The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (19 page)

Stew Marks and Jack Marino sat inside a McDonald’s in Dillon, South Carolina where Jack lamented the search of the day before.

“Stew, the river swamps are thick.  You can’t see much from the air.”

“At least you know Hamm and Ryan weren’t on the open river in a boat.  The Little Pee Dee dumps into the Lumber River.  That’s one way they could get to the coast.”

“They still could have been on the river.  They could have heard us coming and ducked under the trees in some backwater.”

“Maybe, but I’ll bet they are holed up somewhere close by.  I bet our helicopter spooked them from open roads, and the river too.  Hamm is not dumb.”

“He may not be dumb, but he’s a damned traitor, a spy.  And you know what the rat did to me during those hearings on the Unity Pavilion attack.  Have you gone soft on him?”

“Hamm has loyal friends, like Johnson, and Jeannine Ryan.  I
can’t believe that she is all bad.”

“Damn it, Stew. That woman has messed with your head since you first questioned her.  Forget her.  And you trusted Johnson.  You let him go!  What’s wrong with you?  You’re my partner!”

“Would you rather I trust Hugh Byrd?”

“So Byrd is a scumbag, how does that help Ryan and Hamm?”

“Jack, that is precisely what I aim to find out.”

Stew took a last swallow of coffee and stood up.

“Come on Jack, you and I are going for a hike.  This time we search on foot.”

Somewhere on Interstate 26, northwest of Charleston, South Carolina, Angelique Uwimana moaned and lifted her head from a pillow made from Henri’s jacket rolled into a ball.

“Henri, where are we?”

From behind the wheel, Henri, twisted to see Angelique. She was in the back seat.

“We're not to Summerville yet.  I was tired and had to pull off.  Are you hungry?”

Her head ached and food was far from her thoughts.

“No.  But Henri, I have to meet my professor Monday morning about my thesis.  How?”

“That’s not possible.  No way can we go to Florence, or the university.  That’s Gutera’s turf.”

“But my thesis?”

“We’ll find a café in Charleston where you can email him.  Meanwhile, hungry or not, I’m going to find you some food.  We can’t stay here.”

He turned the ignition and drove onto the highway.  She sat up.

“Henri, what did that man ‘Ian’ mean when he said Denise Guerry wanted you.  Have you slept with her?”

The image of the delicious Denise flashed before him.  Guilt swallowed all logic.  He stammered.

“Angelique, any man would find Denise desirable, but … ”

“So you would if you could.”

“But I love you.  That woman told Gutera where we were.  She wants …”

He started to say “you,” but switched.

“She wants
us
dead.”

He twisted to look back and saw the grief in her eyes.  The car swerved into the adjacent lane.

“Henri, watch the road!”

He swung back into his lane and looked in the rearview mirror.  Angelique’s eyes had closed.  She appeared to sleep.

But Henri had another reason to watch the mirror, to look for cars following them, particularly of French, or German, make.

Hugh Byrd was a man of many skills, including the art of survival.  Since his days on bivouac as a paratrooper, he had honed those skills.  Yesterday and today they had served him well.

He peered through the brush to study the shack in front of him.  The structure consisted of three-quarter-inch plywood supported, presumably, by interior two by four studs.  A lone window was shuttered from within by similar plywood while a thin dwindling plume of smoke wafted upwards from the tin stove pipe at the rear of the roof.

Hugh smiled.

The smoke indicated the presence of his prey.

The shack’s plywood walls were no obstacle.  They were little better than paper at stopping his 5.56 caliber, 55 grain, ammo.  His only worry was that the penetration might be too clean.  He wanted the exiting bullets to fragment the wood into lethal splinters that would fill the room.

He studied the door.  It was heavy and thick, somewhat resistant to penetration, and thereby more likely to splinter.  He took a position to the front of the cabin and raked the flimsy structure with bursts of fire.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”

At a head-on ninety degree impact, clean holes appeared in the plywood as well as the door.  He continued.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrup.”

He moved quickly and fired more bursts at an angle.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrup.”

