Minute Zero (14 page)

U.S. Department of State, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 8:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

H
ere again early on a Saturday?” Serena asked.

“Mmm-mmmm. You know how it is,” replied the heavyset secretary who had squeezed herself into her office chair. “If the boss has to work, I got to work.”

“That’s right.”

“Why’re you here? Isn’t Dr. Ryker traveling?”

“Africa,” Serena said. “I’m using the peace and quiet to get my work done.”

“Tell me about it! I can’t get anything done when Mr. Parker is here, either. I’m putting out fires fourteen hours a day.”

“Is Mr. Parker here now?”

“Mmm-hummm, he’s here. The Secretary’s in a breakfast meeting with the Brazilians, so he’s in there with her. Munching on bagels and talking about biofuel subsidies or saving the rain forest or something.”

“How’s your momma?” asked Serena, noticing a Christmas family picture on her friend’s desk.

“She’s doing better. I hope to have her come back to the house soon. The doctor says maybe next week.”

“Oh, that’s good. That’s real good. Tell me when she’s home. I’ll bring you all my crab cakes. A welcome-home crab cake celebration. Maybe that’ll motivate her to get better faster and come on home?”

“That’d be nice. Momma’d love that.”

“I owe her that at least.”

“Serena, you aren’t here early on a Saturday morning to talk about crab cakes. What’re you here for?”

“Research. Dr. Ryker is over in Zimbabwe and there’s something funny about the ambassador out there.”

“Tallyberger?”

“That’s the one.”

“With a name like that, how could something not be funny?”

“That’s the truth!” The two women laughed aloud. “But I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong.” Serena lowered her voice. “You know anything about him?”

“Skinny white fella. Close to Rogerson. They did some tours together. Helsinki and Port Moresby, if I remember right.”

“His Zimbabwe tour is up soon, right?”

The secretary typed into her computer for a few moments, her long fingernails clacking loudly on the keys. “Yep. He’s a short-timer. Due to leave for Embassy London in a few weeks. Maybe he’s acting funny because he’s got one foot out the door already. I’ve seen it before.”

“Could be. I think there’s something else,” Serena whispered.

“You know something about Tallyberger?” her friend asked in a hush.

Serena leaned in farther. “Maybe something from . . . Port-au-Prince?” Serena pointed at the computer.

“Haiti? What do you know about what happened in Haiti?”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” Serena said. “Can you check his file?”

The secretary shuffled in her chair, then craned her neck to look over Serena’s shoulder. Satisfied no one was watching them, she shrugged.

“You’re not here, right?”

Serena shook her head.

“And so you’re not asking me about anything, right?”

Another shake. “So you’ll check his file for me?”

“Don’t need to. Already know what happened,” she said, tapping a long fingernail to her temple.

“You do? I knew I came to the right woman.”

“Well, I mostly know. He curtailed Port-au-Prince.”

“Tallyberger cut short his Haiti tour?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When? Why?”

“About ten years ago. I don’t know why for real, but something happened. Something bad. There was an investigation and then some kind of settlement. As part of the deal, he was moved early. That’s how he got reposted to Helsinki.”

“Helsinki?”

“Yep. To be with Rogerson. That’s why he’s so loyal. Rogerson saved his career.”

“What did he do to have to curtail?”

“Dunno.”

“You don’t know why he was forced to leave Haiti?”

“Nope. They buried it. Must’ve been part of the deal. I only know there were no charges. No press. No personnel records. Someone swept it right under the rug. But it must’ve been something bad for him to agree.”

“Wow. That is something. How do you know about it?”

“Because I was sitting right here.”

“I knew I came to the right woman!”

“The question is: How did you know to ask me about Tallyberger in Haiti?”

“I can’t say. Girls’ secret.”

“I just gave you the dirty goods on him and you can’t say why you’re even asking?”

“Do you really need to know?”

“No,” she said, sinking back in her chair. “I shouldn’t have even asked. After all these years, I know better.”

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Is that all? You came up here for gossip on skinny old Arnold Tallyberger?”

“Nah. The real favor I need is something serious.”

“More serious than asking me to dig into confidential personnel files? What could it be?”

“Can you find out who’s on the short list to be our next ambassador to Cairo? The committee hasn’t announced anything yet, but I need to know today.”

“Is Dr. Ryker working on Egypt, too? I can’t keep that man’s program straight. No wonder you’re here sweating on the weekend!”

“Nah. I just need to know. I know the Deputies Committee keeps these names tight. But it sure would make my life easier to know who will be going to Embassy Cairo.”

The secretary clicked away again on her keypad, then scanned the empty room. “I didn’t tell you anything.”

“Of course not. I’m not even here.”

“Sandoval.”

