At the sound of a motor he turned.
“Wait a minute, Jack. Someone’s stopping. I’ll call back.”
A man emerged from the car. Stew started.
“Hugh Byrd, what are you doing here?”
“The same as you, looking for Ryan. This is her Subaru.”
Byrd smiled. Stew frowned.
“Where is your man Holder?”
“Where is yours? Where’s Marino?”
“He’s on the way. Now where is Holder?”
“He had an accident. He was reassigned.”
“Come clean, Hugh. Why are you here?”
“OK. Like you, I heard about a ‘John Doe’ at the hospital in Jacksonville. I was there when you came out empty-handed, so I figured it wasn’t Hamm. I followed you here hoping you had a lead. Seems I was right.”
Hugh had left his door open. Stew noted an object on the passenger-side floor.
“Hugh, is that an M16 magazine on the floor?”
Hugh slammed the door shut.
“So what if it is?”
Stew recalled the M16 cartridges on the deck of Johnson’s beach house.
“Do you know Wayne Johnson?
“Johnson? Never heard of him.”
“He has a beach house on Topsail Island. There was a fire fight at that house yesterday. One of the attackers was bloodied.”
“What do you mean ‘fire fight?’ This isn’t Afghanistan.”
“I mean a bloody mess. And an M16 was involved.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Hugh, was Holder shot? Was that the accident?”
But Hugh Byrd was done answering questions. He strode to his car.
“Sorry Stew, that’s classified.”
Stew stared after him, but there was no time to evaluate Hugh Byrd’s behavior.
A man was approaching Jeannine’s Subaru.
***
The man opened the door of the Subaru and put his groceries on the front seat. Stew Marks stepped forward and held out his badge.
“FBI, Sir. I’m Agent Marks. May I know your name?
“Johnson, Wayne Johnson. Is this about my beach house?”
“First, tell me where Dr. Ryan is. This is her car.”
“I don’t know. She’s afraid for her life. You should be protecting her.”
“Mr. Johnson, she’s on the run. We can’t protect her if we can’t find her. Why do you have her car?”
“She needed mine. My tank was full, hers was near empty.”
“Needed yours? And you think you’re helping her! Mr. Johnson what kind of car do you drive. I need the Make, Model, Year and License Plate. Now!”
Wayne complied. Stew called Jack Marino and gave him the information about Wayne’s Buick. He turned back to Wayne.
“Sir, If you really wanted to help Ms. Ryan you should have called us from the hospital. How long is it since you saw her?”
“Maybe four hours.”
“And this guy Hamm is with her?”
“I assume so. Yes.”
“He’s a fugitive. Damn it, you both are aiding a fugitive!”
“But Jeannine’s in danger. They tried to kill her.”
“And you suppose she’s not in danger now! What the hell were you thinking?”
A chastened Wayne mumbled.
“Maybe I need a lawyer.”
At the word “Lawyer,” Stew exploded.
“Damn right you do. Put your hands behind your back.”
Stew cuffed Wayne.
“Sir, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to consult an attorney and to have an attorney with you when questioned. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at no cost. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law.”
Stew paused.
“Do you understand these rights?”
At Wayne’s affirmative nod, Stew continued.
“Knowing and understanding your rights as I just explained, are you willing to answer my questions now, while no attorney is with you?”
The barrage of legalese had left Wayne in shock. He shook his head.
“No!”
At this point Jack Marino arrived. Stew turned to him.
“Have the Subaru towed to our lot in Wilmington, and have our forensics guys go over it. I’ll meet you in Wilmington.”
Stew pushed Wayne into his back seat.
“Damn it, Mr. Johnson, you should have called us. Your friend Ryan has crossed the line. I can’t help her now.”
Puzzled by that last comment, Wayne stayed silent as Agent Marks drove south towards Wilmington.
***
******
Chapter 12
Saturday, August 25
Hugh Byrd sped out of the Food Lion parking lot. He turned south onto Route 17, towards Wilmington.
Damn you Marks. So you think I was at the beach house with Holder, because of that damn spent magazine.
There had been no possibility of retrieving the empty casings from the house. The large number of them would have indicated automatic fire and a “Military” M16 rather than the “Civilian” AR15. Still the magazine could fit either. But Marks knew that Hugh had access to M16’s.
Hugh ground his teeth.
Watch it, Marks! I’ll declare you a security risk and you will be finished at the FBI.
Hugh shrugged. Forget Hamm, Ryan and Marks. He had a personal matter to attend to, that idiot Smets.
His phone vibrated, Denise Guerry’s number. He picked up.
“Where are you, Hugh?”
“North Carolina, near Surf City.”
“Hugh, do not harm Dr. Smets. Leave him alone, understood?”
“How could I hurt him? I don’t know where you hid him.”
Denise hung up.
Hugh laughed. He was a good investigator. Of course he knew about the “safe” farm.
And he was sure that Smets would be there!
***
Denise Guerry realized that she had underestimated Hugh. His complacency on the phone surely meant that he knew the “safe” farm in Pender County. He would look for Smets there. She had to act fast.
