The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (10 page)

Hugh Byrd sped out of the Food Lion parking lot.  He turned south onto Route 17, towards Wilmington.

Damn you Marks.  So you think I was at the beach house with Holder, because of that damn spent magazine.

There had been no possibility of retrieving the empty casings from the house.  The large number of them would have indicated automatic fire and a “Military” M16 rather than the “Civilian” AR15.  Still the magazine could fit either.  But Marks knew that Hugh had access to M16’s.

Hugh ground his teeth.

Watch it, Marks!  I’ll declare you a security risk and you will be finished at the FBI.

Hugh shrugged.  Forget Hamm, Ryan and Marks.  He had a personal matter to attend to, that idiot Smets.

His phone vibrated, Denise Guerry’s number.  He picked up.

“Where are you, Hugh?”

“North Carolina, near Surf City.”

“Hugh, do not harm Dr. Smets.  Leave him alone, understood?”

“How could I hurt him?  I don’t know where you hid him.”

Denise hung up.

Hugh laughed.  He was a good investigator.  Of course he knew about the “safe” farm.

And he was sure that Smets would be there!

Denise Guerry realized that she had underestimated Hugh.  His complacency on the phone surely meant that he knew the “safe” farm in Pender County. He would look for Smets there.  She had to act fast.

She called Henri Duval.

“Henri, where are you?”

“Near Onslow hospital, driving north on route 17.”

“Turn around.  Byrd is on the way to the farm.  He is going to kill Smets.  You have to stop him.”

“But Hamm?”

“The Ryan woman picked him up from the hospital.  She’s headed north, probably to Maryland.  I have someone waiting for her there.”

Her tone shifted.

“
S'il te plaît
, Henri, do this for me. 
Je t’assure
, I know how to return favors.”

Her silken tone left no doubt as to what “favors” meant.  Henri succumbed.

“All right, I won’t let Byrd harm Smets.”

But Henri had decided.  He only would act in self-defense.  If Byrd tried to kill the wimp, Smets, only then would he kill Byrd.

At a motel northwest of Wilmington, North Carolina, Angelique Uwimana knocked on the door. She was a Ph. D. student in Computer Science at Carolina Technical University in Florence, South Carolina.  A Tutsi, she alone of her family had survived the Rwandan genocide.

At 28, Angelique was tall and willowy, almost statuesque.  She stared at the even taller man who cracked the door open.

“Paul, let me in.  Why did you want to see me?”

The man, Paul Mutabazi, opened.  He ignored the question.

“Angelique, how did you meet this Duval, this Frenchman, of yours?”

“In Silver Spring, Maryland, when I was studying for my Masters at Maryland.  Why?”

“You know he works for GES?”

“Of course.”

“Be careful of him, GES is not on our side.  Does he know you are here?”

“No, Henri thinks I’m in Florence.  He was to meet me there yesterday, but he didn’t show.  I suppose he had business somewhere.”

“Business?  You mean the Guerry woman?”

She shrugged.

“Never mind, Angelique.  This is the reason I asked you to meet me here.”

He drew a newsprint photograph from his wallet and unfolded it.  The photo was soiled, but not faded.  He placed it on the dresser before her.

An involuntary cry escaped her lips.  Tears formed as memories of her encounter with the man in the photo overwhelmed her.  She sobbed.  The years had not healed the hurt.  She shut her eyes.  Mutabazi’s voice sounded in her ears.

“Is this the man?”

She opened her eyes and nodded affirmatively.

“Look again, this is important.”

She could never forget that face.  She nodded again.

“So you are sure?  This is that dog, Dr. Smets?”

Angelique finally found her voice, albeit only a whisper.

“
Yego
.  Yes.”

Paul Mutabazi folded the photograph and replaced it in his wallet.

“
Murakoze, Angelique
.  Thank you, Angelique.  That’s all for now.”

He turned to leave the still sobbing woman.

“By the way, Smets is alive.  He’s still a doctor, and he is nearby, here in North Carolina.”

Eyes vacant and moist, she stayed silent.  He continued.

“That’s all, Angelique.  I had to be sure.  I know you have to get back to Florence for your class.  Thanks for coming.”

Eyes moist she stepped to the door.  His voice was a whisper.

“
Murabeho, Angelique
.  Goodbye, Angelique.”

She left.

Paul waited a moment until he heard her car start.  Then he too left.

After sending Henri after Byrd, Denise Guerry called an office in Arrondissement 2, Paris.  Her cousin answered.

“Jacques, Denise here.  Your father wants me to eliminate Byrd.”

“Can you do this without involving Gutera?”

“Yes, Henri will take care of Byrd.”

