Minute Zero (22 page)

U.S. Department of State, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 7:02 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

T
he U.S. Assistant Secretary of State for African Affairs, William Rogerson, called the meeting to order with a non-apology.

“Sorry to call this meeting so early on a Sunday morning. None of us want to be here. The events in Zimbabwe over the past twelve hours, combined with”—he glanced up at the screen showing Ambassador Tallyberger and Judd Ryker sitting in a poorly lit conference room on the other side of the globe—“gridlock in this building, made this emergency meeting unavoidable.”

Rogerson, in a freshly pressed light gray suit, sat at the head of the conference table like a king holding court. Tall paper coffee cups dotted the table, which was surrounded by bleary Foreign Service officers in weekend casual dress. No one was smiling.

Judd had raced back to the embassy from the press conference after receiving a text from his assistant, Serena, about an emergency Zimbabwe policy meeting. No one had alerted him, but Serena was keeping a close watch through a network she’d built up over fourteen years working at the Department of State. Serena had also quietly engineered the delay of the elections statement, discreetly calling in favors to stall clearance by horse-trading favors with friends in the crime and democracy bureaus. She couldn’t get senior policy makers to change their minds. But she could use their assistants to slow the whole process down.

Judd hadn’t specifically asked her to do it, of course. But they had developed a rhythm and she knew this was her next move.

“Okay, people,” Rogerson began. “Let’s start with Embassy Harare. Ambassador, can you brief us on where we are?”

“Thank you, sir,” responded Tallyberger, leaning in toward the camera. His face consumed most of the screen, jolting those in Washington to sit back in their chairs. “The election was completed yesterday and our observer mission team concluded its report. There were some problems, of course.”

“We’ve all seen our share of African elections,” offered Rogerson. Nods all around the table.

“Yes, sir. Some problems, of course,” Tallyberger continued. “But we did not witness any violence and we observed only limited misconduct by the security forces. Nothing too worrying. Overall we have judged the elections to be at least minimally satisfactory. Our main concern is now over delays in releasing the results. A long delay could create a window for instability.”

“Which is why we are here this morning, correct, Ambassador?” Rogerson asked.

“Correct, Mr. Assistant Secretary. The election results have been postponed because of new security issues raised by the government. The authorities have declared a state of emergency in response to an explosion at the home of an Ethiopian exile and reports of a foiled plot against senior officials. We cannot confirm the details of either event, but the government is clearly on edge. They’ve asked for our patience and understanding with the election results.”

“Who exactly is the Ethiopian, Ambassador?”

“General Solomon Zagwe. He was once President of Ethiopia but fled the country after a revolt. Tinotenda gave him refuge and he’s been here ever since.”

“Red Fear Zagwe,” said Rogerson. “I didn’t realize he was still alive.”

“He isn’t, sir. We believe he was killed last night in the explosion,” Tallyberger said.

“I see. What about this plot? Is it a coup attempt?”

“I don’t believe so. Zimbabwe has never had a coup in its entire history. Right now the only details we have are from General Chimurenga’s statement about an hour ago. He claims to have uncovered an assassination plot linked to the main opposition party, but we can’t confirm any of this.”

“Do our intelligence services know anything about this?”

“The chief of station here is looking into it,” Tallyberger replied. “But he doesn’t have anything yet.”

“Thank you, Ambassador. What is your recommended course of action for the United States?” Rogerson asked.

“The recommendation from Embassy Harare is to pursue a three-track strategy—”

“Excuse me, Ambassador,” interrupted Rogerson. “I think you mean two tracks.”

“Yes, did I say three? I meant two. The recommendation from Embassy Harare is to pursue a two-track strategy to stabilize the situation. One”—Tallyberger held up one finger—“we issue our election statement erasing doubts about the legitimacy of the vote. Two”—he held up a second finger—“we offer American assistance to investigate the bombing and the plot. These two steps would help to squelch the growing uncertainty and reduce the chances of a meltdown on the streets.”

“Very good, Ambassador. What specifically would you recommend as a next step for each of your recommended two tracks?”

Judd tried to keep a straight face but, watching through a video screen, he couldn’t read the body language of his colleagues. This was obviously a rehearsed setup, he thought.
Everyone sees that, right?

“Mr. Assistant Secretary,” replied Tallyberger. “Embassy Harare recommends that, one”—the finger again—“we release the statement calling on all parties to respect the election commission’s determination and urge them to settle any disputes through the courts rather than on the streets. That statement was drafted earlier this morning and is currently stuck in the State clearance process.

“And two”—two fingers up—“we offer to fly in an FBI forensics team to assess the bomb site and an intelligence assessment of the alleged conspiracy. I’m confident our intelligence services could, if directed, help determine the truth here. These two acts would be high-value good faith gestures and accomplish our stabilization objective.”

“Thank you, Ambassador. Before I share my own views, let’s hear from around the building.”

“Political-Military Affairs concurs.”

“International Narcotics and Law Enforcement concurs.”

“Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor, too . . .”

