The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (5 page)

“Yesterday, when the FBI questioned me about Bill, I had enough, and told them to leave.  They said they would be back.  After they left I knew I needed time alone to think, so I packed a bag.  Now that I have Bill’s briefcase, I’m glad I did.”

“So the FBI will be looking for you.  Are you using your regular cell phone?”

“No, working with Bill taught me that much.  This is a prepay.  And the last time I used my credit card was in Bethesda.”

“Good.  Maybe I’m paranoid, but we may as well be careful until we know what you are up against.  Next, are you and Bill still together, I mean romantically?”

“Yes and no.  I mean I hope so.  Bill has changed since he’s back in the States.  He thinks I’m wed to my job and he is miserable with his.  He craves action.  You know that.  He’s disgusted with the agency for assigning him to a desk after he saved their butts at the Unity Pavilion.  I’m happy in my career and I’m ready for more.  I think I love the guy, but he’s unsettled.  He seems to be on hold.”

“Jeannine, I understand.  You know you are welcome here.  You can stay as long as you like.  Where are you now?”

“I’m north of Richmond.  The traffic is heavy.  I might not make it to Topsail tonight.”

“Stop and sleep.  I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at my favorite restaurant, I’m sure Mona told you about it.”

“She did.  That’s great.  Thanks, Wayne.  Thanks a lot.”

Wayne put down the phone.  For the first time in days, he smiled.  He had no idea if he could help Jeannine, but she needed him, or thought she did.  That was a good feeling.

He thought of his protégé’s red hair and feminine appeal.

A daughter to be proud of?  Yes!  But a spy?  Ridiculous!

He turned on the air conditioner, he liked to sleep cold.  Once in bed, he pulled a light blanket over his shoulders and tried to sleep, but his thoughts whirled with the fan overhead.

Could Bill Hamm have soured on his country enough to betray it? 
No way. But maybe?

Something was amiss, but what?

His head sunk into the pillow.  His eyes closed, but his mind still raced.  He lay still and again tried to sleep, but to no avail.

He liked Bill.  Surely he was no traitor.  Or was he?

Finally, his mind shut down with one last thought.

At least someone needs me.

It was approaching midnight as Jeannine Ryan drove her Subaru on Highway 95 in North Carolina.  Emporia, the last town in Virginia, was behind her.  The traffic from Washington, DC to Richmond, Virginia, had been slow and she was tired.

The blue sign on her right signaled a rest stop, the North Carolina Welcome Center.  She slowed, pulled off the highway, and parked in a well-lit diagonal slot.

She cut the motor and clicked to engage the locks.

Bill’s nondescript canvas case lay next to her.  She squeezed it under the seat as far as it would go, but its presence disturbed her.  Surely, Bill never could do the things they said.

Damn you jerks at the FBI.  Get it right!

In the back seat of the car, her computer, suitcase and pillow were pushed against each other.  They were visible to any onlooker, but she did not care.

Jeannine pulled her pillow to the front, tilted back as best she could, and fell asleep.

She was unaware of the brown Ford Excursion that parked near her.

Tom Holder parked the Ford Excursion across from, and diagonally opposite to, Ryan’s Subaru.  He unfastened his seat belt and twisted awkwardly in his seat to study his target.

She had parked under a light, and the night traffic was considerable.  Though it was midnight, cars entered and exited the area with regularity.  Doors opened and thunked shut as travelers went to and came from the rest rooms.

He would wait until the crowd thinned.  Ryan was asleep.  He had time.  He left his vehicle and headed for the rest room .

At the rest stop an hour later, a North Carolina patrolman stopped his car, lights flashing, behind Jeannine’s Subaru.  He surveyed the neighboring spaces, empty, before tapping on her window.  He held his badge out and evaluated her appearance.  Red hair, nice figure, very attractive, not a hooker.

“Miss, sleeping by yourself in the car is not a good idea.  We’ve had several assaults on women alone here.  It’s not safe. You should get a hotel room.”

Satisfied that Jeannine was alert, he stepped back to his car and saw a familiar Honda two spaces away.  He knew the driver.  Her professional name was “Annette” and she had customers to serve.  He had chased her away before and would do so now, but first, he went to the nearby Ford Excursion.

“Sir, I don’t know why you are here, but ‘Johns’ aren’t welcome in this county.  My advice is if you are looking for a woman, don’t!  Consider this a warning.”