“Henri Duval?  He’s no killer.”

“He’ll do what I ask.”

“Why?  Did you tell  him you would sleep with him?”

She fell silent

Jacques had been attracted to Denise all his “grown” life, cousin or not.

“Denise, save yourself for me.  Forget Duval and Byrd too!”

“Jacques, stop it!  You’re my cousin.  That’s incest.  Your father wants Byrd dead.”

“But you can’t handle Duval.  He’s not a loser like the other saps you attract.  He is a real man.  I don’t want you hurt.”

“But Byrd is tough.  Who else could get rid of him.”

“Let me speak to my father.  There has to be another way.  Besides the Americans know that Henri is with GES.  They will go after you if Henri kills Byrd.”

“Byrd’s group has deep cover inside the NSA.  The Americans have full deniability.  They fixed his credentials so that they can be proved forgeries from overseas.  Even Byrd does not realize that.”

“And Henri?”

“He doesn’t know it, but we have papers proving that Guerry Security fired him two months ago.  He’ll look like a bitter security guard who was fired.  The trail will stop here in Virginia.  There will be no connection to Paris.”

“All right Denise, use Duval if you must.  I won’t talk to my father yet, but do not sleep with Henri.  Save your love for me!  You love me, you know.  Remember I let you beat me on the mountain.”

Denise snorted. 
Let me!
She always had bested Jacques on skis during their vacations at Val Thorens in the French Alps.  Still, she did love him in a way.

“Jacques, you’re an idiot, but thanks for worrying.”

“And watch out.  My father is dangerous when he doesn’t get his way.  He doesn’t have feelings like we do.”

Denise sighed.  Neither of them had experienced love from her uncle Roland, his father.

She hung up.

Her thoughts turned to Henri Duval.  He was a challenge.

But!

Henri Duval, was on Route 17, returning from Jacksonville, when his personal phone sounded.  (Not the secure instrument he used to report to Guerry Security.)

At the sight of the caller’s number, he immediately regretted his imagined tryst with Denise.  He spoke softly.

“Angelique?”

“Henri, where are you? I waited at the restaurant but you didn’t come.  I called your cell and it was off.  It went straight to message.  Where were you?”

“I emailed you two days ago that I couldn’t make our date.  I’m sorry, I’m working an assignment.  I guess you didn’t get the email.  You know I wanted to be in Florence with you.”

She was agitated.

“But you should have called me.  Something has really upset me.  I need to talk to you in person.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.  You’re right.  I should have called to make sure you knew.”

“Never mind, when will I see you?”

The secure phone vibrated against his thigh.  Denise!

“Angelique, It’s business, I have to call you back.”

“Business?  You mean Denise Guerry!”

But Henri already had switched to the other phone.

“Denise?”

“Henri, how far are you from the farm?”

“Maybe thirty minutes.”

“Dr. Smets is in a panic.  He says someone wants to kill him.  He’s hiding in the old tobacco shack.”

“Byrd?”

“Who else?  You’d better hurry.”

“Click.”

At the farm in Pender County, North Carolina, Henri Duval chose not to drive up the lane to the farm house.

Instead, he parked his car by a mixed grove of native Holly, Sassafras and scrubby pines that shielded him from the gray structure where he had left Gilles Smets some hours before.

The tobacco shack was not in view, but an F150 pickup truck was parked in front of the main house.  It apparently belonged to Byrd, Smets’ car was still at Surf City.

Henri made his decision.  He left the FAMAS G2 assault rifle locked in the trunk.  He would not tip his hand with a conspicuous weapon.  His Hi-Power Browning would suffice. He slipped the safety off.

As he squeezed out of the car, the prickly leaves of an evergreen Holly raked his shirt.  He did not mind.  The thick growth offered him concealment from the main house.  He pushed forward through a mix of holly, scrubby oaks and pines.

The soil was sandy, and pine needles coated the ground to form a slippery surface.

Now Henri stood at the edge of the open weeded area that fronted the house.  He studied the parked pickup, the gray porch, and the three front windows.  The outlying tobacco shack was not visible from his position.

Nothing moved.

There was no sign of Smets.

Henri stepped into the open.

“Crack!”

The bark of the loblolly pine behind Henri splintered under the impact of the bullet.

He dove to the ground and scanned the clearing.  The shot had come from the house ahead.  The upper windows of the farm house were boarded shut.  The shooter had to be on the lower level.  The window to Henri’s right was open a few inches above the sill, a window Henri had closed when he last left.  The shot had come from there.

Henri rolled to the side and lay against an abandoned tractor.

“Crack, Piangg!”

