“Yes, I remember. I’m that Dr. Ryan. Now, who are you?”
“I’m Paul Mutabazi, a friend of Angelique’s. I came here to warn Mr. Sullivan, but Hutu thugs killed him. I ran away and hid.”
Paul continued.
“Angelique respects you. That means you cannot be friends of Maximilien Gutera. Please tell your man to lower my revolver. Maybe we can help each other.”
For the first time, Bill spoke.
“My name is Hamm, Bill Hamm. If you don’t want the gun pointed at you, tell me why we should trust you?”
“Because I am Tutsi, like Angelique. And because like her, my family was killed by the Interahamwe, by thugs who followed Charles Hakizimana, Maximilien Gutera’s father. Because today, if Maximilien finds me or Angelique, we are dead, if not right away, only because we will first be tortured.”
Jeannine stepped forward and pointed to Sullivan’s body.
“You saw Gutera do this?”
“Not Gutera, one of his men, Louis Makuza. He’s an expert with the bush knife. I tried to warn Mr. Sullivan, but there was no time. They killed him and took the packages. They had a black Audi with South Carolina Plates.”
Mutabazi turned to Bill Hamm.
“Mr. Hamm, if you help save Angelique from this monster, I can help you. I know how this Gutera thinks.”
Bill Hamm hesitated. He doubted Mutabazi could help.
Sensing Bill’s uncertainty, Paul played his trump card.
“Mr. Hamm, Dr. Ryan, do you know that someone followed you here? He is outside now, watching your minivan. I saw him take the keys out of the ignition.”
Bill fumbled in his pocket. The keys were not there. Damn!.
“What does this man look like?”
“He’s the same strong build as you, but with brown hair. He acts like the police. His car is an Accord. He hid it out of sight behind those pines.”
Bill thought of the Accord by the roadside that he had thought might be a cop. Jeannine turned to him.
“‘Brown hair, athletic build, your size,’ that could be that jerk of an FBI agent, Stewart Marks. He thinks I’m a spy too. He must have tracked me from Washington. What will we do?”
Bill stuffed the .38 in his belt.
“I’m not going to shoot an FBI agent doing his job. We have to give ourselves up.”
Paul Mutabazi grabbed Bill’s arm.
“Wait. Help me find Angelique, and I can help. My car is parked in the back and there is a rear exit. We can leave that way and not be seen.”
Bill pointed at Jack Sullivan’s body.
“I’ll be blamed for him.”
“Not if your FBI man knows about Gutera and pangas.”
Bill turned to Jeannine.
“Maybe this can work, come on.”
“No, my laptop and the documents are in the car. I can’t leave them. They’re our ticket to freedom. One of us must be free to stop Gutera. That’s you. I’ll distract Mr. Marks. Go!”
Bill hesitated, but Jeannine grabbed Sullivan’s notebook and other papers off the work bench and waved him away.
“Now!”
She waited for Bill to reach the rear of the building, before peering through the open doors.
***
The minivan was apparently as they had left it. No one was visible.
She waved the notebook above her head and stepped into the open.
“I’m coming out. Don’t shoot. I’m not armed.”
A man stepped from behind a pine and flashed a badge.
“Dr. Ryan, remember me? Agent Stew Marks, FBI. You’ve led me on a long chase.”
She pointed to the minivan.
“Put the damn badge away. I know who you are. Now give me the keys to my car.”
Stew smiled.
“Nice try Dr. Ryan, but you and I both know that William Hamm aka ‘Mr. Walter Harmon,’ rented this car. Your friend is a fugitive, and I have a warrant for his arrest, so drop the charade.”
His words were interrupted by the sound of a motor. A car burst from around the corner of the warehouse and raced out of sight. Stew whistled.
“So that’s your guy, Hamm. After you stood by him all these days, he’s gone and left you to face the music. Some friend!”
He turned to face her.
“No matter, let him go. You’re the one I really want.”