She called Henri Duval.
“Henri, where are you?”
“Near Onslow hospital, driving north on route 17.”
“Turn around. Byrd is on the way to the farm. He is going to kill Smets. You have to stop him.”
“But Hamm?”
“The Ryan woman picked him up from the hospital. She’s headed north, probably to Maryland. I have someone waiting for her there.”
Her tone shifted.
“S'il te plaît, Henri, do this for me. Je t’assure, I know how to return favors.”
Her silken tone left no doubt as to what “favors” meant. Henri succumbed.
“All right, I won’t let Byrd harm Smets.”
But Henri had decided. He only would act in self-defense. If Byrd tried to kill the wimp, Smets, only then would he kill Byrd.
***
At a motel northwest of Wilmington, North Carolina, Angelique Uwimana knocked on the door. She was a Ph. D. student in Computer Science at Carolina Technical University in Florence, South Carolina. A Tutsi, she alone of her family had survived the Rwandan genocide.
At 28, Angelique was tall and willowy, almost statuesque. She stared at the even taller man who cracked the door open.
“Paul, let me in. Why did you want to see me?”
The man, Paul Mutabazi, opened. He ignored the question.
“Angelique, how did you meet this Duval, this Frenchman, of yours?”
“In Silver Spring, Maryland, when I was studying for my Masters at Maryland. Why?”
“You know he works for GES?”
“Of course.”
“Be careful of him, GES is not on our side. Does he know you are here?”
“No, Henri thinks I’m in Florence. He was to meet me there yesterday, but he didn’t show. I suppose he had busines
s somewhere.”
“Business? You mean the Guerry woman?”
She shrugged.
“Never mind, Angelique. This is the reason I asked you to meet me here.”
He drew a newsprint photograph from his wallet and unfolded it. The photo was soiled, but not faded. He placed it on the dresser before her.
An involuntary cry escaped her lips. Tears formed as memories of her encounter with the man in the photo overwhelmed her. She sobbed. The years had not healed the hurt. She shut her eyes. Mutabazi’s voice sounded in her ears.
“Is this the man?”
She opened her eyes and nodded affirmatively.
“Look again, this is important.”
She could never forget that face. She nodded again.
“So you are sure? This is that dog, Dr. Smets?”
Angelique finally found her voice, albeit only a whisper.
“Yego. Yes.”
Paul Mutabazi folded the photograph and replaced it in his wallet.
“Murakoze, Angelique. Thank you, Angelique. That’s all for now.”
He turned to leave the still sobbing woman.
“By the way, Smets is alive. He’s still a doctor, and he is nearby, here in North Carolina.”
Eyes vacant and moist, she stayed silent. He continued.
“That’s all, Angelique. I had to be sure. I know you have to get back to Florence for your class. Thanks for coming.”
Eyes moist she stepped to the door. His voice was a whisper.
“Murabeho, Angelique. Goodbye, Angelique.”
She left.
Paul waited a moment until he heard her car start. Then he too left.
***
After sending Henri after Byrd, Denise Guerry called an office in Arrondissement 2, Paris. Her cousin answered.
“Jacques, Denise here. Your father wants me to eliminate Byrd.”
“Can you do this without involving Gutera?”
“Yes, Henri will take care of Byrd.”
“Henri Duval? He’s no killer.”
“He’ll do what I ask.”
“Why? Did you tell him you would sleep with him?”
She fell silent
Jacques had been attracted to Denise all his “grown” life, cousin or not.
“Denise, save yourself for me. Forget Duval and Byrd too!”
“Jacques, stop it! You’re my cousin. That’s incest. Your father wants Byrd dead.”
“But you can’t handle Duval. He’s not a loser like the other saps you attract. He is a real man. I don’t want you hurt.”
“But Byrd is tough. Who else could get rid of him.”
“Let me speak to my father. There has to be another way. Besides the Americans know that Henri is with GES. They will go after you if Henri kills Byrd.”
“Byrd’s group has deep cover inside the NSA. The Americans have full deniability. They fixed his credentials so that they can be proved forgeries from overseas. Even Byrd does not realize that.”
“And Henri?”
“He doesn’t know it, but we have papers proving that Guerry Security fired him two months ago. He’ll look like a bitter security guard who was fired. The trail will stop here in Virginia. There will be no connection to Paris.”
“All right Denise, use Duval if you must. I won’t talk to my father yet, but do not sleep with Henri. Save your love for me! You love me, you know. Remember I let you beat me on the mountain.”
Denise snorted. Let me! She always had bested Jacques on skis during their vacations at Val Thorens in the French Alps. Still, she did love him in a way.
“Jacques, you’re an idiot, but thanks for worrying.”
“And watch out. My father is dangerous when he doesn’t get his way. He doesn’t have feelings like we do.”
Denise sighed. Neither of them had experienced love from her uncle Roland, his father.
She hung up.
Her thoughts turned to Henri Duval. He was a challenge.
But!
