The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (22 page)

Forgiveness? Bill thought of Jeannine.

I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you.

Jeannine Ryan, untwisted her back and rolled over.  Her neck ached and her legs were cramped stiff.  She groaned and opened her eyes.  She had fallen asleep in the back of Marks’ Accord.

The driver’s seat was empty, Marks was gone.  She tried the door.  He had disabled both door and window controls.  She was a prisoner.  She jammed the window button full force, but there was no response.  Frustrated, she rubbed her sore calves.

A tap on the window ended that activity.  Stew Marks stood outside with a cardboard tray into which two Styrofoam cups of coffee had been pressed.

“Ms. Ryan, if you had promised me last night to stay in your room and not contact anyone, you could have had a mattress to sleep on, and a bathroom.  And I would not have stayed up all night driving.  This must change.  I’m here to help.  I have to be able to trust you.”

He pulled the rear door ajar, and pushed a cup through the crack.

“Anyway, here’s your coffee.”

Jeannine grabbed the cup and lifted it to her lips.  She took a long swallow, paused, and tilted the cup upwards once more.

“All right, Mr. Marks, so you had to drive all night.  Tough!  Your damned ‘help’ has been torture.  Have you tried to sleep in this car?  What the hell do you expect?”

Jeannine shoved auburn locks from her forehead and stared.  Stew returned the look, but she did not flinch.  He noted her wrinkled sweatshirt and jeans.  Though disheveled, her firm figure stood out.  Stew was smitten anew.  He found his voice.

“I expect you to not run away and to not contact your friends to come get you.  And I need you to brief me on what you and Hamm know of Gutera’s plans, how you planned to stop him.

He sighed.

“But most of all, I need you to trust me.”

He wanted to add “and maybe like me too,” but that was out of the question.  He contented himself with a modest plea.

“I’m risking my career.  I called my office.  As of now I’m on leave without pay until I can get you out of this mess.”

Is this guy for real?
 
OK, Jeannine, why not give it a shot?

“All right, Mr. Marks, I won’t run away or call anyone for the next twenty four hours, but that’s all.”

Stew Marks pulled the rear door wide.

“Done!  Sit in the front with me.  We’re only an hour from Charleston.  I know a good motel in Mount Pleasant.  We’ll stay there.”

He added quickly.

“And don’t worry, you’ll have your own room.”

She grimaced, but he did not notice.

“You’ll have your laptop and all your papers.  You can bring me up to speed when we get there.”

As she took her place in the front seat, he continued.

“You said there were memos from Hugh Byrd.  Good.  We’ll nail that bastard.”

Progress!

Stew hummed to himself as he drove off.

Some miles removed from Dillon, South Carolina, the visitor to a county detention center stood waiting for the clerk to sign him in.

From the man’s expensive suit, the clerk concluded that he was a lawyer, and one whose fees were beyond those affordable by her, or any ordinary citizen.  His black Italian shoes confirmed that.

She shrugged and waved the man ahead.

The guard who opened the barred door to admit the man was more perceptive.  The tailored suit coat and pants could not conceal the man’s bulging biceps nor his thick thighs.  Based on those muscles, and the way the visitor shifted lightly on his toes, the guard decided that the visitor was a professional football player. The guard resolved to check the photos of players from his favorite NFL team, the Carolina Panthers.

Neither the clerk’s assessment nor the guard’s was correct.

The man stopped at a second set of bars where another guard checked the man’s thin leather case and attached pen.  Satisfied, the guard admitted him into a room that was bare except for a wooden table and two chairs.  There the man sat and waited.

Minutes later Hugh Byrd, clad in a blue-striped jumpsuit, entered.  Hugh railed at the man across from him.

“What took you so long?  This stinking hole is driving me nuts.  Get me out of here, now!”

The man nodded.  He slid a transparent plastic folder across the table.  It contained an envelope and a sheet of paper.

“The chief sends his apologies.  Read this and sign it.  Seal the envelope and sign it across the seal.  You’ll be out in an hour.  He’s taken care of everything.”

Hugh signed the paper and inserted it into the envelope.  A few licks and it was sealed.  After a final signature across the closed flap, he returned the envelope to the transparent folder. 

The man retrieved it and slipped it into his case.  He signaled the guard and turned back to Hugh.

“Remember, one hour.  Be ready.”

Under the watchful eyes of the guard, he stepped through and out of the barred passageway.  Then he signed the ledger at the clerk’s desk, smiled to her, and stepped towards the entrance.

A final wave to the clerk, and he was gone.

A bored guard walked Hugh Byrd back to his cell to an accompaniment of curses and catcalls from the cells lining the walkway.  Hugh regained his accustomed swagger.  Only one more hour and these miserable losers, guards and inmates both, would be out of his life.

