He glared at Hugh.
“This man is a murderer.”
Jack Marino did not like Fred’s tone. He stepped forward.
“Get out of the way Mister, I’m a federal officer.”
A woman with a police-style shotgun stepped from behind a tree and accosted Jack.
“Back off Mister, that man is my prisoner.”
Then she turned to face Stew.
“I’m Deputy Mayrant, if you want this rat, you can talk to my uncle. He’s the sheriff, he ordered me to bring him in, and that is what I aim to do.”
She glared at Jack.
“You’re in the wrong damn county, Mister. We take care of our own here. Your friend tried to murder Mr. Middleton. He’s going to sit in our jail, not some Fed country club up north.”
Fred spoke up.
“Mr. Marks, Mary-Jean is the sheriff’s deputy, and she’s damned good at what she does.”
He leaned closer and whispered.
“That shotgun has a rifled barrel. It shoots slugs. It’s better not to cross her.”
Hugh’s eyes wandered wildly from Stew to Fred, then to Mary-Jean, Jack and back. He shouted.
“Help me, Marks.”
But Stew turned to Mary-Jean.
“Deputy, I agree this is your jurisdiction. The FBI will cooperate fully. I’ll notify the Field Office in Columbia, and the Resident Agency in Florence. But I would like to talk with the sheriff about ballistics on that M16. We can help there.”
He added.
“And I see that you’ve gathered a lot of those casings. I would appreciate your giving me a couple to take with me.”
Mary-Jean shook two 45 millimeter-long casings out of a plastic bag into a similar sac, and handed it to Stew.
“Thanks. Miss, your prisoner is dangerous. Keep him cuffed. Maybe Mr. Middleton will ‘ride shotgun’ with you ?”
Jack raised his eyebrows and approached his partner.
“Stew, what the hell are you doing? The NSA will smash you.”
“Don’t count on it, Jack. They won’t want to ‘own’ this guy. I’ll bet they have a ‘deniability’ scenario rehearsed and intact.”
“Damn it, Stew, you’re taking a big chance.”
“Forget me. We need to get this guy off the street.”
Jack stared speechless.
***
Bill Hamm and Jeannine Ryan stood, half hidden, behind the gray barn near the farm house. Those buildings, along with a remote tobacco shed, provided the only relief from the furrowed fields whose lines of brown plants stretched to the bordering pines. Occasional tufts of white cotton identified the late crop.
Bill opened the barn doors and went to an old pickup truck parked next to a new green John Deere tractor. Jeannine followed with her laptop and the canvas briefcase
Bill pulled the door open. He put his shotgun in the back, took a key from his pocket, and inserted it in the ignition.
“Jeannine, if you know any prayers, try them now.”
He turned the ignition. The motor coughed, twice.
He tried again. This time there was a low drawn-out moan.
“Bill, don’t let up.”
He held the key firm. The motor clattered as oil reached the valve lifters.
Success!
Holding the briefcase and laptop, Jeannine got in the cab.
“OK, Bill, where to?”
“To Charleston. Byrd called there regularly from the Torbee. I believe Gutera is planning something there.”
He whistled. Thanks to Fred Middleton, they had wheels!
***
******
Chapter 25
Sunday, September 2
In the hotel in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, Henri Duval awoke, rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the fuzzy digits on the bedside clock. Damn, 9:00 am. I slept late.
He stared about the room. Angelique’s bed was empty!
He called but no answer.
Rien! Nothing.
He stepped into his jeans and went to the window. Several stories below was an old church set apart from the adjacent buildings by an equally old cast iron fence that enclosed, also, a small graveyard. Several tourists milled peacefully among the tombstones.
Calm down Henri, think!
He had driven late, with Angelique asleep, out of sight, on the back seat. No one had followed them. And he had paid for the room with cash, furnished by GES when relations with Denise Guerry had been warmer.
No one could have found us, but?
He called the desk. A voice answered.
“May I help you?”
Before Henri could frame a question, Angelique appeared in the doorway.
“Angelique! Where have you been? What’s wrong?”
Distantly, the voice on the phone pleaded.
“Sir, are you there?”
“Sorry. It’s nothing.”
He turned to her.
“I thought someone had grabbed you. Where were you?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s Sunday. I went to Mass.”
She went to the window.
“That’s the church down there, St. Mary’s, and the graveyard is filled with French tombstones. I felt at home.”
“But someone could have seen you.”
“You said we must not let fear run our lives. Henri, I go to Mass to honor God.”
She sat on the bed and stroked his arm.
“He saved me in Rwanda for some purpose I still don’t know, and he will save me here with your help. I cannot stop loving God. And He loves you too.”
He looked into Angelique’s eyes. Could his pragmatism explain her goodness?
“Angelique, I was worried.”
“Cher Henri!”
She embraced him.
***
In their motel in Dillon, South Carolina, both Jack Marino and Stew Marks were shaved, dressed and ready for the day ahead.
They had skipped the usual Egg McMuffins and eaten instead at the IHOP adjacent to the motel. Stew, in particular, had enjoyed the Eggs Benedict. Now with his stomach full, he peered over his coffee.
