The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (36 page)

Gray clouds hung low over Summerville, South Carolina, when Jeannine Ryan and Bill Hamm entered the Italian restaurant.  They chose a quiet table for two in a secluded corner.  The waiter appeared quickly.  They ordered and sat back to wait for their entrées.

Jeannine twiddled the stem of her glass of Vino Rosato, while Bill sipped his Chianti.  After a moment, she spoke.

“It’s been a wild ride!”

Bill smiled.

“No doubt about that.  What will you do now?”

“Wayne asked me to spend some time at Topsail.  His place is fixed up again and he’s lonely.  I might even stay a month.  I called Aileen Harris.  She will handle Ryan Associates for me.  But what will you do?”

“I thought I’d be with you.”

“Come on Bill, be honest.  You and I are on hold.  Maybe we can fix things and maybe not.  You want to see Denise Guerry and maybe you should.  Maybe we both need time off from each other.”

“Like for Stew Marks?”

“Maybe?  I like Stew, but he’s nowhere near you.”

“Why not give him a chance?”

“I might, but if we agree to this time off thing, I won’t see anybody for a while.  I’m going to Topsail to think.  Wayne wants to be a father figure for me.  I need that.”

She hesitated and then spoke.

“Meanwhile, you go see Denise.  If that clicks, that will be a sign for both of us.”

Bill gulped the remainder of his Chianti.

The waiter arrived with Chicken Marsala for Jeannine and Lasagna for Bill.

He started to speak, but lost his thought as the aroma of the interleaved cheese, meaty sauce and pasta rose from the plate.  He forked a morsel of the mix into his mouth.

Jeannine put her wine down and waited.  He put another bite in his mouth and refilled his glass.

“Do you mean it, about my seeing Denise?”

“Why not?”

Damn it.  Why did I say that?

Bill swallowed half his wine before his eyes met hers.

“Jeannine, thanks You saved me when you got me out of that hospital.  I shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess.”

Shouldn’t have?  We’re supposed to share our lives, or don’t you want to?

Acid hit her stomach and rose in her throat.  She swallowed and stood.

Bill looked up, puzzled.  She forced a smile and blew a kiss in his direction

“I’m on my way to Topsail.  Good luck.  It’s been real.”

Then she turned and left.

He watched her go.

Bill sat a moment before turning back to his Lasagna, it was tasteless and cold.

He lifted his eyes and stared at the empty chair opposite.

My God!  What’s wrong with me.  She’s leaving!

He stood up, threw several bills on the table, and rushed from the restaurant.

She was still there, shoulders drooped, standing by the curb.

He spun her around, and kissed her.  His hands ran down her back as he pulled her tight against him.

“Jeannine, forget Denise.  Forget Stew.  Forget I hate the desk job.  Forget everything, but don’t forget me.  It’s you I need.  Don’t leave me.”

She pulled back and studied his eyes.

“I waited too long while you ran around Europe and did your thing for the Agency.  And now that you’re back, you’re bored sitting behind a desk.  You have to decide what you want.  This time it has to be different.  What are you willing to do?”

He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

“No, Bill, I mean it, every word.”

He took her hands.

“I’m stupid.  I know it.  I can’t do without you.  I will quit.  Will you marry me?”

Her eyes probed his eyes.

“Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes.  When you left me at that table, I knew.  Your chair was empty.  I was empty.  There was no purpose left.  Please.”

“Damn it, Bill!”

But she leaned against him, her lips moist on his ear, her voice scarcely a whisper.

“If you mean it, I’m here.  It’s you I want.”

He pulled her against him.

A light rain began to fall.

Neither noticed.

In the ICU at Georgetown Memorial Hospital, Denise Guerry awoke free of pain for the first time in twenty four hours.  A nurse stood writing something in a chart at the foot of her bed.

“Miss Guerry, you’re awake.  How do you feel?”

“Not bad, considering I’m wired up to these machines.”

The nurse cranked Denise up to a sitting position.

“Maybe this will make you more comfortable.”

She continued.

