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

by Mosimann, James E.

  “Your Denise? Jacques, I’m your cousin!”

  “So what, you’re still beautiful. And I don’t want you sleeping with Duval. Besides, have you dealt with Byrd?”

  “I will soon, but Byrd may yet be of use. He is in South Carolina, trying to find Ryan and the papers.”

  “You said Ryan was in Maryland.”

  “I was wrong. The northern team is coming back south, and Bruno Belli is already in South Carolina, in Florence.”

  “Denise, don’t cross father. Find those papers. He’s livid!”

  “Fine!”

  She slammed the phone down. This time it stayed on the desk.

  ***

  At Mary Dean’s mother’s house in Dillon, South Carolina, Wayne and Bill looked on as Jeannine pushed several security tokens to the side and reached in the briefcase for a document.

  “Bill. this report talks about a group fighting in Africa that wants to restore Hutu rule in Rwanda.”

  “Right. Its leaders were responsible for the 1994 genocide. They fight in the eastern part of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the ‘DRC.’ They want to retake Rwanda. But there is also a rebellion against the DRC. Those rebels sympathize with the present Rwandan government.”

  “Bill, this is complicated. What does it all mean?”

  He pointed to the briefcase.

  “Messages in there show that a Hutu group under a man named Maximilien Gutera plans to commit mass atrocities in the North and South Kivu provinces of the Congo. Some members of the government in France support them. The idea is to blame the atrocities on the current government of Rwanda so that French sympathizers will ask the UN to condemn Rwanda, and restore a ‘Hutu Power’ government there.”

  “I can’t believe it. That would risk another genocide? Why?”

  “Why not? At the time of the first genocide, the French prime minister was a friend of the Rwandan president, Juvénal Habyarimana, whose death provided the excuse for the mass killings. And maybe some Frenchmen want Rwanda to be French-speaking again. The Rwandan Patriotic Front was started by English-speaking Tutsis from Uganda and the current constitution has a ‘National’ language, Kinyarwanda, and three ‘Official’ languages; Kinyarwanda, English and French.

  Jeannine shook her head.

  “No Frenchman I know would endorse racism and genocide just to restore French as the dominant language.”

  “I agree. But the leaders of the Hutu-Power movement have no place to go. They caused the genocide. Their only hope is to take over Rwanda. And all they need to assure French involvement is one or two highly-placed officials who use ‘la gloire de la France’ as a pretext to fatten their personal bank accounts from a restored Hutu government.”

  Jeannine groaned. But another genocide?

  Bill bent over. He appeared exhausted. His shoulders slumped. She steadied him.

  “Bill, enough talk. Here, take your antibiotics and rest.”

  His fingers clasped the pills and pressed them into his mouth.

  Jeannine wrapped her arms about him and settled him on the sofa. She tucked a blanket about his shoulders and stood back.

  In seconds he was asleep

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday, August 29

  In Chantilly, a frustrated Denise Guerry arrived early at the offices of Guerry Electronic Systems. She had fought her way through the heavy traffic on Route 28, most of whose cars were headed for offices in the District of Columbia.

  But Denise’s concern was for Henri. Was she losing her touch?

  Henri, do not be distracted by that twit of a Tutsi! You need a woman, not some silly girl.

  She ignored the mail in the inbox and paced back and forth. She only stopped when the phone rang. She set it to “speaker.”

  Maximilien Gutera’s voice boomed forth.

  “Mlle. Guerry!”

  “I’m here.”

  “I informed your uncle that Dr. Smets betrayed me and that I had dealt with him. Did he notify you?”

  “Of course!”

  She lied. Thanks for nothing, uncle.

  Maximilien continued.

  “But now I have another problem. I just found out that a Tutsi woman is studying here in Florence. She gave a seminar at the university. She studies encryption. Would this Tutsi be associated with GES?”

  “What is her name?”

  “Angelique Uwimana. Some of my men attend that university. I will not tolerate a Tutsi presence there. Apparently some of them find her attractive. I will not tolerate my men being infected by such a cockroach.”

