The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (40 page)

“I
thought there was gunfire? What the hell is going on here?”

His
chauffeur said nothing, simply bringing the car to a halt and climbing out,
opening Yashkin’s door. Yashkin stepped out into the cool evening breeze and
looked at Major Yin as he exited his own vehicle. “What’s going on here?”

Yin
shouted something in Vietnamese, another man running over. Words were
exchanged, Yin seeming confused, continually asking questions, then getting
angrier and angrier, his subordinate beginning to cower.

Yashkin
stormed over. “What is happening? Where are the suspects?”

Yin
looked at Yashkin, exasperated. “They’re gone!”

“What?”

“They’re
gone! He says
your
man took them.”

“What?
What man?”

“Mr. Sarkov.”

“Sarkov!”
Yashkin’s mouth gaped wide in shock. You could have told him Petrov’s ghost
himself had been here and he couldn’t have been more surprised. “Are you sure?
I sent him home!”

“He’s
sure.”

“Where
did he take them?”

“To the
airport.”

“What?”

Yashkin
could feel every muscle in his body tighten as fury ripped through him. Through
clenched teeth he asked, “When?”

“Almost
fifteen minutes ago.”

“Stop
the motorcade, stop Sarkov. They can’t be allowed to reach the plane.”

Yin
shook his head. “No, he said he’s taking them back to Moscow.”

Yashkin
paused, not sure what to make of that. “Moscow?”

“Yes.”

“And the
suspects agreed?”

“Yes.
Apparently Mr. Sarkov convinced them they would be safer in Moscow than here.
It avoided a possible gun battle and many deaths.”

Yashkin
bit his lip, thinking. Perhaps Sarkov wasn’t a traitor after all. He was still
a damned fool, and he’d be enjoying his final years in a cold dark cell for
disobeying orders and violating Moscow’s wishes, but at least he wouldn’t die
with the shame of being labelled a traitor.

But his
orders were to have these people eliminated by the Vietnamese so that his
country could claim they weren’t involved.

“I want
your men to shoot them on sight.”

Yin’s
jaw dropped, then his head began shaking rapidly. “No no no! There’s a camera
crew following them, broadcasting live!”

Yashkin
caught his shoulders before they slumped in defeat. His deflated tone didn’t
hide his dejection. “Explain.”

“There
was a CNN crew here, taping them. That’s how my men found them, they followed
their van from the American Embassy. They apparently lost them for a few
minutes but eventually found them. They were allowed to leave freely since they
are press—they didn’t want to create an international incident, especially
since they were broadcasting live to the world.”

“And
your men let them follow Sarkov to the airport?”

Yin
nodded.

“Idiots.”

Yin
nodded again. “I agree.”

The
young man in charge of the scene clearly understood English, withering with
each word.

“Delay
the Americans as much as you can. I don’t want that plane leaving before I get
there. And detain Sarkov and the others when they arrive at the airport.”

Yin
nodded, demanding a radio as they headed for their respective vehicles.

Moscow
is going to string Sarkov up by his balls.

Approaching Noi Bai International Airport, Hanoi, Vietnam

Jimmy watched the nearly empty streets whip by, the airport located
north of the capital leaving much of the route a clear high speed shot out of
the city. It was normally a forty minute drive but they had done it in half the
time, their Vietnamese police escort urged to higher and higher speed by the
approaching bumper of the lead vehicle driven by him, the normal thirty mile
per hour speeds upped to sixty plus.

But it
was too easy.

He
wasn’t complaining, he was just stunned the Vietnamese, and more accurately the
Russians, were sticking to their agreement. The drive was long and uneventful,
and it had given him a lot of time to think—or more accurately, worry—about
Niner. Dawson hadn’t been able to contact him directly about their imminent
departure, and though he hated the decision to leave without their fellow
operator, he agreed with it. Atwater and the civilians were the priority.

But he
was also a firm believer in the no man left behind doctrine.

Which
was why he was hoping they would quickly be returning to assist in an
extraction if Niner didn’t make it. He had been watching the entire route like
a hawk for Niner to make an appearance like the original plan had dictated, but
he hadn’t seen him, though at these speeds and at night he might have missed
him.

And if
he had, and something bad happened to his friend, he’d never forgive himself.

He
looked at the GPS in the dash and activated his comm. “ETA less than four
minutes.”

He knew
it was less than the four shown since it was assuming they were travelling at
the speed limit.

They
were doing anything but, much to the annoyance of the police in the lead, the
motorcycle cops’ bumpers about three feet ahead of his own.

There
was no way he was going to tolerate any delays.

Three
minutes.

And it
had only been thirty seconds. He could see the airport directly ahead, and had
been able to for some time, it standing out against the night sky, the planes
taking off and landing steady.

Two
minutes.

Which
meant less than a minute. “ETA less than two minutes.” Brake lights lit up in
front of him and the motorcycles split off in opposite directions.

Jimmy
cursed.

Two
police vehicles were blocking the road ahead, at least a dozen officers behind
them, weapons drawn. “Road block ahead!”

“Can you
go through?” asked Dawson over the comm.

“Affirmative.
At least a dozen hostiles with weapons.”

“Do it!”

“Everyone
hold on!”

Jimmy
leaned forward and hit a custom installed button on the dash, disabling the airbags
and fuel cutoff features for the impending front end collision. He was driving
a large, heavy Ford SUV, facing two relatively small Vietnamese vehicles.

He laid
on his horn, at least giving some warning to the officers that he had no
intention of slowing down.

