The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (20 page)

In her office in Chantilly, Virginia, Denise Guerry slammed the phone on her desk.  First Henri, and now Ian Callahan, had succumbed to that Tutsi bitch’s charms.  She recalled Ian’s words.

“I couldn’t hand her over to be raped, have her breasts hacked off, and be killed.  I saw photos from Rwanda.  I’ll quit if you want.”

But she had asked him to stay on.  She needed Ian now that her connection with Henri Duval was tenuous.

Denise opened her closet to reveal a full-length mirror on the inside of the door.  She stood erect and regarded herself.  She knew Henri desired her.  If only he were near, he would forget that little Tutsi.

She turned sideways and looked again.  Curves in the right places.  Whatever “It”
was
, she still
had
it.”

Henri, you idiot, you don’t know what you are missing!

Immediately Denise Guerry called Ian Callahan.

“Ian, where are you?”

“In Wilmington, North Carolina, like you told me to be.”

“Good.  Do Gutera’s men know where you are?”

“I left the motel in Dillon before they got there.  I drove straight here.  Only you know I’m in Wilmington.”

As with Henri, Denise adopted her “helpless” approach.

“Ian, there could be a problem with Maximilien Gutera, and I might need you on my side.  Can I count on you?”

“I assume that’s what you pay me for.”

“And Ian, you may have to protect me from Duval.  Would that be a problem?”

“Not if that’s what you want, no.”

“Good.  I’ll be in Wilmington tomorrow afternoon.”

Denise hung up.  Ian still could be useful.

In Charleston, Angelique Uwimana and Henri Duval left the internet coffee shop.

“Henri, thanks for letting me email my professor.  I had to let him know I could not meet him.  And that café was neat.  All the students and the kudu horns on the wall.  And the Kenyan coffee.  I felt at home.”

“I’m not sure I did you a favor, someone could track us.”

“But it was only email, and  from a public café?  And sent only to my professor?  I’m his student.  He is harmless.”

“Never mind, what’s done is done.”

Back at the hotel Henri watched TV, but his mind churned.

Gutera has too many men.  The only person who can control him is Denise.  Can I bargain with her to save Angelique?

In Summerville, Bill was at the Burger King while back at the motel, Jeannine hunched over her computer.

Her head ached from the tedium of decrypting Jacobin5’s messages, all of which expressed doubts about Gutera’s ability to obtain the guidance devices for the missiles.

She sighed and tapped “Enter.”  The decrypted message appeared.

d.g.||with|regard|

m.g.|and|sullivan|

electronics|holly|ridge|

radar|guidance|and|

timer|watch|out|for|

delay.|sullivan|

electronics|now|a|

one|man|company.|

critical|we|have|

delivery|in|charleston|

for|etoile|d'afrique|

on|date|agreed.|

jacobin5||'p2n'glt5msnsn'

As she read, Bill and the burgers appeared.  She looked up.

“Bill, this message has specifics, it’s not just Jacobin5 complaining.  Have you heard of ‘Sullivan Electronics’ in Holly Ridge.”

“I know a Holly Ridge in North Carolina.  It’s near old Camp Davis.  The U. S. Navy did missile research there after World War II.  Check the web.”

She tapped fast.

“I got it.  Here’s their web site.  It seems that Sullivan Electronics has lived off of navy contracts for guidance systems for years.  Wait, they’ve not had a renewal for several years.”

“Bingo!  That’s it.  They are supplying the guidance systems  and remote control systems for Gutera’s missiles.  The
Étoile d’Afrique
will be in Charleston on Saturday to load them.  Maybe we can stop the delivery at Holly Ridge.”

“But can Fred’s old truck make the trip?”

“No way.  It’s overheating.  We’ll have to chance using the ‘Harmon’ credit card for a rental.  Pack up!”

By the time Jeannine had stuffed the CD’s, security tokens and papers into the case, Bill already was outside.

In Florence, South Carolina, Maximilien Gutera signaled to Jules Habimana who stood at attention by the door.

“Jules, is the Audi shined and fueled?”

“Of course, just as you ordered.”

