The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (8 page)

At Wayne’s beach house, Jeannine Ryan awoke to the aroma of fresh coffee.  She slipped out of bed.  Her jeans had slept-in wrinkles, but she opted to keep them on. 
Who cares?  I’m not going anywhere.
 
This is the beach, right?

At the table her laptop had been moved to make room for a plate filled with eggs, bacon and home fries.  She sat and Wayne appeared with a cup of coffee.

“Wayne, you’re spoiling me.”

“Why not?  Eat up.”

Jeannine stabbed a potato chunk with her fork and spun it in the yellow yolk of an egg.  She looked up as Wayne went to the door.

“Jeannine, I have to go.  A neighbor says that two teens, turtle-patrol volunteers, pulled a man out of the Intracoastal Waterway last night.  They took him to the Urgent Care Center in Surf City.  This morning an ambulance took the guy to Onslow Memorial Hospital in Jacksonville.  He’s in bad shape.  From his description he could be Bill.”

She jumped from her chair.

“I’m going with you.”

“No.  You keep eating.  It’s going to be a long day and besides this may be a bum lead.  It may not be Bill.”

She glared, but he was not intimidated.

“Look, no one knows you’re here.  Let’s keep it that way.  Whoever followed you to Camp Geiger knows you have the briefcase.  No one knows me, I’ll go.  You relax and eat.”

He pointed to the documents strewn on the table.

“And work on those papers if you want to help Bill.”

Jeannine wanted to argue, but he was right.

“All right, Wayne.”

“Stay inside.  I’ll be back in a two hours.  If this guy in the hospital is Bill, these people are killers.”

He left.  Jeannine rose and threw the deadbolt on the door. She went back to the table, pushed her plate aside and replaced it with the laptop.

Bill?

In Surf City Stew Marks’ phone vibrated.  It was his partner, Jack Marino in Wilmington.

“Stew, were you asleep?”

“No matter, what have you got?”

“Zero, zip, nada!  The resident agency guys are helping me, and the locals are on the lookout, but there’s no trace of Hamm or Ryan.  Nowhere!”

“Jack, look around Wilmington.  Hamm has to be nearby.  I’ll check North Topsail and Jacksonville.”

“What if Hamm has gone inland.  We’d both miss him.”

“Not likely.  At Wilson, Ryan was headed for the coast, and Hamm dumped his car here.  No, they’re trying to meet on the coast.  This is where we’ll look.”

As Stew clicked off, he thought of the shapely redhead. 
No Mr. Hamm you are definitely near her.  You’re nearby.

His facts were wrong, but his conclusion was correct.

Stew was hungry, but he would eat later in North Topsail.  He had several interviews there in the afternoon.  When done with those, he would take Route 210 off the island and go to Jacksonville.

Hugh Byrd’s head throbbed.  The ceramic lamp in that damned doctor’s hands had left a thin red line of broken skin next to a swollen lump on top of his skull.  He headed for the sink and downed two Advil.

He stepped into the living area where Tom Holder waited.  Hugh spoke.

“Any trace of the doctor?  We have his car, he can’t be far.”

“The neighbor across the way saw a guy jump from the deck.  She thought he was drunk or high on drugs.  She thinks we had a wild party.  The man ran off limping, towards the beach.”

“Where could he go to treat his leg?”

“He could treat himself, or there’s an Urgent Care Center across the bridge.”

“Smets is a whiner.  He went to that clinic.  Let’s go.”

“What about Ryan?”

“Smets, first.”

Byrd holstered his Glock.  Ms. Ryan could wait.  His beef with the doctor was now personal!

The nurse at the Surf City Urgent Care Center was professional. When Hugh Byrd flashed his badge, she consulted her computer

“Yes, we did treat someone with an ankle sprain last night.  His name was ‘Smets.’  He was treated and discharged just after midnight.  There’s no address.”

Hugh smiled.

“Thanks anyway.  You’ve been a big help.”

Hugh turned to leave as a young doctor approached the counter and spoke.

“Nurse, is Joe back with the ambulance yet?”