“Jack, I want you to take the car and go back to Wilmington. Wait for me at the resident agency there. You’ll doubtless get a call from Washington about Byrd. I don’t want you taking the blame for my hunches. You need to be free from me for a while.”
“Stew, this is not good. We work together.”
“I’m taking a few days off. For your own sake, I don’t want you involved. I am not sure what I’ll do.”
“Stew, if it’s the Ryan woman, forget her. She’s bad news.”
“I don’t agree. That’s why I have to do this on my own. Hamm may be innocent. He attracts good people, Ryan, Johnson, and even this Fred Middleton. That farmer’s a shrewd judge of people. He saw through Byrd.”
“You’re sticking your neck way out for a damned rat and a crooked woman.”
“Not for a woman, or Hamm either, for the truth.”
“All right, Stew. You’ve made up your mind. I’ll take the car back to Wilmington. Where will you be?”
“You don’t need to know. It would mean problems for you.”
Jack shook his head as he stood up.
“Stew, you’re wrong. You’re helping the bad guys. I can’t support that. I’m going to nail Hamm, and Ryan too. Whatever you do, stay out of my way. Don’t make me fight you.”
Jack strode from the restaurant.
***
At a motel in Summerville, South Carolina, Jeannine’s laptop was plugged in and charging.
She took a CD from the brown folder (now labeled “Maximilien Gutera”) and scanned its contents.
She opened several files. Only numbers appeared on the screen. All the files were encrypted.”
She muttered to herself.
“All right, Mr. Gutera, if you haven’t changed the key word, I’ll see what this is about.”
She selected the first file.
She ran the numbers
through her decryption program using the key word “Gahuj.”
She smiled. The key worked and a message appeared
m.g.|you|must|finish|
devices|and|ship|them|
from|usa|on|l'etoile|
d'afrique|to|
rendezvous|with|la|
lutte.||do|not|fail|
need|funds?|contact|
guerry|at|ges.|||||
jacobin5xdt2u|5d'pt,m
“Bill. Look at this. The initials ‘m. g.’ stand for Maximilien Gutera, but there’s a new player in the game, code name ‘Jacobin’ or maybe ‘Jacobin5.’ What do you think?”
“I think that ‘l’Étoile d’Afrique’ and ‘La Lutte’ are the names of ships, but what kind of device is Gutera preparing, and where is this rendezvous?”
Jeannine browsed the computer disk.
“Here’s a file that has a similar name. I’ll run the numbers through my program. If the key word is still ‘Gahuj,’ It’ll only take a minute.”
Bill watched as Jeannine steered the mouse rapidly, clicking occasionally. Her auburn hair drooped over her eyebrows. She flipped it up with her left hand, while the right continued to guide the mouse. He smiled. Jeannine was particularly desirable when absorbed in the computer.
She looked up and pointed to the display.
“Check this out, Bill. You wanted to know about those two ships, one of them is headed for Charleston. Look at this.”
m.g.|notify|captain|of|
l'etoile|d'afrique|
destination|charleston|
south|carolina,|usa,
that|vessel|la|lutte|
will|leave|le|havre|as|
scheduled,with|
containers|with|live|
rod|modules|from|
dismantled|plant|47|
moduleslabeled|shipped|
fromcharleston,usa|
lalutte|will|transfer|
containers|to|l'etoile|
d'afrique|international|
waters|off|charleston|at|
time|agreed,||destination|
mombasa.|jacobin5xo9
Bill examined the message.
“Plant 47 must be a nuclear energy plant and the rods must be the fuel rods for the reactor. I knew the French planned to deactivate some plants, but I didn’t know they had started. The modules must be radioactive units to mount on rockets. They are to be shipped to Mombasa on the ship, l’Étoile d’Afrique, out of Charleston. Gutera wants it to look like the modules are from the United States.”
“And the rods?”
“They’re highly radioactive. They’re not ‘spent.’ The French conspirators must have hijacked the rods to make radioactive modules for dirty bombs. They won’t produce a nuclear explosion, but they are still horrible. Most deaths will likely be from the explosion, not radiation, but there will be extensive contamination, and those who get sick from radiation will make a powerful political ‘fright factor.’”
“But where?”
“Gutera likely will use the bombs on anti-Rwandan forces in the eastern Congo, and then blame the Rwandan government, and call for its removal. International opinion will be against Rwanda.”
“And the French will say the nuclear material came from the United States. They won’t be involved.”
“Exactly. If the radioactive material was shipped from the U. S., that could deflect criticism from those French who support the Hutus.”
“But would Gutera use the bombs against his own men?”
“He’ll do anything to seize power in Rwanda. And he could warn some of his forces to withdraw from critical areas before the strike. The others would be sacrificed for propaganda photo-ops.
“But how?”
“My guess is that he’ll launch missiles from Rwanda and explode them in the air over the targets in the eastern Congo. The blame will be on the Rwandan government.”
Jeannine’s stomach knotted. The scheme was all too plausible.