  Maximilien pushed ahead.

  “Mlle. Guerry, your uncle informs me that you had your Dr. Belli attend Uwimana’s seminar. I must repeat. Is Uwimana supported by GES?”

  “She is not, but Henri Duval is and he may be with her. I insist that he not be harmed. He has a key assignment.”

  Maximilien ground his teeth.

  She insists? How dare she!

  But he held his tongue. He needed GES and SÉGAG.

  “Agreed, of course, Mademoiselle. Henri will not be harmed.”

  He hung up. Unless he gets in my way!

  Denise was conflicted.

  Maximilien’s solution for the Tutsi distraction would be extreme, but uncle Roland insisted that she not oppose the man in any way. But if Henri tried to defend Angelique from the Hutus, he could fall along with her.

  Damn!

  ***

  Denise stayed at her desk. She needed to make one more call. She punched the number of Dr. Bruno Belli. It was he whom she had sent to hear Angelique’s talk.

  “Bruno, are you still in South Carolina, in Florence?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why haven’t you reported to me on Angelique Uwimana’s seminar on breaking the RSA encryption scheme?”

  “Because I’ve been studying it and I had Greg go over it too. Her factorization method is clever, but it certainly will not work in polynomial time as she hopes.”

  “Does she suspect GES of breaking RSA messages?”

  “No way. She’s strictly into the math. She has no clue about how we obtain the primes for decryption. She knows nothing about manipulating human factors. Uwimana is no threat to us. Don’t worry about her.”

  “Bruno, you are naïve. Her research alone makes her dangerous. The belief that she is correct could cause some governments to abandon RSA encryption.”

  “But two of the top experts in the country, one of them from Stanford, did not believe her either. Sure, they encouraged her to continue her work. She has a novel approach that has possibilities in other areas, but she cannot do the impossible. She’s no threat to RSA encryption

  He added.

  “The bottom line is they say that her algorithm cannot be any faster than what’s now available. Her approach to speed up integer factorization is flawed. It won’t do that. Period!”

  “Bruno, you may know math and algorithms, but you don’t know people. It’s like this. Gutera thinks Uwimana is a threat to his men. He is going to eliminate her. Understood?”

  “You mustn't allow that. Those genociders mutilate people!”

  “Talk to my uncle about that. Your problem is to make sure that Maximilien’s men do not harm Henri Duval. Henri thinks he likes this Tutsi. And be careful, Maximilien is dangerous.”

  Bruno swallowed. So are you!

  She hung up.

  ***

  In Florence, South Carolina, Henri Duval sat at a secluded corner table in the small Italian restaurant. Opposite him was a beautiful African, Angelique Uwimana. Her eyes shone in the wavering candle light.

  She was bubbly with the success of her seminar the day before.

  “Henri, I did it, and nobody shot me down, not even that hot shot computer guru from Stanford. I have a chance, my ideas might work.”

  She hesitated.

  “My only problem is to speed up the algorithm.”

  Henri was not thinking of algorithms. H
e reached across the table and took both her hands.

  “Angelique, I knew you would. You are an extraordinary woman.”

  “No Henri, don’t say that. I’m very ordinary.”

  The slightest shadow flicked across his eyes. She withdrew her hands from his.

  “Henri, something is bothering you. What? Are you scared that I’m a mathematician? You needn’t be. People are more important than any career. You have to know that.”

  Angelique ’s openness endeared her to Henri who dealt mostly with deception. And she was right, he was disturbed. Denise Guerry was angry.

  Still he determined not to spoil Angelique’s celebration.

  “I’m not worried, Angelique, and you are not only beautiful, but intelligent. Still, you must keep your career.”

  Abruptly the glow in her eyes dimmed.

  “Angelique, what did I say wrong? I’m sorry.”

  “Henri, that man who just sat down. The suit and tie over in the corner. He was at my seminar. He’s the one that implied that I might have stolen encription secrets from the government.”

  Henri looked up.