Tom Holder did not answer.  He stared as Jeannine drove out of the rest stop and headed south.

“Officer, I was just resting.  I need to go.”

The policeman moved deliberately to the front of the Excursion and copied its plate number.  Done, he returned to Tom.

“Sir, I have your plate number.  You can leave now, but don’t let me see this vehicle loiter here again.”

Tom ground his teeth and cursed under his breath.

The patrolman did not notice.  He headed for “Annette’s” car to chase her away before her customer arrived.

Tom Holder was frustrated.  He had waited an hour for a clear chance at his target.  Then just as the opportunity came, that cop had arrived. 
Lucky bitch!  If it weren’t for that cop.

He pulled out of the lot onto I-95 South.  Jeannine’s Subaru was nowhere in sight.

Tom grunted.  Ryan was tired.  She would stop at the next exit to rest.  He would find her there, at a motel in Wilson.

He drove fast.

Jeannine was exhausted.  Only with difficulty could she keep her eyes from closing.  She lowered the window and let the air flow over her face, but with little effect.

The ad showed a Holiday Inn Express at the Wilson exit.  She took the ramp and drove there.

Inside her room, Jeannine threw the deadbolt, fastened the chain, dropped the briefcase on the floor, and kicked off her sneakers.

Still clad in jeans and sweatshirt, she stretched on the bed.  In only moments, she was asleep.

In Topsail, North Carolina, the morning sun had risen from the horizon. In the direction of the sun nothing could be discerned.  No waves rippled the ocean surface and the flat waters reflected a blinding glare directly through Wayne Johnson’s window.  He awoke and squinted into the brightness where a shrimp boat with net booms spread was barely distinguishable.

A line of light marked the horizon, the day would be clear.  Wayne scanned the quiet waters.  No birds in sight and, other than the distant boat, no activity anywhere.

He slipped on a shirt and went to the sliding door.  The boards of the deck now were dry with splintered worn gray ridges and cracks.  Yesterday, those cracks had been rivulets fed by the steady downpour.

He drove north on the beach road, a route lined by individual houses, Topsail was a family beach.  On lots between the dwellings, salt spray had stunted and rounded clumps of myrtle, bay and other plants together into an impenetrable thicket sometimes as high as a one-story house.

He arrived in Surf City at the deli where he was to meet Jeannine Ryan, pulled into the lot and parked.

Jeannine was nowhere in sight, but no problem.  According to his calculations, she was not due for another hour.

Awake and refreshed, Jeannine left Wilson and headed for Goldsboro and Jacksonville, North Carolina.  She would take the northern route to Topsail Island.

The sun was bright, and the traffic light.  She had driven for perhaps thirty minutes when she noticed a brown car some distance behind her.  It looked like a Ford, an Excursion.  Jeannine thought of Bill Hamm.  He was always suspicious of cars that stayed in the rearview mirror for any length of time.

She slowed.  The Excursion drew no closer.  A minute later she increased her speed.  So did the brown car.

Was this just her imagination?

At the FBI building, Stew Marks saw the lights blink on his phone.  It was his partner, Jack Marino.

“Stew, you remember the Ryan woman we saw day before yesterday.  You were going to keep tabs on her house, starting today.”

“Right, the redhead.”

“Well she’s gone.”

“How do you know?”

“Hamm has a sister in North Carolina.  Yesterday, I sent Ryan’s tags to our Regional Office in Charlotte.  They alerted the locals.  Last night a patrolman was checking for hookers at a rest stop on I-95, near the Virginia border.  He saw a lone woman in a Subaru with Ryan’s tags.  The woman had red hair.”

“What time was that?”

“1:00 am.  The officer told her to move on, it wasn’t safe.  That’s all I’ve got.  Do you think she’s headed to Hamm’s sister’s house?”

“It’s in Nags Head on the Outer Banks.  For that Ryan would probably go through Norfolk, but she was on I-95 too late for that.  She’s headed further south than the Banks.  Still she could cut over on route 64 or 264 for Nags Head.  Call the resident agent in Elizabeth City just in case.”

Stew put down the phone and frowned.  Ryan would suspect that Hamm’s sister’s house was watched.  And she was smart.  She’s not going there.  She’s headed further south.

Damn it Hamm, where are you?  And Ryan, are you meeting him?

