Minute Zero (16 page)

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 10:36 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

S
afe!” yelled Jessica, jumping out of her forest green fold-up camping chair.

“Out!” called the umpire.

“Safe by half a step,” she said a little quieter. Other parents shot looks of disapproval. “Little League umpires,” she muttered under her breath, returning the stares with an awkward smile.

Jessica checked her phone again. Still no messages.
He’s probably busy,
she thought.

“Good hit, Toby,” she called out to her son, walking back to the dugout with his head hung low. He glanced up at her, expressionless.
No read.
“You’ll get him next time!”

As the players, skinny six-year-old boys in baggy baseball uniforms, changed sides, she got up to stretch her legs. “Noah, honey, stay here. Mommy will be right back.” She air-dropped a peanut butter granola bar in her son’s lap and strolled down the first-base line toward right field. Out of earshot, but maintaining a clear sightline on her younger son.

The sun was already high in the sky, but the Washington autumn air had not yet warmed up. The parking lot behind the field was full of minivans and giant SUVs, packs of small children pouring out in brightly colored uniforms, dragging baseball, soccer, and lacrosse gear. In the distance, over the trees, she could just make out the top of the Washington Monument.

She checked her phone one more time. Nothing.

It’s late afternoon already in Harare,
she thought. “Fuck it,” she said aloud, and pressed a button on her phone.

“Hi, Jess,” Judd answered.
No read.

“I’m sure you are busy. I just wanted to check in.”

“Actually, now’s a good time. I’ve got a short break between meetings. How are the boys?”

Jessica glanced up. Noah was happily munching on his breakfast bar. Toby was dancing in center field, straining to pay attention to the game. “They’re good. We’re at Toby’s T-ball game.”

“What’s the score?”

“They don’t keep score in T-ball. How are you?”

“Busy. How about you, sweets?”

“I’m busy, too. How’s Zimbabwe?”

“Give me a minute,” Judd said. Jessica could hear a door click closed and then her husband returned in a quieter voice. “Jess, I don’t really know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“The voting is under way and everyone is acting like it’s all going smoothly. On the surface everything appears fine. But I’m watching a slow-motion train wreck, and no one else sees it.”

“What about the ambassador?”

“Checked out.”

“What about your team? You have your superheroes yet?”

Judd knew his wife would eventually ask this very question, so he was ready for a quick mental inventory. Bull, Sunday, and Serena—he could definitely count on them. Mariana Leibowitz and Landon Parker were maybes. Isabella Espinosa? Brock Branson? Too soon to say.

“Yeah. I’ve got a few folks here I can trust,” he replied. “I’ve got a core team to start with.”

“That’s good. You’ll need them,” she said.

“But we are being smothered by . . . how do I put this? By diplomatic impartiality.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Instead of backing one candidate, the embassy is pretending like we have no preferences. We’ve neutered ourselves. We are just waiting for the outcome everyone already knows. Tinotenda’s put everything in place to ensure his reelection and I can’t get anyone to see it. Or to change course. I’m shouting into the wind. And once the election results are announced tomorrow, we’ll have no real options left.”

“Don’t get frustrated. You have to force the issue, Judd. Isn’t that why you rushed there in the first place?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I was worried I was getting here so late that I’d miss the window of opportunity. That I’d be too late.”

“Minute Zero.”

“Exactly. So, I thought I might miss Minute Zero in Zimbabwe. But now I’m starting to think it may never happen. Maybe nothing is going to happen.”

“Then you have to
make
it happen. You have to create Minute Zero.”

At that moment Judd knew immediately she was right.

“But how?” he asked.

She was ready. “If everyone is locked into a position, you have to change things up. Introduce a new factor, a piece of information—something to break everything loose.”

“I know everything here is connected, but I can’t yet see how. I’m in the dark. I don’t have the big picture.”

“You can do this, Judd. It’s just another puzzle you have to solve. You’ve done it before.”

“A puzzle I have to solve to save S/CRU. To save my experiment.”

“Forget about that,” she said. “Don’t think like a bureaucrat. Clear your head and focus on your outcome. Focus on Zimbabwe. If something bad is about to happen, then you have to stop it. Whatever happens to your job, you’ll be able to hold your head high. That’s your measure of success, not saving your office.”

“I know I’m being played. Someone is pulling my strings. Not just Landon Parker.”

“Who?” Jessica asked.

