The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (6 page)

“They’re not and I damned well don’t care about them.  These documents will clear Bill.  Somewhere in them is the proof he’s innocent.  Otherwise he never would have taken them.  Somebody on this project is a spy, but it’s not Bill.  You must help me examine them.”

She caught her breath.

“Sorry, I’m tied up in knots.  Bill’s no damn traitor.  But I can’t think straight.  I need your help.”

Wayne grimaced.  She kept on.

“Bill needs my help and I need yours.  Please.”

Her voice tailed off.  The last words were scarcely audible.

Wayne thought for a moment before succumbing.

“OK, Jeannine, I’ll help.  What can I do?”

But there was no response.

Wayne looked sideways at his passenger.

The past 24 hours had taken their toll.  Jeannine’s eyes were closed.  Her head was slumped forward over the briefcase clasped to her chest.  Already her breathing was regular and deep.

The accomplished professional was gone.  Here was a “daughter” in need.

Wayne hummed an oldie as he continued south towards Topsail Island.

In Chantilly, Virginia, Denise Guerry sat at her desk and contemplated the message on her computer.  The message from Paris was several weeks old, sent August 2, well before that idiot Byrd had lost those critical documents to William Hamm.

d.g.|radguard|report|a|

success|plant47|

dismantled|rods|removed|

radioactive|modules|

ready|will|schedule|

ship|from|le|havre|send|

radguard|payment|when|

you|wish|good|work|

marat1|cv'p2n'glt5m

Denise liked to reread and savor this message, a compliment from her uncle in Paris!

It was personally signed “Marat1,” her uncle’s code name.  Any direct communication from Uncle Roland was rare.  Rarer yet, he was pleased by her work with RadGuard and approved of her!

And by this time, the radioactive modules were already en route from le Havre!

She sat back in her chair and took a hidden ashtray from the drawer.  This merited a cigarette. 
Stupid Americans and their health.
  She wished herself back in France where she could puff without condemnation.  She finished her cigarette and placed the ashtray back in the drawer.

Her uncle’s message was special.  She wanted to keep it, but in its safe form.  She clicked and the encrypted numbers appeared on the screen.

She checked that no letters appeared, re-saved the coded numbers, and shut down the computer.  She walked to the door and turned off the lights.

Now, if only Byrd would call to tell her he had retrieved the documents and that NSA computer token.

Hugh Byrd sat in his office on the third floor of the Torbee Building.  Hugh was a damned fine security officer, and he knew it.  Up to now his government career had flourished.

When William Hamm had been assigned to Hugh’s unit as the CIA’s representative in the management of security for the unit’s current project,
Sea Turtle Navigation
, Hugh had ground his teeth.  The project was a flimsy cover for the real work on missile guidance, and he had feared that Hamm would discover that something was awry.

Further, Hugh knew Hamm’s reputation from his work when based in Vienna, Austria.  Hamm was an operative who refused to cut corners.  In short, Hamm was honest.

The last thing Hugh Byrd needed was an
honest
coworker!

But Hamm had become suspicious and stolen Hugh’s secrets.  Hamm was neutralized, and, unlike Stew Marks who was tracking him, Hugh knew where he was.

So now Hamm’s girlfriend Ryan was the problem.  She had the items Hamm had stolen.  Hugh needed them back before she could discern their significance. 
Damn!
  Tom Holder had failed to seize the documents and neutralize Ryan on I-95 and again in Wilson.  Tom was good at his trade.  The Ryan woman was either lucky or exceptionally skillful.

He glanced at the clock, 7:00 am.  Holder was waiting in Kinston.  Hugh shut the safe, rotated the dial, locked his desk, and checked out of the building.

He headed for North Carolina.

In Topsail, North Carolina, Jeannine Ryan awoke to the repetitive rumblings of the waves outside her window.  The door to her bedroom was cracked ajar, and the odor of fresh coffee slipped into the room along with a salty sea breeze.  She shook herself awake and looked about.

OK, this is Wayne’s house on Topsail Island.  How long did I sleep?

As if in answer, she heard Wayne call.

“Jeannine, you’ve been out cold for eight hours.  Time to get up.  Coffee’s ready.  How do you feel?”

“Fine, I mean, good!  I’m coming.  Give me a few minutes.”

By the time she walked into the great room, a hearty serving of fried eggs, thick West Virginia bacon, hash browns and warm toast awaited her.  Wayne, poured her a full cup of steaming black coffee.  She took a long swallow, sat down, and attacked the eggs and bacon with vigor.

Wayne waited while she ate.  She took a last swallow and looked up.

“All right Wayne, what’s in Bill’s briefcase?”

“The first thing is a report by a company called RadGuard about Strontium-90 in soil.”

“Sr-90?”

“Yes.  A radioactive byproduct of nuclear fission.  In the 1950’s and 60’s its levels were high due to atmospheric testing of nukes.  They found high levels of it in the shed ‘baby teeth’ of thousands of children.  Those born in 1963 had a level 50 times higher than those born in 1950.  With those and other findings the U. S., Russia and Great Britain agreed to abandon atmospheric testing.  After the ban, the level in baby teeth dropped.  By 1980 the levels were pretty normal.”

He took a breath.

