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

Jeannine Ryan sat at her desk in the basement of her home in Bethesda, Maryland.  She held a key in her hand.  Her friend, Bill Hamm, had missed their date last Friday for Skyline Drive.  Instead, this key had arrived in the mail along with puzzling instructions.  She was to hold the key for him for four days.  After that, if he had not picked it up, she was to go to Manassas, Virginia, and retrieve the contents of the postal box whose number was on the key.

She sighed.  The four days had passed and Bill was missing. He must be in trouble.

And yesterday, two FBI jerks had visited her office looking for him!  She had received them coldly and told them nothing.  They indicated that Bill was a spy, and acted as if Jeannine, somehow were his accomplice.

Idiot Feds!

But their visit had unsettled her.

Where are you, Bill?  And what is in that Post Office Box?

It was time to go to Manassas.

Her partner Aileen Harris was on vacation.  She wrote her a note and clutching the key, left the house.

When Jeannine arrived at the post office in Manassas, nothing appeared unusual.

Inside the building, she took the key from her purse. 
Damn it Bill, where are you?  Why are the Feds looking for you?

She checked the number and leaned down to examine the lower tier of postal boxes.  There it was.  The lock turned easily.  She pulled at the canvas case that was wedged in the box.

“May I help you Miss?”

She looked up.  A tall man stood behind her.  She tugged hard and the case came free.

“No thank you.  I’m fine.”

Jeannine’s red hair appealed to the man.  He smiled.

She hesitated.

Is this guy a Fed?

But a small boy came running and grabbed the man’s trousers.

OK, no!  Jeannine get hold of yourself.

She pushed past the pair.

Damn it Bill, what is stuffed in this briefcase?

Outside, she clicked the locks, started the Subaru, and drove out of the parking lot.

She did not notice the man in the Ford Excursion parked across the street.  The man (Tom Holder) put the Excursion in gear and followed the Subaru.

At the FBI building in Washington, DC, Stew Marks, coffee in hand, was at his desk.  He had been with the Bureau for several years.  He was an ex-Marine.  (A misnomer, he would
always
be a marine.)  After the military, he had joined the FBI and received counter-terrorism training at the academy in Quantico.  That completed, at a mature 29 he had been assigned to the Washington Field Office, Joint Terrorism Task Force (JTTF.)

Yesterday Stew and his partner, Jack Marino, had interviewed Dr. Jeannine Ryan, friend of a missing CIA employee, William Hamm, who was suspected of conspiracy to deliver secrets to an unnamed foreign power.

Stew had conducted the interview rather than Jack, who, did not like CIA “Spooks” in general, and Hamm in particular.  (Jack’s testimony before a congressional committee investigating a terrorist attack on the Unity Pavilion in Virginia, had been thoroughly impeached by Hamm.)

From the moment he first saw her, Stew had been attracted to Dr. Ryan and her auburn hair, but she was not the first good-looking female he had questioned. He had a job to do.

And Ryan had frustrated him.  No way was she interested in helping the FBI find Hamm.  He was sure she knew more than she let on.

He reviewed his notes.

Stew:  Ms. Ryan, I’m agent Stewart Marks with the FBI, and this is my partner agent Jack Marino.  (Showed ID.)  We’d like to ask you some questions about your friend, Mr. Hamm. May we come in?

(Hesitates, Let’s us in.  Red hair, attractive.  Seems uncomfortable, definitely edgy.)

He had written “attractive.”  That was an understatement, “Stunning” was more like it.  Stew frowned and read on.  His next questions concerned background on Hamm.  They had been tough and straightforward.  Then he had probed her thoughts.

Stew:  Are you aware that your friend may have stolen government secrets?

Ryan:  That’s what you say.

Stew:  Then you support what he did?

Ryan:  [Silence.]

Stew:  Does that mean you do?

Ryan:  Don’t try to trick me.

Stew skipped to the last lines written on his pad.

...

Stew:  Ms. Ryan, can’t you help us?

Ryan:  What exactly do you want to know?

Stew:  We were hoping you can tell us where he is?

Ryan:  If I did know, why would I tell you?

Stew:  Because you want to help him.  It’s for his own sake.  He needs to come in voluntarily.  Why won’t you help him?

Ryan:  Because I know Bill, he’s sacrificed more for this country than you ever will, and he’s no damned spy.  Whoever told you that is wrong.

Stew:  Ms. Ryan, I’m just doing my job.

Ryan:  So your job stinks.  Stop persecuting the innocent!

(Spunky!)

Stew smiled to himself.  He had written the note
“Spunky”
when his partner had risen to accost the desirable redhead.  Stew had waved to Jack to sit down and cool it, before trying a direct question.

Stew:  Ms. Ryan do you know where Mr. Hamm is?

Ryan:  I do not!

Stew:  Will you call me if he contacts you?

Ryan:  I’d have to think about it.

Stew:  What does that mean?

Ryan:  You’ve taken too much of my time.  I’d like you to leave now.

Stew:  All right, Ms. Ryan but we’ll be back.  Meanwhile, here’s my number.  You can best help your friend by calling me when he does contact you.

(Knows more than she lets on, is uncooperative.  This is useless now.  Is she in this too?)

Stew put down his notes and rolled his chair back.  He finished his coffee, tossed the cup into the basket, and propped his feet on the desk.

OK, Ms. Ryan, now we have to investigate you too.

In her Subaru, Jeannine Ryan glanced at the sack-like briefcase on the seat beside her.

Bill, what have you done?

She frowned.  She needed time to think, and she needed to be away from the FBI.