“Good, Sullivan Electronics will have our missile guidance modules ready tomorrow.  Mr. Sullivan will meet us at the warehouse in North Carolina, near Holly Ridge.  The modules will be tested on Wednesday evening at Topsail.  If the tests are successful, then we shall go to Charleston and prepare the containers for the Étoile d’Afrique.”

“Understood.”

“And Jules, fetch Louis Makuza and inform him he is going with us to Holly Ridge.  Make sure he brings his panga.”

At that point the phone rang.  Maximilien picked up.

“Mr. Gutera, this is Professor Hurley, at Carolina Technical University.  I’m Ms. Uwimana’s doctoral advisor.  You said you wanted to speak with Miss Uwimana about supporting her research.  I wanted you to know that she will not be available tomorrow as I told you.  She has canceled our meeting.”

“Professor Hurley, do you know where she is?”

“I only have an email.  It’s from a WiFi café in Charleston.”

“Thank you, professor.  You are most considerate.”

Charleston!  Clever Angelique, I will enjoy your body before I give you to my men.

Maximilien rubbed his hands and rose from his desk.

“Jules, Angelique Uwimana is in Charleston.  We will go there after we finish our business in North Carolina.

Stew Marks was near Wilmington,  when his phone buzzed.

“Mr. Marks, this is Fred Middleton.  I told you I’d call if Miss Ryan called me.  You still want to help her?”

“Of course.”

“She and Hamm are on their way to Holly Ridge in North Carolina.  They rented a Town and Country minivan in Georgetown and left my truck there for me.  I reckon Mary-Jean will drive me there to get it.”

“Mr. Middleton, Thanks.  When did she call.”

“An hour ago, They were leaving Georgetown.”

“Thanks again.”

“Don’t thank me.  Just help that gal get out of trouble.”

Stew sprang into action.  He could easily beat Ryan and Hamm to Wilmington.  He would intercept their minivan on Route 17.  He would wait all night if necessary!

In Chantilly, Virginia, a determined Denise Guerry arrived early at her office.  She had slept fitfully, dreaming periodically of Henri Duval embracing Angelique.  She recalled her own image in the mirror.  How could Henri prefer a little girl to her?

Denise, you don’t care about Duval.  This is pure envy.

Still, Henri was a valuable asset.  She must regain control of him. 

GES was to test the missiles at Topsail, but after talking to Bruno Belli she was concerned.  Once the tests were completed and Gutera no longer needed GES, what would the madman do?

She went to her desk drawer and retrieved her Browning Hi Power pistol.  (Henri’s choice of handgun was also hers.)  Gun in hand, she went to her private elevator and descended to the basement.  GES had leased a large portion of the basement for a private firing range, her perk for being owner and boss.

She fashioned suppressor ear muffs about her head, checked the double column 13-round magazine of the Browning, and aimed at the target.

The silhouette was that of a man. 
Maximilien Gutera?   Byrd?  Or even Henri?

She could trust no one.  She settled herself and fired five-rounds.

“Crack …, Crack …, Crack …, Crack, …, Crack.”

Two hits in the shoulder to her left, one in the neck and two misses wide right.

Damn, Denise, you can do better.

“Crack …, Crack …, Crack …, Crack, …, Crack.”

Four holes appeared in the upper chest and one in the neck.

Better, and more consistent too!

She hefted the weapon and felt its natural balance.
Now she was really feeling it.

“Crack …, Crack …, Crack.”

All to the head!

She reloaded the empty magazine, but chose to stop shooting.  She had not lost her touch.  She removed the ear muffs and put the Browning in her ample shoulder purse.

She was ready to head south.

Denise took the elevator to her office and looked out the window at Route 28.  It was early Monday and rush hour was in full swing.  A misnomer, there was no “rush,” the highway was clogged, a virtual parking lot.

She composed a message to her cousin, Jacobin5, in Paris and encoded it.

