The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (23 page)

Near Wilmington, North Carolina, Jules Habimana watched as Louis Makuza and another man finished wiping the black hood of Maximilien Gutera’s Audi.  Maximilien insisted that the car reflect his status, and Jules dared not imagine otherwise.  Once again the daily ritual was complete.  The Audi shimmered, resplendent in the early-morning sun.

Jules looked at his watch and pointed at a fast food restaurant a block away.

“That’s enough, Louis.  The car looks good.  You have a half hour before the chief comes down.  You two go grab something to eat.”

Jules watched them walk down the street.  He took out his cell phone and called Eric Nyonzima in Charleston.

“Eric, what news of Duval and Uwimana.  Where are they staying?”

“They are not together.  Duval is at a hotel on Meeting Street.  He dropped Uwimana off at a small Catholic hospice not far from the cathedral on Broad Street.  She’s staying there with some nuns.”

“What a gentleman!  Duval is an idiot.  How did you ever let him beat you?”

Eric ignored him.

“I can’t watch both places at once.”

“Stay near the hospice.  It is Uwimana that Maximilien wants, not the Frenchman.  Your news will please Maximilien.  If Uwimana is a virgin, all the more satisfaction for him as he despoils her.”

“When will he be here?”

“He has not informed me.  He may watch the rocket firings at Topsail Beach tonight, or he may come to Charleston and leave the rockets to Professor Belli.  Whatever, you are not to lose Uwimana.  Clear?”

“Clear.”

Jules hung up.  He smiled to himself.  Now that Angelique was located, lust would decide the issue.  If Maximilien’s heated loins ruled, they could drive to Charleston even today.

He sighed.  He was ready.

The shiny Audi was gassed and greased for the trip.

In Charleston, the nuns’ hospice was located in an old area of narrow streets lined with brick dwellings protected by ornate iron fences.  Just down the street from the center was a public bench squeezed between two large Oleander bushes.  The bench had been provided several years earlier by the town fathers who, ever conscious of tourists’ dollars and sore feet, promoted walking tours of the old city.

Though not a tourist, Eric Nyonzima was grateful for the bench.  His leg ached.  He had left his car around the corner since the constricted street allowed no parking.  From the bench, Eric had a clear view of the entrance to the hospice.  He settled himself and watched.

Jules Habimana’s words resounded in his mind.

“It is Uwimana that Maximilien wants.”

Bum leg or not, he dare not lose Angelique.

In Mount Pleasant, across the Cooper river from Charleston, Jeannine Ryan was frustrated.  Her only way to reach Bill Hamm was to call his pre-pay cell phone.  Last night, after repeated tries, she had failed to reach him.  His phone either was off or in an area with no service.

Discouraged, she had walked to a nearby hotel and booked a room for the night.

She had slept well, but again this morning, her calls to Bill produced no results.  The phone was out of service.

She sat on the bed and stared at the canvas case with the stolen documents.

Damn it, in three days Gutera’s ship will dock here.  There’s no time.
 
Turn on your damn phone!

Jeannine heard a rap on the door.  She looked about.  Her room was on the second floor and the window was sealed.  The windowless bathroom was next to the door.  There was no other way out.

She slipped quietly to the peephole.

A man stood in the hallway. 
Bill?

Then the man turned and revealed his face.

Stew Marks!

Exasperated, Jeannine cracked the door, but left the chain attached.

“What the hell do you want?”

Stew noted her anger.  Through the crack he saw the phone on the bed.

“So you couldn’t reach Hamm?  You’d better let me in.”

“Why?  What are you doing here?  How did you find me?”

“Come on Jeannine, you need help.  I never said I wouldn’t follow you.  Of course I did.  Let me in.”

She hesitated.

“Jeannine, don’t be foolish.  I can help you.”

She sighed and undid the chain.

“All right, Stew, what can you tell me?”

“For starters, your friend Hamm is still in North Carolina.  Gutera’s rockets are to be tested at Topsail beach tonight.  He will be there.”

She drew a quick breath.

“How?”

“Don’t be naive.  The FBI has resources.  My partner Jack called this morning.”

“Has Bill been arrested?”

“No.  Someone saw him in Surf City.  A black man was with him, but no agent has seen him.  The part about Topsail is a guess, but a good one.  Bill probably saw this article.  Jack faxed it to me this morning.”

He put the paper in front of her.

Sunday, September 2

Carolina Commentary

…

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.

