The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (18 page)

All day long Henri Duval and Angelique Uwimana stayed cooped up in their motel room in Dillon, South Carolina.  The only exceptions were when Henri had sortied to the refreshment area on the floor below where hungry machines ate dollar bills in exchange for chips, nuts, cokes and ice.

After two such “meals,” Henri was ready to risk a real supper in the motel’s dining room, but Angelique was not.

She waved her arms in protest, a maneuver that Henri found graceful and stimulating.

“Non!  Henri, we can’t eat there.  What if someone should spot us.  It’s too dangerous.”

Henri pulled her towards him.  Tall as she was, he was taller.  He looked down into her eyes.”

“The more agitated you are, the more beautiful.”

She pulled away.  Even then her movements were fluid and attractive.

“Non, Henri, Non!  I’m serious.  One of Gutera’s spies might see us.”

He drew her to him again.  This time his lips pressed hers.  Finally, he shook his head and spoke.

“You are beautiful, and I promise, I won’t let them hurt you.  I’m sure it’s safe, or I wouldn’t let you go there.  Besides if we stay in the room, I may not be able to keep my promise to stay away from you.”

She drew back.  He held her at arm’s length.  His voice was soft.

“Dearest Angelique, if you are afraid, we can eat chips and crackers here.  And I won’t touch you.  I respect you.  I don’t want you to be afraid.”

“Henri, with you here, I’m not afraid. But Gutera and his thugs terrify me.”

She shuddered and leaned against him.

“Are you sure it’s all right?”

“No, but we cannot live in fear.  We have taken precautions.  They cannot know where we are.  We must continue to live, otherwise, Gutera will have won. Wash those tears off, so we can enjoy an excellent supper.”

With a toss of her head, Angelique disappeared into the bathroom.

Once the door closed, Henri checked the action on his “Grande Puissance” Browning before placing it in his shoulder holster, out of sight.

Unlikely as Gutera’s coming might be, if he did show, Henri would be ready.

Hugh Byrd was not dumb.  After missing Hamm and Ryan at the house on Azalea Road, he had studied a topographic map of the terrain where they had disappeared.

The fugitives would avoid the wet bays of the pine woods as well as the riparian swamps of the tributaries of the Little Pee Dee River.  All “dry” routes through the pine flat woods would funnel to a spot that was  intersected by an unimproved road.

Now Hugh waited at that spot, his M16 on the seat beside him.  Ahead was a one-lane bridge that spanned a sluggish stream whose brown waters were too deep to ford.  To his left and right were dry land with wire grass and scattered pines.  Behind him the earthen roadway was underlain by large metal culverts that linked low swampy areas dominated by large cypress and tupelo gum trees.

Ryan and Hamm had to cross the road along this stretch.

And he had flushed them from the house with no warning.  Surely they would have the incriminating documents with them.

Damn, Hugh, you win, in spite of that fool Stew Mark
s.

He sat back and waited.

Bill Hamm’s search for Jeannine was impeded by the scrubby oaks and other plants that choked the lower stratum of the pine flat woods.  Time and again, he broke through the brush into openings of wire grass and bracken fern, always empty!

Jeannine,
Where are you?  I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.

He bulled ahead through brittle branches of scratchy oaks into an extensive clearing, carpeted with wire grass and ferns.  A trail of broken bracken stems marked someone’s recent passage.  Nearby, was a longleaf pine with a slash mark on its bark.

Damn!  I know this tree, and that’s my trail.

He had walked in a circle.  He looked about.  The monotonous well-spaced pines gave him no hint of what direction to take to find Jeannine.

Maybe she was not lost.

But he was.

The sun on the western horizon was too low to be visible through the pines.  Overhead, a layer of dark clouds obscured its brightness.  Only diffused light reached the clearing where Bill Hamm stood.  He leaned his shotgun against a fallen log and scratched his head.

At a sound behind him, he reached for the gun, but a voice stopped him.

“Touch that gun, Mister, and I’ll fill your butt with shot.”

Bill drew his hand back. 
Who?

“Now, Mister, step away from it and turn around real slow.”

Bill turned.  Protruding from a thicket was the ominous barrel of shotgun.

The voice continued.

“Sit down on the ground, put your hands on your head and stay still!”

At that last command, the speaker, a gray-haired man of medium height, stepped from cover.  He picked up Bill’s shotgun and broke it open, all the while keeping his own gun pointed at Bill’s back.