Somewhere in North Carolina at a location unknown to agent Stew Marks, Bill Hamm stirred.  He was on his side on a hard surface.  His mouth and throat were dry.  His tongue was swollen, and a dull ache pulsed through his head.

Falling asleep in a chair in front of a TV was a distant dream.

Fine dust assailed his nostrils.  He forced his eyes open.  Bare walls slowly came into focus.  Once-plastered, now they showed gaping areas of exposed vertical lath-stripping.  The surface coating had fallen, leaving powdery gray slabs and fragments on the wood floor.

Wet-wall construction, this house is old and abandoned.

He felt metal on his wrists, handcuffs!  He twisted his hands, but  only succeeded in chaffing his skin.  Too tight. 
Damn!

How long have I been here?

A man approached.  He wore a surgical mask, and held a syringe.  But this was no hospital.  Bill stared upwards and tried to turn, but could not.  He forced words through dry lips.

“Who are ...?”

“No questions, Hamm. 
Tais toi
.  Shut up, just be still.  Time for another injection.”

The man seized Bill’s arm.  The needle penetrated the skin.  A warm swooshing feeling swamped Bill’s thoughts and he fell back unconscious.

The sun was high in Surf City.  Wayne Johnson had waited in his car for an hour, but there was no sign of Jeannine.  He looked at his watch, it was after eleven.

She should be here.

He went into the deli where he ordered a hot pastrami on rye with a side of German potato salad.  The sandwich arrived.   He bit into it. 
Delicious!
  A long swallow of coke followed by more bites left him satisfied.

Finished, he scanned the parking lot outside.

Still no Jeannine.

Damn, Maybe I’m not needed after all.

Wayne rose and went to the parking.  Other cars were arriving for lunch.

His phone vibrated against his thigh.  It was Jeannine.

“Wayne?”

“It’s me.  Where are you?”

“On the road from Kinston.  I’m near Jacksonville.  Someone is following me.  That’s why I’m not at the deli yet.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, a Ford Excursion, all the way from Wilson!”

“Is there more than one person in that car?”

“Looks like he’s alone.”

“All right.  Here’s what you do.  I have a friend, Marine Captain Peter Hume.  He’s quartered at Camp Geiger, part of Camp Lejeune.  I’ll call him now.  You’re near the entrance.  Go to the post.  I’ll have Peter meet you at the gate.”

Wayne paused.

“And tell the guard there’s a man behind you who has stalked you all the way from Wilson.  The guard will stop that guy.  He won’t get in.  Maybe even the guard will get his ID.  I’ll meet you at Peter’s house.  I’m maybe an hour away.”

Jeannine took a deep breath.

“Wayne, thanks.  Thanks, one more time.”

Wayne smiled and hung up. 
Glad to be of use.

He dialed Peter Hume’s number.

Tom Holder stopped the Excursion as soon as he discerned Jeannine’s destination.  From a distance he watched as she drove up to the guard post.

Tom picked up his phone and called Hugh Byrd in Manassas.

“Ryan’s at Camp Geiger, part of Lejeune.  What do you want me to do?

“You should have gotten her at the rest stop.  You blew it.”

“I told you the trooper stopped me from following her.  And I didn’t locate her hotel at Wilson until this morning.  I got there just as she pulled out of the lot.”

He paused a moment.

“Hugh, maybe we should let the FBI take care of Ryan.”

“Dumb ass.  She has the papers now, and the NSA security token.  If Stew Marks talks to her again and sees what she has, we’re dead.  He’s sharp.  I don’t want him near her.  Just go back to Kinston, and wait for me.  I can’t avoid Denise any longer.  She has to know we haven’t recovered anything. Just wait. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Click.”

At the FBI building in Washington, DC, Agent Stew Marks sat in his office.  Across from him stood his partner, Jack Marino.

“All right, Jack.  What have you got?”

“I asked the Highway Patrol to check motels in Wilson, North Carolina, for me.  That’s the first town after the rest stop.  A redhead checked out of the Holiday Inn Express early this morning.  Seems the clerk liked her looks so he copied her license plate.  It was Ryan’s.  He said that she had asked directions to Jacksonville.  You want me to call our guys in Wilmington?”

“Not yet.  Anything else?”

“Yes, clerks at a couple of other motels said someone had asked for a woman named Ryan, and if she had stayed with them overnight?  She hadn’t.”

“Any idea who that ‘someone’ was?”