…

She read it quickly.

“It makes sense.  ‘
La Lutte
’ is the ship with the nuclear rod modules.  They’re going to offload them onto the
Étoile d’Afrique
after it leaves Charleston.  And GES is testing Sullivan’s guidance system under the pretext of a ‘commemorative event.’”

She looked up.

“But Stew, Gutera killed Sullivan.  Why?”

Stew blinked. 
She called me Stew!

“Why does a madman kill?”

Jeannine frowned.

“Will they arrest Bill tonight at Topsail.”

“If they see him, yes.”

“Stew, I have to warn him.  Take me to Topsail.  We have time.  We can be there before the celebration.”

“Jeannine, you’re asking me to betray my agency.  I can’t act against the FBI, against my buddies.”

“But you know the truth now.  We have to stop Gutera and his dirty bombs.”

“The FBI will do that.”

“Bill says that the minute you have our evidence, the NSA will seize it.  The FBI will not see it until weeks later, maybe never.  In any case it would be too late.”

Stew paused.  She was right.  The NSA would use national security issues to bury the evidence, and maybe justifiably so.  The prosecution of Byrd and GES would reveal the NSA’s ability to decrypt RSA communications among foreign governments.  Keeping that ability secret could easily outweigh any gains from the conviction of Byrd or GES.

He looked into her moist eyes. 
Come on woman, don’t plead like that!

He could not say no.

“All right, Jeannine, I’ll take you up north.  But don’t count on me once we’re at Topsail.”

She wanted to hug him, but held back.

Her life was complicated enough.

She need not encourage him.

Eric Nyonzima straightened his back from the iron bench.  His leg felt rested, but his back was stiff.  There had been no sign of Angelique.  Only two nuns had left the hospice all morning, and there had been no sign of Duval.  Where was he?  Or she?

As Eric tried to relax, he heard a rustling behind the adjacent Oleander.  Before he could turn to see the cause of the disturbance cold metal pressed against the side of his neck.

“
‘Silence, mon ami, ou je tire.’
  Silence, my friend, or I’ll shoot.”

Eric froze.  He knew the Frenchman’s voice.

“
Duval?
‘Que veux-tu?’
  What do you want?”

“
‘Tais-toi.’ 
Shut up.”

Eric stayed frozen.

Denise Guerry was driving on Highway 17 in North Carolina when her phone chimed.  She picked up.  The call was from the FBI’s resident agency in Wilmington.  The caller was a clerk, who supplemented a low income with occasional “fees” from GES.

“Hamm was seen in Surf City.  There was a black man with him.  I thought you would want to know.”

“Good work.  You’ll be paid in cash, at the usual spot.”

“Thank you.”

Denise hung up and turned to Ian Callahan in the passenger seat.

“Hamm will be in Topsail.  I’m sure of it.  And Mutabazi is with him.”

“Mutabazi?”

“A Tutsi.  He’s not important.  He’s weak, but Hamm is a problem.”

She fell silent a moment. 
Where is Ryan?  Why isn’t she with Hamm?
  She spoke.

“Ian, we have to go to Topsail.  We must stop Hamm.  Poor Bruno could never handle him.  Turn right at the next intersection.”

Denise studied her passenger and smiled.  While he was not Henri, Ian had looks enough and was well built.  She could assure his loyalty with a promise of sex.  She would need him if Hamm tried to stop the tests.  Besides, Ian would have to suffice until she could snare Henri from Angelique.

Something to think about.

Henri Duval approached the door of the nuns’ hospice.  Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and Angelique stepped out.

“Henri, you’re late.  The nuns are at noon prayer.  I was supposed to leave before that.”

“I was here, but something came up, a problem I had to handle.”

He took Angelique’s hand and led her around the corner to his car.  She opened the front door and jumped back.

“Henri, the back seat!  Who is that? 
Mon Dieu!
  What have you done?”

She put one hand over her mouth and pointed with the other.  A man sat slumped in the back seat.  Duct tape wrapped his wrists and a strip of the same material sealed his mouth.  A pair of crutches lay on the floor.

Henri took her hand.

“He was watching the hospice, waiting for you.  His name is ‘Eric Nyonzima,’ he belongs to Gutera.”

“Then Maximilien knows where we are!”

“Yes.  Help me put him in the trunk.  I need to get him out of sight.”

Angelique drew back.

“Will he be able to breathe?”

“Is that important?  Hold the door open for me.”

