The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (15 page)

Maximilien Gutera cut his steak. 
Only a sirloin but the rub is flavorful and nicely seasoned.
  He carefully lifted a morsel to his mouth. 
Good!
  His eyes returned to Bruno.

“Denise Guerry is a mere woman.  We know how to deal with our enemies.  Surely we have proved that to you.  We will take care of this Tutsi cockroach in our own way.  You do not give me orders and neither does she.  Stick to your computers.  We know what we are doing.”

He cut a morsel from his steak and placed it in his mouth.

“Now Monsieur Belli, you should relax.  Aren’t you hungry?  Your tortellini will be cold.  Eat!”

Maximilien took Bruno’s wine glass and handed it to him.

“And drink!  It will calm you.  My compatriots are waiting at Uwimana’s apartment.  I told them they could enjoy her first, before they complete their work.  They will call me when done.”

Bruno swallowed the Rosato in a single gulp.

Maximilien laid his cell phone on the table and continued.

“For his sake, I hope your M. Duval won’t interfere.  I prefer not to hurt him.  My father and I owe a debt to the French.”

Henri Duval drove.  Damp arms encircled him and he felt the softness of Angelique’s breasts against his side as she massaged the rippling muscles of his back and shoulders.

But as they rounded the corner to her street his muscles went taut.  He drew away and stopped the car.

“Henri, what is wrong?”

The rain had lightened and he could see down the street.

“That car parked across from your apartment, do you see it?  It’s a Citroën C3 Picasso.  How many of those have you seen in Florence?”

“I don’t know cars.”

“The last one I saw was in Chantilly, Virginia, in the parking lot at GES when some African visitors met with Denise Guerry.  This Citroën could mean trouble.  I’m going to see.”

Damn you Denise, are you involved with Maximilien and his thugs?

He left the motor running, stepped out of the car, and motioned Angelique to move behind the wheel.

“No matter what you see or hear, if I’m not back in ten minutes drive to your friend’s house, pick up Paul Mutabazi, and leave Florence.  Don’t tell anyone where you are going.  Find a motel and pay cash.  Do not argue with me on this.  Please.”

“Henri, don’t go, you could be hurt.”

Too late, Henri had jogged out of hearing.

Minutes passed.

Angelique sat quivering, staring at the rhythmic up-down, up-down, of the wipers as they swept the dripping ripples from the glass.

Henri?

At the restaurant, Bruno Belli had not touched his tortellini, although two more glasses of Rosato had passed his gullet.  Maximilien Gutera had finished his steak, and was now enjoying a cup of coffee and a square of Tiramisu.

Bruno noted the increasing frequency with which Maximilien glanced at his cell phone as he awaited the report from his men.

Bruno was afraid to speak.  A normal Maximilien was sufficient to cow Bruno, an agitated Maximilien terrified him.  He kept his eyes lowered while Maximilien glared at the silent instrument on the table.

The phone was not cowed.  It refused to buzz.

In Florence, South Carolina, the shadows sheltered Henri Duval from view as he slipped through the yards across the street from Angelique’s apartment building.  His Browning was chambered and ready, safety off.

For a moment, he doubted himself.  Surely the Citroën he had seen in Chantilly was not the only such car in the United States.  Had imagination overcome his reason?

But then he looked upward.  On the fourth floor, lines of light flickered from inside the windows of Angelique’s apartment.  The independent movements of the rays meant at least two flashlights were present.

Someone was in there!

The Citroën was parked just ahead.  A large live oak, with stout horizontal branches spread wide, dominated the adjacent yard.

He crept towards it and stopped.

Only moments before the silhouette of a man had filled the driver’s side of the car.  Now there was only empty space.  No one was in the car.

Non!

At the slight sound behind him, Henri ducked, half-falling, under the oak.  His Browning spun out of his hand and skidded across the slick wet leaves.

“Krunk.”

A panga smashed against the dead oak branch above Henri’s head, sending a slice of bark flying before the blade met the tough interior wood and rebounded.  The recoil numbed the attacker’s wrist causing him to loosen his grip.

Henri seized that moment to launch himself headfirst into the midsection of his assailant.  The man grunted, twisted himself free from Henri’s grasp, and swung his arm high, poised to chop Henri with one lethal slash.

But Henri was quick.  Leaning backwards he avoided the panga’s wide arc.  Then he stepped sideways and delivered a sweeping
savate
kick,
“un coup de pied bas,”
to the shin of his adversary.  The inner edge of his shoe smashed against the man’s leg fracturing the thin fibula and bruising tendons.

The attacker crumpled to the ground, his useless leg unable to sustain his weight.

But still he was not done.  He flung the panga at Henri’s head.  Henri stepped aside and dodged the rotating object.