“I, um . . .” Judd thought about this for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“There’s no Wizard of Oz, Judd. That’s just in your mind.”

“There’s something else, Jess.”

“Okay . . .”

“Blowback.”

“What?”

“Political blowback. I’m onto something and worried about where it may lead. I think the trail here might go all the way back to Washington. To high-level Washington.”

“Corruption?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,
shit
, Judd. You better cover yourself. And fast. You have to bring someone else inside as insurance. You know anyone at the Department of Justice?”

Through the phone, Jessica could hear a loud knock, then a woman’s voice apologizing, “Sorry to interrupt. The car is waiting for us.”

“Yes, thank you, Isabella. I’m coming,” Jessica heard her husband reply. Then back to her: “Thanks, Jess. I think I just might know someone.”

Undisclosed Location
Saturday, 10:50 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

D
own in the parched valley, the heat radiated up from the ground, creating hazy ripples in the air. Tsetse flies and mosquitoes swarmed in dark clouds. Oblivious to the rising temperature or the biting insects, the Northrop Grumman RQ-4 Global Hawk taxied to clear the springbok antelope and zebras that had roamed onto the gravel runway. The beasts snorted at the all-white intruder and galloped away into the bush.

Once the first pass was complete, the Global Hawk spun 180 degrees and immediately accelerated. After a few seconds it veered upward toward the sun.

Exactly 9,981 miles away, in an air-conditioned trailer at the edge of Creech Air Force Base in southern Nevada, a young drone pilot gripped his joystick. An open can of Mountain Dew and a half-eaten packet of teriyaki beef jerky lay on the desk next to him. He gnawed on a long piece of jerky as he tested the Global Hawk’s rudder capabilities. The pilot flew the stealth surveillance drone in a tight figure-eight pattern and watched on the screen as the plane responded to his commands. Satisfied, he turned his attention to a second screen and flipped a switch, revealing a sepia version of the first screen. He scanned the images, confirmed all systems were working, gulped down the jerky, and touched a button on his earpiece.

“This is Leo Base One,” he said into a headset. “We are live with Vapor Four. Geothermal scanner is also hot. Repeat, Vapor Four is geothermal hot.”

“Roger Leo Base One” was the robotic reply. “Vapor Four is live and geothermal hot.”

“Confirming target Kanyemba, Zimbabwe. GPS coordinates now being sent.”

“GPS coordinates received, Leo Base One. Target confirmed.”

“Are we a go?”

“Affirmative, Leo Base One.”

“Roger that. Vapor Four is en route. ETA to target is eighty-six minutes.”

“Roger that, Leo Base One.”

The pilot flipped his headset mic up over his head and turned to his colleague sitting nearby. “You better let AFRICOM know their special bird is wheels-up and hot.”

A few seconds later the message was received by United States Africa Command headquarters at Kelley Barracks in Stuttgart, Germany. Less than one minute after that, Colonel David Durham, sitting in the medical unit at the U.S. embassy in Harare, felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He set down the ice pack he was holding to his cheek, revealing a dozen stitches in a line under his eye. He fished out his phone and glanced at his message:

Bull pressed the cold pack back against his cheek, winced at the pain, and then allowed himself a little smile.

Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 4:55 p.m. Central Africa Time

T
he blast of frigid air-conditioning hit Judd smack in the face as he entered the hotel lobby. Wearing a gray pin-striped suit and retro G-man glasses, he looked like a professor dressing up as a banker. He was closely trailed by Isabella Espinosa, in the no-nonsense black suit of a legal prosecutor, and Bull Durham, in his formal Army service uniform. The silver eagle insignia of a U.S Army colonel, a Special Forces patch, and the dark green beret hinted at his military potency. Across Bull’s bruised cheek, a row of butterfly bandages, like the laces on a football, gave the additional impression of a man calm on the outside but coiled underneath for extreme violence.

The three Americans marched into the hotel between two six-foot-high brass lions guarding the front. They were stopped suddenly by an African porter in a red colonial uniform.

“Welcome to the Meikles Hotel. Are you checking in?” the man asked with a dramatic bow at the waist.

“No. We are meeting someone,” Judd replied. Over the porter’s shoulder, he scanned the lobby for a man who matched the profile photo Brock Branson had shared back at the embassy.

One side of the lobby was crowded with middle-aged Europeans in matching sky-blue T-shirts.
UN peacekeeper blue.
On the fronts of their shirts was printed in black:
COMMONWEALTH
ELECTION
OBSERVER TEAM
. On the back was a large red capital
C
.