Henri seized Eric’s arm and pulled him from the back.  Moments later, he rolled Eric into the trunk, laid the crutches on him, and slammed the lid shut.

Mouth agape, Angelique stared at the trunk.  She was not sure about this.

Henri started the motor and waved her into her seat.

Angelique sat silent as Henri Duval steered the car through the Meeting Street traffic towards the grand Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge.  At a height of 175 meters, and a clearance below of 57 meters, the bridge over the Cooper River allowed modern container ships access to harbor facilities north of Charleston.  Angelique had no fear of heights, but she was agitated, and the long high crossing churned her stomach.  She sighed with relief as they rolled down the descent to solid ground.

They drove through Mount Pleasant on Highway 17.  Only when Henri took the turn north onto Route 41 did she speak.

“Henri, where are we going?”

“I want to get off the major roads.  This way leads through a national forest.  It’s not well-traveled.”

Angelique frowned.

“What about him?  What are you going to do?”

“Find a deserted spot and dump him.”

“You mean kill him?”

“What else.  I should have done it in Florence when he tried to cleave me in two with a panga.  I broke his leg, but that wasn’t enough.  He found us.  Gutera won’t be far behind.”

They passed a large brown sign with yellow letters,
Francis Marion National Forest
.  Ahead there were no houses, only stark forests of pines as far as they could see.

Angelique shivered.

Henri Duval turned off the paved route onto a sandy road that passed through open stands of long-needled pines.  On all sides, open clusters of pines stretched in monotonous arrays.  The only sign of human presence was the road itself.

They drove on.  Angelique sat silent.  Henri seemed unaware of her presence.  The dirt lane narrowed and woody stems raked the sides of the car along with the window on her side.

Ahead a small tree blocked the passage.  Henri stopped the car.  Further progress was impossible.

A light breeze rustled the tops of the pines as Henri stepped out of the car.  He had a gun in his hand.

Angelique drew a deep breath.

Stew Marks drove fast.  He and Jeannine Ryan were on I-26 headed from Charleston towards I-95 and points north.  She broke the silence.

“Will we make it to Topsail Beach in time for the celebration.”

Stew nodded in affirmation.  Most of the driving was on interstates.  He would leave I-95 at I-40 for Wilmington and Topsail.

“Will you arrest Bill if you see him?”

Stew nodded again.  But he wanted to talk about her, not Hamm.

She continued.

“You’re not on duty.  You don’t have to arrest him.”

“Jeannine, he’s a fugitive and I’m an FBI agent.  I have no choice.”

She frowned and changed the subject.

“When can I get my Subaru out of impoundment?  I need it.”

He glanced sideways.  Her auburn hair and good looks unsettled him.  This conversation was not going the way he had hoped.

“Jack Marino is handling that now.  I’m not sure.  I’ll do what I can.”

At that response Jeannine sighed and leaned back.

Damn it Jeannine, ease up.  This guy is trying to help, and he’s risking his career for you.  Be grateful.  He really likes you.

Then a wild thought. 
And he’s damned good looking!

The regular cadence of the tires rolling over the joints in the roadway soothed her.  She shut her eyes and slept.

In the Francis Marion National Forest, Angelique stared in horror as Henri, gun in hand, opened the trunk of the car.

“Henri, non!”

“Angelique, this man was sent to kill you!  He was at your apartment in Florence, and he tried to kill me.  He tracked you to Charleston.  He belongs to Gutera.  We can’t let him go.”

“At least let me speak to him.”

“Why?  What good can that do?”

“Henri, please.  Do this for me.  Please.”

Henri shrugged.  He opened the trunk, yanked the bound Eric up and out and sat him on the rear bumper.  He stripped the duct tape from his mouth and turned to Angelique.

“All right, here he is.”

Angelique swallowed. 
God, do not let me hate this man, but do not let me offend your justice either.

“Where are you from?”

Eric saw Henri Duval’s eyes.  There was no hope there.  His only chance was with the woman he had schemed to kill.  And even if spared, what hope was that?  He had failed Gutera twice!  He lowered his eyes.

“Kirambo, Lac Kivu.”

“At the university in Butare, I had a friend, Clarisse, from Kirambo, a Hutu.  She was my age.  Did you know her?”

“A cousin, very smart.  She won a scholarship to Butare after I left Rwanda.  After your
Front Patriotique Rwandais
forced me from
my
country.”

“You were with the Interahamwe, why?”

