The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (7 page)

“Of
course.”

He
opened the door and bellowed an order, clearly not having a problem looking
strong in front of his men. As they walked out of the room, Acton still biting
his tongue, Nguyen held out his arm, directing them down a hallway. They began
to walk, two of Nguyen’s men in the lead, the Captain bringing up the rear.

A door
opened farther down the hall and Mai appeared, makeup smeared, cheeks flush
from crying, her hair a mess.

And her
nose bloodied.

Acton
looked at Laura out of the corner of his eye and could tell she was about to
erupt. He took her hand and squeezed it tightly.

Let’s
just get out of here!

Laura
squeezed back indicating the message had been received then took Mai by the
hand when they reached her, saying nothing. They were led out of the building
and to the parking lot where Mai’s car and driver, supplied by the museum, were
waiting.

Laura
helped Mai into the backseat then climbed in after her, Acton squeezing in
beside her. Nguyen looked inside. “Don’t leave the hotel.”

He
slammed the door shut before Laura could say anything.

“Take us
to our hotel, please,” said Acton. The man nodded, apparently understanding
English, and they were soon off the museum grounds. Acton fished a clean handkerchief
from his pocket and handed it to Laura who began to clean up a still terrified
Mai.

“Crack a
window, would you, dear? It’s stifling in here.”

Acton
rolled his window down about halfway, the din from outside remarkable. The
noise seemed distracting to Mai and her face was soon cleaned up, but it was
obvious she was going to have two black eyes tomorrow. Acton found one of the
bottles of water they had been offered earlier rolling on the floor. He stopped
it with his foot and reached down, cracking it open. He handed it to Mai who
smiled gratefully then winced. She drank then took a breath.

“I can’t
believe they let us go. Not that quickly, at least.”

Acton
squeezed Laura’s leg. “You can thank my wife for that. Her smooth talking
convinced Captain Nguyen we weren’t involved.”

Mai
frowned, fear returning to her eyes. “You mean it was
his
decision, not
headquarters?”

Laura
nodded. “Why? What difference does it make?”

“Nguyen
is nothing. He’s like the first officer on the scene. It’s his supervisor that
we need to worry about.”

“What do
you mean?” asked Acton, suddenly becoming even more concerned than he already
was. “He said not to leave the hotel, which I guess is sort of like saying
‘don’t leave town’ back home, but he seemed to realize we couldn’t have had
anything to do with it.”

Mai
shook her head furiously. “No, he’s nobody. This isn’t over. I highly recommend
you ignore what he said and get out of the country as soon as you can.”

“If we
flee won’t we look guilty?”

Mai
grabbed her face with both hands. “What am I going to do?”

Laura
put a hand on her shoulder. “You stay with us until this has blown over. Once
they realize the man in the photo had nothing to do with it they’ll know
we
had nothing to do with it.” She patted Mai. “Who knows, maybe by the time we
get to the hotel they’ll have caught the guy who did it!”

Acton
frowned as he looked out the window.

Vietnamese
troops were surrounding their hotel.

Gandhara Kingdom
Modern day Myanmar
401 BC, four months after the Buddha’s death

Asita hugged Channa as they both realized someone had survived
whatever massacre had happened here. Someone had gathered the bodies, someone
had cremated them, and with the effort involved, Asita had already jumped to
the conclusion that more than one had survived.

“How do
we find them?” asked Channa, tears of joy and hope staining both their cheeks.
“Where could they have gone?”

Asita
rose and looked about for some indication of where the survivors might have
fled to, but saw nothing. “We must assume they went east, away from their
attackers.”

“Half
the world is ‘east’,” said Channa, sounding discouraged. “I can’t believe they
would leave without knowing what happened to you and your father.”

Asita
strode around the funeral pyre. “Perhaps they were certain we were dead, or
told we were by their attackers.”

Channa
now rose, looking at the sky. “It is getting late. We should set up camp.”

Asita
stopped. “Here?” He looked around, a shiver climbing his spine. “It doesn’t
seem right.”

“No, but
I don’t think there is any danger in remaining, and there are supplies here,
though few.”

“Few.”
Asita barely whispered the word, it sending another surge of hope through him.
He raised his voice slightly. “You said there were only a
few
supplies
remaining.”

Channa
seemed to pick up on his train of thought, but shook his head. “Parasites from
other villages probably took what was left.”

Asita
wagged his finger. “No, parasites would have taken
every
thing. Word
would have spread and nothing would have remained.” He walked toward the shell
of what was once his home and found little inside of use, mere trinkets and
broken pottery along with some rudimentary furniture that had escaped the fire.
“Parasites would have taken this table,” he said, pointing. “It is in near
perfect condition.”

Channa
stood by his side. “Are you thinking that they all survived?”

Asita
shook his head rapidly. “Never would I dare hope for such a thing, but it does
appear that those who survived must have been great in number to have stripped
the village of only what could be carried. The large items have been left
behind, but the clothing and supplies are all gone.”