Jeannine’s mouth opened wide. She stared.
***
Jules Habimana guided the black Audi on Highway 17. He spoke over his shoulder to Maximilien Gutera seated in back.
“Why do we go to Wilmington? The tests are at Topsail.”
“Do not question me, Jules.”
Jules frowned and concentrated on the road ahead. Next to him, in the passenger seat, Louis Makuza faced forward without moving. He knew better than to question the back seat.
To Louis’ surprise, Maximilien Gutera was expansive.
“Jules, you are a loyal follower. Thus I will explain. Professor Shahruk called me from Carolina Technical University. He had a question about our explosive supplier. We will meet the professor in Wilmington. If the question is resolved, then we will proceed to the test on Topsail Island this Wednesday. After that we will go to Charleston to prepare the rockets for shipment on the Étoile d’Afrique.”
Maximilien frowned.
“Jules, I have answered you this one time only. In the future you will consider that I never act without thought.”
In the passenger seat, an amazed Louis gaped open-mouthed at Jules who fixed his eyes on the highway and drove.
***
At Sullivan’s warehouse, Jeannine Ryan held out her hand.
“Agent Marks, if it’s me you really want to help, give me the keys to the van.”
“I can’t do that. Look, I’m here to help your Mr. Hamm too. He may be innocent. He might have been framed by the real spy named Hugh Byrd. I know that Byrd and Tom Holder, tried to kill you at Wayne Johnson’s house on Topsail. And I know someone downed Holder with a load of buckshot.”
Jeannine paled. Stew read her thoughts.
“Don’t worry he’s alive. He’s in the hospital. Too bad, but he will recover. Byrd and he are stealing national secrets. They work for a covert group shielded by the NSA, and they are protected by ultra high clearances, unless and until the NSA disowns them.”
He added.
“But you can forget Byrd for now. He’s locked up in a county jail by a sheriff and his niece who are still fighting the Civil War. He’ll be there a few more days at least. And Holder, he’ll be in rehab at least another month. Those guys are not our problem.”
Jeannine was silent. Stew continued.
“Maybe you’ll cooperate if I tell you what I know? Since your friend, Hamm, emptied Byrd’s safe, the FBI has been investigating both him and Byrd for passing classified information from the NSA to GES, an American subsidiary of a French computer security company. I’m not cleared that high, but I can read between the lines of the complaint. I figure that the NSA has broken some sort of encryption they call “RSA” used by the French government, and is decrypting high-level French communications on the sly.
He took a breath.
“Personally, I’m glad the NSA can decrypt French communications, but Byrd sells the NSA information to GES and they’re a problem. The CEO of GES, is a French national named Denise Guerry. She sends the decrypted French communiqués to a rogue group in France that is plotting to overthrow the government of Rwanda. From the decrypted messages, the plotters know that the French government is itching to condemn the current government of Rwanda to the UN, given any suitable pretext.
Stew smiled.
“How am I doing?”
Jeannine stared. What he says fits.
He kept going.
“There’s more. When their government fell in 1994, corrupt Hutu officials pillaged the Rwandan treasury and transferred the money to secret bank accounts in Europe. Now, GES launders money from those accounts to a Hutu group that the
FBI has watched for some months. The group is in South Carolina, mostly Florence, and has connections to Carolina Technical University. The assumed leader of the group is Maximilien Gutera. His father was a major player in the Rwandan genocide.”
He paused.
“My guess is that you and Hamm have discovered this group’s plans and are trying to stop them.”
Jeannine continued to stare.
“Dr. Ryan, now will you believe I want to help?”
When she did not answer, Stew reflected aloud.
“Damn! I risk my job for a smart, beautiful, woman whom I want to know, but don’t, whose loyalty to a friend has seen her almost killed by a rogue Fed with an M16, who gave herself up so the friend could escape, and who doesn’t seem to realize she’s in danger of being chopped to bits by Hutu rebels.”
