The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (42 page)

The Pentagon, Washington, DC
The next day

Acton looked up as Sarkov entered the room. It was some sort of
fancy informal meeting room filled with comfortable leather chairs and couches.
He was sitting on one of the couches with Dawson, Laura across from them with
Mai. Niner was perched on a windowsill chatting with Jimmy and Spock who had
taken up residence in two of the finer chairs.

Sarkov
dropped into a chair beside him.

“How’d
it go?” asked Acton.

“It
looks like I will be given a new identity and a pension for my assistance.”

“That’s
good,” said Laura, who then sensed Sarkov wasn’t too happy. “Isn’t it?”

Sarkov
shrugged. “It is generous of your country, yes, but it wasn’t how I expected to
live out my retirement years.”

“You
expected to retire in Russia,” said Acton, nodding.

Sarkov
surprisingly shook his head. “No, not for a long time. Today’s Russia is not my
Russia, and I don’t mean the Soviet Union was either.” He sighed. “It’s hard to
explain.”

Acton
smiled. “I think I understand.”

Niner
walked toward them, sitting on the arm of one of the couches. “For a while
there I thought I’d be retiring to Russia.”

Sarkov
chuckled. “Yes, you were lucky. We were all lucky.”

“Thanks
to Phong.”

Laura’s
voice cracked and Mai reached out, squeezing her hand. Word had arrived while
they were in the air that the BBC crew had filmed Phong’s body being loaded
into the back of an ambulance in a body bag, he thankfully dying from his
beating quickly.

It was a
small comfort.

Earlier
today the embassy had reported that their attempts to contact Duy had failed,
he apparently having taken Sarkov’s advice and called in to the hotel
announcing he was visiting a sick relative, hanging up before they could ask
where or who.

Apparently
the Vietnamese had privately promised he wouldn’t be touched, nor would Mai’s
brother and associates.

Believe
that when I see it.

Mai
herself had been offered permission to stay in America and she had accepted. Acton
was going to try and get her a position at the university so she could continue
her studies.

Bombers
had landed, navy’s had parted, and things were settling down everywhere.

Except
the Ukraine.

Eastern
Ukraine was lost, and the Russians refused to answer questions on whether or
not they would pull out. General consensus was they wouldn’t until the
separatist rebels were properly equipped and trained, then it would be merged
with the Crimea.

A new
state in Soviet Union 2.0.

At least
the Russians and Vietnamese had acknowledged that the assassin was Phong and he
acted alone. They refused however to acknowledge the validity of the motive.

It no
longer mattered.

Phong
was dead, his family avenged, his pain and suffering, both physical and mental,
over.

Murphy
was in a Japanese hospital being treated and word was he would be fine. He had
lost a lot of blood before they reached Tokyo to offload him for treatment. Stewart
had stayed behind with his partner, Acton insisting the two of them visit them
once they were safely back in America.

They all
had a tremendous debt to repay those two men.

It had
been a terrifying twelve hours and he was sure his pulse rate hadn’t returned
to normal until they actually stepped onto US soil. Niner had actually dropped
to the tarmac and given it a kiss, Pope style.

How that
man was able to keep his sense of humor through everything he’d never know.

He
looked at Laura as they all sat in silence, waiting for their official
debriefings to finish. Sarkov had been last. He looked up as the door opened,
one of the aides stepping into the room.

“You’re
all free to go under the parameters that were explained to you in your
individual debriefs. Any questions?”

There
were none.

“Good.
Then you are free to leave with Secretary Atwater’s thanks.”

Acton
rose and waited for Sarkov to struggle out of his seat. “What do you plan on
doing now?” he asked.

“Apparently
I will be meeting with some of your government officials to plan my
retirement.”

“I guess
we won’t be seeing you again,” said Laura as they walked out of the room.

“No, I
won’t be allowed to see any of you. It is safer that way for all of us.” He
sighed, patting his jacket pocket. “But I must tie up one loose end before I
leave.”

“What’s
that?” asked Acton.

Sarkov
smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

The Kremlin, Moscow, Russia

Yashkin sat comfortably in a high backed leather chair, sipping from
a bottle of Evian. With the crisis in Vietnam over he had boarded an early
morning flight, and with the time zone difference had arrived in Moscow around
lunch. A lunch provided to him by the Kremlin, though he had enjoyed it alone.

It
didn’t bother him. His return had been unscheduled and he was sure the right
officials were being summoned to greet him as a hero of the Russian Federation.
He had successfully created the chaos they had demanded and the resulting
distraction had allowed his country to send overwhelming forces, Blitzkrieg
style, into Eastern Ukraine. Though there was still some fighting, it was
sporadic, the Ukrainians not sending any more troops east and NATO sitting on
its hands, rattling their sabers still sheathed in their scabbards.