The second bullet ricocheted high off the rusty frame and clipped a branch somewhere behind and to his right.  Henri lay flat and peered from under the chassis in time to see the rifle’s barrel withdraw from the window.

Reacting, he dashed for the pines to the right of the dwelling.  No shot sounded.

From his new position, he could see the tobacco shack, perhaps fifty yards from the farm house.  Was Dr. Smets in the shack?

Henri looked up.

A lone Turkey vulture was circling the field behind the shack.

As Henri watched, two more vultures appeared low over the pines to the west and headed to join the first.

Something, or someone, was dead.

Henri studied the scene from the cover of the pines.  The slatted gray door of the tobacco shack hung open on one hinge, motionless.

There was no breeze at ground level, but over the sun-warmed field the rising air formed thermal currents on which the vultures, their number augmented by new arrivals, continued to circle.

Henri pondered exposing himself to fire, when the sound of a motor echoed from the front of the house.  He dashed back through the pines in time to see the Ford pickup disappear at the end of the drive.

Henri reasoned that the shooter had been alone, still he approached the farm house with caution.

There, in the front room was the cracked-open window behind which the shooter had crouched.  Henri checked the floor.  Two 30-06 cartridges lay on the worn rug.  His attacker had used a hunting rifle.

Henri looked out the window towards the pine near which he had stood.  Either the shooter was a terrible shot, or had intentionally fired high.

At the sound of a motor, Henri jumped back from the window.  A car had turned onto the drive to the house.

He held his Browning ready and waited behind the door.

The sound of the motor ceased and a car door opened.  A voice called out.

“Hello.  Anybody home?”

Henri peered around the door.  Hugh Byrd, holding his Glock at the ready, stood in the drive.

“Byrd, what are you doing here?”

“Henri, Henri Duval, is that you?  Relax, I’m coming in.”

Henri watched as Hugh holstered his weapon and mounted the steps to the porch.  Henri dropped his gun-arm to the side.  Byrd spoke first.

“So you’re the good doctor’s baby sitter.  I might have known.  Where is Smets?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Henri still held the Browning, although pointed at the floor.

“Relax, Henri.  Put the gun away.  I’m not here to hurt the wimp, not much anyway.  I just wanted to even a few things with him.  The rat did this to me.”

Byrd touched an elevated red area of his forehead and grinned.

“He used a lamp when I wasn’t looking.”

Henri did not holster the Browning.  His mind raced. 
Who fired that rifle at me?  If it wasn’t Byrd, then who?

He returned to the present.

“All right Hugh, fasten the clip on your holster and we’ll talk.  Just remember, I won’t let you touch Smets.  Denise needs him.”

At the mention of Denise Guerry, Hugh became more compliant.  Besides, he was sure that Henri would shoot only if challenged.  He snapped the Glock’s holster closed.

“OK, but I still want to talk to him.  You can understand that.  Where have you hidden the good doctor?”

Henri held the Browning ready and pointed to the rear door.

“Come with me.  He’s out back in the tobacco shack.”

The path to the shack was overgrown with brambles and weeds among which small prickly junipers strove to survive.

Hugh forged ahead while Henri lingered a step behind.  The door hung by a single rusty hinge that squealed when Hugh pulled it wide.  He leaned in.

Even standing to the side, the moldy air assailed Henri’s nostrils.  He did not go in, but scanned the nearby fields.

Inside, Hugh peered into the shadows as his eyes acclimated to the dim light.  He turned back to Henri.

“He’s not here.  What are you up to Duval?”

Henri shrugged and gestured towards a dark mass in the field beyond.  As if on cue, the mass split apart as two vultures launched themselves upwards, their clumsy wings flapping.

“There’s something over there.  Follow me.”

They pushed through the knee-high broom grass and brambles and reached the body of a man, face down against the soil.

Hugh Byrd rolled the body over.

It was Gilles Smets.

His face, caked in dirt and blood, had been hacked by a sharp instrument. Deep bloody wounds on the shoulders, chest and arms evidenced repeated slashing.

Henri shuddered. 
A panga?
  Memories of the Rwandan nightmare swamped his brain.

He struggled to regain focus. 
What was that?

Something was tied around Smets’ neck.

A vary-patterned rag faded yellow, green and blue.

Henri choked.

The torn fragment of a Hutu Interahamwe shirt!

Henri looked up.  Hugh Byrd sported a wide grin.

“Looks like somebody besides me did not like the good doctor.  How will you report this to your ‘lovely’ Denise?”

Henri launched a “
chasse lateral
” kick to the front of Hugh’s thigh followed by an American roundhouse right hand to the jaw.  Twisted with pain, Hugh collapsed.

