“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 h
er 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.
What the Hell?
The sliding doors had disintegrated into piles of crumbled safety glass. Gripping flashlight and Beretta together, he looked through the gaping entryway. Splintered chairs, an overturned lamp and smashed vases lay in disarray on the floor. The wall opposite was pock-marked with lines of holes.
Brass objects glinted in the beam of his light. They were 45 mm long casings, caliber 5.56 mm, either from a “Military” M16 or a “Civilian” AR15. More than two dozen of them littered the deck, surely automatic fire. But that meant the weapon was an M16, legally available only to the military, the police, and Fed types.
Inside, one of the chairs was stained with blood. Outside, abundant drips on the deck led to dark splotches on the railing where bloody hands had grasped for support.
He called Jack Marino in Wilmington.
“I need you and an FBI crime crew out here right away. This case has turned deadly.”
He went back inside. Something, or someone, had dragged itself through the debris on the floor. Ryan? He saw strands of reddish hair in the splintered wood. His stomach knotted.
Jeannine’s hurt! Where is she?
***
******
Chapter 11
Saturday, August 25
The morning sun shone through the windows of Captain Peter Hume’s quarters at Camp Geiger. Jeannine limped into the kitchenette where Peter and Wayne Johnson sat at the table.
Wayne looked up.
“How’s the leg? How do you feel?”
“Better, but you shouldn’t have let me sleep. We have to go, I mean, I have to go.”
“What?”
Jeannine looked away from Wayne to Peter.
“Can I talk to Wayne alone for a minute?”
Peter left the room.
“Wayne, I can’t stay here. The FBI wants me, and I shouldn’t get the Captain in trouble. What’s more, I’m going to get Bill out of the hospital before the FBI gets there.”
“You’re right about Peter. We shouldn’t involve him in our troubles. But you’re wrong about Bill. Even if he is able to leave the hospital, you can’t get him out without revealing who he is, and who you are. It’s dangerous and it won’t work.”
“But it will! I found this in his briefcase. Remember, Bill was covert CIA.”
She waved a passport at him.
“This is issued to ‘Walter Harmon,’ but it’s Bill’s. It has his photo. I’ll identify the ‘John Doe’ in Onslow Memorial as ‘Walt Harmon’ using this ID. But I have to hurry. Whoever tried to kill us is hunting for Bill, and so is the FBI. I’m taking my Subaru. It can’t stay here. You can follow in your car.”
Jeannine stood and rubbed her leg. Wayne took her arm.
“But you’re hurt.
“So is Bill, and a lot worse than me. Are you coming?”
She pushed past him and shouted.
“Thanks for everything, Peter.”
And was gone.
***
In Chantilly, Virginia, Denise Guerry punched Henri’s number.
“Henri, where are you?”
“I’m at the farm in Pender County.”
“Did you extract Doctor Smets.”
“Yes and he’s safe here. Byrd doesn’t know this farm.”
“Henri, listen. Byrd messed up at Topsail. Holder was shot and hurt bad. Byrd took him to the VA hospital in Fayetteville. They’ll ask no questions because of Byrd’s cover.”
She paused and added.
“But Byrd is crazy! Ryan is on the run with my documents and all he can think of is Smets. Henri, can you assist me?”
“I’m here.”
“Good. There’s a ‘John Doe’ in Onslow Memorial Hospital in Jacksonville. Byrd thinks it’s Hamm. If so Ryan may be close by. It’s our only lead. How far away are you from there?”
“Over an hour, but I can leave now. What about Byrd?”
“He lost our papers and failed to retrieve them, plus he led the Feds to the new electronics lab. He’s no longer of use. SÉGAG wants him eliminated. Kill him, but no one must find his body. He’s a U.S. government agent.”
“Understood.”
She hung up.
***
Henri Duval put his “Grande Puissance” pistol into his shoulder holster. The “Hi-Power” Browning, with its 13 round magazine, was his favorite handgun.
Denise Guerry, had asked for his help. SÉGAG wanted him to eliminate Byrd.
“Henri, can you assist me? SÉGAG wants him eliminated.” A request, not a command!
He visualized her blue eyes, no longer aloof and imperious, but soft and alluring.
Denise was very desirable.
Perhaps?
He shook his head.
Calm yourself, Henri, you cannot trust this woman. Watch out!
Reason returned.
Why me?
Denise had others to do her bidding. Henri’s job as security officer with SÉGAG was to protect people. He had taken lives, but only in defense of others or himself. He was no assassin. He guarded others from such killers.
And once SÉGAG no longer needed Henri?
The answer was obvious.
The killer of a government agent like Byrd would be tracked down, no matter the cost.
Still, the image of the beautiful Denise floated before him.
Perhaps, after all? Why not?
Done!
The drive to the hospital in Jacksonville would take over an hour. Smets would stay at the farm. The wimp would have to babysit himself.
Henri went to his car.
***
At the Onslow Memorial Hospital, a young doctor named Smith examined Stew Marks badge.
“FBI, what can I do for you Agent Marks?”
“Admissions told me you have a ‘John Doe’ on this ward.”
“That’s right. End of the corridor, the door on your left. Do you think you know who he is?”
But Stew was already in the corridor.
“Wait, Sir. You can’t go alone. I need to go with you.”
Stew reached the door as the doctor caught up. They entered the room together. The bed near the door was not occupied and the window bed was obscured by a drawn curtain.
Dr. Smith pulled it aside. Stew stared.
The rumpled sheets were rolled back. The bed was empty.
Stew Marks looked at the doctor. The latter was already in the hallway.
“Nurse Wells, where is the patient in 213?”
“You mean Mr. Harmon, Walter Harmon.”
“How do you know his name?”
“His sister picked him up an hour ago. She had his passport. He was Walter Harmon all right.”
“Who authorized the discharge?”
�
�Dr. Omani was on duty. It would have been him.”
Stew Marks broke in.
“Did you see Harmon’s sister? What did she look like?”
Nurse Wells glanced at Dr. Smith. He nodded approval.
She turned back to Stew.
“She had Auburn hair, quite red actually. Around thirty, dressed casually, jeans. Trim, maybe 5 foot five. She said she wanted to move her brother to a hospital close to DC.”
“Did you see her car?”
“No. Sue Lacy wheeled Mr. Harmon to the front door. She might have seen it, but she’s off this afternoon.”
Stew turned to Dr. Smith.
“Can you get me a phone number for that nurse.”
Smith nodded. Stew turned back to Nurse Wells.
“Thanks, you’ve been helpful. One last question, was anyone else with the sister when she picked up her brother?”
“No one that I saw.”
***
Once outside the hospital, Stew Marks called his partner Jack Marino.
“Jack, I’m at the hospital in Jacksonville, The ‘John Doe’ was Hamm, but Ryan picked him up. She’s probably in her Subaru. Get out a bulletin on it.”
He added.
“I’m going to Surf City. I want you to leave Wilmington and meet me there in an hour.”
Stew sighed. Though he had failed to find Hamm, he was relieved. Ryan had survived the fight at the beach house.
Jeannine was OK.
He was on Route 17 headed to Surf City when his partner called back.
“Stew, we have a hit on Ryan’s Subaru. It’s parked outside the Food Lion at the Surf City turnoff. How far away are you?”
“It’s right ahead. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
Stew swung to the left. Seconds later, he turned right into the supermarket lot. Ahead, near the entrance was Jeannine’s Subaru.
The car was empty.
***
Stew Marks scanned the lot in front of the Food Lion Super Market before calling his partner.
“Jack, I’m at Ryan’s car. It’s still at the Food Lion. She must be in the store.”
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 8