“Not yet.  He took our ‘John Doe’ to Onslow Memorial in Jacksonville. It’s a long way.  It’s lunch time, maybe he grabbed a bite to eat.  Give him another thirty minutes.”

“Let me know when he returns.  I have another transport.”

Hugh Byrd returned to the nurse.

“About your ‘John Doe,’ when did he arrive?”

“Last night, just after midnight.  Two teens found him in the waterway.  He was transferred to Jacksonville this morning.”

Hugh nodded to her and left.  Back in the car, he spoke.”

“Smets was here.  Even better, we may have found Hamm.  Looks like Smets meant it when he said Hamm went overboard.”

“Who do we go after?  Hamm, Ryan or Smets.”

“Hamm is the most important, but if that ‘John Doe’ is him, he’ll be at that hospital in Jacksonville at least today and tomorrow.  He can wait.  We don’t know where Ryan is.  That rat Smets must be nearby.  I’ll settle him first.”

He smashed his hand with his fist and handed Tom the keys.

“You drive, I’ve got a headache.  There’s a deli back in Surf City near the traffic light.  Drive there.  I need to think.”

Hugh touched his head gingerly.

Damn you Smets
.

He closed his eyes as Tom drove.

From his post across the street from the Surf City Urgent Care Center, Dr. Gilles Smets watched the Ford Excursion with Tom Holder and Hugh Byrd disappear down the street.

Smets started walking.  He took out his phone and punched the number for GES in Northern Virginia.

Denise Guerry answered.  Smets stammered.

“I’m in trouble.  Byrd wants to kill me.  He has my car keys.  I have no car and I’ve got a bad ankle.”

“You’re afraid of Byrd?”

“I’m a lab person.  I have no weapon, and besides, there are two of them.  Holder is with him.  I need help.”

“And my new electronics lab?”

“Byrd made me evacuate.  He said the FBI was onto us.”

“So now my new tracking lab is lost.  That equipment was valuable.  It was to back up Sullivan’s work at Topsail.  You should have consulted me before keeping Hamm there.  Damn it, Smets, you work for me, not Byrd.”

“I was afraid to say no to Byrd, and he sent Hamm here with Holder.  That man’s a thug.”

“All right.  Where is Hamm now?  Is he alive?”

“No.  I dumped him in the Intracoastal Waterway.  That’s why Byrd tried to kill me.  I need help.”

“All right, I’ll handle Byrd.  Where are you?”

“In Surf City not far from the bridge.”

“There’s a park on the island by the Surf City bridge.  Go there and wait.  I’ll send Henri to pick you up.  He’ll be there in an hour.”

Smets limped towards the Surf City bridge.

In Wilmington, North Carolina, Henri Duval sat in the McDonald’s across from the hotel and sipped his coffee.

As a Frenchman, he felt heretical eating fast food, but he had learned to enjoy American “sandwiches.”  The Yanks knew how to create flavor between two pieces of bread unlike in his native land where a ham sandwich might be an unadorned dry slab slapped between the halves of a baguette.

At age 38 Henri Duval was tall, fair-skinned, and a man of action.  An agile 100 kilos (220 pounds) and a “silver
glove”
in the French kickboxing martial art,
la boxe-française Savate
.  Anyone caught in a
bagarr
e or street fight would be happy to have Henri on their side.

And Henri knew his weapons.  For a handgun, he preferred a 9 mm Belgian-made Browning.  He was equally handy with an M16 or an AK47, but his favorite assault weapon was the French rifle,
le FAMAS G2
, a modification of the
FAMAS F1
he had used during his service in
Operation Turquoise
during the  genocide in Rwanda in 1994.

Henri had been in Wilmington a week, doing nothing, waiting for instructions.  No matter, the pay was excellent.  Besides, he was not far from Florence, South Carolina where his friend, Angelique Uwimana, a Tutsi from Rwanda, was studying for her Ph. D. in Computer Science at Carolina Technical University.

He had just finished the McDonald’s “Quarter Pounder” when his cell phone vibrated.  It was the boss, Denise Guerry.