“Bill, this message is over two weeks old, with no times or dates. The Étoile d’Afrique could be here already.”
Bill nodded and sat at her laptop.
“The Port Authority has a web page. Here it is, ‘South Carolina Ports, Charleston.’”
He scrolled down the list of arrivals.
“The Étoile d’Afrique is expected on September 8. She is to discharge and load containers at the North Charleston terminus.”
“That’s this Saturday. Does it give a departure date?”
“No, but maybe three days max. We’re about out of time.”
***
In Dillon, South Carolina, Stew Marks paid the car rental with his personal credit card and enquired about Fred Middleton.
The receptionist handed him a map.
“This is how you get to Mr. Middleton’s farm. It’s about ten miles from here. I’ve traced the route for you.”
Some time later, Stew turned onto a rutted road that passed through spent fields to a frame house and barn. Fred Middleton stood on the porch. As Stew pulled to a stop, Fred sniffed.
“You’re one of those FBI men.”
“Yes, but I’m on my own time. I need to ask you about Mr. Hamm and Miss Ryan. I may be able to help them too.”
“I gave them the keys to my old pickup, that’s all. I don’t know where they went.”
Fred waved Stew into the house. After several beers, Stew had gained Fred’s confidence. Though neither Jeannine or Bill had revealed their destination, Fred had deduced that they were going to one of two ports, Wilmington, North Carolina or Charleston. South Carolina.
Stew smiled, both towns had FBI Resident Agencies. He rose to shake Fred’s hand.
He left and headed for Wilmington.
***
In Summerville, a weary Jeannine pushed away from her computer and yawned. She turned to Bill.
“I still don’t get it. Why would GES and the French plotters have Gutera prepare the explosive devices? He and his men are thugs and fighters, not engineers. Why rely on them for something that requires technical skills, and maybe even remote guidance capabilities?”
“I wondered about that myself. Maybe because they want to use batches of explosives from the U. S. that are tagged and identifiable as produced in the States? But why do you ask?”
“Because the French plotters are worried. Look at this.”
d.g.|urgent|you|
advise|paris|on|
ability|of|m.g.to|
produce|remote|
explosive|devices|
before|depart|of|
l'etoile|d'afrique|
for|mombasa|deep|
concern|here|that|
m.g.unable|to|meet|
deadline.|||jacobin5
hk2j3c5|s27tvp,
Bill read the message. Evidently “d. g.” was Denise Guerry, while as before, “m. g.” was Maximilien Gutera.
He stood and paced.
“This could be a break for us. Gutera and his men may not be ready when their ship arrives.”
But Jeannine saw the look in his eyes.
“Bill, you don’t think that. They’ll be ready. We’re in trouble.”
***
******
Chapter 26
Sunday, September 2
In her office in Chantilly, Virginia, Denise Guerry slammed the phone on her desk. First Henri, and now Ian Callahan, had succumbed to that Tutsi bitch’s charms. She recalled Ian’s words.
“I couldn’t hand her over to be raped, have her breasts hacked off, and be killed. I saw photos from Rwanda. I’ll quit if you want.”
But she had asked him to stay on. She needed Ian now that her connection with Henri Duval was tenuous.
Denise opened her closet to reveal a full-length mirror on the inside of the door. She stood erect and regarded herself. She knew Henri desired her. If only he were near, he would forget that little Tutsi.
She turned sideways and looked again. Curves in the right places. Whatever “It” was, she still had it.”
>
Henri, you idiot, you don’t know what you are missing!
Immediately Denise Guerry called Ian Callahan.
“Ian, where are you?”
“In Wilmington, North Carolina, like you told me to be.”
“Good. Do Gutera’s men know where you are?”
“I left the motel in Dillon before they got there. I drove straight here. Only you know I’m in Wilmington.”
As with Henri, Denise adopted her “helpless” approach.
“Ian, there could be a problem with Maximilien Gutera, and I might need you on my side. Can I count on you?”
“I assume that’s what you pay me for.”
“And Ian, you may have to protect me from Duval. Would that be a problem?”
“Not if that’s what you want, no.”
“Good. I’ll be in Wilmington tomorrow afternoon.”
Denise hung up. Ian still could be useful.
***
In Charleston, Angelique Uwimana and Henri Duval left the internet coffee shop.
“Henri, thanks for letting me email my professor. I had to let him know I could not meet him. And that café was neat. All the students and the kudu horns on the wall. And the Kenyan coffee. I felt at home.”
“I’m not sure I did you a favor, someone could track us.”
“But it was only email, and from a public café? And sent only to my professor? I’m his student. He is harmless.”
“Never mind, what’s done is done.”
Back at the hotel Henri watched TV, but his mind churned.
Gutera has too many men. The only person who can control him is Denise. Can I bargain with her to save Angelique?
***
In Summerville, Bill was at the Burger King while back at the motel, Jeannine hunched over her computer.
Her head ached from the tedium of decrypting Jacobin5’s messages, all of which expressed doubts about Gutera’s ability to obtain the guidance devices for the missiles.
She sighed and tapped “Enter.” The decrypted message appeared.
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 18