“And there’s good news.  The atrial fibrillation is gone.  Your heart rhythm is normal.  The doctor was going to keep you in the ICU tonight, but now he says we can move you to a regular room.  We’re trying to find one that’s open.  As soon as we get one, we’ll take you there.”

Denise smiled.

“Sounds good, but where is my phone?  I need to see my email.”

The nurse took the phone from the closet and put it in her free hand.

“Remember, keep that arm in the sling and don’t overdo it.  You need rest.”

She turned and left the room.

Denise checked her email.  A message, sent two days earlier, appeared.  She touched her “jailbroken” app and the decoded email appeared.  It was from her cousin.

d.g.they|want|you|

dead.||both|duval|

and|the|hammer|given|

the|job.||use|latin|

charles|to|read|two|

attached|messages|

jacobin5|||

He had attached two messages.

They were encrypted.

“Damn it Jacques, I’m tired of numbers.”

But her user-generated app did not work on the messages.  It produced only gibberish.  So the key was not “
Gahuj
.”

She reread Jacque’s message.  The Latin for “Charles” was “
Carolus!”
  That must be the new key.  She entered “Carolus
”
into the app and the first message appeared in plain text.

h.duval|removal|of|

d.|guerry|authorised|

by02001714112018|

gironde1|||b7

So Henri was ordered to kill her.  But she knew that.  It was the second message that made her shudder.

m.dupre||removal|of|

d.|guerry|authorised|

by|02001714112018|

gironde1.|4

The name “m. dupre” stood for
Marcel Dupré
, SÉGAG’s assassin known as
le Marteau
, the “Hammer.”  It was he who had killed Hugh Byrd.

And the Hammer never failed.

She lay back and shut her eyes.  Both authorizations came from Gironde1, the code name for Charles, a top aide of the Minister. Cousin Jacques must have deduced the key,
carolus
, from his name.  But Gironde1 outranked her Uncle Roland.  The latter could not help her even should he want to.

Her hand shook as it felt for the cup of water on the side table.  She had taken her first sip when the nurse came in.

“Good news Miss. Guerry, a room just opened up in East Nursing, on this floor.  We’re moving you there right away.  You’ll be able to see all the visitors you want.”

Denise choked.  The Hammer would have easy access to a room outside the ICU.  And his visit would be her last.

With her good arm she reached for her smart phone.

In Summerville, South Carolina the rain had ceased.  Bill Hamm and Jeannine, hand in hand, strolled towards their car.

Bill’s phone vibrated.  He listened, and turned to Jeannine.

“Denise needs help.  She’s in the hospital.  She’s terrified.  SÉGAG has sent an assassin to kill her.”

“Henri Duval?”

“Not him, a professional.  Someone called the “Hammer.”

Jeannine bit her tongue.

“Jeannine, without Denise we could not have stopped the rockets from reaching Mombasa.  She convinced that port superintendant to release the container to us.”

“Bill, I can see you have to go, but you’re not going without me.”

“We have to leave, we’re an hour or more away.”

“Can you get there in time?”

“I have to try.”

Marcel Dupré, the “Hammer,” stood by the elevator on the second floor of the hospital.  The door to the Intensive Care Unit was down the hall, only steps away.  Across from him was a full-length mirror, presumably provided to divert impatient visitors from the slowness of the elevators.

He ignored his reflection.  He was calm and focused.  He would snuff out the life of the Guerry woman with hardly more emotion than it took to snuff out a candle.

He looked down at his shoes.  The rich sheen of their Italian leather soothed him.

The door to the stairwell was three steps away from where he stood, and the stairwell door on the first floor was unlocked.  He had checked.  He would leave by the stairs when his task was done.

He stood with his eyes on his shoes, his ears waiting for the opening click of the ICU doors.

In the ICU, Denise Guerry closed her eyes as the attendant strapped her onto the gurney.  The nurse laid a chart and papers on top of her as the large attendant pushed her out from the room.

Just past the nurses’ desk and to its right, a bright exit sign hung above the double doors that led from the ICU to the main corridor.

The attendant hit the wall panel to open the doors.

“Click.  Click.”

The doors fanned wide open.

Denise lifted her head at the sound of a man behind her.  He spoke to the attendant.

