The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (9 page)

Acton
had to admit he agreed with every word Dawson had said. The Russian mindset was
still buried in its Communist past, distrust of all with an ingrained
superiority complex had them thinking they could do no wrong, that they were
always right. And with their President controlling the press with an iron fist,
their main source of information was spoon fed to them from their essentially
renamed Politburo. Americans liked to think the Cold War had been won and
Russia was now democratic because they had elections.

Saddam
Hussein had elections too.

He was
the only name on the ballot.

In
today’s Russia, in order to run, your party had to be approved, and their
President has simply changed the rules as needed if a significant challenger
appeared. The icing on the cake was the rule that if someone wanted to run for
President, their party had to have at least 7% of the seats in the Duma, their
equivalent to Congress. But in order to have a new party register their leader,
they had to have 7%, but how could they have 7% if their party hadn’t existed
in the previous election to earn that 7%? It was now impossible for a new party
to have a candidate for President.

An iron
fist.

The
Russian President was KGB, loved the Soviet Union, had repeatedly implied its
demise was a great catastrophe, and his ultimate desire was to undo that
mistake in history.

And an
assassination blamed on the United States could be his ticket to do just that.

Somebody
hammered on the door.

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

Asita spun toward the sound, peering into the darkness, the canopy
of the forest thick beyond the clearing of the village, little light
penetrating it.

“Master,
is that you?”

The
voice was old, weak, rough as if having gone unused for a long while.

And it
was instantly recognizable.

“Mutri!
Is that you?”

“Yes, my
Master!” cried the old voice as an emaciated man emerged from the darkness, a
cane fashioned from a branch helping him along.

“Grandfather!”
Channa rushed toward the old man, embracing him before Asita could. “You’re
alive!”

The old
man’s head bobbed up and down as the rest of his body shook with fatigue. “Yes,
yes, obviously. Though for how much longer, I can’t be sure.” He motioned
toward the village. “Gather your things, it isn’t safe to remain here.”

“Why
not?” asked Asita as he embraced the old man. “What danger is there?”

“Those
who attacked us continue to return. I think they have a camp nearby, downriver.
They return each evening to try and surprise us. After we managed to tend to the
dead and salvage what we could, we left, only I remained behind.”

“Why,
Grandfather, why did you stay?”

The old
man jabbed at the air. “Why do you not listen to an old man? Gather your
things, we must leave now!”

Channa
smiled, patting his grandfather on his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” Channa
hurried into the village and grabbed the bags they had been carrying for so
long, the horse long dead from a fall, returning moments later, tossing the
satchel to Asita. Asita returned the bag to its too familiar spot on his
shoulder, then emptied the clay bowl of the water that had revealed the secret
to the Buddha’s riddle, and placed it gently inside, thankful his momentary
lapse hadn’t shattered the now precious vessel. He looked at Mutri’s back as
the man led them into the forest.

“You
haven’t answered our question, Grandfather. Why did you stay?”

“Because
I am too old to make the journey.”

Channa
stopped. “I don’t believe that for a second. There are others as old as you.
Surely—” He gasped as he came to the same realization as Asita had just.

“They’re
all dead, aren’t they?” asked Asita, his heart heavy.

“I was
the only one of the elders to survive, the others were cut down as they tried
to flee.” The old man paused for a moment. “My wife”—he nodded toward Channa—“your
grandmother, was among the first. She was washing clothes in the stream when
they arrived. It was her cries of warning that saved most of the others.”

“Most?”
asked Asita, hope surging within.

The old
man nodded, resuming his slow shuffle into the trees. “It was midday, everyone was
gathered to eat so few were in their shelters. At the first sight the men sent
the women and children into the trees, fighting off the attackers who were
thankfully few in number at first and exhausted, they had apparently been
running for some time.” The old man stopped and looked over his shoulder toward
the now out of sight funeral pyre. “They fought bravely, repelling the first
attack, but their numbers were too few when the second wave arrived. Most fled
into the forest knowing it was hopeless, a few, cut off, fought like tigers,
delaying the murderers so the others could escape.”

“When
was this?” asked Asita.

“Almost
two moons ago.”

A lump
in his throat silenced him as he realized they would have had been able to warn
the village if they hadn’t spent so much time trying to evade their pursuers
and allowing him to heal.

“We
should have come here directly,” he whispered.

“Then we
would both be dead,” admonished Channa. “There was no way the two of us on one
horse could have made it this far without being caught. And besides, you were
in no condition to travel.”

Asita’s
head sank into his chest as he realized his friend was right, the words
bringing little comfort.

“He’s
right,” agreed Mutri. “You are here now. That is what matters. Your people need
you. They need a leader.” He paused. “Your father?”

“Dead.”

“Did he
receive the counsel of the Buddha?”

“Yes.”
Asita tapped the bowl. “Just before he died.”

“The
Buddha is dead?” the old man paused, shocked. His step faltered for a moment, Channa
grabbing him to steady the frail bones. “How?”

“They
blamed us,” said Asita. He sucked in a breath, steeling himself as he relayed
the story of the last meal, the bowl, the riddle, the pursuit, then his
father’s valiant last battle.

