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

by Mosimann, James E.

“I’m sure Hamm was there, but he’s gone. There was no trace of Ryan. You stay in Wilmington, Hamm may be headed that way. I’m going to spend the night on the island. My guess is that Hamm is nearby.”

  He added.

  “And Jack, get a forensics team out there to check the house. There are some odd things about that place. I’m starting to wonder about Hamm.”

  “Will do, but don’t wonder too much about Hamm. The guy is a rat. And the boss in DC called. He wants us to fry this scumbag. I do too. I told you what he did to me at the hearing on the Unity Pavilion.”

  Stew paused. For sure, Hamm had stolen the documents.

  “OK, Jack.”

  But Stew did not tell Jack that there was no sign that Jeannine Ryan had been at the Maynard house, no indication of a feminine presence.

  Maybe Ryan’s OK? Maybe she doesn’t know anything?

  He shook his head clear. The woman was good looking and had spunk, but such traits were found as often in the guilty as in the innocent.

  Cool it, Stew, you have a job to do. This isn’t like you.

  Once in his car, his objectivity reasserted itself. As he drove to Surf City, he had a single question.

  Hamm, what were you doing at the Maynard house?

  ***

  The small power boat cruised the Intracoastal Waterway near Permuda Island while Jimmy Sands scanned the dark marsh edge with the searchlight.

  “Slow down Amy. I saw something. It might be a turtle.”

  “Jimmy, my dad wants me back by midnight. Besides it’s late for turtle nesting, and anyway they nest on the beach side.”

  “I know, but I saw something over there by the mouth of that creek. If it is a turtle, it must be sick, stranded on the mudflat like that. Head over there, it will only take a minute. We could tow it to the turtle rehab hospital on Topsail.”

  “It’s my dad’s boat, and what you are saying will take more than a minute.”

  “Amy, please. Your dad will understand. Please.”

  At that final “please” Amy swung the boat about and slowed the engine as they entered the shallow water of the flats. In turn, Jimmy swung the search light along the border of marsh grass.

  “There it is. Get closer. Pull up the motor. I’ll pole us.”

  Amy tilted the propeller out of the water, while Jimmy pushed one of the oars into the mud and shoved.

  “Jimmy, that’s close enough. We’ll get stuck.”

  Jimmy nodded and stepped out of the boat. His foot sank six inches into a muddy bottom that was topped by over a foot of water. He sloshed towards the unknown form and shone his light on it.

  “Amy! It’s not a turtle, it’s a man!”

  “Jimmy, don’t joke like that.”

  “Amy, it’s no joke. This guy is alive. His head’s on a mat of vegetation and he’s breathing. Toss me your life vest. If I can turn him on his back, I think I can float him to the boat.”

  With Amy pulling and Jimmy pushing, they managed to force the unconscious stranger over the side and into the craft.

  Once again Jimmy used an oar to push the boat across the shallow flats. Several strenuous minutes later they attained the deep water of the Intracoastal Waterway.

  Amy lowered the propeller and revved the motor. At full speed she headed down the waterway towards Surf City and the Urgent Care Center.

  She could call her father from there.

  ***

  At his house on Topsail Island, Wayne Johnson looked into Jeannine’s bedroom. She was asleep on top of the covers. He loosened the laces of her shoes and slipped them off her feet.

  He shut her door and looked out the sliding doors. The air lay still over the abandoned beach. White lines sparkled in the moonlight where the waves broke over offshore bars.

  Perhaps tomorrow their analyses of the briefcase would lead to Bill’s whereabouts and prove his innocence.

  Wayne went to his room and turned off the light.

  His last thought before he dropped off was a welcome one.

  I’m useful again.

  ***

  In his room in Surf City, Stew Marks slipped under the sheets. He lay there, studying the shadows on the ceiling. Hamm you’re lucky to have a woman like Ryan, spy or not.

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 9

  Friday, August 24

  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 bagarre 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 kil
l 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.

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 10

  Friday, August 24

  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?”