The guard slammed the door and secured Hugh’s cell.  Hugh sat on his cot and smirked.

In an hour, he would resume his life, and a first priority would be to make Stewart Marks pay for his betrayal of Hugh.  He would arrange an “accident” for the FBI agent, a most painful accident.

His lips tingled slightly, an effect of the sealant on the envelope. He licked them in anticipation of his revenge.  The clarity that agent Marks was Hugh’s enemy was the only good result of his incarceration.  He never let an enemy get the best of him.  Of course, Hamm too was an enemy, but he could wait.

Hamm, I’ll deal with you once I destroy Marks
.

An odd dizziness seized Hugh, but he shook it if off to contemplate his revenge.  He rolled forward onto his cot. 
Yes,
Marks must be first!

He lay back on the mattress and closed his eyes.

Revenge is sweet!

On a back road in South Carolina, the expensively clad “lawyer” or “football-player” approached a bridge that spanned a creek that emptied into the Little Pee Dee River.  The man turned onto a weedy turnout next to the bridge.

He looked about.  The absence of parked cars indicated that no fishermen were “wetting their lines” in the sluggish waters under the bridge.  He was alone.  Gingerly he removed the plastic folder from his case.  He let Hugh’s envelope fall untouched to the ground.  For a brief second he looked at the sealed flap whose poison had saturated Hugh’s saliva.

Then he leaned low and lit the envelope with his lighter.  It charred on the edges before the entire blackened surface burst into flames.  When only ashes remained, he ground them into the sandy soil with his heel and kicked the mix into the weeds that flourished at the edge of the turnout.

Then he lit a Marlboro, a brand popular in his native France.  He drew deeply on it and composed a text message for Marat1 at SÉGAG in Paris.  It comprised two words.

“
C’est fait
.  It’s done.”

He stepped into the car.  A private plane was waiting at Florence Regional Airport.  It would take him to Dulles International Airport to meet his Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.

Hugh Byrd lay on his cot.  In a few minutes he would be free.  His gutless superiors had capitulated.  They lacked the courage.  to take action against him given what he knew.

He wanted to laugh at their weakness, but his mouth and throat were too dry.

What the hell?

His tongue tingled.  Numb, it rolled back clogging his throat and airways.  He gagged and fell backwards on the cot.  A bubbly froth exuded from his mouth.

His head spun.  He grabbed for the edge of the cot, but his arms failed to respond.  He rolled, face down, onto the floor.  He tried to lift his head, but could not.

He gasped, but his chest did not expand.  No air filled his lungs.  His Paralyzed diaphragm froze and breathing ceased.

Seconds later he was dead.

In Mount Pleasant, across the Cooper River from downtown Charleston, Stew Marks stood up and stretched.  After several hours of briefing by Jeannine Ryan, his head ached.

“All right, Ms. Ryan, you’ve convinced me.  This proves that Guerry Electronic Systems paid Hugh Byrd for U.S. government secrets, including a highly secret NSA program that can read the French RSA messages.  You have enough here to nail the bastard and GES for selling government secrets.  Unfortunately, the evidence against the parent company, SÉGAG, is more tenuous.”

Jeannine waved a cluster of papers at Stew.

“But look at these messages.  They prove that a group of French politicians who support ‘Hutu Power’ paid SÉGAG for decoded communications that reveal which governments want to condemn the present government of Rwanda.”

“I agree that’s a likely inference, but the proof stops with GES.  There is a gap between GES and SÉGAG.  To get SÉGAG, we would need Byrd’s cooperation.  He might agree to a plea deal.”

“But what about Bill?  He emptied Byrd’s safe and stole secrets.  What about him?”

“The fox was in charge of the chicken house.  Byrd was head of security.  Bill had no choice.  Any decent defense lawyer would be glad to defend him.  It would be close to a slam dunk.”

He seized her shoulders and spun her about. She stiffened.

“Jeannine, I like you, but this isn’t personal.  Gutera is going to ship missile components from Charleston this Saturday.  We need to stop him.  Call Hamm and tell him to give himself up.  The FBI has documented over thirty hardcore followers of Gutera in the Carolinas.  Bill can’t handle Gutera by himself.”

He handed her his cell.

“I know you know how to contact him.  Call him.”

“No!”

In the motel in Mount Pleasant, Jeannine sat silent while Stew Marks stood over her.  A full minute passed.  Finally, he vented his frustration.

“Damn it woman, I’m trying to help you!”

The impasse was broken by the buzz of his phone.  The caller was Stew’s partner, Jack Marino.

“Stew, where in hell are you.  They tell me you’re on leave without pay.”

“It’s all right, Jack, I’m in Mount Pleasant, near Charleston.”