“Sir, don’t move.  Stop the stretcher.  Don’t go into the corridor. Stay here.”

The attendant stopped and turned.  The speaker was a man in his late twenties.

“Excuse me, who are you?  I must take this patient to her room.  What do you want?”

The man took out a phone.  He spoke with a French accent.

“Just a moment.  I’ll explain everything after I send this message.”

This time Denise recognized the voice.

She gasped.

The speaker was “Jacobin5,” her cousin, Jacques.

On the second floor of the Memorial Hospital, the assassin known as the “Hammer” heard the ICU doors click open.  He took a step towards the now-open doorway, but his phone vibrated.  He stopped and touched an icon.

An email of encrypted numbers appeared.  He touched his decoding app to display the plain text.

m.dupre|urgent|cancel|

removal|of|d.|guerry||

repeat|cancel|removal|

of|d.|guerry|authorised|

by02001714112018|

gironde1|||.67t'onj

He stared.  The Hammer hated confusion and sudden change, but the message was clear and the authorization code was correct.

The hit was off!

He dared not disobey Gironde1.

He tapped an expensive shoe on the tile floor, spun about, and took the elevator down to the lobby.

At the exit to the ICU, Denise’s cousin, Jacques, peered into the corridor.  He saw no one.  He pointed to Denise and spoke to the hospital attendant.

“Sorry for the interruption.  This patient is my cousin.  You can take her to her room now.”

The attendant rolled Denise down the hall to East Nursing.

At her room, the attendant, aided by a nurse, transferred Denise from the gurney onto the bed.  He left and, after some chores, the nurse followed.

Denise spoke.

“Jacques, what are you doing here?  I got your message.  I’m scared.  The Hammer is after me.”

“Not now he isn’t.”

“But the message you forwarded ordered him to kill me?”

“True, but just now I sent the Hammer my own message complete with Gironde1’s confirmation code.  It cancels the hit on you.  The Hammer has been called off.”

“How did you get Gironde1’s confirmation code?”

Jacques shrugged.

Denise sat up in the bed and reached out with her free arm.

“Give me a hug, Jacques.  What would I do without you?”

“Nothing, I hope.  Now get dressed.  We’re leaving.”

“What?”

“We have to go.  The FBI is on the way to arrest you and the Hammer will soon find he’s been duped.”

“But I have a friend coming.  I have to see him.”

“You mean Hamm?  Forget him.  You’ll never get him away from that redhead.  He’s not for you.  Besides, I’ve had it with your foolish infatuations and machinations.  Your body is not a weapon to use against “stupid” men.  You need someone like me.  Someone who will share himself with you alone.”

“Jacques, what are you saying?”

“Nothing.  We must leave.”

Oddly, she didn’t mind his lecture or his commands.  He made her feel secure.

He helped her into her clothes.  As he arranged her blouse over the injured arm, she felt his warm breath on her neck.  She leaned away.

“Forget it, Jacques.  I like you, but I’m not into incest!  We are first cousins, remember.”

He laughed.

“I’m not into incest either, OK?”

He took her arm.  They went down to the lobby and marched out the entrance without checking out.

Once outside, he helped her to his car.

At the hospital, Stew Marks, followed by Sam Smith, strode to the reception desk.  Stew flashed his badge.

“FBI.  What room is Ms. Denise Guerry in?”

The woman consulted her computer.

“Check with the nurse in East Nursing, on ‘Two.’  Take the elevator by the gift shop.”

“Thank you.”

Stew and Sam went to the elevator.  On the second floor, a nurse led them to Ms. Guerry’s room.

The bed was not made, but the room was empty.  The nurse went to the closet.

Denise’s clothes were gone.

The nurse called the administration, listened a moment, and turned back to Stew.

“She did not check out, but apparently she’s left the hospital.”

Stew’s face grew red.  He turned to leave, but the door was blocked by new arrivals, Bill Hamm and Jeannine Ryan.

“Damn it Hamm, did you help Denise get away?  Where is she?”

Jeannine interceded.

“Stew, we just got here.  We don’t know any more than you.”

Stew turned to Sam.

“She can’t be long gone.  Maybe we can still catch her.”

