The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (27 page)

Satisfied, Maximilien leaned back in the seat and relaxed.  Denise could not stop him.

“Pierre, the interchange with I-26 is ahead.  Take the turn towards Charleston.”

As the early sun pierced the branches of the pines that edged the Smets farm, Agent Jack Marino stepped out of his car, avoided the twisted body of the African on the steps, and entered the house.  He saw Stew Marks on the couch.

“Jack, how did you find me?”

“I was on the way to Wilmington when they called from the Resident Agency.  They’re sending backup and an ambulance is almost here.”

“But how did they know where?”

“Your guy Hamm called from a pay phone in Wilmington.  He must want a plea bargain.  He said we’d find you and some bodies.  What the hell were you doing Stew?  This place is like a war zone.  Who are all these people?”

“Rwandans, or they used to be.  They’re genocidal Hutus led by a killer named Maximilien Gutera.  He wants to restore Hutu Power in their country.  The woman you despise, Ryan, put me onto them.  She has evidence that they …”

“Ryan!  You found her?  Is she with Hamm?”

“I don’t know where she is now.  Yes I found her, and no, she wasn’t here.  Denise Guerry was with Hamm.”

“They’re in this together.  That settles it.  The rat is selling secrets to GES!”

Stew tried to rise.

“No Jack, that’s not the way it was.”

But the pain was too much, he fell back his teeth clenched.  At that moment two EMT’s pushed a gurney into the room.  They lifted Stew onto it.

In Surf City, Jeannine Ryan felt a buzzing under her pillow. 
What?  Where?
  She fumbled for the phone and pushed it against her ear.

“Bill?”

“Jeannine, it’s me, Wayne.”

“Oh.”

He coughed.

“Sorry, I haven’t heard from Bill either.  This is about something else.  I just received a call from Carolina Tech in South Carolina, a Professor Hurley in Computer Science.”

“I know him.  He did a project for us at Ryan Associates, ‘Non-random digits in RSA messages.’  What does he want?”

“He wants you to be on the doctoral committee of his student, ‘Angelique Uwimana.’  He called Maryland and couldn’t find you.  Someone told him I might be able to reach you.”

“This is bizarre! The world is maybe falling apart, and you call me about a doctoral student?”

“The world has to go on, and you need a normal life, too.  Besides, Hurley told me that you had encouraged her about her project.”

“What was her name?  You woke me up, I didn’t catch it.”

“Uwimana.”

“I remember.  She wanted to factor semi primes for RSA decryption.  No way, but her ideas could work elsewhere.”

“OK, now you know.  I’ve done my duty.  I told Hurley I would call you.  Now you have his number.  It’s up to you whether to call him or not.”

“Wayne, I didn’t mean to be grumpy.  I’ll never be able to thank you enough, but I’m worried about Bill.  We were to meet at the deli in Surf City after the rocket launch.  He didn’t show.”

She hesitated.

“I’m going to Charleston without him.  If he’s able, that’s where he’ll be.  We have to stop Gutera and his killers.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, that wouldn’t work.  The FBI is watching you.”

“Jeannine, don’t go.  You’re in as much danger as Bill.

“Thanks, but I have to.”

As she hung up, she remembered.

Uwimana said she was from Rwanda!

She sat on the edge of the bed and punched a number into her phone.

“Professor Hurley, this is Dr. Ryan, Jeannine Ryan.  I hear you tried to call me.”

At a coffee shop in Charleston, South Carolina, Henri Duval savored rich dark coffee, while Angelique Uwimana tapped vigorously on her laptop.

“Angelique, I don’t understand you.  Why come back to Charleston?  They found us here once.  And you’re back at the same coffee shop!”

She kissed his cheek.

“Henri thanks for humoring me.  We are safe.  The Lord protected us before, and He will again.  Maximilien’s men won’t think that we would return here, and the kudu horns on the wall remind me of Africa.  Besides, I like Kenyan coffee, it’s almost as good as Rwanda’s.”

She looked at his cup, now empty, and smiled.

“I see you like it too.”

She touched his hand.

“And I need to email Professor Hurley.  He is setting up my doctoral committee so I can finish in June.  I need one more member, a ‘Dr. Ryan.’  I talked to her once before.  She’s a statistician in Maryland. He’s trying to locate her.”