Stunned, Jeannine drew away, but he grabbed her wrist.
“It’s true, you’re smart and beautiful too, and I want to help you. Tell me who or what is in that warehouse.”
Her mind raced. Can I trust this guy? I guess I have to.
“There’s a body, Sullivan, the owner. He was hacked to death. You were right. Maximilien Gutera’s men were here.”
She added.
“And they took the remote guidance modules for their missiles.”
Missiles!
It was Stew’s turn to stare.
***
Bill Hamm sat in the passenger seat while Paul Mutabazi drove. Paul spoke.
“Where should we go, Mr. Hamm?”
Bill started. He was worried about Jeannine.
“We need to go to Topsail Beach. Sullivan’s notes said that his guidance system would be tested at some missile museum there. I need to check it out.”
“But I think Angelique may be in Charleston?”
“Paul, as I told you, I don’t know any Angelique. If you want me to stop Gutera, we have to start at Topsail.”
“Can I have my revolver back.”
“You had it in the warehouse and didn’t use it. It’s better off with me. You think before you shoot. That can get you killed. I’ll keep the gun. If we see Gutera’s men, I won’t hesitate.”
Bill changed the subject.
“About this Angelique? Are you romantically involved.”
“It’s not like that. We grew up in the same village. Mr. Mukuru, her father, saved my life during the genocide.”
Paul shuddered and continued.
“I was eleven years old. He pulled me under him as he fell dying. The Interahamwe thought I was dead too.”
“Where was Angelique?”
“Her father had sent her to school in Kigali. He thought she would be safe. She wasn’t. She was ten, her little brother was three. They chopped him to death. His name was Augustin.”
“But who saved Angelique?”
“God! It had to be. There was no one else!”
“You believe that?”
“I do. Angelique is a Catholic. She lives her faith.”
“And you?”
“Catholic, but not like her. I can’t forgive like she does.”
Forgiveness? Bill thought of Jeannine.
I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you.
***
******
Chapter 29
Tuesday, September 4
Jeannine Ryan, untwisted her back and rolled over. Her neck ached and her legs were cramped stiff. She groaned and opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep in the back of Marks’ Accord.
The driver’s seat was empty, Marks was gone. She tried the door. He had disabled both door and window controls. She was a prisoner. She jammed the window button full force, but there was no response. Frustrated, she rubbed her sore calves.
A tap on the window ended that activity. Stew Marks stood outside with a cardboard tray into which two Styrofoam cups of coffee had been pressed.
“Ms. Ryan, if you had promised me last night to stay in your room and not contact anyone, you could have had a mattress to sleep on, and a bathroom. And I would not have stayed up all night driving. This must change. I’m here to help. I have to be able to trust you.”
He pulled the rear door ajar, and pushed a cup through the crack.
“Anyway, here’s your coffee.”
Jeannine grabbed the cup and lifted it to her lips. She took a long swallow, paused, and tilted the cup upwards once more.
“All right, Mr. Marks, so you had to drive all night. Tough! Your damned ‘help’ has been torture. Have you tried to sleep in this car? What the hell do you expect?”
Jeannine shoved auburn locks from her forehead and stared. Stew returned the look, but she did not flinch. He noted her wrinkled sweatshirt and jeans. Though disheveled, her firm figure stood out. Stew was smitten anew. He found his voice.
“I expect you to not run away and to not contact your friends to come get you. And I need you to brief me on what you and Hamm know of Gutera’s plans, how you planned to stop him.
He sighed.
“But most of all, I need you to trust me.”
He wanted to add “and maybe like me too,” but that was out of the question. He contented himself with a modest plea.
“I’m risking my career. I called my office. As of now I’m on leave without pay until I can get you out of this mess.”
Is this guy for real? OK, Jeannine, why not give it a shot?
“All right, Mr. Marks, I won’t run away or call anyone for the next twenty four hours, but that’s all.”
Stew Marks pulled the rear door wide.