“Targets,” Bull scoffed, elbowing Judd in the ribs.

At the other end of the lobby, Judd cataloged Korean tourists, South African businessmen, and American game hunters carrying long rifle cases and talking too loudly. A musical troupe, wearing beads and zebra skins, drummed in one corner. No sign of General Simba Chimurenga.

“Perhaps you’ll be more comfortable waiting in the Explorer’s Club,
baas
,” offered the porter, directing them to a lounge off the lobby.

The three Americans walked past a stuffed cheetah guarding the bar entrance. They settled into a quiet table at the back. Bull excused himself and took a scouting position by the door. Isabella also got up from the table and said she was going to check with the hotel staff.

Alone, Judd absorbed the unapologetic nineteenth-century imperial ambiance. The walls of the Explorer’s Club were adorned with the stuffed heads of a cape buffalo, a crocodile, a warthog. A large kudu head stared blankly at Judd, its twisting horns pointing to the dark-wood-paneled ceiling. Hung between the wildlife trophies were grainy black-and-white photos of European men posing over dead animals, holding up the horns in one hand and gripping a rifle in the other.

A waiter arrived and Judd ordered three gin and tonics.

After a few minutes, Isabella returned to the table. “Not here yet. But the front desk says we’ll definitely know when the general arrives.”

“Good,” he said, just as the waiter delivered the cocktails. “So, Isabella. Why the Justice Department?”

She eyed him. “Why not?”

“I’m curious how anyone becomes a war criminal hunter. How does that happen?”

“After law school, I tried the junior associate thing at a big Los Angeles corporate firm. Wasn’t for me. Just seemed like a waste of all that studying.”

“So you gave up the money for public service?”

“Yep,” she said, taking a sip.

“What about your parents? Weren’t they disappointed?”

“My mom wanted me to be a civil rights lawyer. That wasn’t my thing, either. But she’s happy with my career. She’s now one of those annoying first-generation immigrants who won’t stop talking about her successful daughter. What about you? How did you wind up at the State Department?”

Judd was preparing an evasive answer when loud noises from the lobby interrupted. Bull gave Judd a thumbs-up and then turned to watch the hotel entrance fill with armed soldiers. Judd heard shouting in a foreign language he assumed was the local Shona dialect. Bull stepped back from the bar door just as an entourage burst through the entrance, led by a face Judd recognized from the embassy photo.

General Chimurenga was sporting a freshly pressed military jacket with gold tassels on the shoulders and a rack of medals across his broad chest. His flat-top hat was pulled low, his eyes barely visible below the brim. He appeared fit and muscular, but the hint of a second chin suggested a weakness for heavy food. On his face, he wore an impatient scowl.

“Where’s Branson?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, General, but Brock Branson couldn’t make it,” offered Judd, accepting the general’s crushing handshake.

“Typical Branson. He insisted on a meeting, but now
he’s too busy
. You are aware today is our election, yes?”

“Of course, General.”

“And I am managing election security for the entire country?”

“Yes, General. I know you are a very busy man.”

“You see those foreigners from the Commonwealth in the lobby? They are my guests today. I’m responsible for their safety. How would it look if some troublemakers hurt those people while I am in a bar here talking with you?”

“General, I appreciate you making time on this important day. We only need ten minutes.”

“You have five. What do you need?”

“I’m Judd—”

“Yes, Ryker,” interrupted Chimurenga. “You are the crisis manager from the State Department. And Colonel Durham is from the Pentagon. And Miss Espinosa is from your Justice Department.”

“So you know who we are,” said Judd.

“This is my country, Dr. Ryker. I know everyone who is coming and going. That is my job.”

“Then you also must know why we are here.”

“Yes. That is why I agreed to take this meeting. We have the same objective: to prevent any scoundrels from causing violence in my peaceful country. There are bandits, you must know, who use the cover of the election to make mischief. We cannot allow that. I am happy the American government, which so often misunderstands Zimbabwe, shares this view and has sent you to assist us in this important moment.”

I can play along,
thought Judd. “Indeed, General. We are concerned about election violence. How are events proceeding today?”

“Ahhh, very well. Our diligent preparations are paying off. Things are calm.”

“What about the reports of attacks on Gugu Mutonga’s supporters?”