This time splintered holes marked the passage of the bullets.  He let go again.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”

He still had lots of rounds in his magazine.  Forget the damned angle, he went to his right and raked the side walls, straight on.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”

Again!

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrup.”

Done!

Hugh dropped the spent magazine and jammed his backup in place.  Holding the M16 at the ready, he went to the front.  He would grab the briefcase and leave the bodies for Marks to clean up.  He pulled the door aside and looked in.

Empty!

What the hell?

He heard a step behind him and turned.  Too late!  The butt end of a shotgun smashed against the side of his skull.

Hugh dropped senseless to the ground.

In the pine woods some distance away, Stew Marks stopped to listen.

“Did you hear that, Jack?  That was automatic fire.”

Jack Marino turned in the direction of the sounds.

“You’re right. There it goes again, three-round bursts.”

Stew seized Jack’s arm and pointed.

“Over that way!  Hamm and Ryan don’t have automatic weapons.  That’s Byrd.  The bastard has caught up to them.”

They started in the direction of the gunfire, only to find their way blocked by impassable dark waters studded with gum and cypress trees.

After an hour of watery dead ends, Stew halted, hand to his ear.

“Jack, those are voices ahead.  That way.”

Stew drew his Beretta.  Jack did likewise and disappeared to the left.  They moved in parallel through the pines.

Ahead Stew heard a woman.

“That’s an M16.  That guy tried to kill you!”

A man spoke in reply, but his words were indistinguishable.

Stew continued to his right until a voice from behind stopped him.

“Hold it, fellow.  Stow the gun and tell me who you are.”

The voice belonged to a man with gray hair.  A pump action shotgun rested casually in his arms.

“I’m with the FBI, let me show you my ID.”

“Never mind.  Are you agent Stewart Marks?”

“I am.”

“He told me you would come.  I’m Fred Middleton.  These are my woods.”

“Who do you mean, ‘He?’”

“Some fellow called Hamm.”

“Hamm!  Where is he?”

Fred shrugged.  Stew persisted.

“I heard a woman’s voice too.  Where is Miss Ryan?”

“Ryan?  I don’t know.  You must have heard Mary-Jean, she’s a deputy sheriff.  I called her to handle a problem I have.  If you follow me to my cabin.  I’ll show you.”

He pointed into the brush.

“And call your friend out here.  Both of you need to see this.”

Stew signaled to Jack to step into the open.

Together they followed Fred along the edge of the swamp.

When they arrived at Fred’s cabin, Stew stopped and stared.

Bound to a stout pine, hair matted with dried blood, was Hugh Byrd.

“Stew, thank God.  Tell these yokels to let me loose.  Show them my ID.  Tell them who I am.”

But Fred stepped in front of Hugh.

“Hold on there, Mister Marks.”

He pointed to a weapon leaned against the house.

“That’s an M16.  Your ‘Fed’ friend tried to kill me.  See the holes in my cabin.  They’re more than forty.  It’s just luck that I saw him coming and got out first.”

He glared at Hugh.

“This man is a murderer.”

Jack Marino did not like Fred’s tone.  He stepped forward.

“Get out of the way Mister, I’m a federal officer.”

A woman with a police-style shotgun stepped from behind a tree and accosted Jack.

“Back off Mister, that man is my prisoner.”

Then she turned to face Stew.

“I’m Deputy Mayrant, if you want this rat, you can talk to my uncle. He’s the sheriff, he ordered me to bring him in, and that is what I aim to do.”

She glared at Jack.

“You’re in the wrong damn county, Mister.  We take care of our own here.  Your friend tried to murder Mr. Middleton.  He’s going to sit in our jail, not some Fed country club up north.”

Fred spoke up.

“Mr. Marks, Mary-Jean
is the sheriff’s deputy, and she’s damned good at what she does.”

He leaned closer and whispered.

“That shotgun has a rifled barrel.  It shoots slugs.  It’s better not to cross her.”

Hugh’s eyes wandered wildly from Stew to Fred, then to Mary-Jean, Jack and back.  He shouted.