  “I know him, his name is Bruno Belli. He’s an Italian computer scientist who works in northern Virginia, sometimes for my company.”

  Inwardly, Henri shuddered. Belli at the seminar meant that Denise Guerry was monitoring Angelique and her research.

  “Like you work for that ‘Guerry’ woman.”

  Henri did not answer. He stood up and signaled the waiter for the check.

  “Angelique, we should leave now.”

  But Angelique, half-risen in her chair, froze. A tall black man had joined Bruno at his table. She whispered.

  “Henri! That man sitting with your ‘Bruno.’ That’s Maximilien Gutera, a Rwandan, a Hutu. His father was Charles Hakizimana, a leader of the Interahamwe and the genocide. Maybe Maximilien is the one Paul saw. He looks like his father.”

  Henri turned. Bruno and his African partner were staring in their direction.

  He pulled Angelique from her chair and headed for the door.

  ***

  Outside the restaurant, the clouds burst. Churning winds and rain splattered the street in whirling sprays that stung Henri Duval’s eyes. Half-blinded, he guided Angelique on the sidewalk next to the overflowing gutters.

  She clung to him as horizontal gusts lifted the water from the asphalt and flung it against their legs. He lowered his head and pulled her towards the car.

  They arrived drenched.

  Henri drove. Angelique, her hair damp and disheveled, leaned on the glove compartment without speaking. He could barely see through the water that cascaded against the windshield. Neither of them spoke. The rapid thump-thump of the wiper blades provided the only sound.

  After a few blocks, the rain lessened, and the wipers cleared semicircles through which Henri could see. He turned to her.

  “Angelique, you are in danger, you must trust me. I can help you.”

  She lifted her head, but before she could answer, he spoke.

  “This ‘Paul’ you mentioned before. Do you mean ‘Paul Mutabazi,’ you know him, don’t you?”

  She nodded and reached for Henri’s shoulder, but he kept on.

  “And he was at the farm where Smets was killed, right.”

  She withdrew her hand. She nodded again.

  Henri kept on.

  “It was Mutabazi who shot at me when I arrived at the farm, wasn’t it? He has a hunting rifle doesn’t he?”

  “But he told me he didn’t try to hit you. He shot high. He only wanted time to get away. Paul is no killer. I mean he hated that man, Smets, and wanted to kill him, but when the time came he couldn’t finish him.”

  She shook some of the moisture from her hair.

  “Smets was dying when Paul found him. Whoever did it used a panga.”

  She sobbed, a panga! Poor little Augustin, my baby brother.

  She bit her lips and continued.

  “All right, here is what I know. Someone had told Paul of a new Hutu Power movement that wanted to restore Hutu rule in Rwanda with the aid of the United Nations. Key people in the movement were living in the Carolinas, including a Belgian doctor who lived near Wilmington. Paul saw a photo of that doctor in a local newspaper. He clipped it out.”

  She took a breath.

  “Paul recalled that a Belgian doctor named Smets had escaped to Goma with the other killers when they were driven out of Rwanda by the FPR, and he knew that a Doctor Smets, a Belgian, had refused to shelter me and my brother from the Interahamwe, a death sentence for us.”

  She paused

  “But I told you how they chopped my baby brother to pieces, and how God saved me, a miracle!”

  She sobbed. Augustin, why am I alive and not you?

  After a moment she continued.

  “Paul showed me the photo. It was Dr. Smets, the supposed friend of my mother, the one who turned me and my baby brother away. When Paul told me that Smets was living in North Carolina, near Wilmington, I was upset. He was determined to accost Smets. He wanted to find out what Smets knew about the Hutu plot, but he was too late. Smets was chopped and dying.”

  Henri stopped for a red light. The water on the windshield was reduced to trickles. The rain had ceased.

  “How do you and Paul know each other?”

  “Nothing romantic, if that’s what you think. We were neighbors in our village, but I was away at school when my father was killed. Paul was only a boy. My father and he sought help at the local soccer field, but Government troops surrounded them and several hundred Tutsis. They slaughtered them, first with grenades, then guns. As he died, my father saved Paul. He shielded him with his own body as he fell.”