He did not mention that Jeannine Ryan was with him.

“Stew, Byrd is dead.  They killed him.”

“Dead?  They?  Who?  He was in jail.”

“Right, the locals thought it was a heart attack, but the National Security Agency says different.”

“The NSA killed him?  They could have disowned him and let him retire.”

“Not the NSA, no.  It looks like an ‘Op’ from Paris.  Byrd had a visitor.  The guard says there was no contact between him and the prisoner, but Byrd licked an envelope.  Maybe some sort of neurologic toxin.  The NSA’s doing an autopsy.”

“Damn!  And the mystery visitor?”

“One of the surveillance cameras malfunctioned.  The NSA has the other.  They’re working on getting an ID.”

“What makes them think Paris?”

“They’re cryptic about that.  Maybe your theory is right.  Maybe the NSA has broken French codes.  But if this hit was sponsored by their government, it adds to your problems.  Stew, forget that damn Ryan woman.  She has you dizzy!”

The last words were shouted.  Jeannine winced.

Stew slammed the receiver down and turned to her.

“Now will you believe I’m on your side?”

In Wilmington, North Carolina, Denise Guerry scanned a weekly newspaper from Topsail.

Sunday, September 2

Carolina Commentary

A ceremony to commemorate the research on ramjet missiles and radar guidance systems conducted by the United States Navy at Topsail Island from 1945 to 1948 will be held this Wednesday evening at 7:00 pm at the museum in Topsail Beach.  The Mayor of Topsail Beach will present an address followed by entertainment and an outdoor barbeque.  Tickets will be available on site.

A special feature of the event will be the first missile firings to take place on the island since 1948.  Although equipped with ordinary rockets, rather than the ramjet engines studied by the Navy, they nonetheless feature a radar guidance system developed locally by Sullivan Electronics currently owned and operated by Jack “Scooter” Sullivan of Holly Ridge.  Jack’s grandfather worked on the Navy’s original project.

Visitors will be able to track the flight of the missiles on large screens set up adjacent to the museum.  Radar tracking will be from a temporary facility on loan to the museum by Guerry Electronic Systems of Chantilly Virginia.  As a backup, a French Oceanographic Research Vessel, “La Lutte” will track the missiles from an offshore location.

Once they reach their “Targets,” the missiles will be exploded in mid air to provide a televised display that promises a fun end to an enjoyable evening.

Denise put the paper down.  If Sullivan had done his assembly correctly, the tests would go well.  He had done good work in the past for GES, and the odds for success were high.

And though Sullivan was dead, Bruno Belli could run the tests at Topsail as least as well or better.  The public tests would provide solid evidence that the missiles for the dirty bombs had come from the United States and not France.

She thought of her uncle’s words during her last visit to SÉGAG in Paris.

“Denise, do not flinch.  Be proud of your work at GES.  We are helping a persecuted people exiled from their homes by a ruling Tutsi minority.  History will recognize Maximilien as a patriot.  I am proud to help him restore Hutu rule in his homeland.”

Denise wondered how her uncle would explain poor persecuted Maximilien’s murderous hacking of Jack Sullivan.

Her uncle’s supposed “refugee victim” was a madman.

Cher Oncle, your patriotic Maximilien is a plain murderer.

Ian Callahan was due at the motel at any minute.  Denise balanced the laptop on the dresser to check her email.  An encrypted message filled the display.

She tapped quickly to decode it.  It was from her pesky cousin Jacques at SÉGAG in Paris.

d.g.|paris|plucked|

l'oiseau.||upset|

you|did|not|fix|

l'oiseau|yourself.|

why|not?|paris|

records|cleaned.|

urgent|you|do|same|

for|the|chantilly|

ges|records|now||

love|me|yet?||

jacobin5|gz9hk2j3c5|s

Jacques’ so-called humor irritated her.  The use of “
l’oiseau
” to indicate “Bird” or “Byrd” was juvenile.

Damn it, Jacques, get serious.  And love?  Forget it cousin!

But Byrd was dead.  SÉGAG had solved the “Byrd Problem” without informing Denise and they were upset with her for not doing it herself.

Damn you Uncle, you should have told me!

She threw the mouse on the floor.  It snapped open and the battery rolled under the chair.

She supposed that her uncle was right to eliminate Byrd.  He had ceased to be an asset.  Perhaps she should have eliminated him herself.  Mainly she was angry because she had not been consulted.

She calmed down.  At least her cousin could still laugh.

“Byrd”=“l’oiseau.
”
Juvenile, Jacobin5, but clever.

