The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (41 page)

Approaching Noi Bai International Airport, Hanoi, Vietnam

Acton was sitting in the rear seat of Sarkov’s car with Laura, Mai
and Phong, Niner up front in the passenger seat. It wasn’t that tight a fit,
Mai and Phong both slight, but it meant there weren’t enough seatbelts and Oh
Jesus! handles to go around. Sarkov was clearly an expert driver, taking
corners at breakneck speeds, urging their Vietnamese escort on with his bumper,
at times leaving their news crew safety net behind as the van’s acceleration
couldn’t match the car’s.

But
Sarkov appeared to always make sure they were never out of sight.

“How
much farther?” asked Laura, leaning forward.

“We’re
almost there,” said Sarkov, motioning with his chin instead of taking his hands
off the wheel. “This is a straight road all the way to the airport. We should
be okay.”

Niner
pointed. “Road block?”

Acton’s
chest tightened as he leaned over to see past Niner’s head. Several police cars
were on either side of the road, about a dozen officers standing nearby, all
turning toward the mini-motorcade.

They
blasted through, unmolested.

“It
looks like somebody took out two of those cars,” observed Niner from the front
seat. “Probably our motorcade.”

“But
they made it aboard,” said Acton. “That’s the important thing.”

“Let’s
just hope that we’re doing the right thing,” said Laura, squeezing Acton’s
hand. “This whole idea of putting our trust in the Russian government has me
nervous.”

“Me
too,” said Acton.

“Me
three,” said Niner. “But we have no choice. We’re dead here.”

Sarkov
said nothing, instead following the police vehicle in front of them as it
turned onto the airport property. They could see the Secretary of State’s jet
less than half a mile away, tantalizingly close, but the police turned in the opposite
direction, heading toward the terminal.

Sarkov
locked up his brakes then turned hard to the left, toward the airplane, then
hit the gas, gunning his car toward the cordoned off area. The troops
surrounding it, filled now with over half a dozen vehicles from the motorcade
and the large Boeing, raised their weapons and opened fire. Mai screamed as
they all ducked, but Sarkov kept accelerating forward, the windshield
splintering, the bullet resistant glass of the embassy issued vehicle holding.

He blasted
through the cordon, dragging the stanchions with them as he screeched to a
halt, deftly avoiding slamming into any of the other vehicles. He looked in his
rearview mirror.

“They’re
not crossing the barrier. Let’s go! Everyone on the plane!”

All four
doors flew open and Acton jumped out, pulling Laura with him. They sprinted
toward the stairs as the news van came to a halt behind them. He glanced back
and saw Stewart and Murphy running toward them, Stewart carrying the camera
since Murphy had been driving. Acton frowned as he saw Murphy gripping his
shoulder. That’s when he noticed the bullet holes in their windshield.

But
there was no time to worry about that now.

“Let’s
go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” cried a voice from up the stairs. He looked to see
Dawson urging them forward. Niner reached the stairs first, turning to push Mai
then Phong up. Laura was next, Acton on her heels as Niner went back to grab
Murphy and help him along. He pointed at the camera.

“Keep
that rolling!”

Stewart
nodded and took up the rear, turning the camera on the Vietnamese troops still
outside the cordon, uncertain as to what to do. Acton crossed the threshold,
entering the cabin, his heart racing a mile a minute as all thoughts of
tactical breathing had been forgotten. He found everyone seated except for DSS agents
who quickly showed them to seats. He and Laura were sat together with Sarkov,
Mai and Phong across the aisle. Stewart went to the rear with Murphy, Niner, a
trained medic, going with them.

Acton
turned to Sarkov. “What made you change your mind?”

Sarkov
said nothing, simply staring out the window. He finally spoke after a deep sigh.

“My wife
and son.”

Sarkov’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, curious. “How’s
this working?” he asked. “I thought the cellular network was down.”

A DSS agent
standing nearby overheard. “The plane is equipped with its own cellular network
with satellite relay. All your phones should now work.”

The
revelation caused almost every phone on the plane to appear. Sarkov took the
call. “Hello?”

“What
the hell are you doing?” It was Yashkin’s voice, his rage crystal clear even if
the signal wasn’t.

“Saving
Russia from itself.”

“What?”

“These
people are innocent and we are being made to look the fools on the
international stage. The entire world knows what is going on yet our country
under your orders pretends to continue believing Agent Green is the assassin.
It’s time to end the charade and show we aren’t the fools the world would think
us.”

“You are
a traitor!”

“No, I
am a patriot, but to what the New Russia was to become, not this bastardized
version the leadership of the Kremlin would have us believe is anything
different from the former Soviet Union. The past should stay in the past. To
try and recreate those perceived glory days of old is foolish and dangerous,
and I won’t let this continue.”

“You
will be hanged.”

“If our
glorious leader succeeds in bringing back the death penalty, then yes, I fully
expect to be hanged. But since we don’t have capital punishment anymore, I
fully expect to die by some mysterious accident, a mere line item in some state
controlled local newspaper.”

“You’ll
never leave the ground.”

Acton
elbowed him and he looked to where he was pointing. The overhead television
screens were showing CNN, a shot of their plane surrounded by troops with
replays of the earlier action from Murphy’s camera replayed in an inset.

Sarkov
smiled.

“I think
you should watch the news,
Comrade
. The entire world is watching what
happens next.”

“I could
care less about what the world thinks. You. Aren’t. Leaving.”

“Very
well.”