Henri pointed his Browning at the fallen figure.

“Get up.  You have no idea what this is about.  Touch that Glock and you’re a dead man. Now get out of here before I change my mind.  Be glad it’s me you’re dealing with and not Denise or her uncle.  Now go.”

Hugh went around the side of the house to his car.  Henri called after him.

“And this is not about Denise.  I know she had nothing to do with this and you either.  Just go!”

Henri crouched beside the body to finish his thought.

But who did?

An agitated Hugh Byrd drove fast down the lane from the farm house.  Byrd you’re slipping.  You let a damn Wop beat you.  No, wait, Duval is French, a damn Frog.  Hell what’s the difference!

He chuckled and settled his thoughts.  Smets was dead.  Someone had done him a favor.

He gritted his teeth.

Henri had bested him, but only physically.  Byrd was alive, thanks to Henri’s scruples.  What a sap!  And that pitiful effort to assure Byrd that Denise Guerry would not blame him for the doctor’s death, Henri was a moralistic fool! 
Don’t think Denise will reward you.  She needs me dead, and you let me go.  Why do you think she chose you to guard the doctor?

Byrd fingered the clip on his holster.  If he’d had the upper hand, the vultures would be picking at Duval’s carcass along with the doctor’s.

Hugh hesitated as he thought of Smets’ body, and the cloth about its neck.  Duval had been shaken at the sight of the mutilated corpse. 
What was that about?

Hugh cleared his mind.  Clearly his alliance with Denise Guerry was finished.  Yet he and she both needed to recover the papers to protect themselves from exposure.

But Ryan had the papers and now Hamm too!

Hugh could deal with Denise Guerry later.  He must recover those documents.

He set his jaw.

The Ryan woman was now the target.

Contrary to Denise Guerry’s conclusion, Jeannine Ryan had headed south, not north.

Thanks to the gas in Wayne Johnson’s Buick, she had reached Dillon, South Carolina, without stopping and with a few gallons to spare.

Now she guided the Buick down a tree-lined street with residences and broad front lawns that, in Spring time, featured beds of bright Azaleas shaded by dogwoods and tall pines.  Next to Jeannine in the passenger seat, Bill Hamm slept, as he had for most of the drive from the hospital in Jacksonville.  His breathing was regular, his limbs relaxed. 

Jeannine turned into a driveway that led to a brick two-story house set back among the trees.  She drove to the rear of the dwelling and cut the motor.  Here Wayne Johnson’s Buick was safe from prying eyes.  Except for the house itself, the back yard was otherwise bordered by thick growths of tall long-needled pines.

She walked to the passenger side of the Buick and opened the door.

“We’re here Bill.  Let me help you.”

Bill opened his eyes and leaned outwards.  She seized his arm at the elbow.  He hesitated.

“Where is ‘here?’

“Here is ‘Dillon, South Carolina,’ at Mary Dean’s mother’s house.  Rob and Mary live in Columbia now.  They rent this place, but it’s not occupied at the moment.”

Rob Wilson was a retired FBI agent.  He and his wife Mary Wilson (née Morton, and Tom Dean’s widow) had helped Jeannine and Bill to uncover and foil an assassination plot several years earlier.  Tragically, Mary’s mother had died at that time.

Bill offered a weak frown.

“He could get in trouble for this.”

“Rob doesn’t care.  Besides he can deny knowing we are here.”

She went to a reddish rock at the corner of the house.  She leaned and turned it over.  When she stood up a metallic object dangled from her fingers.

“See, I have the house key.  We’ll say he told us where it was a year ago.”

Bill knew that phone records could prove the recent contact with Rob, but he was too exhausted to dispute the point.  He dragged himself to the sofa in the front room and collapsed.

Jeannine felt his forehead.  He was not feverish.  She picked up a bottle of water along with a plastic vial of antibiotics that the hospital had given her at Bill’s discharge.

“Bill, it’s time for your medicine.  Here swallow these.”

Bill held his head up.  She popped the capsules into his mouth.  He fell back and shut his eyes.  Jeannine stood by him until his breathing settled into a slow rhythm.  Then she went outside to the car.  She popped the trunk, and picked up the briefcase, her laptop, Wayne’s shotgun and a box of shells.  Carrying the load with both arms, she pushed through the door.  Once inside she locked it.

Arms limp, she sat facing Bill. 
God, please help him.  I can’t do this by myself!

She broke the shotgun open, took a shell from the box, and shoved it into the barrel.  She snapped the weapon shut and cradled it in her arms.  That simple effort exhausted her.

She sat, watching Bill’s chest rise and fall.  In just moments, her head nodded and her eyes closed.

She slept.