“Mister, I’m sick of you city fellows poaching on my land.  Last week my best hound, Suzy, was shot.  The vet fixed her leg, but she may never hunt again.  You’ll pay for that.”

But he stopped.

“Whoops! What’s this?”

At those words, Bill turned and saw his captor examining the cartridge from Bill’s gun.

“Sir, you’re mistaken.  I’m not poaching your deer.”

The man laughed and tossed the cartridge to Bill.

“I reckon not, unless you’re dumb enough to hunt bucks with birdshot.  That’s a number six cartridge.  Who are you?”

“My name is Hamm.”

“Hamm?  You’re the one Rob Wilson is letting use the Morton place.  What are you doing in my woods?”

Before Bill could reply, the man stretched out his hand.

“I’m Fred Middleton.  Rob told me about your troubles with the FBI.  It doesn’t matter to me.  I trust Rob, and after I heard about you and the Unity Pavilion up in Virginia, I trust you.  Rob told me all about that too.  Let me guess, the Feds showed up at the Morton house and you’re on the run again.  Don’t worry.  Me, I got no love for those guys.  They wouldn’t let me clear and plant the woods on my south tract.  One damned tupelo gum and they said it was ‘wetlands.’  To hell with them.”

Fred did not stop.

“Say, I found a pretty redhead in the woods thirty minutes ago.  She claimed she was lost.  She with you?”

Bill gaped.

“Don’t worry, she’s fine.  Made me wish I was younger.  I locked her in a little hunting shack I built, nothing much.  It’s got cots and an old wood stove, but the pine burns too fast and makes too much smoke.  She wouldn’t tell me her name.  Mostly she was tuckered out.  I’ll take you to her.”

Fred cradled the pump action in his right arm while he handed Bill his shotgun and signaled him to follow.

“Come on, the shack’s this way.  You know I once had an old single shot just like yours.  My dad bought it for me, my first gun.  I got a lot of squirrels and rabbits, and my dad took me for deer too.  I got a six pointer.  My dad took a picture.  I still have it.”

Still talking, Fred Middleton wove his way through the brush with ease.

Bill tried to keep up as dusk fell.

At the formerly “safe” Morton house in Dillon, South Carolina, agent Stew Marks watched as a mixed FBI team from the Florence Resident Agency and the Columbia Field Office examined the scene.

Stew Marks took Wayne Johnson into the back yard.

“Look, Mr. Johnson, I have nothing against Miss Ryan.  Tell me where she’s going.  It will be best for her.  We will find her whether you help us or not.”

The rest of Stew’s words were lost in the roar of a helicopter whose search lights swept the back yard in broad arcs before disappearing over the pines to the west.

“Mr. Marks, I’m grateful that you saved me from Byrd, but I don’t know where she is, or even if Hamm is with her.”

“You seem like a good guy.  Why would you help a traitor?”

“Bill’s no traitor.  The documents incriminate Byrd, not Bill.  And it was Byrd’s man that tried to kill me and Jeannine at my beach house.  Hamm wasn’t there.  He was in the hospital.”

His eyes pierced Stew’s.

“Jeannine could have died.”

Stew stayed silent.  Wayne did not let up.

“Mr. Marks, for all his secret clearances and government power, Byrd is just a dirty rotten cop!”

A thoughtful Stew Marks retreated into the house.

Finally Bill Hamm caught up with Fred Middleton.  The latter pointed ahead.  Through the shadows Bill made out the outline of a cabin, a box-like structure made of plywood sheets.

The door was padlocked on the outside.  Fred called through the door while he fumbled for the key.

“All right, Miss Redhead, I found your man.  We’re coming in.”

Jeannine was seated on a bunk to the left.  Her eyes blinked as Fred lit a kerosene lamp.

Bill embraced her.

“Are you all right”

She nodded.  Fred, quiet for once, turned and lifted a hinged board to reveal a window, an opening cut in the wall with flexible screening tacked about the margins.  He secured the panel above the opening by means of two hooks.  Then he turned and spoke.

“That gets us some air.  Now we got to get rid of the chill.”

He stuffed the iron stove with kindling and added an oak log.

“That ought to do it.  This spot is pretty damp.  That log will do the trick.  It’s hardwood.  We’ll just let it burn down slow.”

He saw Bill eye the kerosene lamp.

“Don’t worry about that old lantern.  Nobody can see it.  The woods are thick here, and there’s swamp on three sides.”

Jeannine whispered.

“Bill, who is this guy?  What does he know about us?  Do you trust him?”

