Then he leaned low and lit the envelope with his lighter. It charred on the edges before the entire blackened surface burst into flames. When only ashes remained, he ground them into the sandy soil with his heel and kicked the mix into the weeds that flourished at the edge of the turnout.
Then he lit a Marlboro, a brand popular in his native France. He drew deeply on it and composed a text message for Marat1 at SÉGAG in Paris. It comprised two words.
“C’est fait. It’s done.”
He stepped into the car. A private plane was waiting at Florence Regional Airport. It would take him to Dulles International Airport to meet his Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.
***
Hugh Byrd lay on his cot. In a few minutes he would be free. His gutless superiors had capitulated. They lacked the courage. to take action against him given what he knew.
He wanted to laugh at their weakness, but his mouth and throat were too dry.
What the hell?
His tongue tingled. Numb, it rolled back clogging his throat and airways. He gagged and fell backwards on the cot. A bubbly froth exuded from his mouth.
His head spun. He grabbed for the edge of the cot, but his arms failed to respond. He rolled, face down, onto the floor. He tried to lift his head, but could not.
He gasped, but his chest did not expand. No air filled his lungs. His Paralyzed diaphragm froze and breathing ceased.
Seconds later he was dead.
***
In Mount Pleasant, across the Cooper River from downtown Charleston, Stew Marks stood up and stretched. After several hours of briefing by Jeannine Ryan, his head ached.
“All right, Ms. Ryan, you’ve convinced me. This proves that Guerry Electronic Systems paid Hugh Byrd for U.S. government secrets, including a highly secret NSA program that can read the French RSA messages. You have enough here to nail the bastard and GES for selling government secrets. Unfortunately, the evidence against the parent company, SÉGAG, is more tenuous.”
Jeannine waved a cluster of papers at Stew.
“But look at these messages. They prove that a group of French politicians who support ‘Hutu Power’ paid SÉGAG for decoded communications that reveal which governments want to condemn the present government of Rwanda.”
“I agree that’s a likely inference, but the proof stops with GES. There is a gap between GES and SÉGAG. To get SÉGAG, we would need Byrd’s cooperation. He might agree to a plea deal.”
“But what about Bill? He emptied Byrd’s safe and stole secrets. What about him?”
“The fox was in charge of the chicken house. Byrd was head of security. Bill had no choice. Any decent defense lawyer would be glad to defend him. It would be close to a slam dunk.”
He seized her shoulders and spun her about. She stiffened.
“Jeannine, I like you, but this isn’t personal. Gutera is going to ship missile components from Charleston this Saturday. We need to stop him. Call Hamm and tell him to give himself up. The FBI has documented over thirty hardcore followers of Gutera in the Carolinas. Bill can’t handle Gutera by himself.”
He handed her his cell.
“I know you know how to contact him. Call him.”
“No!”
***
******
Chapter 30
Tuesday, September 4
In the motel in Mount Pleasant, Jeannine sat silent while Stew Marks stood over her. A full minute passed. Finally, he vented his frustration.
“Damn it woman, I’m trying to help you!”
The impasse was broken by the buzz of his phone. The caller was Stew’s partner, Jack Marino.
“Stew, where in hell are you. They tell me you’re on leave without pay.”
“It’s all right, Jack, I’m in Mount Pleasant, near Charleston.”
He did not mention that Jeannine Ryan was with him.
“Stew, Byrd is dead. They killed him.”
“Dead? They? Who? He was in jail.”
“Right, the locals thought it was a heart attack, but the National Security Agency says different.”
“The NSA killed him? They could have disowned him and let him retire.”
“Not the NSA, no. It looks like an ‘Op’ from Paris. Byrd had a visitor. The guard says there was no contact between him and the prisoner, but Byrd licked an envelope. Maybe some sort of neurologic toxin. The NSA’s doing an autopsy.”
“Damn! And the mystery visitor?”
“One of the surveillance cameras malfunctioned. The NSA has the other. They’re working on getting an ID.”
“What makes them think Paris?”
“They’re cryptic about that. Maybe your theory is right. Maybe the NSA has broken French codes. But if this hit was sponsored by their government, it adds to your problems. Stew, forget that damn Ryan woman. She has you dizzy!”
The last words were shouted. Jeannine winced.
Stew slammed the receiver down and turned to her.
“Now will you believe I’m on your side?”
***
In Wilmington, North Carolina, Denise Guerry scanned a weekly newspaper from Topsail.
Sunday, September 2
Carolina Commentary
A ceremony to commemorate the research on ramjet missiles and radar guidance systems conducted by the United States Navy at Topsail Island from 1945 to 1948 will be held this Wednesday evening at 7:00 pm at the museum in Topsail Beach. The Mayor of Topsail Beach will present an address followed by entertainment and an outdoor barbeque. Tickets will be available on site.
A special feature of the event will be the first missile firings to take place on the island since 1948. Although equipped with ordinary rockets, rather than the ramjet engines studied by the Navy, they nonetheless feature a radar guidance system developed locally by Sullivan Electronics currently owned and operated by Jack “Scooter” Sullivan of Holly Ridge. Jack’s grandfather worked on the Navy’s original project.