Henri shrugged.  He worried about Maximilien Gutera tracking emails.

Angelique’s computer pinged.  She read and grinned.

“This is an email from my Professor.  Dr. Ryan called him.  She’s agreed to be on the committee.  She told him she was on her way to Charleston.  He told her I was in Charleston too, but the only place he knew was this coffee shop.”

Angelique bubbled on.

“She wants to meet me to discuss where I am on my project.  She’ll meet me here at the coffee shop this evening.”

Henri frowned.  A known place at a specific time was dangerous.

“What’s Dr, Ryan’s first name?”

“Jeannine, Dr. Jeannine Ryan?”

Henri’s frown deepened.

Jeannine Ryan?  According to Denise Guerry, Jeannine Ryan had shot Tom Holder at Topsail.  And Holder had not seen action since.

“Angelique, Denise knows about your Dr. Ryan, and says she is dangerous.  You must be careful.  This is not a good idea.”

“Henri, why do you care what that woman thinks?  I thought you had forgotten her.”

“Angelique, I don’t care about Denise.  I only care that she or Maximilien may track Ryan to you!  This meeting is not safe.”

Angelique looked into her coffee cup.

“The doctorate is important to me.  I can’t believe that Dr. Ryan is dangerous.  She helped me before, and she’s a professional, a scientist.  I have to meet her.”

Henri fell silent.  Dr. Ryan might be trustworthy, but Denise and Maximilien were not.

He stared at the Kudu horns.  Angelique followed different rules.  How she had survived thus far mystified him.  He had seen the genocide first hand.  Despite the thoroughness of the Interahamwe, she was alive and thriving.

When he was a boy in Sousceyrac, his mother had trusted God.  He had never understood that, but her love for Henri had been real.  He did not understand Angelique either.  She too lived as if God were real. 
Maybe she’s right.  Maybe she should meet Dr. Ryan this evening?

His stomach knotted.  No matter, right or wrong, he knew.

Whatever he said, Angelique would be at the coffee shop to meet Dr. Ryan.

In North Charleston, at the yard of
Kenya-Carolina Apex Distributors
, Maximilien Gutera watched as company workers drove the final screws into the frame of his fourth crate.

When the crate was closed, the foreman rested his lithium power tool on a stand and stood back to inspect his work.

There were four crates, each contained three solid-fuel rockets with their explosive-packed components already attached.  A detached ceramic nose, the “radome,” lay alongside each rocket.  The radomes housed Sullivan’s guidance modules, like those that had proved themselves in the test at Topsail Beach.

The ceramic radome could be attached to its rocket only after the radioactive module was secured to the explosive component.  These final steps would take place after the
Étoile d’Afrique
docked in Mombasa.  German technicians, mercenaries, were to extract the radioactive modules from their heavily-shielded container and then complete the final assembly.

Satisfied, the foreman turned to Maximilien.

“Sir, the crates are secure.  All four will fit into one container.”

“They will be immobilized?”

“Yes Sir, the fittings have already been mounted.  Once they are locked, your crates will not budge.”

The foreman waved to a forklift operator who hoisted the first crate onto a bed of rollers in the container where several workers pushed it to the rear and locked it in place.

Maximilien stepped into the manager’s trailer.

“Is all paper work ready?  My container must be at the terminal at North Charleston today before it closes at 18:00.  The
Étoile d’Afrique
will arrive this evening.  I want this container loaded on board as soon as the terminal opens tomorrow at 07:00.  I have already arranged details with the superintendant at the terminal.”

The manager, who would receive the second half of a most generous bribe only when the container was loaded on the ship, waved his hand casually.  He had no intention of botching such a lucrative transaction.

“There will be no problem.  The container will arrive at the terminal before six.  And Sir, if you have future shipments, please contact me.  It has been a pleasure to serve you.”

Maximilien smiled.  He stepped to the door and saw the last crate disappear into the container.  He gave the manager’s hand a single shake and walked to his Audi.

All twelve rockets would be aboard the
Étoile d’Afrique
tomorrow morning!  She could sail that afternoon and meet the
La Lutte
on Saturday.

No one can stop me now, least of all, you, Denise Guerry.