“I fear
wishful thinking, Master.”

Asita
sighed. “As do I, my friend, as do I. But perhaps wishes are all we have. We
must trust in what we see before our eyes, and my eyes tell me that some of our
village survived, that they took what they could, and left this place. And that
their numbers were not insignificant.”

Trust
in what we see before our eyes.

His own
words repeated themselves, and he thought of the message from the Buddha before
he died.

Trust
in what you see.

He
cursed, running for the stream, his eyes scanning the water for the clay bowl
he had tossed in earlier.

It was
not where he had last seen it.

His
chest got tight as he held his breath, scanning downstream. He sprinted as he
saw the bowl farther down, the current having managed to move it past the edge
of their village. He slipped on the slick stones, falling, painfully banging
his knee. As he winced, he grabbed the bowl before it rolled farther, and as he
leaned forward on his knees and one hand, he looked into the bowl, and gasped.

Trust
in what you see.

For what
looked back at him from the half-filled bowl was his own reflection, and he
suddenly realized what the Buddha had meant.
Trust in yourself.
He fell
back on his haunches, holding the bowl in both hands now, the pain in his knee
forgotten as he smiled to the heavens, the riddle deciphered. He closed his
eyes, picturing his father in happier times, and how excited he would have been
to understand what the great man had been telling him.

Trust
in yourself.

His
father hadn’t needed advice from the Buddha on how to save the village; the
Buddha was telling him that he had all the wisdom necessary to save the village
himself. He and his father had discussed many times moving the village farther
to the east. They had been ravaged by neighbors, floods, drought and famine.
The location for their village seemed cursed in recent years, and his father
had thought moving was the best option.

But moving
meant change, and people feared change. They feared the unknown, preferring the
familiarity of their own misery rather than the uncertainty a new beginning
would bring.

So the
wisdom of the Buddha had been sought.

And all
along, his father had been right.

Trust
in yourself.

He
smiled, every muscle in his body relaxing as everything became clear. His
father had been right all along, his greatness and wisdom as a leader
reaffirmed by the Buddha. He looked down at his reflection again and wondered
if the Buddha’s message extended to him.

It
must.

He rose,
his body chilled to the bone, his shivers unnoticed as he rushed back to share
the revelation with his friend as the sun began its rapid descent in the west,
the trees casting long shadows across the stream and the ruins of his home.

Something
snapped in the forest to his right.

And he
gasped.

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day

James Acton stepped out of the car, the museum emblem on the side
granting them access to the main entrance valet parking area. He helped Laura
then Mai out as they were immediately approached by several deceptively
uniformed police officers, the police in Vietnam merely an extension of the
military.

Something
was said in Vietnamese.

“They
want to see our identification,” translated Mai, producing her ID with a
shaking hand. Acton reached into his shirt pocket, producing his passport as
did Laura.

“American?”
asked the officer in a thick accent.

Acton
nodded. “I am. My wife is British.”

Words
were shouted and a more senior man appeared who could apparently speak more
English. “I am Major Yin. You are an American?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What is
your business in our country?”

“We were
invited by your National Museum of History to view some of their artifacts.
We’re both archeologists—university professors.”

“Archeologists?”
The man’s eyes narrowed then understanding dawned. “Ahh, like Indiana Jones!”

Acton
smiled, nodding. “Nothing so exciting, I assure you.”

If
only that were true! At lease we haven’t encountered Nazis yet.

“You are
staying at this hotel?”

“Yes.”

Yin
nodded at Mai and said something in Vietnamese.

“She’s
our guide from the museum,” said Laura. “We’ve invited her to join us for
dinner.”

“You
were at the museum?”

Acton
felt his heart rate ratchet up. “Yes.”

“Did you
see the shooting?”

A moment
long debate of whether or not to lie ended with a decision to tell the truth.
“Yes. We were questioned by Captain Nguyen and released. He said we might be
questioned further later.”

Yin
nodded, waving over one of his men. He handed them their passports, snapped an
order and the man disappeared. “We’re just going to confirm you are a guest of
the hotel and verify your visas.”

“Of
course,” smiled Acton, already resolving to get on a plane as soon as possible
and get the hell out of the country. “May we wait inside?”

Yin
snapped his fingers and took a piece of paper from one of the others. He held
up the now familiar picture of Niner. “Have you seen this man?”

Acton
shook his head. “No.”

“But you
saw the shooting?”

“Yes, but
he wasn’t the shooter.”

Yin’s
lips pursed and Acton immediately flicked through half a dozen better responses
than the truth, none of which would have been lies. Yin flipped the photo
around, looking at it, then turned it back toward Laura. “And do you agree with
your husband?”

“I
didn’t get much of a look,” replied Laura. “I was trying not to get shot.”

Smart
woman!

Acton
assumed the same question was barked at poor Mai who the police seemed to have
no compunction against intimidating. She shook her head, spitting out a
response that didn’t please the man.