Stew started to the door.  His disappointment at not finding Denise was increased by seeing Jeannine with Hamm. 
Damn.  She’s sticking with him. 
As he stepped out he leaned towards her.

“Jeannine, Denise is wanted for selling government secrets.  Please don’t help her.  That’s aiding and abetting, and I don’t want to have to arrest you.”

He leaned closer and whispered.

“If you get tired of this guy, give me a call.  I’m still here and I’m not giving up yet.”

He looked at Bill.

“You’re a lucky man Hamm.”

Stew left.  Sam followed.

Jeannine turned to Bill.  She studied his eyes.

“Are you disappointed that Denise didn’t say goodbye?”

He pressed Jeannine against the wall and kissed her hard and long.

The nurse averted her eyes and stepped out into the hallway.

At a small commuter airfield near Georgetown, South Carolina, Jacques Guerry parked the rental car.

“Jacques, what are you doing?  Where are you going?”

“Not me, us.  We’re flying to Atlanta and then to Martinique.”

He handed her two passports.  The photos were theirs, but the names were M. and Mme. Devineau.

“Husband and wife?  What are you planning?  I told you, we are cousins.”

“So what.  I’m going to make love to you.  I’ve waited all these years, and those passports prove we are married.  Besides, I know you like me.”

“Damn it Jacques, don’t be an idiot!”

“Wait, you need to look at this.”

He smiled and drew a paper from his jacket.  He unfolded it and handed it to her.  She took it and read.

“My God!  Jacques, what does this mean?”

“It’s clear enough.  You are adopted.  The man you called ‘father’ was sterile.  He was not your biological father.  He and your mother adopted you but were afraid to tell anyone, particularly his older brother, your uncle Roland, my father.  They knew he controlled the money and the company.  They did not trust him.  They wanted to assure you of your inheritance.”

She lapsed silent, stunned.

He took her hand and led her, stumbling, onto the tarmac.

She finally found her voice.

“How long have you known? How did you find out?”

“That’s not important.”

He put his arm around her shoulder.

“Come on, the pilot is ready.  We have a connection to make in Atlanta.”

He guided her to the waiting plane.

In Arrondissement 2 in Paris, Gironde1, the minister’s close aide, paced about his desk.

His chosen instrument, “le Marteau,” had failed.  Gironde1 smashed his hand on the polished desk.

And where was Gutera!  The rockets were lost, and the ship la Lutte was ordered back to le Havre.  Why hadn’t Gutera contacted him?  Where was the Hutu leader?

He smashed his fist again on the walnut desk top.

It hurt.

In a motel in Georgetown South Carolina, in far less elegant surroundings, Marcel Dupré kicked the wall of his room.

Duped by that dumb Jacques Guerry!

And his boss, Gironde1, was not pleased with his gullibility.  Not at all!

He kicked the wall again.

Damn!

Now his Italian shoes were scuffed!

Hours later, as the Airbus left Atlanta to fly over the waters of the Caribbean, Denise turned to Jacques Guerry.

“But what will we live on?”

“I have millions of Euros stashed in the Cayman Islands.  SÉGAG had a huge surplus.  Think of it as our share of the inheritance.  Dear old Alphonse!”

“Jacques, something happened to me.  I don’t want money like I used to.  I mean, I do, but there there’s a lot I regret doing.  I’ve been wrong.  About many things!”

“You’ve got the money anyway.  Half the accounts are in your name.”

“Dear Jacques, you’ve always stuck by me, even when I was mad at you.”

He laughed.

She gripped the arms of the seat and switched to the more troubling issue.

“You say we are not related?”

“Not genetically anyway.  And I want you to know I’m glad.  I think I’ve loved you since we were little together.”

She frowned.

“Jacques, you always joke.  Get serious.”

He looked deep into her eyes.  She turned away. 
Dear God, he means it.

She thought of all the shared times in their youth. 
He knows me better than anyone, and he still likes me or thinks he does!

“This is too fast, Jacques, I can’t handle this.”

But he pulled her towards him.  She leaned her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes.

Good old Jacques.  You always make me feel safe.  But love?

She felt his arm tighten about her shoulders.

Who knows?  Maybe?