No weak woman would ever have power over him again.  And woe to Denise should they meet!

The early morning sun shone on the pines of the Francis Marion National Forest.  On the outskirts of Huger, South Carolina, Eric Nyonzima rested his crutches by the pay phone.

He dialed Pierre Sehene’s number in Florence.  Pierre’s wife, Agathe Muteteli, answered.

“Hello.”

“Agathe?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Eric, Eric Nyonzima.”

“Pierre is not here!”

She slammed the phone on its cradle, but missed and it fell on the table.  As she retrieved it, she heard Eric’s voice.

“No wait, don’t hang up.  Please.  It’s you I need to talk to.”

“You killed Laurette!  What do you want of me?”

“I didn’t kill your sister.”

“But you stood by and watched.  You didn’t stop them.  And she was a Hutu.  All she did was try to protect Nadine.  Eric, you are a murderer.  You and all your friends!”

Her condemnation lit his memory.

Time stood still.  He saw the bloody dismembered body of Laurette lying among the weeds, within sight of her front door.  Nearby, Pascal danced and waved a bloody panga in a demand for Eric’s approval.  Eric sweated.  He lifted his arm to block the sun, and Pascal, from his eyes.

At that vivid recollection, Eric sweated anew under the Carolina sun.  He sobbed into the phone.

“Agathe, you are right.  And I am so sorry.  How could you ever forgive me.  I swear to you by God, I was wrong, horribly wrong.  May God help me.”

Agathe was silent.  Out of fear, her father had excused the killing of Laurette, his own daughter.  She recalled his words and her response.

“Agathe, Laurette should never have hidden Nadine.  All Tutsi are the enemy.  They are snakes who would kill us, kill you.  Be strong.”

“But Laurette was my sister. And Papa, she was your daughter!”

The memory brought tears to Agathe.  She struggled to speak.

“Eric, we were teenagers.  Whether I can forgive you or not does not matter.  God will have to do that.”

Eric’s mumbling was indecipherable.

“Eric, stop sobbing and tell me why you called?”

He regained his composure.  There was a restaurant across the street from the phone.  He described it to her.  If she agreed to help him, they could meet there.

They spoke for several more minutes.  Then the conversation was over.

Eric leaned against the wall and sighed. Agathe had agreed to help him escape Maximilien.  She would bring her car and meet him at the restaurant.

After two kind acts, Angelique sparing him and Agathe’s promised help, his world was upside down.

Maybe God was real, but why would He forgive me?

Help!

In Summerville, South Carolina, not far from North Charleston, Bill Hamm stepped from the GES pickup truck.  He compressed the sandwich wrappers and bag into a crumpled sphere and tossed it into the garbage container from ten feet away. 
Swish!
  He smiled.

In the passenger seat, Denise Guerry hung up her phone.

Bill spoke through her window.

“All right.  What did your ‘Oncle Charles’ say?”

“You know Paris is six hours ahead of us.”

Bill had served years in Europe as a covert operative for the CIA.  He knew time zones.  His voice rose.

“Stop stalling.  What did he say?”

“First dump this for me.  It’s gross.”

She lowered the window and handed Bill a soggy mix of bread, pale compacted meat and drooping lettuce.

Bill stepped away and threw the mix into the plastic-lined container.

“Damn it Denise, you have to eat.”

“But surely not that.”

“Forget it.  What did your uncle say?”

“He was not happy with me.  He and his associates were at a late lunch and could not be interrupted.  He will call me after.”

“Damn it, Gutera is going to contaminate hundreds of square miles of the eastern Congo, and your uncle won’t interrupt a luncheon.  Call him back.”

She stopped posturing and pleaded.

“Bill, try to understand.  He’s the patriarch.  He won’t take my call.  All I can do is wait for him to call me back.”

Angry, Bill strode to the driver’s side of the car and got in.

Forget the French addiction to food.

He fastened his seat belt and spoke to the windshield.

“I’m going to the library.  I need a computer to check the listings of the Port Authority.”

He drove off without waiting for an answer.

Denise knew to stay silent.

At the public library in Summerville, South Carolina, Bill Hamm sat and studied the computer screen while Denise Guerry, her blouse pinned over, wandered through the stacks nearby.