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

by Mosimann, James E.

  GES was an American subsidiary of Systèmes Électroniques Globals Alphonse Guerry also known as SÉGAG. The granddaughter of the deceased Alphonse, Denise Guerry, was a talented, smart and incredibly beautiful blond. Her parents had died when she was young and her uncle, Roland Guerry, the CEO and majority owner of SÉGAG, had been her guardian in Paris until she had come of age.

  But the uncle had spent little time or affection on his late brother’s daughter. He had been busy meeting and scheming with important government ministers and French industrialists. He paid no attention to Denise. What little time he allotted to family was devoted to his natural son, Jacques.

  Uncle Roland was an atheist, and in his eyes, a modern man. But towards Denise he applied the archaic maxim that she should stay at home or join whatever the modern equivalent of a convent might be. Still his indifference worked in her favor. When Denise passed the state exams to attend university and follow her ambitions, he had not bothered her. And once she had succeeded, he had not blocked the SÉGAG board’s choice to name her head of GES.

  Denise Guerry’s success was not due to the family name. She was an independent and forceful woman.

  After several years of maturation in the United States as head of GES, and dealing with the “undisciplined” Americans, she had become the consummate professional. Her English was practiced and flawless, with the added appeal of a slurred-lilt from her native French. Outwardly remote and intolerant of failure (particularly in men) she ran GES with an efficiency that belied her age.

  At this moment Denise focused on an encrypted email that had arrived in her inbox. The screen was filled with numbers.

  It appeared to be a message from the Hutu leader, Maximilien Gutera. Doubtless he wanted more money. She ran a decoding program and the decrypted message appeared.

  mlle.guerry,|professor|

  shahruk|concerned|

  explosive|charges|for|

  my|rockets|may|be|

  defective|segag|must|

  test|charges|before|

  september|deadline|for|

  shipment|to|mombasa|

  also|must|have|second|

  payment|from|ges|

  delay|not|tolerable|

  m.g.|8gz9hk2j3c5

  She was right. The sender, “m.g.,” stood for Maximilien Gutera, a Hutu leader linked to GES. Gutera’s father, Charles Hakizimana, had been an organizer of the 1994 genocide in Rwanda. Maximilien currently headed a group centered in the Carolinas and had plans to lead a Hutu return to power.

  She recalled her uncle’s admonition.

  “Denise, the Hutu are persecuted, driven from their country by the minority Tutsi. Maximilien is a true leader. He will help these unfortunate refugees return to their homeland. Do not trouble yourself about politics. Leave that to me.”

  Uncle Roland viewed Maximilien as a Rwandan patriot in exile. Denise was not sure of that. She was sure, however, that her uncle’s perception of Maximilien was influenced by the generous fees he received for SÉGAG’s laundering of monies pillaged from Rwanda by the fleeing Hutu genociders.

  As for Professor Shahruk’s concern, it was baseless. SÉGAG had already checked the samples of explosives. There was nothing wrong with them.

  She arranged to transfer funds to a bank in Florence, South Carolina. Then she typed her reply and encoded it. In seconds, it was on its way.

  That done, her thoughts returned to Hugh Byrd and the missing items.

  Hugh must recover them, and soon.

  Unlike her uncle, she knew that Maximilien Gutera was unpredictable and dangerous.

  ***

  In a spacious home in the countryside near Florence, South Carolina, Maximilien Gutera lowered the Cuban cigar from his lips and listened to his aide, Jules Habimana.

  “Sir, GES has responded to your communication. The money has been transferred to your account.”

  “Good, but Jules, know that I am tired of having to beg our own funds from this French bitch. Soon we will make other arrangements.”

  “But not now, we must keep SÉGAG happy. Her uncle has powerful friends.”

  Maximilien nodded and waved his hand in dismissal. He did not like to be reminded of his dependence on GES and SÉGAG.

  Jules left. Maximilien took two puffs on his cigar, laid his chair back, and closed his eyes.

  He thought of his father. He appeared to doze, but his memories of 1994 were all too real.