Visitors will be able to track the flight of the missiles on large screens set up adjacent to the museum. Radar tracking will be from a temporary facility on loan to the museum by Guerry Electronic Systems of Chantilly Virginia. As a backup, a French Oceanographic Research Vessel, “La Lutte” will track the missiles from an offshore location.
Once they reach their “Targets,” the missiles will be exploded in mid air to provide a televised display that promises a fun end to an enjoyable evening.
Denise put the paper down. If Sullivan had done his assembly correctly, the tests would go well. He had done good work in the past for GES, and the odds for success were high.
And though Sullivan was dead, Bruno Belli could run the tests at Topsail as least as well or better. The public tests would provide solid evidence that the missiles for the dirty bombs had come from the United States and not France.
She thought of her uncle’s words during her last visit to SÉGAG in Paris.
“Denise, do not flinch. Be proud of your work at GES. We are helping a persecuted people exiled from their homes by a ruling Tutsi minority. History will recognize Maximilien as a patriot. I am proud to help him restore Hutu rule in his homeland.”
Denise wondered how her uncle would explain poor persecuted Maximilien’s murderous hacking of Jack Sullivan.
Her uncle’s supposed “refugee victim” was a madman.
Cher Oncle, your patriotic Maximilien is a plain murderer.
***
Ian Callahan was due at the motel at any minute. Denise balanced the laptop on the dresser to check her email. An encrypted message filled the display.
She tapped quickly to decode it. It was from her pesky cousin Jacques at SÉGAG in Paris.
d.g.|paris|plucked|
l'oiseau.||upset|
you|did|not|fix|
l'oiseau|yourself.|
why|not?|paris|
records|cleaned.|
urgent|you|do|same|
for|the|chantilly|
ges|records|now||
&nb
sp; love|me|yet?||
jacobin5|gz9hk2j3c5|s
Jacques’ so-called humor irritated her. The use of “l’oiseau” to indicate “Bird” or “Byrd” was juvenile.
Damn it, Jacques, get serious. And love? Forget it cousin!
But Byrd was dead. SÉGAG had solved the “Byrd Problem” without informing Denise and they were upset with her for not doing it herself.
Damn you Uncle, you should have told me!
She threw the mouse on the floor. It snapped open and the battery rolled under the chair.
She supposed that her uncle was right to eliminate Byrd. He had ceased to be an asset. Perhaps she should have eliminated him herself. Mainly she was angry because she had not been consulted.
She calmed down. At least her cousin could still laugh.
“Byrd”=“l’oiseau.” Juvenile, Jacobin5, but clever.
She reassembled her mouse. Her task now was to scrub all traces of Byrd from the GES records. She pulled up the files and clicked rapidly. But before she could finish, the computer beeped. She looked as the screen filled with numbers, another interruption from Jacques. She ran the decode program.
d.g.|hamm|in|
charleston.|urgent|
hamm|knows|shipment|
date|||oncle|says|
eliminate|hamm|
check|gutera|missile|
parts|and|explosives.|
|repeat,|oncle|says|
eliminate|hamm||
i|say|forget|duval.|love|me|
instead|jacobin5|5h4vqdt
She jumped up, face red.
Jacques you are not my keeper. Forget Duval? No way! Love you instead? Ridiculous! And I’m not killing anybody for uncle’s sake. I’m done with his dirty work.
Still, she admired her cousin’s detached attitude.
She would go to Charleston because Duval was a challenge to her ego, but her prime objective was to verify that Gutera’s missile components worked. And she would kill Hamm if he interfered with the shipment, but only to defend herself.
She took pride in her work.
Cousin, I am not an idiot! And never tell me what to do!
The harsh buzz of the phone filled the motel room. Denise picked up.
“Yes?”
“Madame Guerry, this is the front desk. There’s a Mr. Callahan here to see you.”
Denise straightened her blouse and wiped the hair from her forehead. Then she answered.
“Fine, send him up.”
She would not change her plans. Should Henri insist on clinging to his little Tutsi, Ian Callahan could handle him.
***
In Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, Jeannine Ryan made her decision. She looked Stew Marks in the eye.
“Mr. Marks, you want me to call Bill, but I will not. If you really want to help me, let me go. He and I have worked together before. We may not be able to best Gutera and his mob, but we surely can find a way to sabotage this missile shipment. Bill’s good at this kind of operation, and he’s not bound by regulations like you.”
A shadow flicked across Stew’s eyes. Jeannine softened.
“Look, you really do not know me, and other guys have been disappointed when they find out what I’m really like. And I don’t know you at all. I’m sorry.”
Stew’s shoulders slumped.
“Jeannine, you are wrong. Gutera’s men are too much for you and a dozen like Hamm.”
He hesitated.
“But I won’t force my help on you. I respect you too much for that.”
He waved at the door.
“Go. I won’t stop you. You are free. Go.”
She turned to look at her laptop and the sack with the papers. He caught her glance.
“Sorry. I’m handing these over to my Chief. Now, if you’re going, go quick, before I change my mind.”
She turned, threw her arms around him, and planted moist lips on his, lingering several seconds.
