The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (35 page)

Jack Marino ran down the lane between two rows of containers towards the crane.  From the corner of his eye, he spied a black male, a gun in hand, on the ship.

Jack ignored him and ran to the truck parked under the crane.  The truck’s trailer was empty.  A man stepped down from the cab as Jack approached.  He faced Jack.

“I’m Port Superintendant Morris.  Who the hell are you?  Put the damn gun down. If you want to shoot someone, get that African on the ship.  He knocked me out and stole my truck.  And now my container is lost in the river.”

But Jack was single-minded.

“Where is Hamm?  William Hamm?”

Morris’s head ached.  He rubbed his forehead to clear his thoughts. 
Denise Guerry had called the man with her “Hamm.”

“Hamm was here hours ago.  Is he back?”

Morris glanced up at the crane’s control cabin, suspended on its boom high over the water beyond the
Étoile d’Afrique
.

Jack caught that look.  Could Hamm be up there?  He looked skywards.

Was that a man dangling from the railing of the control cab?

High above, limp and exhausted, Bill slumped in the seat.  A red streak appeared on his sleeve where the Hutu’s panga had not missed.  Dizzy, Bill shook his head and looked through the transparent floor at the dark waters below.

Had he imagined a noise outside the cab?  He sat up and looked out the door.  Below him, just visible, two dark hands clung to the edge of the metal walkway.

The crane operator!

Bill stepped out the cabin and leaned over the rail.  Michel Iranzi stared upwards.  His eyes, expanded in circles, pleaded as he cried out.

À moi!
  Help me!

Bill seized the man’s wrist, and heaved upwards.  Moments later a shaken Hutu collapsed trembling on the metal grid.

Michel looked up at the blurred form standing over him.

“Murakoze cyane. 
Thank you, much.”

Then he shut his eyes, exhausted, only to feel hands grip his arms and tug him to his feet.  His enemy, the man who had pulled him to safety, stood before him.

Without him I would be dead.

The man spoke in English, but Michel’s English was weak.  He shook his head.  The man tried clumsy French.

“
Prendre la commande de la grue
?  Run the controls of the crane?”

Michel managed to nod.  The man pointed to himself.

“Bill.”

That Michel understood.  He touched his chest.

“Michel.”

The man, Bill, pointed to the far-away elevator and stairs high above the dock and struggled with more French.

“
Là, Michel, nous voulons là
.  There, Michel, we want there.”

Michel nodded again.  He followed the man into the cabin and sat at the controls, but his hands shook as he manipulated the joysticks.

He looked up.  This man was not afraid of him.  Oddly, Michel felt no fear either.

He calmed himself and smoothly guided the cabin back to the elevator and stairwell.

Superintendant Morris and Jack Marino watched as the elevator reached its lowest level from which a flight of steps descended to the ground.  The door opened, and Bill Hamm and Michel Iranzi descended to the dock.  Jack started forward, but Morris pushed him back and fronted Bill.

“You dumped my container in the river.  It’s gone!  You’ll pay for this!”

“Your container?  So the Hutu missiles were yours.  It’s you who wanted to explode dirty bombs over the Congo.”

Morris retreated.

“What do you mean?  It was Maximilien Gutera’s shipment.  I had no idea what was in it.”

“You approved it.  You signed the papers.”

“There was no radioactivity.  My men checked for it.  There was no reason not to sign off.”

Bill started to reply, but Jack Marino broke in.

“Quit the pretense, Hamm.  You are under arrest.”

At the word “arrest” the superintendant backed away and Michel Iranzi left Bill’s side. Bill stared.

“You must be Marino, FBI, right?”

Jack fingered his Beretta.

“That’s right!  And you are the damned traitor that I’ve been chasing for weeks.”

“Calm down, Jack, put the gun away.  I’m no traitor.  We just stopped a plot to overthrow the Rwandan government.”

“So I’m supposed to believe a dirt bag like you?”

“Call Stew Marks.  He knows.  He’ll tell you.”

At the mention of his partner’s name, Jack’s face went red.

“You damned liar!  You conned the congressional committee about me, and you conned Stew about your supposed Hutu plot.  Don’t push me.  I should end your miserable self now, before you conn the jury at your trial.”

Jack’s face went red.  His knuckles whitened on his Beretta.

“Jack, stop!  What are you doing? Put that gun down.”

Sam Smith, breathless, had arrived with Jeannine in tow.

Jack turned.  He saw that Jeannine’s arms were free.

“Who took the cuffs off that woman?”

“Easy, Jack.  It was me.  I took them off.  Stew Marks called.  He’s on the way now.  Ryan and Hamm are the good guys.  Hamm’s no traitor.”

“The hell he’s not.  He tried to load that container on that ship.  He’s a liar.  He lied to congress about me and the FBI, and he sure as hell will lie to the judge.  He’s a spook gone dirty.”

Jeannine jumped forward.

“Listen jackass!  Do you even have a brain?  Stand down.”

Jack reddened. 
She’ll lie too and Hamm will go free
.