“Who?”

“Ruben Sandoval. Fund-raiser for the President. Owns a franchise chain of organic juice bars and yoga studios in Florida.”

“Never heard of him.”

“No one has.”

Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 2:15 p.m. Central Africa Time

H
e is our father and our grandfather!” screamed the emcee up on the stage. The crowd, a sea of fists raised high in the air, roared its approval. “President Tinotenda is the soldier for the people! The defender of the poor! The protector of the righteous!”

Judd, watching from the back of the cavernous national stadium, had a sinking feeling of regret for not waiting until Bull and Isabella returned to the embassy so they could join him. Ambassador Tallyberger had insisted he wasn’t able to spare a security officer. That was no surprise. Brock Branson, the CIA station chief, had offered to send along an escort, but—stupidly, he realized now—Judd refused. “I’ve been in more dangerous places than a campaign rally. I’ll be fine,” he had said proudly. At the time he meant it.

“Our president is the lion that kills the enemy in the night! He feasts on their fear! He devours their hearts! He is the long spear that pierces evil in the night! He brings death and anguish to those who betray the people!”

President Winston Tinotenda, in the center of the stage, listened patiently to the praise singer from the comfort of an upholstered burgundy throne. He was wearing a dark tailored business suit and a white baseball cap emblazoned with the symbol of his party, a black fist. Across his front, a green silk sash hung over one shoulder as if he were a geriatric beauty contestant.

In a smaller but no less ornate throne next to him sat Harriet Tinotenda, the first lady. Her full-length dress had a traditional African pattern but the sunlight revealed a luxurious twist: encrusted gemstones in a ring around the collar and in long, glistening stripes along the sleeves. She wore a bored expression of disinterest but was clearly savoring the adoration.

“Our Father is the provider of our bounty! The creator of economic opportunity! The deliverer of light! The vessel of truth!” continued the emcee, who was aggressively stomping around the stage as he pumped up the crowd. “Our Father is the sun that shines brighter than all the other stars! The earthquake that shakes the foundation of our enemies!”

Behind the president stood a wall of brawny men in military uniforms, frozen at attention.

Now Judd’s regret was turning to concern. The stadium continued to fill, people streaming in from all directions.

“The victor in today’s elections! His Excellency, Father of the Nation and Warrior of the People, President Winston Tinotenda!” As the president strained to rise, the crowd shrieked and surged toward the front.

Judd ducked behind a concrete pillar to avoid being swept with the masses onto the stadium’s field. As the swelling subsided, he peeked around the corner. Tino was now on his feet but hunched over in front of the microphone. The stadium went quiet in anticipation of the president’s speech. He licked his lips and scanned the sea of faces.

Satisfied, he declared, “Today, my children, your Father will be victorious!” The crowd erupted with cheers and fist pumping.

“Today we will mightily defeat the forces that want to destroy the Revolution! We will never allow the traitors and sellouts to rule this country! We will fight them in the ballot box! We will fight them on the battlefield! We will fight them in the streets!”

The crowd roared.

“We must fight the traitors!” demanded the president.

“Fight the traitors!” yelled the crowd.

“Will we allow the puppets to win?” boomed Tino.

“No!” shouted the crowd in unison, punching the air.

Tino raised a fist over his head. “Will we ever give our nation back to the imperialists?”

“No!”

Judd’s stomach fluttered.

“Will we allow our Mother’s milk to be stolen again?”

“No!”

The crowd’s frenzy was escalating.

“Will we allow our brothers’ farms to be taken away again?”

“No!”

“Will we allow the British to ever rule this country again?”

“No!”

“Will we allow the Americans to enslave our people again?”

“No!”

Uh-oh. Not good,
thought Judd.

“Will you ever have another Father of the Nation?”

“No!”

The crowd heaved again toward the front. Judd clung to the pillar, but he was pushed from behind and his fingers lost their grip. He gasped for breath as he realized he was helpless to stop the momentum.

The stampede thrust forward.
Oh, shit!
He was lifted off his feet and swept down toward the stadium floor.
I’m going to be trampled!
Just as panic began to swell inside his stomach, firm hands gripped his arm and pulled him up and back against the tide.

Judd turned to face his anchor, a huge African man with thick arms but no expression at all on his face. Like walking upriver in a whitewater rapid, the man towed Judd against the waves of people rushing forward. As Judd limply allowed himself to be dragged, he suddenly wondered:
Am I being rescued? Or kidnapped?

Before Judd could decide, they reached a sanctuary underneath the stadium.

“You are safe now,” said his rescuer.

“Who are you?” asked Judd.

“But you must leave. It is not safe for you to stay here.”

