The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (3 page)

Tom fingered his Glock.  He was ready.  He believed in direct action.

Hugh noticed the weapon.

“Not yet, Tom.  You can ‘off’ him later.  First we use this.”

He held up a syringe tipped with a steel needle.

“This will do the trick.”

Hugh smiled.

“Sodium thiopental, truth serum.”

In his room in the Hampton Inn, a blonde talking head prattled on the TV, but William Hamm, head tilted to the side, eyes closed, had succumbed to fatigue.  He slept, a half-empty bottle of beer on the end table next to him.

His was deep slumber.  He was totally unaware that the handle of the door had turned.  He did not hear the sharp snap as the restraining chain was severed.  Nor was he aware that someone had entered the room and stood behind him.

As the needle penetrated his shoulder, he started reflexively, but only for a second.  Helpless, he succumbed to the injection without waking.

A half hour later, Tom Holder had finished searching Hamm’s room.

There were no papers.  None!

Discouraged, Hugh Byrd shook his head.

“Hamm is smarter than I thought.”

He slammed his fist on the table.  The beer bottle rolled off, spilling amber contents onto an already-stained carpet.  Hugh set his lips tight together.

“You’ll take Hamm to Doctor Smets in North Carolina.  Maybe he can find out what Hamm did with the papers.  Now help me get him into the elevator.”

Hugh and Tom bracketed Hamm and shuffled him to the elevator.

In the parking lot, Tom turned to his chief.

“What about the Accord?”

“Here are the keys.  Stuff Hamm in the trunk. You drive it.  I’ll follow you in our car.”

Hugh Byrd was both elated and disturbed.  Elated, because he had caught Hamm quickly, but disturbed because he had not recovered the incriminating papers or the computer security tokens.  At least Tom Holder was en route to North Carolina to hand over the drugged agent to Dr. Smets.  Perhaps Smets could make Hamm tell the whereabouts of the papers.

Damn it Hamm, you should have let me alone.

Now he should call Denise and tell her that he had Hamm, but that the papers and tokens were still missing.

At their only face-to-face meeting, Hugh had been overwhelmed by Denise’s beauty and sensuality.  But then he had seen her eyes and lost all nerve.  Those blue-gray pupils had revealed a mind as cold as his.  He decided that any imagined liaison was too dangerous.

Failure was not an option with Denise, or her clients.

Hugh’s stomach churned anew.

He decided to postpone the call.

The entire sixth floor of the shiny glass building in Chantilly, Virginia was occupied by Guerry Electronic Systems or GES.  The composite structure bordered a bustling Route 28 that formed part of Northern Virginia’s high tech corridor.

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 Gahuj, 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.