“Done! Sit in the front with me. We’re only an hour from Charleston. I know a good motel in Mount Pleasant. We’ll stay there.”
He added quickly.
“And don’t worry, you’ll have your own room.”
She grimaced, but he did not notice.
“You’ll have your laptop and all your papers. You can bring me up to speed when we get there.”
As she took her place in the front seat, he continued.
“You said there were memos from Hugh Byrd. Good. We’ll nail that bastard.”
Progress!
Stew hummed to himself as he drove off.
***
Some miles removed from Dillon, South Carolina, the visitor to a county detention center stood waiting for the clerk to sign him in.
From the man’s expensive suit, the clerk concluded that he was a lawyer, and one whose fees were beyond those affordable by her, or any ordinary citizen. His black Italian shoes confirmed that.
She shrugged and waved the man ahead.
The guard who opened the barred door to admit the man was more perceptive. The tailored suit coat and pants could not conceal the man’s bulging biceps nor his thick thighs. Based on those muscles, and the way the visitor shifted lightly on his toes, the guard decided that the visitor was a professional football player. The guard resolved to check the photos of players from his favorite NFL team, the Carolina Panthers.
Neither the clerk’s assessment nor the guard’s was correct.
The man stopped at a second set of bars where another guard checked the man’s thin leather case and attached pen. Satisfied, the guard admitted him into a room that was bare except for a wooden table and two chairs. There the man sat and waited.
Minutes later Hugh Byrd, clad in a blue-striped jumpsuit, entered. Hugh railed at the man across from him.
“What took you so long? This stinking hole is driving me nuts. Get me out of here, now!”
The man nodded. He slid a transparent plastic folder across the table. It contained an envelope and a sheet of paper.
“The chief sends his apologies. Read this and sign it. Seal the envelope and sign it across the seal. You’ll be out in an hour. He’s taken care of everything.”
Hugh signed the paper and inserted it into the envelope. A few licks and it was sealed. After a final signature across the closed flap, he returned the envelope to the transparent folder.
The man retrieved it and s
lipped it into his case. He signaled the guard and turned back to Hugh.
“Remember, one hour. Be ready.”
Under the watchful eyes of the guard, he stepped through and out of the barred passageway. Then he signed the ledger at the clerk’s desk, smiled to her, and stepped towards the entrance.
A final wave to the clerk, and he was gone.
***
A bored guard walked Hugh Byrd back to his cell to an accompaniment of curses and catcalls from the cells lining the walkway. Hugh regained his accustomed swagger. Only one more hour and these miserable losers, guards and inmates both, would be out of his life.
The guard slammed the door and secured Hugh’s cell. Hugh sat on his cot and smirked.
In an hour, he would resume his life, and a first priority would be to make Stewart Marks pay for his betrayal of Hugh. He would arrange an “accident” for the FBI agent, a most painful accident.
His lips tingled slightly, an effect of the sealant on the envelope. He licked them in anticipation of his revenge. The clarity that agent Marks was Hugh’s enemy was the only good result of his incarceration. He never let an enemy get the best of him. Of course, Hamm too was an enemy, but he could wait.
Hamm, I’ll deal with you once I destroy Marks.
An odd dizziness seized Hugh, but he shook it if off to contemplate his revenge. He rolled forward onto his cot. Yes, Marks must be first!
He lay back on the mattress and closed his eyes.
Revenge is sweet!
***
On a back road in South Carolina, the expensively clad “lawyer” or “football-player” approached a bridge that spanned a creek that emptied into the Little Pee Dee River. The man turned onto a weedy turnout next to the bridge.
He looked about. The absence of parked cars indicated that no fishermen were “wetting their lines” in the sluggish waters under the bridge. He was alone. Gingerly he removed the plastic folder from his case. He let Hugh’s envelope fall untouched to the ground. For a brief second he looked at the sealed flap whose poison had saturated Hugh’s saliva.
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 20
