The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (11 page)

The South Carolina sun was bright and high in the sky when Jeannine Ryan opened her eyes. 
Bill?

She looked about, put the shotgun aside and sat upright in the stuffed chair.  She had fallen asleep watching Bill.  He was still stretched on the sofa, his eyes closed.  She stood up, stretched, and focused.

At that slight movement, Bill rolled to one side so that one arm hung loosely off the couch, but his eyes stayed closed and his breathing remained regular.  She felt his pulse.  His rate was normal.

She sighed in relief.

Jeannine put her laptop on the coffee table, took several documents from the briefcase and laid them open on the table.  She squinted to study the texts, but could not concentrate.

Damn.  This isn’t working.  Coffee!

She went into the kitchen.  She tried the cabinets and found the needed filters.  Soon the smell of roasted Arabica beans filled the kitchen.

Cup in hand, she returned to the living room where she sat and examined the documents.  Her eyes cleared, now she could read the fine print.  In minutes, she was lost in thought.

On the couch, Bill did not move.

In her apartment in Florence, South Carolina, Angelique Uwimana threw herself on the bed and sobbed into the pillow.

She had run all the way from the Catholic church.

At Mass, she had been fine until the congregation stood to recite the “Our Father.”  As she began to speak the words,
“
Forgive us … as we forgive those who trespass against us,” her tongue had refused to move and she could make no sound.

Paul Mutabazi’s photo of the Belgian doctor had released a nightmare of memories.  Choking, she had pushed past the others in her pew and fled down the aisle.  She had run all the way to the apartment.

God, I tried to forgive him, but I couldn’t!

She had not “forgiven,” but only “forgotten.”  When she had identified Dr. Smets’ photograph, she had seen hatred in Paul Mutabazi’s eyes.  He was going to kill Smets, but she did not care!  Old feelings of rage and revenge had overwhelmed her.  Smets deserved to die.

Dear God, look at what they did to my little Augustin.  I can’t forgive.  Help me!

Remember, I am your daughter.

Angelique’s parents, overjoyed at her birth, had named her
Uwimana
, “Daughter of God.”

But her father and mother were dead, both at the hands of the Interahamwe, and like her parents, she believed God’s words.  His forgiveness depended on hers!

But I can’t, … I won’t!  Dear God, help.  I can’t handle this.

She dug her nails into her hands and closed her eyes.

The girl was ten years old.  She was running.  Behind her she could hear the horrible clatter of pangas dragged sparking against the stones of the roadway.  Hutu killers!  Sure of their prey, they followed purposely.  The men, many clad in dirty yellow, green and blue shirts, were of mixed ages, some not much older than the girl herself.

United in purpose, they chanted in unison.

“Death to the snakes.  A baby snake grows into a snake.  Death to all snakes.  Death to the snakes.  A baby snake grows into a … .”

The girl held her little brother close.  Augustin was not yet three.

She turned the corner.  There, in front of her was the clinic.  The Belgian doctor, her mother’s friend, stood in the doorway.

She dashed forward and held out her brother. She mustered her French.

“Sauvez-nous.  Mama always said you would help us.”

But the doctor’s eyes were cold.

“Angelique Uwimana, you are Tutsi.  We do not help cockroaches here.  Go away.”

“But, Mama was Hutu.”

“Your worthless father was Tutsi, you are Tutsi.”

The doctor pointed to the boy in her arms.

“And so is that ‘thing’ in your arms, Tutsi.”

The girl turned to run.  Too late!

The killers rounded the corner with yells of triumph!

Someone tore Augustin from her arms.  Angelique did not see the club that struck her senseless.

It was dusk when she awoke.  The Interahamwe were gone.

Covered with blood, she pushed herself from under a woman’s body that lay atop her.  Angelique felt her head.  No cuts, the blood was not her own.

She stared to the side.  Augustin’s body was a small mangled heap at the edge of the road.

Numb, she crawled off the roadway into the bushes.

She lay on her back, dry-eyed and trembling.

A groggy Angelique Uwimana lifted her head from the pillow.  She had slept for over an hour, the once-soaked pillow case was now merely damp.

“Brazzzz.”

That noise, stop it!
  But the harsh sound persisted.

“Brazzzz, Brazzzz, …, Brazzzz.”

The door buzzer!

She slid from the bed and struggled to the door.  She flipped the speaker on.

“Yes?  Who is it?”

“It’s me, Henri Duval.  Are you all right?  Let me in.”

“Henri.  Give me a second, I’ll buzz you up.”

Angelique dashed to the bedroom, stepped out of her rumpled church dress and slipped into a pair of jeans.  She donned a loose green blouse and returned to the door in time for Henri’s knock.

She undid the safety chain and pulled the door inwards.

A breathless Henri stood before her.

“Henri, why are you breathing like that?”

“I took the stairs.  The elevator is stuck up on six.”

She stared.  Henri’s brow shone with sweat.  He had come up four flights, and the stairwell was poorly ventilated.

“You’re lucky the door from the stairs was unlocked.”

He grinned.

“Your security is bad.  Someone had wedged it open.”

He took a breath.

“I thought I was in better shape.  I try to run every day.  Maybe I’ll increase the distance.”

“Come in and sit down.  I’ll get you some water.”

She stepped to the kitchenette and took a plastic bottle from the small fridge.  She handed it to him.

“He grabbed the bottle and swallowed.  I don’t have much time.  I have to return to North Carolina.”

Angelique took the bottle from him.  There was a haunted shadow in his eyes she had never seen.  She drew back a step, but he took her arm.