Then she stepped to the table, scooped up sack and laptop, and left the room.
Stew stood and stared as the door’s hydraulic closer slowly pulled it shut. Finally, the latch clicked. Bemused, he sat on the bed and muttered.
“Damn it, Marks, you let her take those papers. What’s the matter with you?”
***
In Charleston, South Carolina, Henri Duval and Angelique leaned on the railing of the elevated seawall that faced towards the harbor and a distant Fort Sumter of Civil War fame. Across the street behind them, several cannon were aimed at the fort to commemorate the location of the “Battery” whose guns, along with those of Forts Moultrie and Johnson, had bombarded the Federally-held bastion in April, 1861, and initiated the four-year struggle termed, according to preference, the “War of Northern Aggression,” the “War of the Rebellion,” or the “Civil War.” The commemorative cannon occupied the harbor-side of a park dominated by live oak trees whose branches, pendant with Spanish moss, extended over shaded paths of crushed oyster shells.
Eric Nyonzima leaned his crutches against the trunk of a live oak and peered around the thick trunk. He studied the two lone figures on the seawall. He had followed the couple from Broad Street here to the Battery.
The soft cast on his lower leg irritated the skin. He limped to a nearby bench. He would not be spotted. Uwimana did not know him and Duval had only seen him once, in the dark when he had broken Eric’s leg with that vicious kick.
Eric put his crutches beside the bench and sat. He extended his aching leg to the side, and punched the number of Jules Habimana into his cell.
“Jules, tell Maximilien that I’ve found Angelique Uwimana. I’m watching her now on the battery’s seawall. She’s with that Frenchman.”
“Duval?”
“Yes. He broke my leg while you were inside Uwimana’s apartment.”
“Where are they staying?”
“I’m not sure, but there are several hotels near where I first spotted them. What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t lose them. Find out which hotel, but whatever happens, do not touch Uwimana, Maximilien wants her for himself. And Eric, good work, Maximilien could even decide to forget the tests and come to Charleston tomorrow.”
The call was over. Eric glanced at the couple across the way. Arm in arm, they were in no hurry to leave. He was glad to be here for a while, he needed the rest. He shifted his stiff leg to the front and leaned on the back of the bench.
***
******
Chapter 31
Wednesday, September 5
Near Wilmington, North Carolina, Jules Habimana watched as Louis Makuza and another man finished wiping the black hood of Maximilien Gutera’s Audi. Maximilien insisted that the car reflect his status, and Jules dared not imagine otherwise. Once again the daily ritual was complete. The Audi shimmered, resplendent in the early-morning sun.
Jules looked at his watch and pointed at a fast food restaurant a block away.
“That’s enough, Louis. The car looks good. You have a half hour before the chief comes down. You two go grab something to eat.”
Jules watched them walk down the street. He took out his cell phone and called Eric Nyonzima in Charleston.
“Eric, what news of Duval and Uwimana. Where are they staying?”
“They are not together. Duval is at a hotel on Meeting Street. He dropped Uwimana off at a small Catholic hospice not far from the cathedral on Broad Street. She’s staying there with some nuns.”
“What a gentleman! Duval is an idiot. How did you ever let him beat you?”
Eric ignored him.
“I can’t watch both places at once.”
“Stay near the hospice. It is Uwimana that Maximilien wants, not the Frenchman. Your news will please Maximilien. If Uwimana is a virgin, all the more satisfaction for him as he despoils her.”
“When will he be here?”
“He has not informed me. He may watch the rocket firings at Topsail Beach tonight, or he may come to Charleston and leave the rockets to Professor Belli.
Whatever, you are not to lose Uwimana. Clear?”
“Clear.”
Jules hung up. He smiled to himself. Now that Angelique was located, lust would decide the issue. If Maximilien’s heated loins ruled, they could drive to Charleston even today.
He sighed. He was ready.
The shiny Audi was gassed and greased for the trip.
***
In Charleston, the nuns’ hospice was located in an old area of narrow streets lined with brick dwellings protected by ornate iron fences. Just down the street from the center was a public bench squeezed between two large Oleander bushes. The bench had been provided several years earlier by the town fathers who, ever conscious of tourists’ dollars and sore feet, promoted walking tours of the old city.
Though not a tourist, Eric Nyonzima was grateful for the bench. His leg ached. He had left his car around the corner since the constricted street allowed no parking. From the bench, Eric had a clear view of the entrance to the hospice. He settled himself and watched.
Jules Habimana’s words resounded in his mind.
“It is Uwimana that Maximilien wants.”
Bum leg or not, he dare not lose Angelique.
***
In Mount Pleasant, across the Cooper river from Charleston, Jeannine Ryan was frustrated. Her only way to reach Bill Hamm was to call his pre-pay cell phone. Last night, after repeated tries, she had failed to reach him. His phone either was off or in an area with no service.
Discouraged, she had walked to a nearby hotel and booked a room for the night.
She had slept well, but again this morning, her calls to Bill produced no results. The phone was out of service.
She sat on the bed and stared at the canvas case with the stolen documents.
Damn it, in three days Gutera’s ship will dock here. There’s no time. Turn on your damn phone!
The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Page 21