“Shame. They are true. I am sorry to admit it, but some of our president’s supporters are very patriotic. They are simple peasants who do not understand politics and how it is played. They can become fervent. Sometimes too fervent. Even violent. This is part of our education campaign. We must instruct the people to express their differences at the ballot box and not with a gun or a panga. I think the peaceful voting today suggests we are succeeding.”

“I’m also here to express the American government’s deep concern about the results of the election being honored by all parties.”

“I have heard the speeches from Ambassador Tallyberger.”

“I have been sent here especially by the Secretary of State to make this clear.”

“And I am here—” began Bull Durham.

“What happened to your face?” asked Chimurenga, touching his own cheek.

“Accident,” Bull said.

“Oh, sorry, Colonel. I am so sorry.”

“Not your fault, General. Shall I continue?”

Chimurenga nodded.

“I am here representing the Secretary of Defense,” Bull Durham said, standing tall.

“The Secretary of Defense sent you? Ahhh, the Pentagon. I’ve been there many times. We used to cooperate, to work together. But those days have passed.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, General,” Durham replied.

“History runs in circles, Colonel. We were partners once, and we will be partners again.”

“I am here to share the Secretary of Defense’s message that we expect the winner of the election will be allowed to take office.”

“Of course, my friends. We all expect the same thing. However, we also expect the American government to accept the will of the people.”

Bull and Judd both nodded.

“Ambassador Tallyberger has also given my government assurances the United States is prepared to be a stabilizer and, once you see how free and fair our elections are, you will make a statement quickly. That will help to erase any doubts and to deter troublemakers.”

Bull and Judd looked at each other.

“And we expect,” Chimurenga added, with the hint of a snarl, “sanctions—the illegal sanctions you have placed on my country—will be removed once the election is complete and the results are announced.”

“That will depend, General,” responded Judd.
Let’s see how he handles a curveball.
“There is the sensitive matter of Motowetsurohuro. We have questions about the killings in Kanyemba.”

“Ahhh that. A terrible story. That Motowetsurohuro breaks the heart of President Tinotenda. We have investigated those stories thoroughly, and no bodies were ever found. I think that one is more legend than truth. We have told this to the United Nations.” Chimurenga turned to Isabella. “I sincerely hope your Attorney General did not send you all this way to our beautiful country to investigate a fairy tale?”

Swing and a miss.

“No, sir,” replied Isabella.

“Special Agent Espinosa is here to track suspicious financial transactions,” Judd said.

“Ahhh, very good. You are welcome. There is indeed bad money coming into Zimbabwe. We have long suspected that international criminals are infecting our country by providing money to political parties. Illegal money. I trust you will be investigating the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe. They are funded by agitators. We have chased the scoundrels away, but they send their poisonous money back to Zimbabwe to cause trouble. I hope you will help us to stop that.”

“Are you suggesting Gugu Mutonga is being backed by criminals?” Judd asked.

“She is an intelligent woman. One of Zimbabwe’s best lawyers. I have great respect for her. But she does not know the snakes with whom she sleeps.”

Strike two.

Isabella looked to Judd.
Where are you going with this?

“Actually, General, we have identified one suspicious wire transfer.”
How about an inside fastball?
Judd leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Earlier today a very large amount was paid into a bank here in Zimbabwe from a well-known criminal cartel in Asia.”

“That is suspicious,” said Chimurenga. “Do you know the recipient?”

“Not yet. The sender was in Thailand—that much we do know. But such a large amount on an election day is raising red flags in Washington.”

“I see.”
No reaction.

“When there is a suspicious transaction of two hundred and seventy-five million dollars, it draws the attention of my government.”

Chimurenga’s poker face broke. He turned to look at Colonel Durham, who just nodded slowly.

“How much did you say, Dr. Ryker?”

“Two hundred and seventy-five million.”

“Are you quite sure? That’s a lot of money for a poor country.”

“Yes. We have it from a very reliable source. That precise amount arrived in the country this morning from an account in Bangkok.”

“Well, that is worrisome. I will call the central bank. I will have my people look into it right away.”

“Thank you, General. Anything you hear back, you can pass to Mr. Branson.”

“If you will allow me, Dr. Ryker.” The general stood up. “Now I must go. I have urgent business to attend to.”

“Yes, General.”

“Enjoy the rest of your stay in Zimbabwe. I trust you won’t be disappointed if we do not have a crisis during your visit. I’m sorry you’ve come here and wasted your time.”