And around the table rang approvals. With each one, Judd winced, realizing Rogerson had precooked the meeting. This was no debate. It was all political theater. Despite Serena’s delaying tactics, Judd had walked right into a classic State Department ambush.

Finally, everyone had spoken except Judd. “Very well, colleagues,” announced Rogerson. “I see everyone wants to get back to their families—”

“I have a question,” interrupted Judd.

“S/CRU isn’t on the clearance list, I’m afraid, Dr. Ryker.”

“I understand the desire to mitigate uncertainty,” he said, ignoring Rogerson’s slight, “but are we sure any of the information we have is accurate? Are we sure the election results aren’t
fraudulent
? Without any independent verification, how can we be sure the alleged plot isn’t also a deception? How do we know we aren’t getting played here?”

“Does S/CRU have any new information to share with the other bureaus that might contradict what we have just heard? And remind me, Dr. Ryker: You arrived in Zimbabwe when?”

“Yesterday.”

“Right, yesterday. And your new information since yesterday is . . . ?”

“I don’t have anything yet. But if we move forward immediately with our approval, we close off our options to influence events. And if we are wrong, then we’ll have helped Tinotenda subvert the election and consolidate power.”

“Ambassador Tallyberger, you are our man in Harare. You’ve been sent there by the President of the United States to be our eyes and ears on the ground. You’ve been there for the past three years. What’s your assessment, Ambassador?”

Tallyberger rubbed his mustache as he stared into the camera. “Without any countervailing evidence, I think Dr. Ryker’s scenario is . . . unlikely.”

“And the costs of delay?”

“Given the low-probability, the costs of delay outweigh the benefits.”

“I agree,” said Rogerson quickly. “I don’t think we have time to consider low-probability outcomes, Dr. Ryker. The prudent approach is the two-pronged strategy outlined by Ambassador Tallyberger. I’ve also spoken with Landon Parker this morning and he assured me we’ll have seventh-floor concurrence. Meeting adjourned.”

Tallyberger pushed the button, turning off the video feed.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Ryker,” he said without emotion.

“No apologies necessary, Ambassador.”

“A vigorous policy debate is always healthy. But sometimes you lose. That’s the game.”

“Game?”

“Yes, this is all a game. Foreign policy. The Foreign Service. That’s what we do. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. Sometimes you are lucky and sometimes you aren’t lucky.”

Lucky?
thought Judd.
Lucky Magombe.

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 7:12 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

J
essica Ryker’s tank top was soaked through with sweat. She stepped off the treadmill and slapped a towel over her shoulder. As she wiped her neck and forehead, she checked on her two boys in the next room, sitting happily catatonic in front of the television.

“Boys?” They didn’t answer. “Mommy is jumping in the shower.” No reply.

Jessica walked upstairs to the bathroom, peeling off the damp gym clothes and leaving a trail in the hallway. In the bathroom she caught herself naked in the mirror. The muscles on her thighs and calves rippled under her mocha-colored skin. She let her long black hair down from the ponytail and shook it out. She turned her head side to side, examining her own face in detail. She was in her late thirties, but her skin was still tight and her high cheekbones gave her a youthful permanence.
From my mother,
she thought.

Jessica lifted her chin and with one finger traced a scar along the underside of her jawbone. As her runner’s high receded, the suppressed anger of the past returned.
For my mother,
she thought.

She turned on the hot water and inhaled the steam. Jessica had received a text message in the middle of the night confirming General Solomon Zagwe’s untimely death. Someone had gotten to him.

As she showered, Jessica could feel the salty residue washing away, leaving her clean and fresh. The bitterness of the past that she had held tight was being replaced by the cool aromas of her lemon and sandalwood shampoo. She closed her eyes and pushed out any unpleasant emotions, clearing her head for the mental inventory of what she needed to do today. Jessica Ryker knew she had unfinished business.

On the other side of the bathroom door, on top of the pile of wet acrylic lying in the hallway, her cell phone played a dance song and illuminated. A pudgy hand reached down and grabbed the phone, a familiar photograph flashing on the screen. A sticky finger pressed the answer button.

“Daddy?” said the voice.

“Noah?” asked a surprised Judd.

“Uh-huh. Hello, Daddy!” he gurgled.

“Where’s Mommy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is everything all right, Noah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching TV.”

“With Toby?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Very nice. Are you having fun, Noah?”

“Daddy, are you on the airplane again?”

“Yes, Noah. I’m in Africa.”

“Africa,” repeated the three-year-old.

“Do you remember I showed it to you on the map?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I miss you, Noah.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you miss me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll be home soon. Just a few days.”

“You see birdies?”

“Birdies? Yes, there are lots of birds in Africa. They have some big, beautiful birds here in Zimbabwe. Right where I am now.”

“Mommy won’t let you kill the birdies,” Noah whined.

“What?”

“Mommy said no one can kill the birdies. She won’t let them.”

“Okay. I’m sure Mom is right. No one is killing any birds here. Don’t you worry, Noah,” said Judd. “Can you find Mommy for me?”