Without turning, Fred interjected.

“Don’t fret Miss.  Rob Wilson is my friend, and I know that your man here was a hero at that fracas up in Virginia.  As for the Feds, you two are safe here for a couple of days at least.”

Fred was not done.

“My home is a ways off, and it’s dark.  Looks like I’ll be staying with you guys tonight.  Sorry to spoil the honeymoon, but it
is
my cabin.”

Jeannine huddled next to Bill, still whispering.

“Bill, I did it.  I broke the code.  Gutera and Guerry are in this together.”

Angelique Uwimana was happy.  The meal with Henri had been wonderful, and after two glasses of wine, she was relaxed for the first time since leaving Florence.

As Henri put the key card in the door, she pressed against him and looked into his eyes.

“Angelique?  Are you sure?”

She wasn’t, but she liked him close.

“Henri, I … .”

He put a finger on her lips to silence her.

“Angelique, I know that this would not be right for you.”

He pushed her inside and looked carefully about the room.  Nothing appeared disturbed.

“Angelique, go to bed.  I have to check something.”

She took the bed by the window.  After only moments, her eyes shut and her breathing became regular.

He threw the deadbolt and fastened the security chain.  He was worried.  That blond Irishman had stared at Angelique all through the dinner.  Something was wrong.

Henri turned out the light, but he did not go to the other bed.

He sat in a chair and faced the door.

Hugh Byrd sat in his car.  The lights were out and though there was little moonlight, the road in front of him was sufficiently illuminated.  All was still.  Nothing had crossed, not even a raccoon.

Hugh yawned and glanced at his watch, 2:00 am. 
Damn it Hamm, hurry up, I haven’t got all night.

The night air was chill and he rubbed his arms.  He thought to turn on his motor and the heater, but he did not want to alarm his prey.

He watched and waited.

The rising sun blazed through the windshield of the Excursion where Hugh Byrd slept, slumped in the seat.  The buzz of his cell phone woke him.

“Byrd, where are you?”

The voice was Denise Guerry’s.  Byrd cleared his throat.

“In South Carolina, near Dillon.  Ryan and Hamm are on the run.  They’re on foot, in the woods.”

A helicopter roared overhead.  Byrd waited for it to pass.

“The FBI has helicopters in the air, searching for them.”

“You led the FBI to them?  Marks will find them.”

“Not before me.  Wait, someone’s coming.  I have to hang up.”

Hugh slid his M16 under some newspapers on the floor just as the man arrived and tapped on the window of the Excursion.

“Mister, my name is Middleton, Fred Middleton.  What are you doing sleeping on my land.  Were you hunting last night?”

A pump-action shotgun was cradled in the man’s left arm.  The weapon was well-used. 
Go slow, Hugh
.

“Sorry Mister, Isn’t this a public road?”

At that response, Fred Middleton’s left hand lifted the gun’s barrel to point at the car door.  Simultaneously, his right hand gripped the stock and his finger sought the trigger.

“Public?  Very funny, Sonny.  I’m sick of you poachers jack-lighting my deer.  Where’s your damned shotgun?”

Fred lifted the gun to a level with Hugh’s nose.

“Maybe you’re the one who shot my dog Suzy?”

Hugh drew back from that barrel.  He held his breath.  His foot nudged the M16 farther under the papers.

“Mr. Middleton, I am a Federal agent.  Here, see my ID.”

Fred lowered his gun.

“What kind of badge is this, Mister?  You’re not FBI.”

“The FBI reports to us.  Look Sir, I’m sorry about your hound, Suzy, but I am no poacher.  Perhaps you can help me.  We are looking for two fugitives, a man and a woman.  She has red hair.  Have you seen them?”

Fred flinched and looked aside.  That was enough for Hugh.

Damn, the old guy has seen them!

“Sir, if you’ll put the shotgun down, I’ll leave.”

Hugh started the engine.  Fred stood by, shotgun lowered.

“I hope you catch your poachers, Sir.  When you catch them, cut their balls off.  They shouldn’t have shot your hound.”

But to himself. 
Next time old man, I’ll part those gray hairs with my Glock.

Hugh sped away and disappeared around a bend in the road.

Crouched behind a thicket of scrubby oak, magnolias and bays, Bill Hamm turned to Jeannine.

“Something’s wrong.  Fred has been gone too long.  Maybe we should have stayed at the cabin.”

“But the battery on the laptop is low and there’s no power there to decode Gutera’s messages.  We can’t wait.”