Then she decrypted it for a final check.

jacobin5|do|not|worry|

ship|l'etoile|

d'afrique|to|arrive|

sept8|at|north|

charleston|terminus|

depart|sept10|

to|meet|ship|

la|lutte.|bruno|belli|

will|test|guidance|

and|detonation|

systems|wednesday|

sept5|topsail|north|

carolina|m.g.|not|

capable|i|will|meet|

henri|duval|in|

charleston|

d.g.|'glt5ms

Satisfied, she turned off the light and started out the door, but stopped and turned back. 
No!
She had left the plaintext of the message on her desk.

She went back.  As with many European women, she smoked, though in America she concealed her habit.

The ashtray was out of sight in a side drawer.  She took it out, placed the message in it, and lit it aflame.  Moments later, only a crisped black fragment remained.  She pulverized that into a mass of minute ashes.

That done, she slipped her bag onto her shoulder and left.

She was ready.

The Carolinas needed “hands-on” action, hers!

In Onslow County, North Carolina, near the town of Holly Ridge, Jack Sullivan worked in his warehouse, a solitary building that was isolated from its neighbors by tracts of old-growth pines and marshland.  The shed-like structure had a corrugated metal roof, and no external markings except for a faded sign, “Sullivan Electronics,” that hung above the wide doors on its southern face.

Inside the building, to one corner, were narrow work benches topped with scrambles of coiled wires, small boxes and trays of color-coded electronic parts, wire-strippers, delicate screw drivers, soldering guns and the like.  Elsewhere the vast interior was filled with empty crates, pallets, and two rusted forklifts.

Jack stood at one of the benches and carefully fastened a silicon chip onto the last of the small circuit boards that covered the bench top.  Done, he sighed in relief.

The computer chips were from China.  They had arrived a week late, and Jack had promised his client more than two dozen guidance boards for last Wednesday.  Thankfully, the client had agreed to accept shipment today.

Sullivan Electronics was a family-staffed and -owned company, founded by Jack’s grandfather, Tom Sullivan.  Immediately after the war, Tom had worked on the “Sand Spit” (now known as Topsail Island) as an electrician for operation “Bumblebee,” the development and testing of U. S. ram jets.  In 1948 when the Navy closed Camp Davis and its missile test site on the Sand Spit, Tom had started his company.

By 1960, Tom’s son (Jack’s father), a graduate of Johns Hopkins University, had joined the company and exploited the use of the new transistor technology and government contracts to produce a viable and profitable enterprise, one that provided employment for Jack, his older brother and a younger sister.  By the late 70’s the company had fully adapted to silicon-chip technology and continued to flourish.

However, the death of Jack’s older brother and his father in an accident in September, 2000, coupled with his sister’s emigration with her husband to California, had left Jack alone to run the company.  Though an accomplished engineer, Jack was no bean counter.  He detested paperwork and the company foundered.

Jack struggled to keep Sullivan Electronics alive by means of small local contracts.  Then six months ago, a desperate Jack had been approached by his current client.  Jack was no fool.  He realized that the job was the production of a radar guidance system with timers, suitable for mounting in the ceramic cone or “radome” of a small missile.

But the money was good, enough to avoid bankruptcy, and Jack had agreed.  And now that the chips from China were integrated on the boards, the shipment was ready.

Jack sat back.  He shut his eyes and relaxed.  Tomorrow he would bank his payment and his financial problems would be solved.

North of Wilmington, North Carolina, Stew Marks waited on the side of Highway 17.  After last night’s fruitless vigil, and armed with fresh coffee, he had resumed his place to watch for the Chrysler Town and Country minivan Hamm had rented.

After two hours, he crushed the empty coffee cup and threw it on the floor. 
Where are they?  I can’t have missed them.

Yawning, he focused on the oncoming cars, two pickups and a sedan, but no Chrysler Town and Country. 
Damn!

The brown Town and Country minivan rolled smoothly on Highway 17 north of Wilmington.  Bill Hamm drove.  Jeannine sat in the passenger seat.  The laptop and canvas case with the documents were safe on the back seat.

“Bill, why so slow?  After all those hours lost at the garage in Myrtle Beach, we need to hurry.  How far is Holly Ridge?”

“Not far, and I never want to see a damned ‘Check Engine’ light again.  We could have done better with Fred’s old truck.”