“I’m with the American embassy,” said Judd, hoping this might help protect him but immediately realizing how stupid it must have sounded.

“Please. You must go,” the man said.

“Who are you?”

“I am no one.”

“Why did you help me?”

“Brock,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I am a friend of Brock’s.”

“Brock Branson? From the embassy? He sent you?”

“You must go now.”

Crack! Crack! Crack! exploded in the air. Judd whipped his head toward the source of the gunshots. Up onstage, President Tinotenda was firing a pistol into the air.

“Forward with the Revolution! Forward with Zimbabwe!” he chanted, pointing the gun at the heavens.
Crack crack crack!

Judd turned back toward his rescuer, but he was gone.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Saturday, 8:58 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

S
unday rubbed his eyes. He’d been staring at banking records on his computer screen for hours. He didn’t want to use his trump card, but he felt it was his only choice. He needed answers. Reluctantly he picked up the phone.

“I’ve got an urgent Purple Cell request for voiceprints on a target.”

The other end of the line responded with several questions, which Sunday answered in rapid response. Then: “Max O’Malley, DOB January 15, 1950, AmCit, last known location, Bangkok, Thailand. Let’s start with anything from the past week.”

Sunday paused to sip coffee while he waited for results. When they arrived, he nearly choked.

“Nothing? Nothing at all? How is that possible? What about the past month? . . . Nothing?”

Sunday drummed his fingers on his desk.

“Okay. New target. Lucky Magombe, no DOB, likely Zimbabwean citizen, possibly South African. Last known location, Johannesburg, South Africa. Again, start with the past week.”

After a few moments his screen flashed. Four hits, starting with the most recent, a call intercepted less than two hours ago:

SATURDAY OCT07, CALL INITIATED 1.15PM CAT/7.15AM EST. TRANSCRIPT:

Unidentified 1: Hello.

Target: Is this the Canterbury Cricket Club?

U1: Is this Cannonball?

T: Yebo.

U1: Your membership has been prepared. Are you now ready to play?

T: Is the cricket team there?

U1: Yes, everything is in place. The target is in our sights. We are only waiting for your approval.

[inaudible]

[End call]

SATURDAY OCT07, CALL INITIATED 12.24PM CAT/6.24AM EST. TRANSCRIPT:

Target: Magombe.

Unidentified 1: I am calling for Cannonball.

T: What is it?

U1: Are you ready to join the Canterbury Cricket Club? Your membership has been prepared. It will be available this Sunday. At noon. Sir?

T: Not yet. Wait for my word.

U1: Shall we continue with your membership preparations for the Canterbury Cricket Club?

T: Yes.

[End call]

The third call was from two days earlier.

THURSDAY OCT05, CALL INITIATED 4.22PM CAT/10.22AM EST. TRANSCRIPT:

Target: Magombe.

Unidentified 2: It’s me, Mariana.

T: Are we making progress?

U2: Yes, all the materials have been pre-positioned for the vote on Saturday. It’s looking good. I think Gugu should feel confident.

T: Very good.

U2: How about the parallel voting tabulation?

T: We will be ready, Mariana. I will let you know when we have the real numbers.

U2: Excellent.

T: Have you spoken with your friend in Washington?

U2: Yes, Lucky. He will help us.

T: Has he agreed?

U2: Not yet, but I’m confident he will.

T: He’ll have influence with the embassy?

U2: Yes. He’s not part of the regular diplomatic corps. He’s a special envoy. I’ve worked with him before. We can trust him.

T: His name is Rider?

U2: Ryker. Judd Ryker.

Shit.
Sunday kept reading.

T: What else does he know?

U2: Only what he needs to.

T: Very good. Keep me informed.

[End call]

The final intercepted call was nearly a week old.

MONDAY OCT02, CALL INITIATED 11.54PM CAT/5.54PM EST. TRANSCRIPT:

Unidentified 1: Hello.

T: Is this the Canterbury Cricket Club?

U1: Is this Cannonball?

T: Yebo. Is this line clear?

U1: Yes.

T: Are you certain? We need to be careful.

U1: Yes, Cannonball. We are following security protocols.

T: Is the team here?

U1: The team has arrived. They are ready and awaiting your orders. The payment is complete. They only need the time and the target.

T: This Sunday. Noon.

U1: Yes, Cannonball. Sunday noon. And the target?

T: Chimurenga. General Simba Chimurenga.

U1: Confirmed, Cannonball. Chimurenga is the target.

[End call]

Shit, shit.
He picked up the phone again.

Jessica was driving her white Honda minivan, both children strapped into car seats in the back, when her cell phone blinked. “Good morning,” she answered.

“Ma’am. Sorry to call you again,” Sunday said. “We’ve got another problem. A big problem.”