“It was a big guy, dark hair, and he had some kind of vague government ID.  It wasn’t Homeland Security.  One clerk’s guess was CIA, but from what he described I don’t think so.”

“Damn, maybe the NSA.  Do they have active agents?”

“Who knows, but they must have security people.”

Stew paused.  Who else could be interested in Ryan?

And where was she going?  Stew had served at Camp Lejeune, near Jacksonville and was familiar with the southern North Carolina coast.  Mentally, he listed possible destinations from north to south:
New Bern, Morehead City, Camp Lejeune, Jacksonville, Surf City, Topsail Island, Wrightsville Beach, maybe Wilmington.

He shook himself from this reverie and spoke to his partner.

“Jack, get your gear.  You and I are going to North Carolina.”

At the entrance to Camp Geiger, a tall marine officer stood waiting as Jeannine pulled up to the barrier.  The officer signaled to the guard.

“It’s OK, Sergeant, she’s with me.”

He turned to Jeannine.

“Dr. Ryan, Ma’am, I’m Peter Hume.  Wayne told me all about you.  He’s not here yet, but we can wait at my quarters.  And I told the guard about your stalker.  You’re safe here.”

He added.

“That’s my car over there.”

He waved at a red convertible of foreign make.

Jeannine followed in the Subaru.

In a dry musty room somewhere in North Carolina, Bill Hamm lay on his side, unconscious.  His breathing was heavy.  His thigh and calf muscles twitched involuntarily, causing one leg to scratch against the exposed laths of the decaying wall.

A tall lean man stood over him.  The man, Gilles Smets, still wore a surgical mask, but no longer held a syringe.  In his hand were surgical scissors.

Smets had not expected Hamm to regain consciousness that soon after the last injection.  Though Hamm’s hands had been manacled, his legs had been free, a potentially costly mistake.

He wrapped Bill’s ankles with duct tape, then snipped the final piece from the roll with clinical dexterity.

There!  Now Hamm could cause no trouble, even if the drug wore off.  Smets had kept Hamm sedated since his arrival.

He nudged Hamm’s chest with his toe.  There was no response.  Good.  The subject was helpless.

He delivered a vicious kick to the defenseless body, and stepped back to catch his breath.  That felt good, but he had missed the ribs and encountered only soft tissue.

He stepped forward and kicked again.  His foot felt bone.  The involuntary grunt of expelled air satisfied him.  He watched Hamm’s chest recover its normal up and down movement.

He stepped back, breathing deeply.  Too many years in a lab had left him in poor shape. 
I should exercise more.

But he felt better.  His superiority over the helpless Hamm was established.

He justified his violence objectively.  He had nothing personal against Hamm, but a CIA agent had no rights!  He turned off the lights, turning only to sneer at the prostrate form in the shadows.  Perhaps one more blow would be appropriate. 

He decided against it. He took pride in his restraint.  A third blow might prove he was uncivilized.

With that reassuring thought, Dr. Gilles Smets M. D. strode out of the darkened room.

Wayne Johnson guided his Buick out of Camp Geiger and turned left onto Route 17.  Jeannine Ryan, clutching the canvas briefcase, sat at his side.  On the back seat were her pillow, laptop and bag.  She murmured.

“Your friend Peter seemed OK with keeping my Subaru for a few days.”

Wayne smiled to himself.  He sensed that the bachelor captain relished the excuse to see Jeannine again.  The parked Subaru ensured that.

“Peter’s a good guy.  He doesn’t mind, and I doubt whoever is following you knows me or my Buick.  Or my Topsail house.  Now what can I do to help?”

She lifted the briefcase.  It took both her hands.

“I have these papers.  Some are classified.  I’m hoping they’ll tell us what’s going on.”

“Where did you get this stuff?”

“It’s all from the PO box in Manassas, the briefcase that Bill put in the locker.  I don’t know whose it is.”

“But it’s not Bill’s?”

“I don’t think so.  Some of the memos are addressed to someone named ‘Byrd.’  Only a couple of them are to Bill.  But it’s filled with reports and documents, CD’s too.  Look.”

Jeannine pulled out several items.  Wayne whistled when he saw the logos and markings.

“Damn it, Jeannine, no wonder the FBI is after Bill.  These documents are classified beyond anything I’ve heard of.  And look at this NSA security token.  If the FBI catches us with it, we’ll be fried.  How the hell did Bill get these things off site.  Damn.  Maybe the Feds are right about him?”