“Henri, pick up Doctor Smets.  He’s in some sort of trouble with Byrd.  He’s at a park in Surf City, just after you cross the bridge.  You must leave now.  And don’t let Byrd hurt Smets.  If he tries, stop him, permanently if necessary.”

Before Henri could respond the line was broken.

Henri Duval frowned.  He did not like Dr. Smets. Smets’ inability to look him in the eye plus his whiny voice told Henri never to trust the man.

Moreover, Smets, a Belgian, had worked at a government clinic in Kigali during the Rwandan holocaust.  Most Belgians had fled the country after Rwandese troops murdered the moderate Hutu Prime Minister, Agathe Uwilingiyimana, along with the Belgian-UN peacekeepers assigned to protect her.

Dr. Smets could not have worked at that clinic unless the genocidal government had regarded him as a friend.

But per instructions, Henri drove to Surf City and crossed the bridge to the island.  He pulled onto the shoulder and sounded the horn.

Smets rose from a park bench and limped towards the car.

“
Montez
.  Get in.”

“Denise told you about me and Byrd?”

Henri nodded.

Smets fell silent.  Henri turned the car about and crossed the bridge back to the mainland.

Driving on Route 210, Stew Marks headed to Jacksonville.  The low western sun was in his eyes as he crossed the bridge from North Topsail to the mainland.  His phone vibrated anew.  It was his partner, Jack Marino.

“Stew, where are you.”

“On 210, I just left Topsail Island.”

“We’ve caught a break on Ryan.  Some years ago, she worked for a company called StatFind in Rockville, Maryland.  Her boss was named Wayne Johnson.  His company no longer exists, but it seems he was fond of her.”

“OK, I’ve stopped.  What’s your point.”

“Wayne Johnson’s wife died last year, and his house in Rockville is up for sale.  He has another house.  It’s in Topsail Beach not far from Mile Seven after the traffic light in Surf City. I think Ryan is there.”

Stew’s tires squealed as he swung a “U” across the highway and headed back over the bridge.

He was maybe an hour away.

Stew hammered the accelerator.

In the deli in Surf City, Hugh Byrd and Tom Holder took a table where Tom ordered a Reuben.  Byrd ordered a coke, unfolded his phone on the table, and sat staring.

Tom’s sandwich arrived.  He forced his fork through the toasted rye and corned beef covered with dressing.  The sandwich disappeared.

“That was good.  Hugh, what’s with you?  You going to eat?”

Hugh Byrd felt his phone vibrate.

“That wuss Smets has called Chantilly by now.  This must be Denise to tell me to lay off the rat.”

He counted to five before picking up.  The caller was, indeed, Denise Guerry.

“Byrd, you idiot!  What did you do to Smets?  He’s scared witless.”

“That witless rat tried to kill me.”

“Only after you tried to kill him, Byrd, you will screw up the whole operation.  Leave Smets alone.  We need him.  He’s off limits.”

A pause.

“Get my papers back!”

“OK, but Smets tried to kill Hamm, and failed.  And I think Hamm is the ‘John Doe’ in Onslow Memorial Hospital in Jacksonville.  I can go there if you want me to.”

“No! It’s Ryan who has my documents and security tokens.  We found her.  She’s at her old boss’s house in Topsail. You take care of Ryan.”

She took a breath and continued.

“Here are the directions.”

Hugh listened and hung up.  He turned to Tom.

“Is the M16 in the trunk?”

Tom nodded.

“Extra magazines?”

“Two.”

“Good.  Ryan is here in Topsail, she’s only minutes from here.”

Tom smirked.

The sun was low in the west when Wayne Johnson returned to Topsail from the hospital in Jacksonville.  Jeannine jumped to her feet as he entered.

“Was it Bill?”

Wayne nodded.  Jeannine grabbed his arm.

“How is he?”

“They didn’t want to give me details, but when they saw I was trying to help they eased up.  He’s in bad shape.  His blood chemistries are bad, some liver problem.  He has high levels of Sodium Pentothal in his system, multiple contusions and bruises, and a severe lung infection, bacterial pneumonia.”

“‘Sodium Pentothal,’ that’s Sodium thiopental, the ‘Truth Drug.’  But why?”