  ***

  The house stood alone atop the Rwandan hill. To the front, green groves of bananas dominated the long descent to an unpaved road. To the rear and side, more somber coffee plants lined a slope that overlooked the shimmering waters of Lac Kivu. There a Pied Kingfisher sat patiently on a branch, watching for ripples that signaled its prey. Far to the West a red sun hovered over a mountainous skyline.

  Purple Bougainvillea smothered the wall next to a bench where a twelve-year old boy sat studying. Nearby a nectarine Sunbird, resplendent in its violet and red iridescent plumage, clung to a cup-like nest suspended from a small tree.

  The sound of a motor disrupted the boy’s concentration. He looked up to see a bulky armored vehicle rumbling up the hill. The Renault VAB 4 by 4 had French flags painted on its sides and sported a large Red Cross to the rear. It stopped near his bench.

  He put his book down and stood up.

  The man in the front passenger seat beckoned to him.

  “Maximilien, come quick. The Inyenzi, the cockroaches, are nearby. The French have come to protect us. They will take you to a safe place. Come.”

  “But Father, my new moto?”

  “Leave it. You must come. There is no time. Get in now, beside me.”

  The boy complied. He sat in silence between his Father and the French soldier who was driving. He scarcely noticed the four armed men huddled together in the rear, each in a faded once-colorful Interahame shirt.

  The VAB descended the gravel drive down the hill and turned north. The boy looked up at his father.

  “We are not going to Kigali?”

  But his father, Charles Hakizimana, was silent. The boy shut his eyes. Somewhere behind them he heard the rattle of gunfire.

  The French soldier spoke.

  “Monsieur Hakizimana, the troops of the Front Patriotique have blocked most of the routes, but the road to Goma is open. Shall I take you there?”

  The boy opened his eyes and saw his father nod affirmatively.

  A sudden bump jerked the boy’s head to the side. He looked back. They had rolled over a body abandoned on the roadway. He looked forwards. Ahead, fresh corpses, Tutsi women and children, lay at random angles on the road and shoulder.

  The French soldier cursed and swung the wheel sharply to find a smooth path through the scattered remains.

  The boy rose in his seat.

  “Father, that one is alive. Stop the car!”

  The driver’s eyes queried Hakizimana. At the latter’s nod, he braked.

  Hakizimana twisted aside to let his son step out the vehicle.

  The boy overtook the figure as it struggled to crawl away. It was a girl, a Tutsi, no older than he. He drew a handgun from his belt. The girl, wide eyes pleading, extended her hand upwards to him. He kicked it aside.

  The boy raised the 9 mm Browning and pointed.

  “Crack!”

  The girl slumped down. Her arm quivered and fell motionless. Her legs twitched.

  “Crack!”

  At the second bullet, her body flattened, motionless.

  Charles Hakizimana signaled his son to come back and spoke.

  “Maximilien Gutera, you did well. Remember that I chose your name carefully. ‘Gutera’ means ‘Attacker.’ Live up to your name. Be proud you are Hutu like me. Kill the Tutsi until they are all gone!”

  “Yes Father.”

  Satisfied, Charles Hakizimana motioned the Frenchman to proceed.

  “There is a government encampment ahead. I will descend there. Take the boy to this address in Goma. His uncle, Maximilien G
ahuj, is there. He will take him to Paris.”

  Thirty minutes later they stopped.

  Without a word, Charles Hakizimana stepped out the cab. He motioned to the four men in the rear. They descended and disappeared into the dusk.

  The boy never saw his father again.

  ***

  Maximilien jumped up with a start. Hot cigar ashes had fallen onto his thigh. He brushed them aside as his father’s words flashed before him.

  Remember that I chose your name carefully. ‘Gutera’ means ‘Attacker.’ Live up to your name. Be proud you are Hutu like me. Kill the Tutsi until they are all gone!

  A worried Jules Habimana hurried to him.

  “Sir, what was that noise? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Do not concern yourself. I was just thinking of our mission. Now leave.”

  Jules withdrew.

