned with tears in his final moments of consciousness as he
thought of his dead father and his final words, his chest filling with the
shame of hating the Buddha.

Seek
the wisdom in his words.

It was
his father’s final commandment to him.

But
what in the name of the ancestors does the riddle mean?

Vietnam National Museum of History, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day

The curator sped away before Professor James Acton could say
anything, leaving nothing but Vietnamese guards behind. And they still looked
edgy.

“Was
that who I—”

Acton
cut Laura’s whispered question off. “Yes.”

“But—”

“I
know.” He turned to Mai. “Do you know what hotel Secretary Atwater is staying
at?”

Mai
nodded, still clearly terrified. “The same hotel you are staying at. It is the
best Hanoi has to offer.”

“Excellent.
I think it’s best we return to our hotel immediately.”

Mai
asked something of one of the soldiers who appeared in charge and he replied with
something sounding like an uncertain affirmative then adding a burst of
dialogue just before they exited the room. They froze. The man approached, his
walk cocky as he clasped his hands behind his back, his body almost at an
obtuse angle as he approached, kicking his feet out in a slightly exaggerated
manner.

Ministry
of Silly Walks, anyone?

“You are
American?” asked the man, his accent thick.

“I am.
My wife is a British subject.”

“You
witnessed what happened here today?”

Acton
nodded. “Yes.”

“You saw
the man who did this?”

“Yes,”
said Acton.

“Yes, we
all did,” added Laura.

“No, I
saw nothing!” yelped Mai, clearly terrified. “I closed my eyes as soon as the
shooting started.”

Acton
knew full-well that Mai had seen the shooter, but decided she must have her
reasons for lying.

Probably
pure terror. She knows if she doesn’t say what they want to hear, she’s liable
to end up in some labor camp.

It made
him yearn for a quick return home.

“I can
attest to that,” said Acton, deciding to cover for Mai. “As soon as I saw the
man appear from behind that tapestry”—he pointed to the far wall, their
interrogator turning to look for a moment—“I grabbed them and pushed them to
the floor. I’m surprised either of them saw anything.”

“I only
did because I turned to look,” added Laura, playing along. “Miss Trinh was
closest to this wall”—she motioned toward the near wall—“so she had both myself
and my husband in her way.”

The man
pursed his lips, not looking convinced. He shouted something and one of his men
disappeared after a heel-clicking snap to attention. The man looked back at
Acton then Laura, his eyes finally resting on a trembling Mai. “Why do I think
you are lying?”

Acton
shrugged. “Why would we lie? There was a shooting. We were simply trying to
survive without getting shot.”

“Why
didn’t you run like the others?”

“We were
in the direct line of fire. If he had missed one of the guards he might have
hit us. I felt it was more important for everyone to get on the ground.”

“Or
perhaps the assassin knew you, and let you live.”

Mai
failed to stifle a yelp.

Acton
sensed his wife getting pissed off.

“What a
ridiculous notion!” she cried, jabbing her finger at the five corpses. “A
tragedy has occurred here today, a tragedy that
we
had nothing to do
with. Clearly
your
security failed, which is unbelievable considering
who your guests were today!”

Acton
shifted slightly in front of Laura under the guise of getting a better look at
the bodies on the other side of the room. He wagged a finger at her behind his
back.

“Sir, we
would be happy to cooperate in any way we can, but we didn’t really see much.”

“You saw
the shooter.”

“Yes,
I
did,” said Acton. “Miss Trinh had no opportunity, and my wife had minimal.”

“And you
would recognize the man should you see him again?”

“I’m not
sure.”

“Why,
because all us Charlie’s look alike?”

Acton
hated to admit it, however it had been proven scientifically that people were
programmed to be able to recognize people of their own ethnicity far easier
than those of another, and his exposure to Vietnamese had been limited,
Maryland not exactly bursting at the seams with the descendants of former
refugees. “No,” he said deliberately, “it’s not that at all. It’s just that we
were worried about getting shot the entire time. I was more focused on the
barrel of his gun.”

The
soldier dispatched earlier returned at a run, handing a folder over to his
commander. The man opened the file, revealing the same photo they had seen
earlier of Niner, a member of Delta Force’s Bravo Team. A man Acton knew and
trusted with his life.

And
definitely not the shooter.

“Do you
recognize him?”

Acton
was about to answer truthfully when he remembered Dawson’s subtle headshake.

They’re
undercover.

“No.”

He
almost sensed Laura’s heart race.

“But you
must.”

Acton
felt a lump form in his throat.

They
know!

“Why
must
I?”

“Because
he is the shooter.”

Acton
shook his head. “No, he isn’t.”

“How can
you be sure? You said you were looking at the barrel of the gun? How can you be
so sure it wasn’t him?”

Acton
tried to steady his pounding heart. “I just know,” he said, digging his finger
nails into his palms clasped behind his back. “This man looks completely
different.” He decided to play a card, leaning forward and squinting. “He looks
Korean to me.”