Before Bill could answer, Fred Middleton appeared

“Somebody was on the road, said he was a Fed.  Face like a weasel.  He’s looking for you both.  He left, but he’ll be back, I’ll take you across if you want, but if I were you, I’d go back to the shack.  You’ll be safer there, at least for one more day.”

“This ‘Fed,’ was he FBI?”

“Some kind of badge I couldn’t make out.  He was driving a Ford Excursion, a brown one.”

Jeannine broke in.

“That’s like the car that followed me to Camp Geiger!”

“That’s Holder’s car.  It’s Byrd.  He carries that anonymous ID.  We’ll go back to the cabin with Fred.  Byrd will come for the briefcase.  I’d rather face him on turf of my choosing.”

“So he won’t give up?”

“He can’t afford to.  I’m sure he’s back looking for us now.”

Jeannine clutched the laptop while Bill grabbed the canvas case with one hand and held the shotgun with the other.  Even birdshot, if to the face, would stop any man.

He nodded to Fred.  Together they started back to the shack.

At the formerly “safe” Morton house in Dillon, Jack Marino yelled at his partner, Stew Marks.

“Stew,  what’s wrong with you?  You let Wayne Johnson go free.  He’s harbored  two fugitives.”

“Calm down, Jack.  Johnson and I have an understanding.  I’ve impounded his Buick.  He drove the rental back to Topsail.  He won’t leave the beach house.  I have his word.”

“His word? I hope you know what you are doing.”

The roar of a descending helicopter drowned out his words.  Stew waited before speaking.

“Jack, I want you in the chopper to search the Little Pee Dee swamps.  Find Ryan and Hamm and Johnson won’t matter.  And if you see Byrd, watch your back!”

Jack snorted and headed for the waiting chopper.

Hugh Byrd was still in the hunt.  Once out of sight of Fred, he had parked his car and taken up his M16.  The 60-round magazine plus a thirty-rounder from the trunk loaded him down, but Hugh wanted the extra firepower.

He heard a helicopter in the distance.  The FBI had enlarged their search circle and the chopper was far beyond the crossing that he had guarded.  They were looking for Hamm and Ryan outside the radius of the day before. 
Good!

Loaded as he was, Hugh jogged down the road to the spot where he had left Fred.

In an apartment in Florence, South Carolina, a Hutu woman, Agathe Muteteli, prepared breakfast.  Her husband, Pierre Sehene, a graduate student in electrical engineering at Carolina Technical University, was still asleep.

But she was happy.  In June, Pierre would finish his degree, and a tech company in Columbia had a position for him.  They had a future.  At last, they would outlive the tragedy in Rwanda.

She heard the bedroom door open and familiar footsteps.

“Pierre, you’re late.  You’ll miss class.”

“No matter.  I quit.  I don’t need another degree.  No more late night cramming.  I’m done.”

He leaned to grab her waist, but she pulled away.

“What do you mean?’  What about your Master’s degree, and the job in Columbia.”

He laughed and threw a wad of bills on the counter.

“We’ll have more money than you can imagine.”

“Did Maximilien give you this?”

“Yes, I’ve joined him.”

“Now you are for sale?  Pierre, give it back.  It’s bloody.  His father was a murderer and so is he.”

“We all were.”

“You were only twelve, a boy.  You are different now, and you confessed in the Gacaca court of your village.  You are forgiven.  We have a new life in a new country.”

“You don’t understand.  We are Hutu.  With Maximilien, we will go back to Rwanda as rightful rulers.  We are the majority.”

“Pierre, Maximilien Gutera hates Tutsi’s.  He’s a murderer.  Don’t do this!”

“Agathe, you shame yourself.  You are Hutu.  I am Hutu.  Maximilien is our leader.  It is settled.”

“If you go with that murderer, I will leave you.  I will not watch you throw your life away.  Choose!  It’s me or Maximilien.”

Agathe shut her eyes, hoping.

But the door slammed.

When she opened her eyes the wad of money was gone from the counter.

In the motel in Dillon, Henri Duval slumped in his chair, alternately dozing and watching the door.  The room was dark because the curtains were drawn, but a bright sun shone through the vertical gap between the drapes.  Angelique still slept.

Henri laid his head back.  He must have imagined that the man in the restaurant last night knew Angelique.

His gaze fell on the floor.  Next to the door was a piece of paper, evidently the bill for the room.  But too early?  They were to stay another night.

But it was not a bill.