“My guess is someone kept him captive and sedated him.  The bruises would confirm that he was beaten.”

“They could have been caused by a fall, like off a boat.”

“It’s possible, but my guess is that someone beat him.”

“And the pneumonia?”

“Extended submersion, near-drowning, water in the lungs  There’s plenty of salt water bacteria available for an infection.”

“But they think he’ll be OK?”

“His condition is ‘serious’ whatever that means.”

“It’s not as bad as ‘critical,’ but it’s not good.  Does the hospital know who he is?  Has the FBI showed up?”

“He’s still a ‘John Doe’ and no they haven’t yet, but they will.  And there’s no question of moving him. He definitely needs to stay in the hospital.”

“Damn it Wayne, we have to get him out of there before the FBI.”

“Jeannine, you can’t just walk in there and pick him up.  They won’t let you.  And besides, FBI or not, Bill needs to be there.  There’s no way he should be moved before Tuesday at the earliest.”

Wayne paused.

“Besides who would you tell them you are?  The FBI is looking for Jeannine Ryan.”

“There has to be something we can do.”

“The best thing you can do for Bill is to discover what these documents are all about.  I think you should get back to work.”

Jeannine said nothing.

She reached for the nearest stack of papers.

Not far from Wayne Johnson’s house, Tom Holder and Hugh Byrd sat in their Ford Excursion.  Hugh sipped his coffee.

“This damned coffee is cold.”

“If you hadn’t made us wait, it wouldn’t be cold.”

“I’ll explain it again.  One, we work for the government.  No one must see us.  Two, we saw Ryan in the house and she hasn’t left.  She’s there.  Three, when it’s dark, you slip in and drop her without anyone, even her, seeing you.  Four, you grab the papers and the briefcase and get out.”

“What about the old guy, Johnson.”

“No witnesses, clear?”

“But those cars that drove by us.  Somebody may track our plates.”

Hugh Byrd finished his coffee.

“Tom, anyone tracing these plates will reach a dead end.  Our agency has ensured that.”

Dusk settled on the island.  In the dim light, a light breeze arose ocean-side to cool the interior of the SUV.  Hugh Byrd fingered his Glock 9 mm.  He spoke.

“It’s time.  Leave the lights off.  The house across from Johnson’s is closed for the season.  Park underneath.  Take the M16 and an extra magazine.  I’ll watch outside.”

Tom started the engine.

Inside Wayne’s house, Jeannine sat at a table covered with papers.  She inserted a CD in her laptop.

“Wayne, turn on the lights, it’s too dark.  And come here I have something to show you.”

Wayne peered at the numbers on her laptop

He noted the number “3” followed by a much larger number.

“Jeannine, that looks like a key for RSA encryption.”

“It is, and someone found the two prime factors.  See.”

She scrolled the screen downwards.  Two numbers appeared.

“These last two numbers both pass the probability tests for primes.  Multiplied together they give that large number.  Their product and the number ‘3’ make someone’s public key.”

Wayne spoke.

“But you need the private key to decode a message.”

“Right, but if you know the two prime factors, like those above, you always can calculate the private key.”

“Jeannine, the National Security Agency says each prime should have 2048 bits.  Even a 1024-bit prime has over 300 digits. That’s much more than the ninety digits that these primes have.”

“Right again.  And these two primes only differ in the last five places.  They’re too close together.  This public key is weak.  But whatever the number of bits, once you know the prime factors, nothing is secure and any standard is irrelevant!”

She brought up another file.

“Anyway, there are more key pairs in this file, and most meet the 2048-bit standard.  And here’s a file that links these keys to major members of the European Union.  Their communications are not secure.  An enemy would give a fortune for this list.”

She rubbed her forehead.

“Some of the decoded memos are in French.  They’re official communications between France, Belgium and Francophone countries in Africa like Benin, Niger, Chad or Cameroon.  Wait.  Here are some in English.  Here’s one from Rwanda to the State Department.”

“Jeannine, for RSA decryption, you need to factor the product of the primes.  When that product is large, no computer is fast enough to factor it.  Maybe someone stole these factors?”