  ***

  At her home in Bethesda, Maryland, Dr. Jeannine Ryan folded back the covers on her bed and smiled. Tomorrow, she and Bill Hamm planned to drive to Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. This would be his first free afternoon in a month.

  They needed time together.

  Jeannine was a specialist in statistical forensics, the detection of fake data. She headed her own consulting firm, Ryan Associates, whose office was in the basement of her home. She and Bill Hamm had been professionally and romantically associated for several years. He worked for the CIA and was assigned to a desk somewhere in Northern Virginia. Though much closer than his last post in Vienna, Austria, still they had not seen each other as much as she would like.

  And even when together, he had been worried and distant.

  She pulled the covers over her. Forget it Jeannine. Stop worrying. Tomorrow everything will be fine, like before.

  She rolled over and slept.

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, August 21

  Jeannine Ryan sat at her desk in the basement of her home in Bethesda, Maryland. She held a key in her hand. Her friend, Bill Hamm, had missed their date last Friday for Skyline Drive. Instead, this key had arrived in the mail along with puzzling instructions. She was to hold the key for him for four days. After that, if he had not picked it up, she was to go to Manassas, Virginia, and retrieve the contents of the postal box whose number was on the key.

  She sighed. The four days had passed and Bill was missing. He must be in trouble.

  And yesterday, two FBI jerks had visited her office looking for him! She had received them coldly and told them nothing. They indicated that Bill was a spy, and acted as if Jeannine, somehow were his accomplice.

  Idiot Feds!

  But their visit had unsettled her.

  Where are you, Bill? And what is in that Post Office Box?

  It was time to go to Manassas.

  Her partner Aileen Harris was on vacation. She wrote her a note and clutching the key, left the house.

  ***

  When Jeannine arrived at the post office in Manassas, nothing appeared unusual.

  Inside the building, she took the key from her purse. Damn it Bill, where are you? Why are the Feds looking for you?

  She checked the number and leaned down to examine the lower tier of postal boxes. There it was. The lock turned easily. She pulled at the canvas case that was wedged in the box.

  “May I help you Miss?”

  She looked up. A tall man stood behind her. She tugged hard and the case came free.

  “No thank you. I’m fine.”

  Jeannine’s red hair appealed to the man. He smiled.

  She hesitated.

  Is this guy a Fed?

  But a small boy came running and grabbed the man’s trousers.

  OK, no! Jeannine get hold of yourself.

  She pushed past the pair.

  Damn it Bill, what is stuffed in this briefcase?

  Outside, she clicked the locks, started the Subaru, and drove out of the parking lot.

  She did not notice the man in the Ford Excursion parked across the street. The man (Tom Holder) put the Excursion in gear and followed the Subaru.

  ***

  At the FBI building in Washington, DC, Stew Marks, coffee in hand, was at his desk. He had been with the Bureau for several years. He was an ex-Marine. (A misnomer, he would always be a marine.) After the military, he had joined the FBI and received counter-terrorism training at the academy in Quantico. That completed, at a mature 29 he had been assigned to the Washington Field Office, Joint Terrorism Task Force (JTTF.)

  Yesterday Stew and his partner, Jack Marino, had interviewed Dr. Jeannine Ryan, friend of a missing CIA employee, William Hamm, who was suspected of conspiracy to deliver secrets to an unnamed foreign power.

  Stew had conducted the interview rather than Jack, who, did not like CIA “Spooks” in general, and Hamm in particular. (Jack’s testimony before a congressional committee investigating a terrorist attack on the Unity Pavilion in Virginia, had been thoroughly impeached by Hamm.)

  From the moment he first saw her, Stew had been attracted to Dr. Ryan and her auburn hair, but she was not the first good-looking female he had questioned. He had a job to do.

  And Ryan had frustrated him. No way was she interested in helping the FBI find Hamm. He was sure she knew more than she let on.

  He reviewed his notes.

  Stew: Ms. Ryan, I’m agent Stewart Marks with the FBI, and this is my partner agent Jack Marino. (Showed ID.) We’d like to ask you some questions about your friend, Mr. Hamm. May we come in?