Jeannine moved in front of Bill, to shield him.

Too much!  Jack raised his weapon.

“Hamm, the bitch can’t protect you.  You’ll not beat this rap!”

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Time slowed.  Everyone froze.

Except Michel Iranzi!  He moved fast.  He sprang at Jack and knocked the gun loose.

“Crack.”

The Beretta discharged and clattered on the ground.

Sam Smith retrieved the weapon, after which Jack stood motionless, his shoulders slumped.

Seconds seemed like minutes.  Michel Iranzi turned to Bill and mouthed words meant for no one else.

“
Cela nous rends égaux
.  That makes us even.”

Bill nodded.

The Hutu turned and ran towards his ship.

No one moved to stop him.

Far from the North Charleston terminal, Maximilien Gutera sped north on route 52 towards Florence.

The Captain of the
Étoile d’Afrique
had informed him of the loss of the rockets.  Maximilien would not join the vessel.  The French were no more tolerant of failure than he, and he could not risk a forced transfer to the French-flagged vessel,
La Lutte
. No, he would stay with his followers in Florence.

Besides, Claude Senteli was on the
Étoile d’Afrique.
His poisonous tongue was sure to blame Maximilien for the failure.

Maximilien needed to vent.  A slow minivan appeared on the road ahead. 
Stupid American driver!  Out of my way!

He cut sharply in front of it.  The van swerved onto the shoulder.  Maximilien grimaced and sped on.

On Interstate 95, Henri Duval drove towards Florence, South Carolina.  In the passenger seat, a tired Angelique Uwimana tossed fitfully in sleep.

Henri, too, was tired.  He struggled to stay awake.  He switched on the radio.

In local news, South Carolina Port Authority officials refuse to comment on reports by eye witnesses that a container being loaded onto a Kenyan vessel at the terminal at North Charleston sank into the Cooper River.

Our sources indicate that the Kenyan ship will sail tomorrow morning, as planned.

Henri turned off the radio.  If Gutera’s plan had failed, where was the Hutu leader?  Had he boarded the
Étoile d’Afrique
, or was he still in the Carolinas?  If he were still here, Angelique still would be in danger. Maximilien’s lust for her had nothing to do with his Hutu Power movement.

Henri normally did not believe in spirits, but he regarded Gutera’s obsession with the beautiful Tutsi as demonic.

In the Memorial Hospital in Georgetown, South Carolina, the receptionist smiled up at the man with the foreign accent.  His suit was expensive, his shoes Italian. 
A lawyer?

“I’m sorry, Sir.  Ms. Guerry is still in the Intensive Care Unit.  She hasn’t been assigned a room yet.”

The “lawyer” smiled and turned away without answering.

He walked down the corridor to the elevators.  The doors opened.  He entered and pushed “Two.”  The ICU
was on the second floor.

The surgeon had saved Denise Guerry’s life.

He would end it.

The sun had risen above the spent brown fields on the outskirts of Florence, South Carolina, when Maximilien Gutera stopped his car on the shoulder of the highway.

He needed to think.  Had Claude Senteli’s treacherous tongue reached the ears of the Florence Hutus?  Would they believe his lies?

Rather than return to his headquarters and risk a potential confrontation with his followers, Maximilien opted for caution.  He was tired.  He needed a safe place to rest before preparing his version of the disaster at North Charleston.

But where?

His men had taken a key from Angelique Uwimana’s apartment when they had tried to trap her. Maximilien, with his superior foresight, had kept the key on his person.  No one would suspect that he would go to her apartment to rest.  Equally surely, she would not dare return there, but if she did, so much the better.  He licked his lips.

He found the street and building with ease.  Inside the apartment, he lay on the couch and shut his eyes.  When he awoke, he would speak to his followers.  His strategy was simple.

Blame Claude Senteli.

At a Starbucks in Florence South Carolina, Henri Duval watched Angelique sip her coffee and read a text on her phone.

“Henri, thanks for bringing me to Florence.  This is my mentor.  He likes my thesis.  He has only a few changes that he wants to discuss with me.”

Henri nodded, but still worried that they were in Florence.

She bubbled.

“This is great, but I need to stop by my apartment to pick up my notes.”

She stood up, ready to go.  Henri looked about.  There were no Africans anywhere.

He followed her outside.

In Georgetown, South Carolina, at the Memorial Hospital, Denise Guerry stirred awake. 
Where?
  Then she recalled.

My arm, the hospital, Bill?

A voice broke into her thoughts.

“You’re awake, good.  You’re in the Intensive Care Unit, how do you feel?”

Denise tried to move her arm, the nurse stopped her.

“No, don’t do that.  What do you want?”

“Is anyone waiting to see me?”

“Not now, but a Mr. Hamm called this morning.  He asked how you were and said to tell you that the container is destroyed.  He said you would understand.”

Denise laid her head back, relieved that her nightmares of irradiated Congolese babies would not come true.

She shut her eyes.  She felt fine.

