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

his
fingers. “The papers for these good people!”
    Major
Yin stepped forward, producing two passports.
    “And
Miss Trinh’s papers?” asked Acton as he took the passports.
    “Of
course,” said Sarkov, giving a wink only they could see. He snapped his
fingers, holding out his hand without looking. Mai’s ID was quickly placed in
his palm and Sarkov handed them over. “Have a good day.” He closed the door
behind him, leaving everyone sighing in relief.
    Acton
carefully looked out the peephole and saw the procession just disappearing out
of sight. He returned to the sitting area as Laura opened the bathroom door.
“It’s safe to come out now.”
    Dawson
stepped into the room.
    “Did you
hear that?” asked Acton.
    Dawson
nodded. “We might just have an ally.”
    “For a
few hours at least,” said Laura, plopping onto the couch. “Once this new guy
arrives none of us are safe.”
    “Here’s
what we’re going to do. Miss Trinh, you’ll leave as planned with your
legitimate identification papers. Go to the museum and see if you can get the
camera footage. I’m going to return to the Secretary’s floor; they’re due to
interrogate Niner any minute now and I want to be there.”
    “What
about us?” asked Laura.
    “I’m
afraid you two are stuck. There’s no way you’re getting on an airplane without
being stopped. I’d suggest you try to leave the hotel with the excuse you’re
going for a walk. Then try to get to the embassy.”
    “But
she’s British.”
    “They’ll
let her in. I’ll phone ahead so they know.”
    “Then?”
    “Hole up
until the dust settles.”
     
     

 
     

    Gandhara Kingdom
Modern day Myanmar
401 BC, four months after the Buddha’s death
     
    Asita hadn’t been hugged this much since his mating ceremony. The
tears of joy and relief, mixed with fear and sorrow, were overwhelming, but he
kept a smile on his face and a steady timbre to his voice, realizing that his
people, for they were now his people, needed strength. They needed a
leader and his father was gone.
    All the
pressures of these dangerous and uncertain times now fell on his shoulders.
    Already
he didn’t like the burden of leadership.
    He
raised his hands to quiet the crowd that surrounded him, Channa and his
grandfather keeping a respectful distance, his wife and children at his side,
clinging to him as if they feared he might not be real.
    “Thank
you for your warm welcome. It has been a long, hard journey, but it would
appear my hardships were trivial compared to yours.”
    “What of
your father?” asked someone.
    A deep
sadness spread across Asita’s face. “He is dead.” He drew in a breath, looking
from person to person. “Killed by the same people who destroyed our village.”
    “They
said he killed the Buddha!”
    “That’s
a lie!” barked Asita, immediately lowering his voice as the crowd jumped. “That
is a lie told by these murderous fiends. My father was given the honor of
preparing a meal for the Buddha. We did, and sampled it ourselves. It was not
poisoned. The Buddha fell sick after eating, but his companion assured us that
the Buddha had been ill before and had come to the village where we met him in
order to prepare for Parinirvana as he knew he was dying.
    “The
Buddha gave us all his blessing”—this elicited murmurs of excitement—“and this
blessed vessel”—he retrieved the clay bowl from his satchel and held it up to
oohs and aahs—“along with the answer to the question my father asked of him.”
He paused as he slowly turned, the bowl held high in the air so everyone could
see it. “We have suffered, my friends, for many years. The question had been
whether or not to move. As you know, both my father and I have been of the
opinion that we should move to more fertile ground, no matter how long this has
been our home. But others disagreed.”
    He
lowered the bowl, stopping his spin as his eyes rested on the most vocal
opponent to moving. Their eyes dropped and Asita