  (Hesitates, Let’s us in. Red hair, attractive. Seems uncomfortable, definitely edgy.)

  He had written “attractive.” That was an understatement, “Stunning” was more like it. Stew frowned and read on. His next questions concerned background on Hamm. They had been tough and straightforward. Then he had probed her thoughts.

  Stew: Are you aware that your friend may have stolen government secrets?

  Ryan: That’s what you say.

  Stew: Then you support what he did?

  Ryan: [Silence.]

  Stew: Does that mean you do?

  Ryan: Don’t try to trick me.

  Stew skipped to the last lines written on his pad.

  ...

  Stew: Ms. Ryan, can’t you help us?

  Ryan: What exactly do you want to know?

  Stew: We were hoping you can tell us where he is?

  Ryan: If I did know, why would I tell you?

  Stew: Because you want to help him. It’s for his own sake. He needs to come in voluntarily. Why won’t you help him?

  Ryan: Because I know Bill, he’s sacrificed more for this country than you ever will, and he’s no damned spy. Whoever told you that is wrong.

  Stew: Ms. Ryan, I’m just doing my job.

  Ryan: So your job stinks. Stop persecuting the innocent!

  (Spunky!)

  Stew smiled to himself. He had written the note “Spunky” when his partner had risen to accost the desirable redhead. Stew had waved to Jack to sit down and cool it, before trying a direct question.

  Stew: Ms. Ryan do you know where Mr. Hamm is?

  Ryan: I do not!

  Stew: Will you call me if he contacts you?

  Ryan: I’d have to think about it.

  Stew: What does that mean?

  Ryan: You’ve taken too much of my time. I’d like you to leave now.

  Stew: All right, Ms. Ryan but we’ll be back. Meanwhile, here’s my number. You can best help your friend by calling me when he does contact you.

  (Knows more than she lets on, is uncooperative. This is useless now. Is she in this too?)

  Stew put down his notes and rolled his chair back. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup into the basket, and propped his feet on the desk.

  OK, Ms. Ryan, now we have to investigate you too.

  ***

  In her Subaru, Jeannine Ryan glanced at the sack-like briefcase on the seat beside her.

  Bill, what have you done?

  She frowned. Sh
e needed time to think, and she needed to be away from the FBI.

  She turned her car onto the Manassas Bypass and headed for Dumphries and I-95 south to Richmond.

  ***

  Wayne Johnson stood alone on the weathered deck of his beach house in Topsail, North Carolina. Wayne was bored, stifled by a lack of purpose that left him unchallenged.

  The beach in front of his house on Topsail Island, North Carolina, fronted a monotonous gray ocean that stretched southeast to an indistinct horizon. Above him, the scene was equally uninteresting. No trace of blue pierced a continuous gray cloud layer where only yesterday flat-bottomed cumulus clusters, puffed and white, had punctuated an azure sky.

  A single gull of uncertain species floated by as he stepped to a gray deck chair. He laid his head back. He tried to relax but could not.

  Phyllis, his wife of long standing, had died the year before. Retired and alone, Wayne needed to be needed. He was a statistician who had thrived on studying counts and measurements from medical studies whose goal was to cure disease and alleviate suffering. To that end he had worked for and ultimately owned a statistical consulting firm, StatFind, located in Rockville, Maryland.

  But StatFind now was defunct, his house in Maryland was up for sale, and his wife was gone.

  Over the ocean behind him, dark clouds touched a frothy surface signaling an approaching squall.

  ***

  The storm came fast. Heavy drops splattered the gray boards of the deck and coalesced to flow over and through the cracked wood.

  Wayne dashed for shelter just as a strong gust flipped a deck chair against the railing with a splintering impact. He was dripping wet before he could force the sliding doors shut behind him.

  The gusts stopped, but left behind a steady rain. He sat at the table and stared through the drizzled window at the deck outside. The fully soaked boards of the deck were now a dark gray.