She sat a moment before speaking.

“Yes, but who?  And how did Bill get them?”

“You have to face the possibility that Bill stole them himself.  He was or is a CIA agent, remember.”

Jeannine flushed.  Auburn hair flying, she jumped to her feet.

“I reject that.  Bill is no traitor!

Before Wayne could react, the glass doors to the deck disintegrated inwards from bursts of automatic fire.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup..., BrBrBrup.”

The chair that Jean had left a split second earlier, shattered and splintered apart.

Wayne shouted.

“Down!”

He hit the light switch and dropped to the floor.  He whispered through the darkness.

“Jeannine, are you OK?”

A low moan reached his ears.

Wayne’s eyes adjusted to the dark.  He saw Jeannine, on the floor, holding her leg.  He crawled to her.  An inch-long something protruded from her thigh.

“It’s a piece of wood from the chair, hold still.”

He felt her jeans.  They were damp but not soaked.

“I don’t think it hit a vessel.  Hang on.  I’m pulling it out.”

He tore off a piece of his shirt and grasped the wood.  It came out.  He pressed the wound and wrapped the leg tight.

“It’s stopped bleeding.  Can you move?”

In answer Jeannine crawled under the table.  They lay in the dark, their eyes on the shattered door and the dim deck.  A slight breeze came off the ocean and rustled the wind chimes on the deck, but otherwise nothing moved outside.

They waited.

Out on the deck a shadow passed across the empty doorway.  Whoever it was, was in no hurry.

Jeannine whispered.

“Wayne, do you have a gun?”

“There’s a shotgun in the broom closet, and some loose shells in the dish on the shelf.  He can’t see us.  I’ll get it.”

But Jeannine already had crawled to the closet.  She reached up and softly turned the door handle.  The door opened on oiled hinges, no squeaks. 
Thank God.

She reached inside and felt a large barrel, a 12-gauge. 
Good
.

Jeannine had grown up in West Virginia and knew shotguns.  This one was an old single-shot Iver Johnson.  She broke it open and inserted a cartridge.  In the dark she could not tell if the load was buckshot or birdshot.  Whatever, it would have to do.

Wayne hissed a warning.

She looked up.  The dark shadow had stepped through the gaping doorway.

Fiery flashes filled the room.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”

The drywall behind Jeannine crumbled and cracked along a line shoulder-high.

More three-round bursts.

“BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup, ..., BrBrBrup.”

This time the deadly line was only chest-high.

“BrBrBrup.”

Lower still.

She heard the clank as an empty magazine hit the floor.  A sharp click followed.

The shooter had reloaded.

No time to wait!  She squeezed the trigger.

“Brroom.”

The old shotgun slammed her shoulder.  Buckshot rattled what was left of the sliding doors.  The shadowy figure cursed, tumbled backwards and crashed against the railing of the deck.

Jeannine shoved another cartridge into the old gun. Hopefully, it too was buckshot.

Wayne signaled her not to move and crept
towards the opening.  Seconds passed.  Finally he stood.

“You hit him good.  But he had a partner.  They’ve gone.  They wanted these papers.”

Jeannine limped to the table.  She stuffed papers and CD’s into the sac-like briefcase.

“Wayne, we have to go. They’ll be back!”

“You’re right, but the guy you hit needs serious patching.  That’ll buy us some time.  I hope they didn’t trash our tires.”

He picked up her laptop and started down the stairs.  Clutching the case and shotgun, Jeannine limped after him.

No lights shone from Wayne Johnson’s beach house when Stew Marks drove onto the sandy driveway.  His headlights shone on the wooden posts that lifted the structure one floor off the ground.  There were no cars.

Stew called out.

“FBI, Anybody home?”

There was no answer.  He mounted the wooden stairway, but the door at the top of the steps was dead-bolted.

“FBI, Anybody here?  Anybody?”

Silence.  He descended and circled to the left where a wooden walk stretched through the sea oats to the beach.  At the house end, the walk rose on steps to a wide deck that fronted the dwelling.  With his flashlight Stew climbed to the deck.