Duval,

Denise Guerry sends you this message.  She forgives you for your Rwandan playmate, but you must leave the girl now.  She told Gutera where you are.  Get out now and she will reward you personally for your service.  If you don’t leave the girl she will not be able to help you.

P. S.  I’m the Irishman you spotted at dinner.  Your friend is a tantalizing dish, but you can’t save her.  Save yourself.  Denise will blame me if you don’t.  We never met but you know my name.

Ian

Henri stared in disbelief.  He shook Angelique to wake her.

“Henri, what?”

He put his finger to his lips.

“Shsss.  Gutera’s men are on the way.  They could be here already.  We have to run.”

There was nothing to pack.  Angelique slipped into her jeans.  Henri took his Browning from its holster and held it ready as he turned the deadbolt.  He peered into the corridor.

“OK, the hall’s clear.  Let’s go.”

He seized her wrist and headed for the door to the stairwell.  He stopped. Someone had moved on the other side.

Henri tried to step away, but too late.  The door opened and the blond Irishman, Ian, stood before them.  He pointed the Beretta at Henri’s nose.

“Duval, you dumb ass, they’ll kill you too.”

“So you’re ‘Ian.’  You’re no assassin.  Stand aside.”

“Don’t be a fool, Duval.  Denise wants you.”

Henri shifted the weight on his feet, but Ian caught the movement and his finger tightened on the trigger.  Henri understood.  He stopped.  He had heard of Ian’s prowess.

“Ian, I was in Rwanda.  You will have to shoot me because I won’t let Gutera’s beasts rape and chop this woman.”

He looked into Ian’s eyes.

“And I know you are not a beast.  I’d bet my life on it.”

Henri opened the door and pushed Angelique into the stairwell.

Ian stared, but did not shoot.

At the first landing Henri paused and shouted upwards.

“Ian, I owe you for this.”

Then he dashed down the stairs pulling Angelique after him.

Outside, they found their car and drove away.

The black Audi pulled up to the motel in Dillon, South Carolina.  A tall African emerged from the driver side and walked to the front desk.  His English was flawless.

“You have a Monsieur Duval registered here, Room 260?”

“I have a Mr. and Mrs. Duvalier in 260.”

“That’s them.  Are they in the room now?”

The clerk shrugged and reached for the phone.  The tall man, Pierre Sehene, moved effortlessly and gripped the clerk’s wrist.

“It is not necessary to call them.  You also have an Ian Callahan staying here, in room 160.  He is supposed to meet me.  Would you ring his room for me.”

“I’m sorry Sir, but he checked out an hour ago.”

Pierre’s eyebrows shot up.  He turned and strode out.  At the Audi he leaned in the back window and spoke to his boss, Jules.

“Guerry’s man Callahan has gone.  Something is wrong.”

“Take Louis Makuza and check Duval’s room.  Don’t hurt Uwimana.  Maximilien has decided to bed her before he kills her.”

But Pierre and Louis returned empty handed.  There was no one in room 260, and Duval’s car was not in the lot.  Dismayed, Jules Habimana sat in the back seat of the Audi.  He shuddered.  Two failures in three days!  He dreaded informing Maximilien.

He signaled Pierre to return to Florence.

In the woods near Dillon, South Carolina, Fred Middleton led Bill Hamm and Jeannine Ryan back to the shack without incident.  Inside, he looked at Bill and pointed to a shelf.

“Those are buckshot cartridges in that coffee can.  You can borrow a couple.  Dump that dumb birdshot.  I have to get home.  I got chores to do.  I’ll be back in the morning.”

Pump action in hand, Fred pushed into the scrub and disappeared amid the shadowy pines.  Jeannine watched him go.

“Bill, the laptop only has six percent power left, maybe 10 minutes.  I have to stop decoding and shut down, and we still don’t know Gutera’s plans.  Remember the Strontium graphs.  He could be planning a nuclear event.”

“They don’t have the capability to produce a nuclear bomb.”

“So, maybe only a dirty bomb?  We have to leave.  I can’t operate from this shack, and we have to stop  Gutera.”

“We won’t be able to stop anything if Marks locks us up.”

“But we can show him these messages and other stuff.”

“No one will see it.  The minute they arrest us, Byrd and his men will scream ‘National Security’ and seize everything.  And Byrd is nearby, you can bet on it.”

“Great, we can’t trust the good guys or the bad ones.”

Dusk fell, but Bill did not light the kerosene lamp.  He put a buckshot shell into the shotgun, and sat facing the door.