“The Tutsi hate us.”

“I am Tutsi and I do not hate you.”

“So you say, but you are going to kill me.”

He turned to Henri.

“Either you, or this traitor of a Frenchman will do it.”

Eric Nyonzima stood and waited.

He closed his eyes.

The breeze fell, the rustling of the pines ceased, and all was still.  Time stopped.

The boy’s mother died at his birth, but not before she told the father the name she desired for their son, a name that meant “God is alive.”  The father was not of her faith, but he accepted her choice and promised to love the boy.

They were poor by the world’s standards, but not by Rwanda’s.  His father owned a single-bedroom house on the lake, as well as a skiff, a luxury paid for by a small bean patch and an equally small coffee grove on the hillside.  To the boy, life on Lac Kivu was idyllic.  He would sit for hours in the boat while his father drew fish, needed protein, from the calm waters.

The boy was perhaps nine years old, when after returning from school, he posed his father a question.

“Papa, what does ‘Hutu,’ or ‘Tutsi,’ mean?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Our teacher, Mr. Jabo, told those who were ‘Tutsi’ to stand by the wall on the right, and those who were ‘Hutu’ to stand by the wall on the left.”

“Did he also tell the ‘Twa’ to stand up?”

“Yes, but no one did.”

“But you went to the left, with the other Hutus?”

“Yes, but my best friend Dieudonné went to the right.”

“That’s because he is different.  You are Hutu.  You should play with someone else, like Pascal.  He is Hutu too.”

“But why?’

“Because you are Hutu, like your father.”

From that day, Dieudonné was abandoned, and Pascal, who was a year older, became the boy’s friend along with others, all followers of Pascal.  In time, the boy learned the ‘proper’ words for ‘Tutsi,’ like ‘Inyenzi’ (cockroach) or ‘Inzoka’ (snake or worm) so that by his fourteenth birthday he knew that the Tutsi were the true enemies of his country, and of all Hutus.

Only months after that birthday, in early 1994, the boy, was in his skiff on the water, watching as Pascal waved two shiny ‘imipanga’ (pangas) and descended the hillside to the lake.

Pascal wore a new shirt, yellow, green, and blue with a few thin stripes of red and black.  As the boy stepped from the boat, his friend handed him a similar shirt.  The boy donned it right away.  Only then did Pascal offer him one of the pangas.  The boy seized it and swung it in the air.  The two embraced, each with his weapon at his side.

The boy, Eric Nyonzima, now belonged to the Interahamwe.

Eric Nyonzima blinked at the sound of Angelique’s voice.

“Henri, someone must break the cycle of hate.  We cannot kill this man.  We are not murderers.”

Henri stared.  She looked into his eyes.

“We cannot offend God.  Whatever this man has done, God will decide what to do with him.  We must let him go.”

Before Henri could reply, Angelique approached Eric.

“Whatever you have done, I forgive you.  But God is just. Ask
His
forgiveness and accept whatever punishment comes.  I will pray for you.  It is His love that has spared you today.”

She touched his arm.

“Do you not know that your name, ‘Nyonzima,’ means ‘God lives.’  He
is
alive and He
loves
you.  All he asks is your repentance.  Turn to Him.”

She concluded.

“Now climb back into the trunk and pray that Maximilien Gutera will forgive you for failing to deliver me.”

Eric half-rolled inside the trunk, bound hands and bad leg notwithstanding.  Angelique turned to Henri.

“We will cut him loose outside the next town.  Even if he dare call Gutera, we will be gone before they can react.”

Wordless, Henri slammed the lid shut and got in the car.  They drove through the pines back to the paved road.

To live with Angelique was to live in a different world.

When stressed, Jules Habimana gnawed at his nails, but now the nubs were too narrow for biting.  Both Angelique Uwimana and Eric Nyonzima were missing!  Calls to the nun’s hospice had revealed little.  The nun had informed Jules, politely, that the young African woman was no longer a guest, and that no African male had been with her.  The only man she had seen was “white” with a foreign accent, possibly French.

Duval!
 
Eric, where are you?  And where is Angelique?

Jules put the phone down and sat staring at the blank wall.  How would he tell his chief?

On I-95 in North Carolina, Stew Marks drove while Jeannine Ryan slept.  Ahead was the I-40 interchange to Wilmington.

Stew looked at his passenger. Because of her would he abandon his ideals, his loyalty to the Bureau?

What if I find Hamm? Will I let him go just to please her?