“Help me, Marks.”

But Stew turned to Mary-Jean.

“Deputy, I agree this is your jurisdiction.  The FBI will cooperate fully.  I’ll notify the Field Office in Columbia, and the Resident Agency in Florence.  But I would like to talk with the sheriff about ballistics on that M16.  We can help there.”

He added.

“And I see that you’ve gathered a lot of those casings.  I would appreciate your giving me a couple to take with me.”

Mary-Jean shook two 45 millimeter-long casings out of a plastic bag into a similar sac, and handed it to Stew.

“Thanks.  Miss, your prisoner is dangerous.  Keep him cuffed.  Maybe Mr. Middleton will ‘ride shotgun’ with you ?”

Jack raised his eyebrows and approached his partner.

“Stew, what the hell are you doing?  The NSA will smash you.”

“Don’t count on it, Jack.  They won’t want to ‘own’ this guy.  I’ll bet they have a ‘deniability’ scenario rehearsed and intact.”

“Damn it, Stew, you’re taking a big chance.”

“Forget me.  We need to get this guy off the street.”

Jack stared speechless.

Bill Hamm and Jeannine Ryan stood, half hidden, behind the gray barn near the farm house.  Those buildings, along with a remote tobacco shed, provided the only relief from the furrowed fields whose lines of brown plants stretched to the bordering pines.  Occasional tufts of white cotton identified the late crop.

Bill opened the barn doors and went to an old pickup truck parked next to a new green John Deere tractor.  Jeannine followed with her laptop and the canvas briefcase

Bill pulled the door open.  He put his shotgun in the back, took a key from his pocket, and inserted it in the ignition.

“Jeannine, if you know any prayers, try them now.”

He turned the ignition.  The motor coughed, twice.

He tried again.  This time there was  a low drawn-out moan.

“Bill, don’t let up.”

He held the key firm.  The motor clattered as oil reached the valve lifters.

Success!

Holding the briefcase and laptop, Jeannine got in the cab.

“OK, Bill, where to?”

“To Charleston.  Byrd called there regularly from the Torbee.  I believe Gutera is planning something there.”

He whistled.  Thanks to Fred Middleton, they had wheels!

In the hotel in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, Henri Duval awoke, rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the fuzzy digits on the bedside clock
.  Damn, 9:00 am.
  I slept late.

He stared about the room.  Angelique’s bed was empty!

He called but no answer
.

Rien!  Nothing.

He stepped into his jeans and went to the window.  Several stories below was an old church set apart from the adjacent buildings by an equally old cast iron fence that enclosed, also, a small graveyard.  Several tourists milled peacefully among the tombstones.

Calm down Henri, think!

He had driven late, with Angelique asleep, out of sight, on the back seat.  No one had followed them.  And he had paid for the room with cash, furnished by GES when relations with Denise Guerry had been warmer.

No one could have found us, but?

He called the desk.  A voice answered.

“May I help you?”

Before Henri could frame a question, Angelique appeared in the doorway.

“Angelique!  Where have you been? What’s wrong?”

Distantly, the voice on the phone pleaded.

“Sir, are you there?”

“Sorry.  It’s nothing.”

He turned to her.

“I thought someone had grabbed you.  Where were you?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.  It’s Sunday.  I went to Mass.”

She went to the window.

“That’s the church down there, St. Mary’s, and the graveyard is filled with French tombstones.  I felt at home.”

“But someone could have seen you.”

“You said we must not let fear run our lives.  Henri, I go to Mass to honor God.”

She sat on the bed and stroked his arm.

“He saved me in Rwanda for some purpose I still don’t know, and he will save me here with your help.  I cannot stop loving God.  And He loves you too.”

He looked into Angelique’s eyes.  Could his pragmatism explain her goodness?

“Angelique, I was worried.”

“Cher Henri!”

She embraced him.

In their motel in Dillon, South Carolina, both Jack Marino and Stew Marks were shaved, dressed and ready for the day ahead. 