She turned her car onto the Manassas Bypass and headed for Dumphries and I-95 south to Richmond.

Wayne Johnson stood alone on the weathered deck of his beach house in Topsail, North Carolina.  Wayne was bored, stifled by a lack of purpose that left him unchallenged.

The beach in front of his house on Topsail Island, North Carolina, fronted a monotonous gray ocean that stretched southeast to an indistinct horizon.  Above him, the scene was equally uninteresting.  No trace of blue pierced a continuous gray cloud layer where only yesterday flat-bottomed cumulus clusters, puffed and white, had punctuated an azure sky.

A single gull of uncertain species floated by as he stepped to a gray deck chair.  He laid his head back.  He tried to relax but could not.

Phyllis, his wife of long standing, had died the year before.  Retired and alone, Wayne needed to be needed.  He was a statistician who had thrived on studying counts and measurements from medical studies whose goal was to cure disease and alleviate suffering.  To that end he had worked for and ultimately owned a statistical consulting firm, StatFind, located in Rockville, Maryland.

But StatFind now was defunct, his house in Maryland was up for sale, and his wife was gone.

Over the ocean behind him, dark clouds touched a frothy surface signaling an approaching squall.

The storm came fast.  Heavy drops splattered the gray boards of the deck and coalesced to flow over and through the cracked wood.

Wayne dashed for shelter just as a strong gust flipped a deck chair against the railing with a splintering impact.  He was dripping wet before he could force the sliding doors shut behind him.

The gusts stopped, but left behind a steady rain.  He sat at the table and stared through the drizzled window at the deck outside.  The fully soaked boards of the deck were now a dark gray.

The rain kept on.  As he stared at the unrelenting gray sky and ocean, the room darkened, but he did not turn on the lights.  Finally, Wayne’s head slumped on the table and his breathing became regular.

In his third-floor office of the Torbee Building, Hugh Byrd’s coat was off, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up.  A 9 mm Glock lay on the desk.

Days had passed since Tom Holder had delivered Hamm to the house in North Carolina.  There had been no news about the missing documents.  Nothing.  Nada.

Hugh sat staring at the phone.

The only lead was that Ryan woman.  They had fixed her phones, but to no avail.  Again, nothing!  And yesterday, the FBI had interviewed her in their search for William Hamm.  Hugh knew the lead agent, Stew Marks, a good investigator.

But Hugh knew where Hamm was and Stew did not.

Finally the phone buzzed.  Tom Holder was on the line.

“Boss, I followed Ryan like you said.  After work today she drove to Virginia.”

“So, where?”

“To Manassas, the post office not far from the hospital where Hamm got off the truck.  She carried something from the post office.  It could have been a large woman’s tote, or a cloth briefcase!”

Hugh jumped to his feet.

“Where is she now?  Did you get it?”

The cell call broke up.  Tom’s answer was lost in static.

“Tom are you there?  Speak up.”

He heard more static mixed with words.

“What do you mean she’s on I-95 south?  You should have stopped her in Manassas.  Speak up damn it.”

The call cleared.  Hugh listened a second longer and exploded.

“Ryan’s smart.  She’s no idiot.  Now she has our papers.  If she connects the dots, we’re in trouble.  She’s a threat.  Follow her and get whatever she has.  Get it all, then make sure she can’t hurt us.”

He paused and tightened his tie.

“Damn it!  I don’t care how.  Just do it!”

Denise Guerry would call soon.

And that damned Ryan had the papers!

At the beach house, Wayne Johnson’s head buzzed.  He awoke abruptly. 
What the?

His cell-phone lay vibrating on the wooden table.  He fumbled for the offending instrument.

“Yes?”

He recognized the voice.

“Jeannine, Jeannine Ryan, it’s been more than a year.  What’s up?”

“It’s about Bill, Bill Hamm.”

Bill Hamm had been chief financial officer at Wayne’s company, StatFind, before he had returned to the Central Intelligence Agency.  Jeannine too had worked for StatFind.

“I thought Bill was in Austria?”

“He was, but his cover was blown at the Unity Pavilion attack in Virginia.  Langley reassigned him to the States, a desk job.  A few months ago they made him the CIA’s liaison with some secret contractor in Manassas, Virginia.  He’s been there since May.”

“How does this involve you or me?”

“Bill’s missing.  The Feds are looking for him.  They say he stole government secrets.  They say he’s a damn spy.”

A pause.

“They interrogated me for several hours.  They think I know where he is.”

A moment of silence.

“Wayne, they think I’m a spy too!”

Wayne had hired Jeannine at StatFind when she was still a graduate student.  She had lost her graduate fellowship because she had exposed research fraud at her university.  With no means of support, she had been forced to quit her studies and work.  Wayne had recognized her talent and helped her finish her Ph.D. in mathematical statistics at another institution.

He often thought of her as his daughter though that sentiment had not been reciprocated.  This phone call was unexpected.

“How did you find my number?”

“I called Mona, she gave it to me.”

Mona was Wayne’s longtime secretary at StatFind, right up to the sale of the company.

“Wayne, Mona told me about Phyllis.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”

Wayne winced at the mention of his wife.  He regrouped.

“Thanks, but why call me?”

“You helped me when I was down and out.  And you told me once you thought of me as a daughter.”

“That’s true, and I still do.  What can I do?”

“Last week I got a note in the mail from Bill.  There was a key with it, a key to a box at the post office in Manassas.  He said not to use it unless he didn’t pick it up in four days.  I waited, and he didn’t show.  Today after work I went to Manassas.  There was a big canvas briefcase in the box.  I have it with me, but I’m worried.”

Jeannine took a breath.