***
Henri Duval, was on Route 17, returning from Jacksonville, when his personal phone sounded. (Not the secure instrument he used to report to Guerry Security.)
At the sight of the caller’s number, he immediately regretted his imagined tryst with Denise. He spoke softly.
“Angelique?”
“Henri, where are you? I waited at the restaurant but you didn’t come. I called your cell and it was off. It went straight to message. Where were you?”
“I emailed you two days ago that I couldn’t make our date. I’m sorry, I’m working an assignment. I guess you didn’t get the email. You know I wanted to be in Florence with you.”
She was agitated.
“But you should have called me. Something has really upset me. I need to talk to you in person.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. You’re right. I should have called to make sure you knew.”
“Never mind, when will I see you?”
The secure phone vibrated against his thigh. Denise!
“Angelique, It’s business, I have to call you back.”
“Business? You mean Denise Guerry!”
But Henri already had switched to the other phone.
“Denise?”
“Henri, how far are you from the farm?”
“Maybe thirty minutes.”
“Dr. Smets is in a panic. He says someone wants to kill him. He’s hiding in the old tobacco shack.”
“Byrd?”
“Who else? You’d better hurry.”
“Click.”
***
******
Chapter 13
Saturday, August 25
At the farm in Pender County, North Carolina, Henri Duval chose not to drive up the lane to the farm house.
Instead, he parked his car by a mixed grove of native Holly, Sassafras and scrubby pines that shielded him from the gray structure where he had left Gilles Smets some hours before.
The tobacco shack was not in view, but an F150 pickup truck was parked in front of the main house. It apparently belonged to Byrd, Smets’ car was still at Surf City.
Henri made his decision. He left the FAMAS G2 assault rifle locked in the trunk. He would not tip his hand with a conspicuous weapon. His Hi-Power Browning would suffice. He slipped the safety off.
As he squeezed out of the car, the prickly leaves of an evergreen Holly raked his shirt. He did not mind. The thick growth offered him concealment from the main house. He pushed forward through a mix of holly, scrubby oaks and pines.
The soil was sandy, and pine needles coated the ground to form a slippery surface.
Now Henri stood at the edge of the open weeded area that fronted the house. He studied the parked pickup, the gray porch, and the three front windows. The outlying tobacco shack was not visible from his position.
Nothing moved.
There was no sign of Smets.
***
Henri stepped into the open.
“Crack!”
The bark of the loblolly pine behind Henri splintered under the impact of the bullet.
He dove to the ground and scanned the clearing. The shot had come from the house ahead. The upper windows of the farm house were boarded shut. The shooter had to be on the lower level. The window to Henri’s right was open a few inches above the sill, a window Henri had closed when he last left. The shot had come from there.
Henri rolled to the side and lay against an abandoned tractor.
“Crack, Piangg!”
The second bullet ricocheted high off the rusty frame and clipped a branch somewhere behind and to his right. Henri lay flat and peered from under the chassis in time to see the rifle’s barrel withdraw from the window.
Reacting, he dashed for the pines to the right of the dwelling. No shot sounded.
From his new position, he could see the tobacco shack, perhaps fifty yards from the farm house. Was Dr. Smets in the shack?
Henri looked up.
A lone Turkey vulture was
circling the field behind the shack.
As Henri watched, two more vultures appeared low over the pines to the west and headed to join the first.
Something, or someone, was dead.
***
Henri studied the scene from the cover of the pines. The slatted gray door of the tobacco shack hung open on one hinge, motionless.
There was no breeze at ground level, but over the sun-warmed field the rising air formed thermal currents on which the vultures, their number augmented by new arrivals, continued to circle.
Henri pondered exposing himself to fire, when the sound of a motor echoed from the front of the house. He dashed back through the pines in time to see the Ford pickup disappear at the end of the drive.
Henri reasoned that the shooter had been alone, still he approached the farm house with caution.
There, in the front room was the cracked-open window behind which the shooter had crouched. Henri checked the floor. Two 30-06 cartridges lay on the worn rug. His attacker had used a hunting rifle.
Henri looked out the window towards the pine near which he had stood. Either the shooter was a terrible shot, or had intentionally fired high.
At the sound of a motor, Henri jumped back from the window. A car had turned onto the drive to the house.
He held his Browning ready and waited behind the door.
***
The sound of the motor ceased and a car door opened. A voice called out.
“Hello. Anybody home?”
Henri peered around the door. Hugh Byrd, holding his Glock at the ready, stood in the drive.
“Byrd, what are you doing here?”
“Henri, Henri Duval, is that you? Relax, I’m coming in.”
Henri watched as Hugh holstered his weapon and mounted the steps to the porch. Henri dropped his gun-arm to the side. Byrd spoke first.
“So you’re the good doctor’s baby sitter. I might have known. Where is Smets?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Henri still held the Browning, although pointed at the floor.
“Relax, Henri. Put the gun away. I’m not here to hurt the wimp, not much anyway. I just wanted to even a few things with him. The rat did this to me.”
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 9