Sarkov
rose, looking for the head of security, Agent White, a name he knew to be an
alias. He spotted him talking to Secretary Atwater in the first class section.
“Agent White!” The man turned. “Mr. Yashkin says he will never let this plane
leave. We have little time. I think he means to board us.”

“Get
this plane in the air!” ordered Atwater, the pilot standing behind Agent White.
“I don’t care what you have to do!”

“I can’t
leave until we get those stairs out of the way,” he said. “Somebody is going to
have to go out there and move them.”

Phong had been listening, only a few rows back from where the
conversation had been happening. He had been relieved when the Russian had
agreed to take everyone to Moscow. He had resigned himself to his fate and was
prepared to spend the rest of his life in prison, possibly being tortured. He
had committed a horrible crime. Not in killing Petrov, but in not immediately
turning himself in so the hundreds if not thousands of lives lost today might
have been saved.

His
shame knew no bounds.

And now
he might be heading to America, where he wondered if justice would still be
served. Balance in the universe was necessary, it was an inevitable imperative
proven by the fact he had been able to deliver karmic justice forty years
later. But his selfishness after this restoration had once again thrown things
out of balance and there was only one way he could ensure things didn’t go
further astray.

Deliver
himself to guaranteed justice.

He rose,
striding quickly forward and past the conversation. The man who appeared in
charge looked at him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll
move the stairs,” said Phong as he walked past.

“I can’t
let you do that.” He felt a hand grab his arm and he yanked himself free, jumping
toward the door. He pushed the guard at the door aside, hurtling himself toward
the stairs and down the steps as shouts erupted behind him. He rounded the
platform at the bottom, positioning himself behind the stairs and under the
fuselage.

He pushed.

Nothing.
The stairs swayed slightly, but didn’t budge.

He
looked and saw two manual brakes. He kicked them off with his feet and tried
again.

This
time it started to roll forward. He pushed, blind as to where he was going,
instead looking at the wing. He continued forward when he heard the female
professor’s voice.

“Phong,
come back!”

He
turned to look up at the door. The two professors were there, waving for him to
return, but he shook his head. “Leave! Now! Before it’s too late!” he shouted.
Car tires screeched nearby and he looked. A white man stepped out, pointing at
him.

“Arrest
that man!”

He
pushed harder, picking up speed as he tried to clear the wing. Boots pounding
on asphalt neared as he continued to shove the stairs. He collapsed to his
knees, the end of the wing finally visible, and was quickly surrounded.

Somebody
hit him across the shoulders, hard.

He fell
forward, his hands breaking his fall as blows rained down on him, boots, clubs
and rifle butts delivering agonizing punishment like he could never have
imagined. He heard the female professor cry out, but also the sound of the
plane’s engines getting louder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it begin to
roll forward, the pilot turning sharply to avoid the vehicle blocking them.

He
looked up at the doorway and saw the agent who had been accused of the
assassination standing there. The man saluted him then closed the door, troops
running after the plane, but none shooting.

And as
the blows continued to fall, he prepared himself for the next life, a smile battling
the grimaces on his face as he knew he had done the right thing in the end, and
restored the balance that had been lost for so long.

Sarkov watched through the window in dismay as Phong was beaten to
death, Yashkin watching on, nobody stopping the street justice being delivered.
The door was now closed, Professor Acton helping his crying wife to her seat,
most people, their faces pressed against windows watching the brutal horror
unfold outside, unable to control their own tears.

But it
wasn’t over yet. The cockpit door was open, Agent White splitting his attention
between the cabin and the view ahead.

“They’re
not getting out of the way!” shouted the pilot as they rolled forward. Sarkov
looked up at the television screen and could see dozens of vehicles on the
runway, blocking their path as they taxied toward it. He raised the phone to
his ear.

“Are you
still there?”

“You’re
a dead man.”

“You
fool! Look behind you! Look at the terminal! There’s thousands of people
recording this on their cellphones and who knows how many camera crews beaming
it out to the entire world! Do you really think Moscow will be happy if you
cause this plane to crash or worse, explode? These people are determined to
leave, they will not stop!”

There
was silence on the other end.

“Take
action, you fool! Order them to let these people leave!”

There
was an angry growl. “I will not rest until you are dead.”

“So be
it.”

The call
ended and Sarkov watched on the television screen the live shot from what
apparently was a BBC film crew at the airport.

“They’re
moving!”

Somebody
from behind him was first to notice one of the vehicles pulling away, followed
by another, then suddenly they were all moving, bailing off the runway, leaving
them a clear path as the plane turned off the taxiway and onto the runway.

The
Captain’s voice came over the PA system. “Everybody strap yourselves in, this
is going to be an emergency takeoff and ascent. We’re going to hit thirty
thousand feet as fast as we can.”

A flurry
of activity filled the cabin as people who had been staring out the window at
poor Phong’s heroic death returned to their seats, the sounds of belt buckles
clicking up and down the cabin. The DSS agents took their seats, including the
man in charge as Laura Palmer continued to sob beside him, her husband’s own
cheeks stained with tears.

As they
were pushed back into their seats, he made eye contact with Professor Acton who
mouthed the words “Thank you.”

Sarkov
nodded, turning his head toward the window and watched as the plane left the
ground, the cabin erupting in cheers, quickly stifled by the terrifying ascent
the pilot began.

Sarkov
closed his eyes and thought of his wife who had died instantly, then of his son
who had suffered for days before finally being delivered from his pain.

And he
silently prayed that poor Phong would be delivered quickly from his.