“Purple umbrella.”

“What, Noah?”

“Umbrella. Mommy talked to the man about selling the purple umbrella.”

“What man, Noah? Selling what umbrella?”

“I don’t know.”

Jessica opened the door, holding a towel around her chest. “Who are you talking to?”

The boy stared up innocently at his mother, a donut squished in one fist, her cell phone gripped in the other. He dropped the phone on the floor, jammed the donut into his mouth, and stumbled away. Jessica glanced down, a photograph of her husband’s face illuminated on the screen. She snatched it. “Judd?”

“Jess?”

“Did Noah call you on my phone?”

“No, I called you and he answered. What’s going on over there?”

“Nothing. I was in the shower.”

“He was telling me you aren’t going to let anyone kill the birds. Are you sure everything is all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she laughed. “It’s from some cartoon the boys were watching.”

“And a purple umbrella?”

“Purple
umbrella
?” Damn! She’d been careless. But she laughed again. “It probably belongs to a green giraffe he kept telling me about yesterday. The giraffe was eating pickles, too. See what you’re missing when you travel?”

Judd sighed. “I know.”

“
You
called
me
. Is everything okay?” she asked.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m not worried. Has something happened?”

“Yes. But I’m fine. I’m fine,” he said. “If you turn on CNN, you’ll see there’s been an explosion. But I called because I didn’t want you to worry.”

“An explosion? I wasn’t worried until now,” she said. “Do you have to leave? What’s the embassy telling you?”

“They’ve confirmed that a bomb went off, but they don’t believe it was political. They’re telling us it’s probably just a business dispute. Nothing to do with the embassy and no threat to foreign nationals.”

“What do
you
think?”

“I’m sure the embassy knows what they’re talking about, Jess.”

“Pretty suspicious to have a bombing right in the middle of an election, don’t you think?”

“Could be a coincidence.”

“Do you believe in coincidences, Judd?”

Good question.

“Judd, do you believe in coincidences?” she asked again.

“I have to focus on the election right now,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“And what about it, Judd? Who’s going to win?”

“No results yet. That’s what I’m working on,” Judd stared down at his computer screen.
UNITED STATES’ CONCERNS ABOUT THE INTEGRITY
OF THE ELECTION IN
ZIMBABWE
was written across the top. Below the title, the screen displayed a table showing reported election results compared side by side with the parallel voting tabulation he’d received from Mariana.

“Remember you told me to force the issue? That’s what I’m doing, Jess. I’m seizing Minute Zero.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m taking your advice, sweets.”

“You were worried about some kind of political blowback?”

“I think I’ve got that covered, too. Your advice again.”

“Good. I’m glad I was helpful.”

“For the first time since I got to Zimbabwe, I think we’ve got a real chance to make a difference here,” he said.

Jessica’s phone buzzed and flashed
DANIEL DOLLAR
. Her shorthand code for DDO, the deputy director of operations. Her boss. She pushed
DIVERT TO
VOICEMAIL
.

“Sweets, I’m glad things are looking up,” she said. “The kids are starting to shout. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, Jess. Just know I’m safe. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t. I only wish I could help you.”

“You’ve helped plenty already. I’ll call you again soon. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” She blew him a kiss and ended the call.

Once they were disconnected, Judd stared at his phone, unsure of his next move.

Jessica, however, knew exactly what to do. She immediately dialed a different number.

“Yes, ma’am?” Sunday answered.

“We haven’t got much time. I need you to copy the best of the shots from our bird over Kanyemba and send them to Judd in Harare. We need the ones that are very clear, the indisputable ones.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now. Do it right now. Don’t take any other calls. Don’t do anything else. Don’t even talk to anyone until you are done. Just send the pictures.”

“I’m on it.”

“Thank you, Sunday.”

“I’m being pulled off Zimbabwe, ma’am. Starting tomorrow.”

“I know. Somali pirates get all the glory. More of a reason to hurry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Click
.

Jessica was satisfied the pieces were falling into place. And she thought she’d pulled off the misdirection with Judd on the phone. She knew the manipulation of her husband would come back to haunt her. She would have to deal with that problem soon enough. For now, she had to stay focused on her task. After years of waiting, this was her moment. She couldn’t allow sentiment to cloud her judgment. Or deter her. She finished dressing and descended the stairs to make her children breakfast.

Eight thousand miles away, Judd’s computer chirped with an urgent message from Sunday. He double-clicked and opened the attached photos. Sunday’s only notation was:
Kanyemba mine. Taken over the past 24 hours. Scroll in sequence.

At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. But then he realized Sunday had sent the photos in order of increasing amplification. When he got to the final picture—a close-up geothermal image of an underground room within the Kanyemba mine—and he could see what was inside, the moment he realized what was hidden in that hole in the ground, his stomach convulsed. His mind spun and he felt dizzy. He turned and vomited violently into the trash can.

As Judd coughed and spit the sour acids from deep in his stomach, he suddenly realized the sickening image on his screen was in fact . . . a magnificent gift.