Satisfied that his opponent had no other weapon, Henri retrieved his Browning from the leaf litter and held it to the man’s forehead.

“
‘Votre nom?’
  Your name?” 

“
‘Je m’appele Eric, Eric Nyonzima.’ 
My name is Eric, Eric Nyonzima.”

“
‘Vous-êtes rwandais?  Hutu?’
  You are Rwandan?  Hutu?”

The fallen man nodded.

“
Oui.
”

“
‘Que faites-vous ici en Caroline du Sud?’
  What are you doing in South Carolina?”

Henri did not wait for the answer.

“
‘Vous suivez Maximilien Gutera?’ 
You are with Maximilien Gutera?”

At the mention of “Gutera” a shadow of fear crossed the man’s eyes.  Evidently, Gutera did not suffer failure well.  But the man was no coward.  He glared and spoke through clenched jaws.

“‘Mais, vous-êtes français.  Nous sommes amis.’
 
But you are French.  We are friends.”

That was too much for Henri.

He clubbed the man with his Browning and the Hutu fell senseless.

Still Henri was curious,
a panga?
  He went to the Citroën and looked on the seat.  The object of his search, the thug’s handgun, was half-concealed under a bag on the floor.  The man had preferred to kill Henri personally, with the panga.

Henri picked up the semi-automatic and stood still in the twilight.  He studied the windows of Angelique’s apartment.

Flashlights still flickered behind the curtains on the fourth floor.

What now?

Gutera’s men were still there.

In Myrtle Beach South Carolina, Stew Marks and Jack Marino watched Hugh Byrd’s motel from their car.

Stew spoke.

“Byrd must know that Wayne Johnson switched his Honda for a Buick.  What’s he waiting for?  He’s been in that motel all day.”

“He gets the same alerts we do.  They’ve been no hits.”

“Hold on.  Here he is.  He’s getting in his Excursion.”

Stew started the motor as Byrd drove away.  Jack intervened.

“Stew, there’s no hurry.  I attached the gimmick and he drove off without checking for bugs.”

“Right, Jack. I’ll hang back.  Wait, he’s stopping at that bar up ahead.  We’d better wait here.”

Stew pulled to the curb.

At a bar in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, Hugh Byrd was angry.  Yesterday, he had visited the rental agency where Wayne Johnson had returned the Honda.  Johnson now was driving a Buick, and Hugh knew its plates.  But he had gotten no hits on them.

Hugh smarted.  Wayne Johnson had outwitted him, consciously or unconsciously.  And the absence of Tom Holder, against whom Hugh habitually vented his anger, exacerbated the hurt.

He chose to ease his frustration with beer.  He was on his fourth draft Bud when his cell phone buzzed.  He checked the number.  It was the NSA.

The text was encrypted.  He smiled as he decoded it.

“OK, Mr. Johnson. I’ve got you.”

Humming, Hugh left the bar and headed for Dillon, South Carolina.

Near the bar in Myrtle Beach, Stew Marks sat in the car with his partner, Jack Marino.  Jack studied the blip moving on the screen of his laptop and laughed.

“Stew, this guy Byrd is arrogant.  He can’t imagine that anyone would tag
his
car!”

“Which way is he going?”

“Inland on Highway 501, maybe Florence, maybe Dillon.”

“OK, we’ll follow along.”

Stew put the car in “Drive” and  headed for Highway 501.

At the Italian restaurant in Florence, South Carolina, Bruno Belli was exhausted.  His back ached from sitting upright in the stiff chair.  Across from him, Maximilien Gutera, a perpetual frown on his face, ignored the waiter’s efforts to close out the check and instead demanded yet another refill of coffee.

During the past fifteen minutes, Gutera had not once looked at Bruno, not a glance.

Bruno squirmed in his seat.  He needed to relieve himself of the accumulated fluid from the bottle of Rosato wine that he had consumed while watching the Hutu stare at his phone.

But Gutera gave no indication of dismissal and it was clear that for Bruno to leave the table without permission would be viewed as an affront.

Bruno was near despair.  His legs could squeeze together no further.  A urinary accident appeared inevitable, when at last the cell phone vibrated audibly.

Maximilien picked up the instrument.  Bruno heard only Maximilien’s half of the conversation.

“What! … Eric’s leg is broken? … Where is Duval? … What do you mean, ‘You don’t know?’ … How is that possible?  Imbecile, where is Uwimana? … What!  You are an idiot.  Get Jules Habimana.  Put him on the line.  Now!”

Maximilien held the phone to his ear and drummed the table with his fingers.  He continued to ignore Bruno.  Jules came on the line.

“Jules, tell me what happened.  Omit nothing.”

Maximilien listened in silence while, Jules gave a detailed narrative of the events at Angelique’s apartment.  After some time the Hutu leader exploded.