They had skipped the usual Egg McMuffins and eaten instead at the IHOP adjacent to the motel.  Stew, in particular, had enjoyed the Eggs Benedict.  Now with his stomach full, he peered over his coffee.

“Jack, I want you to take the car and go back to Wilmington.  Wait for me at the resident agency there.  You’ll doubtless get a call from Washington about Byrd.  I don’t want you taking the blame for my hunches.  You need to be free from me for a while.”

“Stew, this is not good.  We work together.”

“I’m taking a few days off. For your own sake, I don’t want you involved.  I am not sure what I’ll do.”

“Stew, if it’s the Ryan woman, forget her.  She’s bad news.”

“I don’t agree.  That’s why I have to do this on my own.  Hamm may be innocent.  He attracts good people, Ryan, Johnson, and even this Fred Middleton.  That farmer’s a shrewd judge of people.  He saw through Byrd.”

“You’re sticking your neck way out for a damned rat and a crooked woman.”

“Not for a woman, or Hamm either, for the truth.”

“All right, Stew. You’ve made up your mind.  I’ll take the car back to Wilmington.  Where will you be?”

“You don’t need to know.  It would mean problems for you.”

Jack shook his head as he stood up.

“Stew, you’re wrong.  You’re helping the bad guys.  I can’t support that.  I’m going to nail Hamm, and Ryan too.  Whatever you do, stay out of my way.  Don’t make me fight you.”

Jack strode from the restaurant.

At a motel in Summerville, South Carolina, Jeannine’s laptop was plugged in and charging.

She took a CD from the brown folder (now labeled “Maximilien Gutera”) and scanned its contents.

She opened several files.  Only numbers appeared on the screen.  All the files were encrypted.”

She muttered to herself.

“All right, Mr. Gutera, if you haven’t changed the key word, I’ll see what this is about.”

She selected the first file.

She ran the numbers through her decryption program using the key word “Gahuj.”

She smiled.  The key worked and a message appeared

m.g.|you|must|finish|

devices|and|ship|them|

from|usa|on|l'etoile|

d'afrique|to|

rendezvous|with|la|

lutte.||do|not|fail|

need|funds?|contact|

guerry|at|ges.|||||

jacobin5xdt2u|5d'pt,m

“Bill. Look at this.  The initials ‘m. g.’ stand for Maximilien Gutera, but there’s a new player in the game, code name ‘Jacobin’ or maybe ‘Jacobin5.’  What do you think?”

“I think that ‘
l’Étoile d’Afrique
’ and ‘
La Lutte
’ are the names of ships, but what kind of device is Gutera preparing, and where is this rendezvous?”

Jeannine browsed the computer disk.

“Here’s a file that has a similar name.  I’ll run the numbers through my program. If the key word is still ‘Gahuj,’ It’ll only take a minute.”

Bill watched as Jeannine steered the mouse rapidly, clicking occasionally.  Her auburn hair drooped over her eyebrows.  She flipped it up with her left hand, while the right continued to guide the mouse.  He smiled.  Jeannine was particularly desirable when absorbed in the computer.

She looked up and pointed to the display.

“Check this out, Bill.  You wanted to know about those two ships, one of them is headed for Charleston.  Look at this.”

m.g.|notify|captain|of|

l'etoile|d'afrique|

destination|charleston|

south|carolina,|usa,

that|vessel|la|lutte|

will|leave|le|havre|as|

scheduled,with|

containers|with|live|

rod|modules|from|

dismantled|plant|47|

moduleslabeled|shipped|

fromcharleston,usa|

lalutte|will|transfer|

containers|to|l'etoile|

d'afrique|international|

waters|off|charleston|at|

time|agreed,||destination|

mombasa.|jacobin5xo9

Bill examined the message.

“Plant 47 must be a nuclear energy plant and the rods must be the fuel rods for the reactor.   I knew the French planned to deactivate some plants, but I didn’t know they had started.  The modules must be radioactive units to mount on rockets.  They are to be shipped to Mombasa on the ship,
l’Étoile d’Afrique,
out of Charleston.  Gutera wants it to look like the modules are from the United States.”