In the ICU waiting room on the second floor, a gentleman in an expensive suit sat and studied the sheen of his Italian shoes.  There was no admittance to the ICU, and once inside there would be too many eyes watching.

No matter.  He had time.

Denise Guerry was going nowhere.  Ever!

In Florence, Henri drove up to Angelique’s apartment and parked.  She stepped out of the car.

“Wait here, Henri, I’ll only be a moment.”

She disappeared into the building.

Henri examined the yard across the street. There was the large live oak whose stout branch had stopped the panga from splitting his skull.  Then Henri’s kick had broken the assailant’s leg.

He looked up.  On the fourth floor were the windows where he had seen the lights of Maximilien’s men.

Damn it Angelique, you should not be here, and it’s taking too long!

For several minutes he stared at the entrance to her building, willing her to appear.

Angelique, we must go.  They know where you live.

He looked back to the place where the Citroën had been parked that near-fatal night.  Now another car was there.  He looked again.

The car was a gray Audi.

Good God!  Maximilien!

Henri drew his Browning and raced for the entrance.  Inside, He dashed to the elevator and jammed the button.  Nothing.

He looked up.  The number “4” was illuminated.

Angelique’s floor! It’s stuck on her floor.

He ran to the stairwell.

Breathing heavily, he climbed the stairs to the landing where a large “4” was painted on the fire door.

He tried the handle.  Locked.

He pointed his Browning at the handle.

“Crack.”

The bullet ricocheted past his head.  Undeterred, He fired again.

“Crack.”

This time the lock burst and the door cracked open.

He raced down the corridor.   Angelique’s door stood ajar. He looked in.

There stood Angelique, numb.  A .38 revolver dangled from her fingers.

On the couch lay Maximilien Gutera, face down, the back of his shirt red from multiple wounds.

Henri entered, but Angelique did not move.  Henri shook her shoulders.

“Angelique, what have you done?”

“I didn’t.”

“But the gun?”

Her answer was lost in sobs.  Henri laid his Browning on the table and eased her into a chair.

“But who?”

Her eyes directed him to the bathroom.  Just then a man burst from it, snatched Henri’s Browning from the table, and ran out of the apartment.

Henri jumped up. But before he reached the door, he heard the whir of the elevator.

Angelique found her voice.

“Paul Mutabazi.  Don’t go after him.  He was using my apartment while I was gone.  He found Maximilien asleep on the couch.  He shot him. Maximilien was dead when I got here.”

Her eyes misted.

“Henri, Paul was only twelve.  My father took him to the soccer field thinking the soldiers would protect them.  But the military slaughtered everybody.  As my father died, he pulled Paul under him. Paul pretended to be dead.  The killers didn’t find him.”

She stared at Gutera’s bullet-ridden corpse.

“Dear God, I ask mercy for this man as I ask for your mercy on all of us, including Paul and me.”

Henri eased the revolver from Angelique’s grip and examined the weapon.  All five chambers were empty.

Paul had emptied the gun.  A rage killing!

Henri understood.

Images of the genocide in Rwanda flooded his mind.  He shared Paul’s rage.  Had Henri found Gutera his fate would have been worse.  Henri’s Browning held thirteen rounds.

There would be thirteen holes in Gutera, not five.

Henri was used to action.  He wiped the revolver of all prints, and started to toss it by the couch.  No.  Better it should disappear.  He put it in his pocket and turned to Angelique.

“Where are your thesis notes?”

She pointed to the bedroom.  He checked that her path would not go near the blood-stained sofa.

“All right go get them.”

When she returned, Henri took the notes from her.

“Good.  Call Stew Marks and explain to him how you found Gutera dead in your apartment.  Do not mention Paul Mutabazi.  Marks will think that Gutera’s men killed him for his failure.”

He added.

“Now we are going to the university to keep the appointment with your professor.  Your life will be ‘normal’ again.”

Angelique called Stew Marks and informed him of finding Gutera dead.

She and Henri left.

In Georgetown, South Carolina, the cardiologist visited Denise Guerry in the ICU.  She lay asleep.  He checked her pulse, studied the bedside monitors and made notes in her chart. He turned to the nurse.

“She is still in ‘afib.’  Keep her in the ICU for tonight.”

“Do you want to shock her out of afib?”

“Not yet, just keep her on the blood thinner.  She’ll likely come out of it by herself.”

The doctor left as Denise slept on.

In the ICU waiting room, the gentleman with the Italian shoes downed his third cup of coffee.  He smiled at a young mother awaiting news of her husband.  Then he went down to eat lunch at the hospital cafeteria.

He scowled at the dry hamburger and thin potato chips.  And there was no wine!  Abominable food, but waiting was tedious and he was hungry.

No matter.  He had a job to do and he would do it.

He emptied his Styrofoam plate, poured himself another cup of coffee from the machine, and left the cafeteria.  Minutes later he was back on the second floor.  The young mother was not in sight, evidently she had received her news, good or bad.

He sat to resume his vigil.

Soon Denise Guerry would run out of time.

He picked up a magazine.