“I want you to look at this.”

He held out a torn piece of bloody shirt.  The cloth was faded and dirty, but the colors were clear, the yellow, green and blue of the Interahamwe!

Angelique recoiled.  She gasped.

“But where? How did you get it?”

“From a dead man, in North Carolina.”

“Why show me?”

“I thought you might know something.  The man was chopped with a panga.  This was tied around his neck.”

Angelique froze.  Henri kept on.

“He worked for my company.  He was Belgian, a medical doctor.  He ran a clinic in Kigali during the genocide.  He was an ally of the Hutu government.  He supported them after president Habyarimana’s assassination.”

She stood trembling.  His tone softened.

“Angelique you told me about your baby brother, Augustin, and a Belgian doctor who turned you out to the Interahamwe.  His clinic was in Kigali.  Was his name ‘Smets?’”

Paul Mutabazi’s words echoed in her mind. 
“…he is nearby, in North Carolina.”

She shuddered.

My God, Paul, you used a panga on him!  Are we no better than they?

She collapsed to her knees and sobbed.  Henri knelt beside her.

“Good God, Angelique, you
do
know about this!  Who did it?  Tell me!”

Hugh Byrd’s phone call to Denise Guerry had gone as expected.  If she was surprised that he was alive, she gave no indication of it.  The conversation was brief and pointless.  Each party feigned that their alliance was intact, while in fact each understood that henceforth each was on his or her own.

After that call, Hugh considered his options.

Henri Duval was still a danger, but less so thanks to his sentimentality.  Hugh would exploit his misguided emotions.  Stewart Marks had become a true threat now that he suspected that Hugh was involved in the attack on Johnson’s Topsail house.

But the main threat, as always, was the Ryan-Hamm combo.  They had evidence that could send Hugh (and Denise Guerry) to the penitentiary for the rest of their lives.

Damn you Hamm, why didn’t you leave well enough alone.  We weren’t hurting you!

Denise Guerry had not told him, but Hugh knew that she had shifted “resources” to intercept Ryan and Hamm in Maryland. 
Stupid!
  Hugh had underestimated Ryan once, he would not do so again.  Let others think she would retreat to familiar haunts in Maryland, Hugh knew better.

Ryan had headed south.

But where?  She had not used either her or “Walter Harmon’s” credit card since leaving the hospital.  How much gas had been in Wayne Johnson’s Buick?  All right,
Wayne, you may not be the brightest bulb on the block, but you
will
lead me to Ryan.

He grimaced.

Johnson must know where Ryan had taken Hamm.

In Dillon, South Carolina, Jeannine Ryan helped Bill Hamm off the sofa and to the kitchen.  She studied his eyes.  They were clear and alert.

She handed him two pills and a glass of water.

“Here, take your antibiotics.”

Next she placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him.  He grimaced.

“Jeannine, I’m hungry.  I need some real food.”

She did not back off.

“This is real food, but OK, I’ll sweeten the pot.”

She put a fistful of wrinkled raisins on top of his mush.

Bill sighed, but after the first bland spoonful, he ate vigorously.

“This isn’t bad.”

Of course it isn’t.  I want you on your feet.”

Bill emptied the bowl and looked up at her.  She shook her head.

“We’re not going to push it.  That’s enough for the moment.  Do you feel well enough to talk?”

Bill rested his arms on the table.  He nodded “Yes.”

“Then tell me, why the briefcase?  And what in the hell have you gotten us into?”

Jeannine poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, sat opposite Bill, and waited.  He spoke.

“Are we safe here?”

“I hope so.  This house belonged to Rose Morton, Mary Dean’s mother.  It belongs to Rob Wilson and Mary now.  I called them in Columbia.  He and Mary thought this would be a good place to hide while you get well.  We should be OK for several days, at least.  No one knows we know them.”

“All right, but how did you find me, and how did you get me here?”

“I got your note with the key and waited like you told me.  When you didn’t show, I went to the post office in Manassas and picked up your briefcase.  That was five days ago.  The day before that the FBI had come to my house.  They said you were a spy, and accused me of being the same.  After I got the briefcase, I decided I should find a place to think, away from the Feds.  So I called Wayne Johnson at his house on Topsail Island.  He said I could come there.”

She stood from the table and paced.

“But some thug followed me to North Carolina.  He must have waited at the post office.”

“What was he driving?”

“A Ford Excursion.”

“That would be Tom Holder.  He
is
a thug.  What did you do?”

“Wayne called a marine friend who put me up at Camp Geiger.  Then Wayne got me to Topsail.  We weren’t followed by the thug or the FBI.”

Jeannine stopped pacing.

“Bill, what the hell is going on?”

“Tell me how you found me first.”

“When I got to Topsail, Wayne and I went over the papers in the briefcase.  I have lots of questions for you about Strontium-90, and cryptographic keys, but anyway, two days ago we got word of a ‘John Doe’ some kids had pulled out of the Intracoastal Waterway.  Wayne went to the hospital in Jacksonville.  It was you.”

She took a deep breath.

“When he got back to Topsail, some hood with an automatic weapon shot up Wayne’s living room.  We hit the floor and I bagged him with a shotgun, but he got away.  Wayne and I made a run for it to Camp Geiger.”

“You weren’t hurt?”

“I took a splinter in my thigh, but it’s mostly OK now.  Anyway, the next day Wayne and I picked you up at the hospital as ‘Walter Harmon,’ and here we are in Dillon.”

“Where is Wayne?”