The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (17 page)

She looked out the window.  Bill was busy talking to Wayne in the back yard.  Thankfully, Bill did not need to understand all those remainders.  He needed results not explanations.

OK, Jeannine, that was the easy part.  Now how are you going to find the key word and solve this thing?

Stew Marks and Jack Marino followed Hugh Byrd from the Super Walmart.

Stew drove slowly and stayed well back while Jack tracked Byrd’s vehicle on the laptop.

To Stew’s left were vacant lots with rusted car-bodies half hidden by weeds, and wood-frame houses with peeling paint.  The lots with houses were bordered by once-plowed fields that now were fallow and brown.  In contrast, on the right, two-story brick houses were set back in spacious yards punctuated with tall pines, low dogwoods, and groomed evergreen shrubs.  Evidently, this highway formed an economic and social barrier.

Stew’s thoughts were interrupted by Jack.

“Slow down, Stew, Byrd’s creeping along like he’s looking for something.”

Stew pulled to the curb and stopped.

“We’ll wait here a second.  What’s he doing now?”

“He’s stopped, maybe for a light.  No, wait, he’s turning.”

Stew swung back onto the highway and drove. Ahead on the left, he spotted a group of cars and pickups that signaled an auto garage.  Farther on the right, a sign said “Azalea Road.”

“Stew, up ahead, that’s Azalea.  That’s where Byrd turned.”

“I see it.  Where is he now?”

“He stopped on Azalea Road, a mile down.  Turn and go slow.”

Stew turned onto Azalea.  After a moment, he spotted Byrd’s car.

“He’s stopped crossways in that driveway.  He’s blocked it.”

Stew watched as Byrd stepped from his car, stood for a moment, and then disappeared behind a tree.

“Stew, that looks like an M16 he’s carrying.”

“Jack, Byrd’s not trying to arrest Ryan and Hamm.  He’s there to kill them.  Hang on.”

He accelerated down the road.

Alone in the kitchen, Jeannine resumed pacing.

I need that keyword.

She already had tried several free algorithms that were available on the internet. 
Nothing!

But someone had sent both the numeric and a text-coded form of the same message.  That was sloppy, and sloppiness had helped break more than one code.

She thought of the German “Enigma” machine in World War II.  There, a U-boat sailor’s “lazy” habit of turning the rotor only a few places after setting the alphabet-rings had provided an important tip to the decoders at Britain’s Bletchley Park.

Wait! “Gahuj” was written on the back of the message!  Gutera’s uncle, Maximilien Gahuj, had sheltered the boy in Paris after the father’s death.  Was “Gahuj” the key?

Numbering the letters a to z, respectively, 0 to 25, she wrote down the numbers for the keyword.

She muttered to herself.

Let’s see.  I can decode the first seven pairs (
18, 11, 18, 24, 04, 12, 20
) by subtracting the key letter’s number from the pair’s number.  OK, 18-6 is 12 which decodes to “m.”  And 11-0 is 11 which decodes to “l.” Also 18-7 is 11 decoding to "l" again, and 24-20 is 4.  That decodes to “e.”

The next number was tricky.

Wait a minute, 4-9 is -5, negative, so I have to add 41 to it.  OK, 41-5 is 36, which I think decodes to “.”

Got it.  The first seven characters translate to “mlle.gu,” that’s the beginning of “Mlle. Guerry,” the “Denise Guerry” that Bill told me runs GES!

Smiling, Jeannine decoded the entire message.

mlle.guerry,|is|smets|

farm|house|lab|ready?|

very|concerned|about|

meeting|my|deadline|

i|need|second|pay

ment|from|ges|delay|not|

tolerable|m.g.|f7w

In the last line, “
m. g.
” doubtless stood for Maximilien Gutera, while the last three characters “
f7w
” were for internal verification, or perhaps just random letters to fill the line.

No matter.  Once again, human carelessness, (sloppiness plus writing down the keyword) had nullified clever encryption.

She reached for the folder to examine other messages, but stopped.

Bill stood in the doorway.  He held the shotgun.

“A car has blocked our driveway.  We have to run!”