  “Where is Paul now?”

  “With a fellow graduate student, at his apartment.”

  The light turned to green. Henri drove off and continued.

  “Angelique, this Gutera, how did you recognize him?”

  “My wonderful ‘diversity’ university invited him to present the Hutu side of the Rwandan ‘conflict,’ that’s their nice term for ‘genocide.’ I didn’t go to the talk, but his photo was on the flyers. It made me sick.”

  “But not all Hutu … ”

  “Stop! There can never be justification for the genocide. You were there. You saw!”

  She continued.

  “Of course not all Hutus are guilty! My mother was Hutu and they killed her. But Hutu leaders corrupted my neighbors, my friends. Most of my village joined them, some out of fear. The Interahamwe killed those who befriended us.”

  Angelique choked on her tears.

  “We have to forgive any of them who ask us. The new government’s focus is on reconciliation. We have to forgive each other. There is no other choice. But Maximilien Gutera’s father was one of the leaders! He belonged to the devil.”

  A final sob.

  “And his son says it was right to kill us. We deserved it! Gutera brags that he wants nothing of the Tutsi, only our deaths.”

  Henri reached for her hand and squeezed, but she was not done.

  “Before he died Smets told Paul that Gutera’s father, Charles Hakizimana, killed him. Paul believed him.”

  “I thought Hakizimana died fleeing Kigali.”

  “He did, but some Hutus pretend he survived and anyway Smets is a liar. The French, your countrymen, helped Smets escape to Goma, but Charles Hakizimana was killed. Paul thought he saw Charles here in Florence, just yesterday, but I convinced him he was wrong. Now I know that he saw Maximilien. My God! The son is a beast like his father. And he is here to avenge him. God help us.”

  Henri stopped the car, pulled her close, and held her. Neither spoke.

  ***

  Back at the restaurant, Maximilien Gutera ate his Steak Toscana while a pale Bruno Belli watched in silence. Bruno had lost all appetite. He lifted his glass to his lips, but his hand shook and he put it down. He spoke, but his voice was a whisper.

  “You should have told me be
fore setting the trap for Uwimana. Duval is with her. Denise Guerry specifically instructed me not to involve him. She will not be pleased.”

  Maximilien Gutera cut his steak. Only a sirloin but the rub is flavorful and nicely seasoned. He carefully lifted a morsel to his mouth. Good! His eyes returned to Bruno.

  “Denise Guerry is a mere woman. We know how to deal with our enemies. Surely we have proved that to you. We will take care of this Tutsi cockroach in our own way. You do not give me orders and neither does she. Stick to your computers. We know what we are doing.”

  He cut a morsel from his steak and placed it in his mouth.

  “Now Monsieur Belli, you should relax. Aren’t you hungry? Your tortellini will be cold. Eat!”

  Maximilien took Bruno’s wine glass and handed it to him.

  “And drink! It will calm you. My compatriots are waiting at Uwimana’s apartment. I told them they could enjoy her first, before they complete their work. They will call me when done.”

  Bruno swallowed the Rosato in a single gulp.

  Maximilien laid his cell phone on the table and continued.

  “For his sake, I hope your M. Duval won’t interfere. I prefer not to hurt him. My father and I owe a debt to the French.”

  ***

  Henri Duval drove. Damp arms encircled him and he felt the softness of Angelique’s breasts against his side as she massaged the rippling muscles of his back and shoulders.

  But as they rounded the corner to her street his muscles went taut. He drew away and stopped the car.

  “Henri, what is wrong?”

  The rain had lightened and he could see down the street.

  “That car parked across from your apartment, do you see it? It’s a Citroën C3 Picasso. How many of those have you seen in Florence?”

  “I don’t know cars.”

  “The last one I saw was in Chantilly, Virginia, in the parking lot at GES when some African visitors met with Denise Guerry. This Citroën could mean trouble. I’m going to see.”

  Damn you Denise, are you involved with Maximilien and his thugs?