“But the car is fixed, why go slow now?”

“We can’t risk being stopped.  We’re still wanted.”

“I haven’t seen any police cars.”

“The bad ones are the unmarked ones you don’t see.  Look at that Honda Accord parked up ahead.  If it weren’t a Honda, I might think it was a cop.”

They drove past the parked Honda in which Stew Marks sat.

Stew let several cars pass before pulling onto the highway to take his place in the line behind the slow-moving Chrysler.

At Sullivan Electronics near Holly Ridge, a loud banging on the wide doors of the warehouse startled Jack awake.  He looked at his watch.  The client was early.  Jack pushed the remote.

The doors creaked and cranked upwards to reveal a tall African standing in the opening.

“Are you Mr. Sullivan?  Jack Sullivan?”

“I am, but whoever you are, you are early for the delivery.”

“I’m not here for a delivery.  My name is Paul Mutabazi.  The men you are working for are killers.  They won’t pay you.  They’ll take what you have and kill you.  We need to leave.”

“We?  What are you talking about?  I have a contract.”

Metal screeched as a black Audi careened through the wide opening.  The car braked, spun about, and stopped.  Jack looked up as his visitor, Paul, dove behind a crate and disappeared.

The car’s driver stepped out.

“Mr. Sullivan, who was that man?  Why did he run?  What did he want?”

Before Jack could answer, a voice came through the rear window of the car.

“Not now, Jules.  Accept delivery from Mr. Sullivan, so that we can pay him for his work.”

The calm voice reassured Jack. He waved at a row of taped cartons on the work bench.

“There are your guidance modules, all twenty eight of them.  Give me my check and they’re yours.”

The Audi’s driver, Jules Habimana, stepped to the bench to retrieve the boxes.  Jack moved to assist him.  He did not notice a second man who had circled behind him.

A fatal oversight!

The bush knife split the temporal bone behind Jack’s ear.  Reflexively he turned only to have a second blow cleave his cheek and mandible.  Jack fell. A third blow was not needed.

Maximilien Gutera stepped from the Audi.

“Louis, wipe your panga and load those cartons in the trunk.”

He continued.

“Jules, you come with me.  We will look for Mr. Sullivan’s shy visitor.”

But their search of the warehouse yielded nothing.

Jules Habimana turned to Maximilien.

“Do you think that man was Paul Mutabazi?”

“Perhaps, but no matter.  Mutabazi cannot harm us.  We have our guidance components.  We will deliver four modules to Bruno Belli for the tests at Topsail.  After the tests we will take the others to Charleston for shipment to Mombasa.”

Jules nodded.  He drove the Audi through the wide open doors and sped away.

Paul Mutabazi stood behind a loblolly pine and stared at the departing Audi.  His own car was parked out of sight on the north side of the warehouse.  As Paul slipped through the woods to regain his car.  The sound of a motor stopped him.

He ducked out of sight behind an evergreen holly as a man and a woman stepped out of a minivan.

Paul ducked down further behind the holly and waited.

Jeannine Ryan stood by the minivan and eyeballed the “Sullivan Electronics” sign that hung over the open doors of the building.  She called to Bill Hamm.

“Something is wrong.  The doors are wide open, but there’s no one here.”

“But somebody is here.  That Harley hasn’t been there long.”

Jeannine looked to the left of the wide doors.  A motorcycle gleamed in the sun.  A light rain had fallen earlier and clearly the bike had not been outside then.

Jeannine stepped to the  doors and called inside.

“Hello, anyone here? … Anyone?”

No answer.  Bill, shotgun under his arm, stepped past her.  He stopped and pointed.  A bloody foot protruded from behind a crate.  Bill shoved the crate aside and called to Jeannine.

“This must be Sullivan.  He’s been hacked.  Gutera was here.  That’s the work of a machete.”

A glance was enough for Jeannine.  She looked away.

But Bill had gone to the work bench.  He held up a notebook.

“We’re too late.  It looks like he assembled a guidance component  that could fit into a small missile.”

He put the notebook down and picked up a triplicate form.  All three copies were present and intact.