He ran into the woods that bordered the back yard.  Jeannine cradled the briefcase and laptop in her arms and dashed after him.

Breathless, she stumbled through the brush.

In Dillon, South Carolina, Hugh Byrd stood in the shelter of a large tree and studied the house before him.

Only minutes before, while driving along Azalea Road, he had spotted Wayne Johnson standing in the driveway.  Before he could accost the him, Johnson had disappeared around the rear of the home.  Knowing that Hamm had recovered and was dangerous, Hugh had blocked the driveway with his car and taken a position behind the pine where now he stood waiting.

But there was no sign of Hamm or Ryan.
Where are you Jogger?

Hugh studied the house.  Though the masonry walls provided some protection against the 5.56 caliber bullets of his M16, even partial penetration of the rounds could send fragments of brick flying throughout the interior.

He scanned the windows at the front of the house.  If Hamm were inside, he was not visible.  In fact there was no evidence of any activity in the house, and certainly no sign of defensive activity in the windows.

Damn it Hamm, I know you’re here with your buddy Johnson, and that Ryan woman.

Minutes passed, nothing!  He must act.

Hugh dashed to the shelter of a pine closer to the house.

Still no movement.

He crept to the porch and stood to the side of the door.  He heard shuffling feet, someone was inside.  Hugh held his weapon at the ready, took a deep breath, stepped to the door and kicked.

The lock sprung and the door flew open.  From inside, someone gasped.

M16 leveled, Hugh slipped through the doorway and stepped to the side.  Wayne Johnson, empty-handed, stood before him.

“Mr. Byrd, what are you doing?  What do you want?”

Hugh Byrd was in no mood for questions.  He held his weapon pointed at Wayne.

“Shut up, Johnson.  Where are they?  Where are Hamm and his chick?”

Wayne stood, silent.  Hugh pushed past him and went into the kitchen.  He opened the back door.  Two Buicks were parked in the rear.

Hamm and Ryan are still here!

At the thought that Hamm could be in the house, Hugh turned, M16 ready, but there was no movement, no sound.  He returned to the living room to accost Wayne.

“Where are they, Johnson?”

Wayne started to reply, but the butt of Hugh’s weapon crashed against his cheek.  He stumbled and straightened back up

“What are you doing?  Who are you looking for?”

Hugh smashed his face again.  Wayne collapsed to the floor.  Blood streamed from his cheek.

“Tell me where are they, Johnson.  Answer me!”

Wayne, eyes vacuous, stared past Hugh’s pointed weapon.

Hugh snorted.

“You’re wasting my time.  Goodbye, Mr. Johnson.”

Hugh’s finger tightened on the trigger.  He felt a rush.  He would snuff the life out of this fool on the floor.  As if in a dream, he felt his finger squeeze the trigger of the M16. 
Yes!

A sharp voice behind him broke the spell.

“What in hell are you doing Byrd?  Drop that weapon.  Now!”

The voice was familiar. Hugh shook his head clear.  Slowly, his finger released its tension on the trigger and he lowered the gun.

Of course!  The voice belonged to that FBI guy, Stew Marks.

“I wasn’t going to shoot.  This idiot knows where Hamm and Ryan are.  He would have told me if you hadn’t interrupted.”

“The man is unconscious Byrd, how in hell could he tell you anything.”

“Don’t tell me my business, Marks.  He’s awake, look.”

Wayne Johnson had opened his eyes and was staring at the ceiling, his eyes rolled back.

At that point, Jack Marino, Beretta in hand, came into the room.  He stared  at Wayne, at Hugh, and finally, at Stew.

“Stew, I checked out back.  There are two Buicks there, but there’s no sign of Ryan or Hamm.”

Byrd chimed in.

“Then they’re here, maybe they’re upstairs.  I’d better check.”

“Stop, Hugh!  You’re not going anywhere without me.”

He turned to Jack.

“You help Mr. Johnson.  Take care of his face.  We’ll be right back.  I’m sure Hamm and Ryan are long gone.”

As expected, the search revealed no Jeannine Ryan or Bill Hamm.