“I found some specific numbers on the Internet for Sr-90 in milk.  In New Jersey levels dropped from more than 20 picoCuries per Liter in 1963, to 8 in 1970 and to under 5 by 1980.  At present, the level is about 2 picoCuries per Liter.”

“So the ban works.  But what about this report by RadGuard?”

“RadGuard prepared it for a French company named SÉGAG.  The report features a graph that shows that the concentration of Sr-90 in the soil decreases as you go further from some source.  They don’t identify what kind of source, but there are still about twenty picoCuries forty miles away from it.”

Wayne put the graph on the table.

“I see that.  What’s your point?”

“I’m disturbed because RadGuard’s CD has two sets of data for the same graph.  Something is wrong.  I made a graph for the second set of data.  This graph is not in RadGuard’s report.”

Jeannine looked.  The second graph had the same labels, and a much sharper drop in Strontium-90 (to near zero) at forty miles.

Wayne spoke.

“One of these graphs is wrong!  But which?”

“Let me think.  Hand me that CD.”

Jeannine inserted the disc into her laptop and typed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m straightening the curve by taking logs and fitting a straight line to them.  Their reported points look too symmetric.  I’m betting they picked the line they wanted and then spaced points evenly around it so that when they fit the data they got the desired line back.”

A new graph appeared on the screen.

Jeannine explained.

“This graph shows the distance of each point from my fitted line.  The points are perfectly symmetric about the horizontal line at zero.  That’s not possible by chance.  The data RadGuard presented in the report are faked.”

“Because the distances-above cancel the distances-below at each mile?”

“Yes, for real data, the points above and below shouldn’t balance at each mile.”

“What about the second data set?  Did you make the same graph for those data?”

“I did, and here it is.  The points above and below do not balance at each mile.”

“So the points don’t balance and these data could be real.  But why would RadGuard report the fake data?  What’s their goal?”

“Apparently RadGuard wanted to show that the radioactivity is higher than it is.  The fake data show that Sr-90 is still high 40 miles away, but in reality the Sr-90 level is near zero at 40 miles.”

She took a breath.

“Someone wants to say that this ‘source’ contaminates the environment more than it really does.  Maybe the source is a nuclear power plant?  Or maybe even a one-time nuclear event, but I’m thinking nuclear plant.”

“Could Radguard’s cheaters want to show that the plant contaminates the environment so they can force its closure?”

“Sounds plausible, but if Bill were here he could tell us.  He had his reasons for taking these documents.  He must have the answers.”

At the thought of Bill, her shoulders drooped

“Bill’s in trouble, or he would have contacted me by now!”

Jeannine’s colleague, Aileen Harris, opened the door of Ryan Associates in Bethesda Maryland.  Aileen was a Ph.D. in Bioengineering and a minority owner of the company.  The past week, she had been on vacation with her daughter, Mary Catherine.

Aileen stared.  Jeannine’s desk was clear of papers, and dry brown circles ringed the coffee pot.  Jeannine survived on coffee.  She had not been here for a some time.

She saw a note in Jeannine’s handwriting.

Aileen,

If you are back before me, call.  There’s a new prepay cell phone for you in the safe.  I have a new cell too.  The number is in the “special” file on my computer.  I changed my password, but it’s just the palindrome  of my old one minus one.  I’m going to pick up something for Bill.  He’s gone and I don’t know where.

Jeannine

Aileen paused. 
Why the secrecy? 
She went to the safe and retrieved the phone.  She calculated the new password for Jeannine’s computer, found the new phone number, and called.  Jeannine answered.

“Aileen, you have the safe phone, good.  You can expect a visit from the FBI soon.  They're looking for me, and for Bill.  Take your mother and Mary Catherine up to your Aunt Agatha’s in Pennsylvania and stay the weekend.  They probably won’t track you there, but don’t talk to them if they do.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Bill is missing and I’m with Wayne Johnson.  We’re looking for Bill, but so is the FBI.  They think he stole government secrets.  Meanwhile, I have some documents for you to examine if I can get them to you.  First, you should get away from the office, now.  They might be watching it.”

“Who’s ‘They? ’  The FBI?”

“No, not just the FBI, they’re others involved too.”

Static filled Aileen’s ears as the line was broken.

She hurried to leave.

In her office in Chantilly, Virginia, Denise Guerry, picked up the secure phone.  She called SÉGAG’s office in Paris’s arrondissement 2.

Her uncle answered.  He gave no greeting.

“What?”

“An American contact may be compromised.”

“Which one?”

“The muscle man, Byrd.  He’s in security at the Torbee.  He has lost an NSA security token as well as important documents, including RadGuard’s report on Plant 47 and Strontium-90.”

“You have a list of all these documents?  Is Gutera’s plan safe?”

“Of course I have the list, and yes, Gutera’s plan should be safe.  All of his messages are
Vigenère
-encoded.  Byrd had copies, but no keywords.”

“Denise, GES must not be linked to whatever Hamm stole.  Byrd is the only connection to us.  You must silence him.  He’s a government agent, so be careful.  He should disappear, or make it look like suicide.”

“But?”

“Do not question me.  Henri is assigned to you.  Use him for this.”

“Click.”

Denise Guerry glared at the phone.

He thinks I’m a killer!

She dialed again.  It was a U. S. number, but the man who answered had a French accent.