They
didn’t move.

Until he
was within about ten yards, then they scattered.

He
gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, tensing up his muscles and
shoving his head back against the headrest, bracing for the impact, the DSS agent
beside him and his passengers in the back doing the same.

They hit
hard, the back end fishtailing for a few moments, the civilians in the back
momentarily panicking, but he was trained for this. He took his foot off the
gas as he steered into the skid, steadying his breathing as his body demanded
an emotional reaction.

Instead
he mastered the adrenaline bitch and when enough speed had been taken out of
the equation and traction reestablished itself, he straightened the wheel, back
in control.

He
hammered on the gas, blasting through a set of gates that were being hastily
closed, the Secretary’s airplane plainly visible in its cordoned off, secure
section of the airport to the left.

He
cursed again, a company of troops surrounding the area, but thankfully with few
vehicles. He glanced in his side mirror and saw the motorcade was still tight
behind him. He braked, turning onto an access road that led to the tarmac,
moments later turning hard left, eliciting more screams from the back. He was
heading directly for the plane now, the soldiers or police, he couldn’t tell
which and didn’t really care, scattering out of the way. DSS agents were posted
around stanchions demarking the diplomatic exclusion zone indicating American
soil.

One of
the agents opened a gap in the simple barrier, jumping out of the way just as
Jimmy blasted through, easing off the speed slightly but not locking up his
brakes until he reached the other side, leaving enough room for the rest of the
motorcade to get inside the barrier.

“Everybody
out and on the plane. Don’t forget any equipment assigned to you. Stay calm and
don’t run. We don’t need anyone getting injured in the final nine yards.”

Doors
were thrown open as he stepped outside. The squeal and shudder of antilock
brakes surrounded them as the other vehicles stopped, car doors being thrown
open as the civilians raced for the steps that had been pushed up against the
front door of the Boeing 757, their instructions to not run ignored. He checked
the backseats and found an abandoned piece of satellite gear.

Naughty!
Naughty!

He
removed it and handed it to the DSS agent that had accompanied him.

“Nice
driving,” said the man with a nod of appreciation.

“Thanks,
nothing I like better than a Sunday drive in the country.”

The man
chuckled as they walked toward the stairs. “Remind me to never accept an
invitation from you for ice creams.”

Jimmy
batted his eyes at him. “Why Agent Conroy, whatever do you mean?”

Dawson
jogged up to them, smacking him on the shoulder. “Good job.”

“Just
good? Why Agent Conroy here just hit on me for doing such a good job.”

Conroy
shook his head, laughing as he climbed the stairs, the last of the civilians
now boarded.

“Hugs
and kisses later,” said Dawson as the last of the abandoned equipment was
carried up by DSS agents. Dawson’s phone rang as he pointed to the vehicles.
“Get some men and move these out of the way. I don’t want anything interfering
with us taking off.”

Jimmy
nodded and climbed into his own vehicle, pulling it in behind the wing. He
didn’t care if the engines blew the damned thing halfway back to the hotel, he
just didn’t want them hitting or trying to suck the vehicle into them.

He
glanced in his mirror and saw Dawson smile.

It
must be Niner!

“What’s your situation?” asked Dawson as he rushed up the stairs,
the idling engines too loud to hear properly. Inside he found confusion and
chaos as the panicked civilians couldn’t seem to decide where they wanted to
sit, too many trying to avoid windows. He pointed at Spock. “Start assigning
seats. Explain how bullets and jet fuel work.” Spock grinned and began to push
people into seats as Dawson stepped toward the cockpit.

“We’re
on our way,” said Niner. “I’ve got the professors, the Vietnamese grad student,
and the assassin with me and an ABC news crew in a CNN van following. But
there’s a change in plans.”

Dawson
frowned. He didn’t like changes in plans. “Explain.”

“We’re
not coming to you. We’ve surrendered to the Russian agent we met earlier,
Sarkov. We’ve agreed to return with him to Moscow.”

“Unacceptable.”

“We had
no choice. We were surrounded and had only minutes before his superior, that
asshole Yashkin, arrived with orders to kill us all.”

Dawson’s
teeth clenched. “That guy deserves a bullet to the skull.”

“True
dat! Listen, if you guys get a chance to leave, you take it. Don’t wait for us.
I don’t know if you’ve seen the news—”

“Been a
little busy but did catch the latest Big Bang Theory on the way.”

“Sheldon
is my favorite, he’s so dreamily geeky—he’s like a white Asian. But, if you had
switched the channel you’d see we’re being broadcast live so we should be safe.
Also, the assassin, an employee from the hotel, broadcast a full confession and
the professors managed to get their hands on footage from the museum proving it
wasn’t me.”

Dawson
breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank them for me.”

“I’ll be
sure to give Jim a big kiss and Laura a hearty handshake from you.”

“Good.
Make sure you don’t mix them up. Contact me as soon as you arrive at the
airport. ETA?”

“I can
see it from here, so I’m guessing we’ll be there in less than ten minutes,
maybe even five at the speed we’re going.”

“Good
luck, my friend.”

“Ditto.”

The call
ended and Dawson felt a little relief though not happy at the prospect of his
friends being taken to Moscow.

But
at least they’ll be alive.

He entered
the cockpit and looked at the pilot. “Can we leave?”

He shook
his head. “They’re refusing clearance.”

“Then
just go.”

Another
headshake, accompanied by a finger pointing ahead.

“No can
do.”

Dawson
looked and cursed as he saw a police vehicle parked in the way.