Stew Marks and Hugh Byrd descended the stairs.  Wayne Johnson sat erect in a chair, a makeshift bandage on his face. 

Stew turned to Byrd.

“You’re damned lucky I’m not holding you on an assault charge.  Now get the hell out of here.”

“Marks, you touch me and the NSA will have your ass suspended before you leave Dillon.  I would have had Hamm and Ryan if not for you.  I’m taking Johnson and we’re leaving.”

“You're leaving all right, but you’re not taking Mr. Johnson.”

“Marks, you are obstructing a top secret investigation.  You’re out of your league.  My boss will call you.”

“Really?  I kept you from murdering an innocent man.  Even he can’t protect you from murder.  Get the hell out of my sight and leave that M16 here.”

Byrd thought of the empty casings at Johnson’s Topsail house.  No way was he leaving this M16 with the FBI.  He picked up the weapon and headed for the door.

Jack Marino moved to intercept him, but Stew waved him off.

“Forget it, Jack.  That snake would start an inter-agency war.”

Hugh left.

Stew watched out the window as Hugh Byrd backed his Excursion out of the driveway.  Then he turned to Wayne.

“Mr. Johnson, we’ve proved
our
good will.  Now prove
yours
.  Tell us where your friends went.  You still can help them.”

Back in Dillon, Hugh Byrd stopped at the Walmart Super Center to recoup.  His rapid examination of Hamm’s hideaway had revealed no trace of the stolen papers.  Hamm and Ryan had taken everything with them, and the FBI and Stew Marks were no nearer to the papers than Hugh.

But how did Marks find me?

Damn!

He jumped out the car, lay on the ground, and shone his flashlight under the chassis.  There it was, the same government-issue he had used to tag Wayne Johnson’s car.  He smashed it under his heel, grinding it into the pavement.

Marks had outwitted him.

But Hugh was determined.  He pulled out a map and studied the terrain.  Ryan and Hamm were on the loose, but they were on foot.  The woods into which they had fled narrowed to a specific tract, and he deduced where they would end up after several hours of following the dry pineland and avoiding the wet “bays” and river swamps.

He checked his watch and made a quick calculation.  By car he could reach that area ahead of them.

He drove out of the lot, fast.

In the pine flat woods, Jeannine Ryan, leaned against a tall loblolly pine and inhaled deeply.  She put her laptop on the ground and dropped the canvas briefcase at her feet.  She called out.

“Bill, wait.  I need a second to rest.”

She sat, staring at the bracken ferns and wire grass that covered the clearing.  She could hear the dry snaps of twigs and the return swish of branches pushed aside that marked Bill’s path, but she could not see him through the thick undergrowth of scrubby oaks and brush under the pines.  A “controlled burn” to clear the pines of unwanted undergrowth was overdue.

She called again.

“Bill, can you hear me?”

There was no answer and she could no longer hear sounds of his passage.

A light breeze tickled the tops of the tall trees and produced a whispering rustle that emanated from all directions at once.  The woods were empty.  She was alone.

Damn it, Bill, come back.

She listened for any sign of his return, but heard nothing but wind rustling the tips of the pines.

Afraid to shout lest any pursuers hear her, she clutched her knees in both arms and rested to regain her strength.

Bill Hamm broke through the brush to find himself at the edge of a swamp, drying from the August drought.  Here cypress with protuberant knees and tupelos with swollen trunks shadowed dark layers of dank moldy leaves.

He hesitated.  Walking on the damp surface would be easy, but if this were a flood area of the Little Pee Dee River, he and Jeannine would quickly be stopped by still-flooded lowlands.

He turned back into the pine woods and leaned his shotgun against a tree.  He listened for Jeannine, but there was no sound. Minutes passed.

Damn, where is she?

Exhilarated at feeling fit after his pneumonia, he had moved fast.  He had not considered Jeannine’s plight, carrying the briefcase and laptop.

Hamm you are an idiot!

He picked up the shotgun and stepped back into the pines.  Overhead he heard the same whispering wind that emphasized the woods’ emptiness to Jeannine.

His shoes slipped silently on the long pine needles as he retraced his steps.