“And the rods?”

“They’re highly radioactive.  They’re not ‘spent.’  The French conspirators must have hijacked the rods to make radioactive modules for dirty bombs.  They won’t produce a nuclear explosion, but they are still horrible.  Most deaths will likely be from the explosion, not radiation, but there will be extensive contamination, and those who get sick from radiation will make a powerful political ‘fright factor.’”

“But where?”

“Gutera likely will use the bombs on anti-Rwandan forces in the eastern Congo, and then blame the Rwandan government, and call for its removal.  International opinion will be against Rwanda.”

“And the French will say the nuclear material came from the United States.  They won’t be involved.”

“Exactly.  If the radioactive material was shipped from the U. S., that could deflect criticism from those French who support the Hutus.”

“But would Gutera use the bombs against his own men?”

“He’ll do anything to seize power in Rwanda.  And he could warn some of his forces to withdraw from critical areas before the strike.  The others would be sacrificed for propaganda photo-ops.

“But how?”

“My guess is that he’ll launch missiles from Rwanda and explode them in the air over the targets in the eastern Congo.  The blame will be on the Rwandan government.”

Jeannine’s stomach knotted.  The scheme was all too plausible.

“Bill, this message is over two weeks old, with no times or dates.  The
Étoile d’Afrique
could be here already.”

Bill nodded and sat at her laptop.

“The Port Authority has a web page.  Here it is, ‘South Carolina Ports, Charleston.’”

He scrolled down the list of arrivals.

“The
Étoile d’Afrique
is expected on September 8.  She is to discharge and load containers at the North Charleston terminus.”

“That’s this Saturday.  Does it give a departure date?”

“No, but maybe three days max.  We’re about out of time.”

In Dillon, South Carolina, Stew Marks paid the car rental with his personal credit card and enquired about Fred Middleton.

The receptionist handed him a map.

“This is how you get to Mr. Middleton’s farm.  It’s about ten miles from here.  I’ve traced the route for you.”

Some time later, Stew turned onto a rutted road that passed through spent fields to a frame house and barn. Fred Middleton stood on the porch.  As Stew pulled to a stop, Fred sniffed.

“You’re one of those FBI men.”

“Yes, but I’m on my own time.  I need to ask you about Mr. Hamm and Miss Ryan.  I may be able to help them too.”

“I gave them the keys to my old pickup, that’s all.  I don’t know where they went.”

Fred waved Stew into the house. After several beers, Stew had gained Fred’s confidence.  Though neither Jeannine or Bill had revealed their destination, Fred had deduced that they were going to one of two ports, Wilmington, North Carolina or Charleston. South Carolina. 

Stew smiled, both towns had FBI Resident Agencies.  He rose to shake Fred’s hand.

He left and headed for Wilmington.

In Summerville, a weary Jeannine pushed away from her computer and yawned.  She turned to Bill.

“I still don’t get it.  Why would GES and the French plotters have Gutera prepare the explosive devices?  He and his men are thugs and fighters, not engineers.  Why rely on them for something that requires technical skills, and maybe even remote guidance capabilities?”

“I wondered about that myself.  Maybe because they want to use batches of explosives from the U. S. that are tagged and identifiable as produced in the States?  But why do you ask?”

“Because the French plotters are worried. Look at this.”

d.g.|urgent|you|

advise|paris|on|

ability|of|m.g.to|

produce|remote|

explosive|devices|

before|depart|of|

l'etoile|d'afrique|

for|mombasa|deep|

concern|here|that|

m.g.unable|to|meet|

deadline.|||jacobin5

hk2j3c5|s27tvp,

Bill read the message.  Evidently “d. g.” was Denise Guerry, while as before, “m. g.” was Maximilien Gutera.

He stood and paced.

“This could be a break for us.  Gutera and his men may not be ready when their ship arrives.”

But Jeannine saw the look in his eyes.

“Bill, you don’t think that.  They’ll be ready.  We’re in trouble.”