“He was
a brave man,” smiled the old man, patting Asita on the arm. “A very brave man.”
He held up a thin finger as he resumed walking through the near pitch black.
“And a wise leader.
He
would have figured out the riddle of the Buddha’s
riddle.” He nodded toward the satchel containing the bowl. “Have
you
,
the
new
leader of our people, deciphered it?”

Asita
said nothing, suddenly uncertain, stopping. The old man turned to face him,
reaching up a trembling hand and gripping Asita by the cheek. “You are a leader
now! Never show hesitation!” Asita nodded, sucking in a breath and squaring his
shoulders. “Now, I ask you again, as one of your people. Have you deciphered
the Buddha’s riddle?”

Asita
nodded, his confidence still buried deep, but realizing the old man was right.
He
was
the new leader. It was his by birthright and there was no
refusing it without death. And he being the only son, it could destroy what
remained of his people should conflict arise over a successor.

“I
have.”

The old
man squeezed Asita’s shoulder. “Good!” He continued forward in silence for some
time, curiously not asking for Asita’s explanation. Asita glanced at Channa and
could see during the occasional shaft of moonlight that broke through the trees
overhead that he was dying to know.

And
Asita was dying to tell him.

As they
continued in silence, Asita’s confidence grew. He was certain now more than
ever that he was right. He could see no other way to interpret the Buddha’s
last riddle, last counsel, possibly last blessing.
Trust in what you see.
And he had seen his reflection in the bowl. It made perfect sense.

And
perhaps that’s why the old man had not asked him for the answer. He knew his
leader needed time to be certain what he had puzzled out was correct, and to
gain confidence in the interpretation.

For soon
he would have an entire village to convince.

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Present Day

The loud knocking at the door caused them all to jump except Dawson
who merely retreated deeper into the room. Acton looked through the peephole
then stepped back quickly and quietly. “It’s the police,” he whispered.

Dawson
cursed. “I can’t be seen with you.” He looked around. “Is there another way out
of here?”

Acton
shook his head. “No.” He thought for a moment then pointed at Laura. “Both of
you get in the shower, quickly.”

Both
Laura and Dawson said, “Huh?”

“They’ll
come in, I’ll say you’re in the shower, then get you. You’ll come out and they
won’t think to look in there for him.”

Dawson
nodded, clearly thinking it was a good idea.

Laura
shrugged. “If you want me to get naked with another man, then so be it.” She
headed toward the bathroom with a wink. Dawson grinned at him as the hammering
on the door resumed, this time accompanied by shouting.

“Just a
second!” called Acton as the bathroom door closed and the shower turned on. He
opened the door and was surprised to see a white man in a business suit, the
uniformed police standing to the sides, including Major Yin.

“I am
Igor Sarkov, Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. May I come in, Professor
Acton?”

Acton
decided cooperation was the name of the game since they had a Special Forces
operator in their shower with his wife. He held out his arm, inviting him in. Yin
began to follow when Acton decided he should at least pretend to be American.

“Are the
police really necessary, Mr. Sarkov. We’re all friends here.”

Sarkov
bowed slightly. “Of course.” He looked at the officer that had taken their
passports earlier. “Wait outside.” Yin’s eyes flared in momentary anger, but he
was immediately subservient, barking an order that had the uniforms scurrying down
into the hallway, the door closed behind them.

Sarkov
slowly circled the room, glancing into the bedroom, his eyes narrowing. “And
where is your lovely wife?”

“In the
shower. She needed to relax after what happened. A long shower helps.”

“I’ll
need to speak to her, preferably now.”

“Of
course.” Acton went to the bathroom and opened the door slightly, poking his
head in. “Hon, the police are here. Can you come out?”

“Give me
a minute.”

He
closed the door and motioned toward the seating area. “Please, have a seat. Can
I get you anything?”

“Do you
have any bottled water? Preferably cold?” asked Sarkov as he squeezed his
large, rotund but imposing frame into a too small chair.

“I’ll
check,” said Acton, entering the small kitchenette and opening the fridge.
Fully stocked with ten dollar bottles of water. He grabbed three.

He
handed one to Sarkov and another to Mai, giving her the opportunity to occupy
her hands that were nervously fidgeting about. Acton sat in a chair as far from
Mai as he could, hoping to force Sarkov to at least split his attentions,
giving Mai a break from constant scrutiny.

The
shower turned off.

Sarkov
rubbed the ice cold bottle over his forehead and cheeks, finally dragging the
perspiring vessel over his neck. He twisted the top off and took a long drag,
sighing in satisfaction. “The one thing I hate about being stationed in Hanoi
is the heat.” He patted his large stomach. “Men my size were never meant to
live in tropical climates,” he said, laughing, his smile quite genuine in
appearance.

Remember,
this man is most likely a spy.

Sarkov
took another drink and Acton decided to open the conversation. “First, Mr.
Sarkov, I’d like to pass on my condolences on behalf of my wife and I. This
entire situation is horrible. Have you been able to catch the man who did
this?”