Free The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) by J Robert Kennedy

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?”
    Sarkov
nodded his appreciation. “Unfortunately we have not taken him into custody,
however we have him contained.”
    “Oh, so
you found him!” Acton decided to play dumb. “I’m happy to hear that. The police
were after the wrong man for a while there so I’m glad that’s been cleared up.
Do you know why he did it?”
    Sarkov’s
eyes narrowed. “Wrong man?”
    Acton
continued his charade deciding it was best he continue with the truth with the
stakes so high. “Yeah, they showed us a photo of a man, some Asian American I
guess, saying he was the shooter. But I had a clear look at him and it wasn’t
the same man. I’m glad they got that sorted out.” He took a sip of his water,
sweat trickling down his back.
    “I’m
afraid you’re mistaken, Professor. We know who the shooter is, and we know
where he is. At the moment however your government is shielding him. I wonder
why that is?”
    The
bathroom door opened and Laura stepped out in a bathrobe, her hair tied up in a
towel atop her head, her face flushed. Acton noticed she left the door open
only slightly. “Forgive my appearance,” she said, smiling. “You caught me in
the shower.” She paused, her smile still in place. “I’m sorry, I was expecting
Vietnamese police.”
    Sarkov
struggled out of his chair. “Igor Sarkov, Professor Palmer, Russian Ministry of
Foreign Affairs,” said the man, walking over and shaking Laura’s hand with a
bow. “A pleasure to meet such an accomplished woman.”
    Laura
returned the handshake. “Thank you, Mr. Sarkov. Do I have time to dress? It
will only take a moment.”
    “Of
course, madam, please.”
    Laura
disappeared into the bedroom, the door closing behind her. Sarkov returned to
his seat. “You are a very fortunate man, Professor. Not only is your wife a
wealthy woman and accomplished in her field, she is remarkably beautiful.”
    “Thank
you, I shake my head every day that she agreed to marry me,” Acton said with a
smile. “You said I was mistaken. How?”
    “In your
insistence that the man we know entered the museum and assassinated our Prime
Minister is not the man you saw.”
    Acton
shrugged, slightly. “All I can tell you is what I saw. The man I saw was at
least fifty years old and the man in the photo looks twenty years younger.
Besides, the ID you had photocopied said his name was Jeffrey Green. The man
who was the shooter was named Phong.”
    “Phong?”
    “Yes,
Phong.”
    “How do
you know this?”
    “Because
they