It had
been a good day for Russia.

The door
opened and he rose, surprised to see the President’s number two man, Ivan
Churilla, enter the room with several others. “Comrade Churilla! It is a
pleasure to finally meet you in person!” It had been Churilla who had given him
his marching orders over the phone with the implicit understanding that they
came from the top man himself.

A man he
hoped to soon meet in person.

Churilla
frowned, sitting at the head of the table, the others standing behind him like
an impassive wall.

“You did
poorly, Dimitri.”

Yashkin’s
chest tightened and he suddenly felt lightheaded. Of all the words to come out
of Churilla’s mouth, those were the furthest from what he had imagined.

“I’m
sorry? I don’t understand.”

“You
have embarrassed us on the international stage.”

“But I
followed your orders! You said you wanted to create confusion, to have the
Americans blamed and to ensure anything or anyone who might interfere with that
conclusion be eliminated.”

“And you
failed.”

“Only
because I was betrayed.
We
were betrayed by that bastard Sarkov!”

“A man
under your command while you were there.”

Yashkin
didn’t know what to say, the man’s statement true. Sarkov had been under his
command. He should have had him arrested instead of sending him home. It had
just never occurred to him that the man would actually have the balls to
disobey his orders, he seeming so soft.

“I sent
him home as soon as I realized he might be a problem,” he said, his voice
devoid of the confidence he had had only moments ago.

“Yet he
didn’t go home. Instead he found the people you were supposed to find, on his
own, with no resources to assist him. Clearly he is the superior man.”

Yashkin
bristled at the very idea, but bit his tongue. “What is to become of me?” he
asked, his voice subdued, his eyes lowered.

Churilla
rose, Yashkin jumping to his feet as the door was opened by one of the aides.
Churilla stepped out of the room without answering.

“Sir,
Comrade, what is to happen?”

But
Churilla continued to walk away, followed by his aides. Yashkin rounded the
table to follow him but was blocked by two soldiers, one carrying a pair of
handcuffs.

“No! Oh
please no!” he cried, backing away. “Please, sir, everything I did, I did for
my country!”

Churilla
stopped and turned.

“And now
the best thing you can do for your country is accept blame for your
independent
and
unauthorized
actions.”

The
handcuffs were slapped on his wrists and he knew then that the tables had
turned. He was the patsy now, the patsy who would be blamed for the crimes
committed by his superiors, he merely their minion ordered to carry them out.

And the
harshness of the punishment, the swiftness of the justice, the efficiency with
which the entire affair was swept under the proverbial rug, reminded him of the
glorious days of the Soviet Union.

And the
irony was lost on him.

Valley of the Red River, Vietnam
Three weeks later

“You’ve got mail, Grandmother.”

Ly looked
up as her grandson, Duc, entered the humble family home. They still led a
simple life in the valley, farming and fishing, the busy life of modern day
Vietnam a distant curiosity. Her husband had died years ago but she was
surrounded by half a dozen of her children and dozens of grandchildren.

Her life
was full, her life was happy.

And in
all her seventy years, she had never received a letter.

Her
grandson handed her the envelope, sitting down beside her as her shaking
fingers took it. “It’s postmarked from the United States!” he said, his voice
clearly excited, pointing at the corner of the envelope.

“The
United States? But who do we know in America?”

Duc
laughed. “Grandmother, we know lots of people there.” He was bouncing with
excitement. “Come on, Grandmother, open it!”

She
smiled. “You young ones are so impatient.” She carefully tore the end of the
envelope open and looked inside. “Curious.” Inside there was another envelope.
She pulled it out to find it too was addressed to her, and when she read the
return address in the corner she gasped, her hand darting to her mouth as tears
filled her eyes.

“Phong!”

THE END

For some time now I’ve had the idea of one or more of the Delta boys
being falsely accused of something and the rest of the team powerless to help
them. Enter Acton and Laura to save the day for a change. Of course things
never turn out exactly as I plan (because I rarely plan) so finding out what
happens is just as fun for me as it hopefully is for you.

The
history surrounding the death of Buddha is actually based on historical
accounts excluding of course the mob. There were some who thought he had been
poisoned, and the simple man who provided him his final meal was blamed by
some, including himself. The Buddha did send a message through his trusted man Ananda,
thanking him for the meal and to assure him he had already been sick.

The clay
bowl of course was my invention.