“You have achieved nothing, nothing at all!  Furthermore you know nothing.  Where is Duval?  Where is Uwimana?  They escaped you?  Imbeciles!  You all are worthless.”

He slammed the phone on the table, and glared at Bruno.

“They are all idiots!”

Bruno squirmed in his seat.  Maximilien Gutera raised himself to his full height.

“You fool, go!  Go to the toilet.  Run!  And when you come back to the table, pay the bill.”

Maximilien glowered and stormed out of the restaurant.  Two bodyguards, up to now incognito at a corner table, stood up and followed.

Bruno Belli dashed to the rest room.

Henri Duval drove up to the entrance of the motel in Dillon, South Carolina.  Next to him, Angelique Uwimana slept.  They had fled Florence after she and Henri had avoided the trap at her apartment.

Henri locked Angelique in the car, and went to check in.

He  returned and tapped on the window.  She stirred.

“Where are we?”

“Dillon, it’s near the North Carolina border.  I have a room.”

“A single room?  I can’t.  Henri, that’s not possible.”

“Don’t worry.  It has separate twin beds.  I won’t touch you, but there’s no way I’m leaving you alone tonight.”

Angelique acquiesced.  No way did she want to be alone tonight either.

They locked the car and went into the side entrance to the motel.  They had no luggage and the climb to the second floor was effortless.  Their room overlooked the rear parking.  Henri went to the window.  Their car was undisturbed.  Then he turned back to Angelique.  She put down her phone.

“Angelique, whom did you call?”

“Paul Mutabazi, I had to warn him it was Maximilien Gutera that he saw.  The monster!”

She leaned over, motionless, both hands flat on the dresser.

“Angelique, what’s wrong?”

“That man with Maximilien, Bruno Belli.  He was at my seminar.  He implied I could have stolen my ideas from the government.  Why would he say that?  And why was he at my seminar?  I’m a lowly grad student.”

She continued.

“And he works for
your
company!  What do you know about that?  Why was he with that horrible Maximilien Gutera?  He sent those Hutus to kill me.  If not for you, they would have.”

She wept.

“Dear God, why?”

She collapsed in his arms.  He had no answers.  In fact, his questions were the same as hers.  Denise Guerry despised Angelique, but how was Denise connected to Gutera, the Hutu, and what was her involvement with Bruno and cryptography?

He laid the distraught Angelique on the bed, clothes and all, and covered her with a light blanket.

Henri stood staring out the window.

Damn.  Denise was helping Gutera and his murderers!

In Chantilly, Virginia, an unhappy Denise Guerry was on the phone with Bruno Belli.

“Bruno, what do you mean Maximilien tried to kill both Duval and Uwimana?”

“He’s a madman.  Even you can’t control that killer!”

Normally, Bruno would never talk to Denise Guerry like this, but he was shaken from his contact with Maximilien.

“Bruno, calm yourself.  What did Duval do?  Where is he?”

“I don’t know.  Henri broke the leg of one of Gutera’s Hutus.  Then he and Angelique got away.”

Denise was silent.  Henri was helping Angelique and therefore unreliable.  She would make him regret choosing that Tutsi.

As for Bruno, to ask the scientist to watch Maximilien Gutera had been her mistake.  She spoke.

“Bruno, leave Gutera to me.  He needs us to launder his Euros.  I want you back in Topsail Beach to prepare for the missile tests.  I have no more need for you in South Carolina.”

The moment she hung up, the phone rang again.  The caller, Ian, worked for GES.

“All right Ian, where are they?”

“I followed them like you said.  They drove to Dillon and booked a motel.  I’m there now, parked across the street.”

“Good.  Ian, as long as Henri is with that Tutsi girl, he is useless to me.  This is what I want you to do.”

She detailed her instructions and hung up.

In the motel in Dillon, South Carolina, Henri Duval abandoned his vigil at the window.  All was tranquil in the parking lot.  Most of the travelers had retired.

From behind him, he heard a faint rustling.  Angelique was awake, her lips moving without sound.

“Angelique, what are you doing?  Go back to sleep.”

Eyes misty, she looked up.

“I’m praying the rosary of the Seven Sorrows of Mary.  Our lady appeared to us in my country, in Kibeho.  She warned us of the genocide to come, but we did not listen.  All I can do now is pray, ask to be forgiven, and for myself, the strength to forgive.”

Henri thought of Eric the Hutu whose leg he had smashed.

Forgive?  Without that branch, my skull would be cleaved.

Angelique’s eyes were shut but her lips moved.  Henri knew the words.  As a youth in France, he had prayed the “Hail Mary” with his mother.

He shrugged. 
Why not?

“Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce ...
”