She reassembled her mouse.  Her task now was to scrub all traces of Byrd from the GES records.  She pulled up the files and clicked rapidly.  But before she could finish, the computer beeped.  She looked as the screen filled with numbers, another interruption from Jacques.  She ran the decode program.

d.g.|hamm|in|

charleston.|urgent|

hamm|knows|shipment|

date|||oncle|says|

eliminate|hamm|

check|gutera|missile|

parts|and|explosives.|

|repeat,|oncle|says|

eliminate|hamm||

i|say|forget|duval.|love|me|

instead|jacobin5|5h4vqdt

She jumped up, face red.

Jacques you are not my keeper.  Forget Duval?  No way!  Love you instead?  Ridiculous!  And I’m not killing anybody for uncle’s sake.  I’m done with his dirty work.

Still, she admired her cousin’s detached attitude.

She would go to Charleston because Duval was a challenge to her ego, but her prime objective was to verify that Gutera’s missile components worked.  And she
would
kill Hamm if he interfered with the shipment, but only to defend herself.

She took pride in her work.

Cousin, I am not an idiot!  And never tell me what to do!

The harsh buzz of the phone filled the motel room.  Denise picked up.

“Yes?”

“Madame Guerry, this is the front desk.  There’s a Mr. Callahan here to see you.”

Denise straightened her blouse and wiped the hair from her forehead.  Then she answered.

“Fine, send him up.”

She would not change her plans.  Should Henri insist on clinging to his little Tutsi, Ian Callahan could handle him.

In Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, Jeannine Ryan made her decision.  She looked Stew Marks in the eye.

“Mr. Marks, you want me to call Bill, but I will not.  If you really want to help me, let me go.  He and I have worked together before.  We may not be able to best Gutera and his mob, but we surely can find a way to sabotage this missile shipment.  Bill’s good at this kind of operation, and he’s not bound by regulations like you.”

A shadow flicked across Stew’s eyes.  Jeannine softened.

“Look, you really do not know me, and other guys have been disappointed when they find out what I’m really like.  And I don’t know you at all.  I’m sorry.”

Stew’s shoulders slumped.

“Jeannine, you are wrong.  Gutera’s men are too much for you and a dozen like Hamm.”

He hesitated.

“But I won’t force my help on you.  I respect you too much for that.”

He waved at the door.

“Go.  I won’t stop you.  You are free.  Go.”

She turned to look at her laptop and the sack with the papers.  He caught her glance.

“Sorry.  I’m handing these over to my Chief.  Now, if you’re going, go quick, before I change my mind.”

She turned, threw her arms around him, and planted moist lips on his, lingering several seconds.

Then she stepped to the table, scooped up sack and laptop, and left the room.

Stew stood and stared as the door’s hydraulic closer slowly pulled it shut.  Finally, the latch clicked.  Bemused, he sat on the bed and muttered.

“Damn it, Marks, you let her take those papers.  What’s the matter with you?”

In Charleston, South Carolina, Henri Duval and Angelique leaned on the railing of the elevated seawall that faced towards the harbor and a distant Fort Sumter of Civil War fame.  Across the street behind them, several cannon were aimed at the fort to commemorate the location of the “Battery” whose guns, along with those of Forts Moultrie and Johnson, had bombarded the Federally-held bastion in April, 1861, and initiated the four-year struggle termed, according to preference, the “War of Northern Aggression,” the “War of the Rebellion,” or the “Civil War.”  The commemorative cannon occupied the harbor-side of a park dominated by live oak trees whose branches, pendant with Spanish moss, extended over shaded paths of crushed oyster shells.

Eric Nyonzima leaned his crutches against the trunk of a live oak and peered around the thick trunk.  He studied the two lone figures on the seawall.  He had followed the couple from Broad Street here to the Battery.

The soft cast on his lower leg irritated the skin.  He limped to a nearby bench.  He would not be spotted.  Uwimana did not know him and Duval had only seen him once, in the dark when he had broken Eric’s leg with that vicious kick.

Eric put his crutches beside the bench and sat.  He extended his aching leg to the side, and punched the number of Jules Habimana into his cell.

“Jules, tell Maximilien that I’ve found Angelique Uwimana.  I’m watching her now on the battery’s seawall.  She’s with that Frenchman.”

“Duval?”

“Yes.  He broke my leg while you were inside Uwimana’s apartment.”

“Where are they staying?”

“I’m not sure, but there are several hotels near where I first spotted them.  What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t lose them.  Find out which hotel, but whatever happens, do not touch Uwimana, Maximilien wants her for himself.  And Eric, good work, Maximilien could even decide to forget the tests and come to Charleston tomorrow.”

The call was over.  Eric glanced at the couple across the way.  Arm in arm, they were in no hurry to leave. He was glad to be here for a while, he needed the rest.  He shifted his stiff leg to the front and leaned on the back of the bench.