Minute Zero (25 page)

Central Ethiopia
Thirty years ago

T
he little girl with mocha skin and a bright white smile marched down the pathway cut into the side of the hill. On her head she wore short braids and balanced a bronze calabash full of water. Her mother, three steps behind, wore long braids and carried an even larger calabash. Several strands of thick wooden and glass beads hung around her neck, creating a rhythmic click-clack, click-clack as they walked. The tempo of the beads comforted the little girl, a constant reminder of her mother’s presence.

As they hauled water back to the family compound from the nearest well several kilometers from the village, they followed a familiar goat path between the coffee trees, the green shrubs with bright red berries grown on those hillsides for centuries. When the girl got too far ahead, out of sight, she would stop underneath one of the umbrella-like acacia trees that dotted the landscape and provided an oasis of shade.

As she did every day, the mother watched closely over her only daughter. Her steps were careful but deliberate.

“Faster,” she urged. “You cannot be late for school today.”

“Yes, Mama,” the girl replied, and resumed their hike.

Although the mother had never herself been to school, she knew, even when this girl was a tiny baby, she was a clever one. She knew her little girl was destined for something greater than the hard life of a remote village in the Ethiopian highlands.

Once the girl turned five years old, the woman and her husband made a major decision: This one would go to school. The family would have to grow and sell extra teff, the grain used to make injera bread, to pay for her uniform and the unofficial fees the teacher would demand in exchange for allowing a girl to attend. In addition to the financial burden, the whole family would also need to wake earlier than the rest of the village to collect water. It was the only way she could be back home in time for her daughter to wash, dress, and still make the forty-minute trek to school.

That had been a year ago. Now the early chores had become their normal daily ritual.

None of the other six-year-old girls in the village were going to school, and most never would. The few boys who attended school teased her for being the only girl, for being out of place, for trying to be something they said she could never be.

But her mother instructed her daughter to ignore their taunts and to focus on learning. The girl followed these orders. Her mother also counseled that the best response to silly boys was to prove to them she belonged there, that a girl could even be the head of the class. She did this, too.

On this particular day, as they came around a bend in the path approaching the village, the girl’s head was already filling with letters and numbers. Her father came running to meet them, terror on his face. “The Red Fear is here! The soldiers are coming!”

“What are you saying?” her mother asked, gently placing down the calabash. “Who is coming?”

“The army! To this place! Now!”

“Why here?”

“I don’t know. We must run. Now!”

“Why us?”

“I don’t—” he started to answer, but was interrupted by the hollow whump whump whump of artillery shells in the distance, and then, nearer, the sharp crack crack crack of small-arms fire.

“Mama?” the little girl cried.

“The Red Fear is coming. It is Zagwe!” shouted her father, grabbing his daughter’s hand.

The crack crack crack grew closer. They turned to run just as a bullet shattered the calabash on the girl’s head, drenching her with the cool water.

“Nooooo!” wailed her mother, throwing herself on top of the girl.

Suddenly, advancing soldiers poured over the hill and into the village. The first wave, in green uniforms and hard hats, slung long guns at their hips and fired wildly as they charged. The girl’s father raised his hands in surrender, but before he could speak, before he could plead for mercy, his body was raked by bullets,
crack crack
crack
, and he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

Her mother, now wrapped like a blanket over the girl, suddenly went limp, too. The little girl felt warm blood mix with the cool water.

At that moment, as the little girl hid underneath her mother’s dead body, when her entire world was coming to an end, when she should have been screaming and crying but instead sat perfectly still, calculating, deliberate, decisive, one name stuck in her head, a name she would carry with her to her next life in America—the very last word her father had ever spoken:
Zagwe
.

U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 4:47 p.m. Central Africa Time

Y
ou need to see this!” yelled Colonel David Durham from his perch on the couch.

“What is it, Bull?” asked Judd, emerging from his office-cave into the foyer with the television.

“Chimurenga. They were showing music videos on state TV, but now it broke to a live press conference with Chimurenga. I think this is it.”

“Turn up the volume,” ordered Ambassador Tallyberger, who was running in, followed by Isabella Espinosa and a crowd of embassy staff.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the great people of Zimbabwe . . .” began Simba Chimurenga. The general was standing behind a podium in formal military uniform with a wall of soldiers at attention behind him.
A show of force,
thought Judd.

“Is this a coup?” asked one of the staff, who was quickly shushed by the ambassador.

“. . . I have important and sad news to share with you today. His Excellency, Father of the Nation and Warrior of the People, President Winston H. R. Tinotenda, has passed.”

Chimurenga then paused as the room erupted with gasps and camera flashes. The television picture jerked back and forth as the camera was jostled.

“Be calm!” insisted Chimurenga, holding up both palms. The camera steadied and the room quieted. “Our great leader was murdered today by terrorists. Our great nation is under attack. But we have identified the culprits and we will bring them to justice. I assure you of that. The security forces are now fully mobilized and rounding up suspects. We have sufficient evidence pointing to senior members of the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe. The DUZ was once a legitimate political party and enjoyed the benefits and freedoms of our democracy. But it has become poisoned by violence. The DUZ is responsible for the assassination of our president and the explosion in our capital last night. Our prime suspect in these murders and attacks on the nation is Gugu Mutonga.”

“No!” shouted Isabella.

“Ms. Mutonga is not yet in custody. It is only a matter of time,” declared Chimurenga, pounding his fist on the lectern. “We have sealed the borders and have erected roadblocks around the capital. We call on all peace-loving members of the public to assist the security forces in apprehending her and her coconspirators.”

“This is bullshit,” hissed Durham.

“Their president was just murdered,” snapped Tallyberger.

“I want to assure the people of Zimbabwe and our friends abroad,” Chimurenga continued, “Zimbabwe will survive this unprovoked attack and we will emerge stronger. I want to convey to the nation and to the world our assurances the government is still in control. We are still in charge.
I am in charge.
”

“It
is
a coup!” Isabella shouted at the TV.

“We are still operating under the state of emergency I announced earlier today. According to Section 128 of the Constitution of the Republic, the president may initiate special decrees in a time of extraordinary circumstances. Early this morning”—Chimurenga held up a sheet of paper—“the president signed Special Presidential Decree 128.7, which appoints the national security advisor as interim head of state if the president becomes incapacitated during a state of emergency. Based on this authority, I have assumed executive authority.”

“It
is
a coup,” Judd said, making eye contact with Durham.

“The election results which were due to be announced later today would have given President Tinotenda another five-year term. However, following the unfortunate events over the past twenty-four hours, we will, as soon as possible, hold new elections. The elections held yesterday are hereby declared null and void.

“I urge all Zimbabwean patriots to remain vigilant in defense of the nation. If anyone has information about the whereabouts of Gugu Mutonga or any subversive activities, you are obligated to share that information with the security forces. Thank you. And God bless the Republic of Zimbabwe.”

The screen went dark.

“Everyone out! Back to work!” ordered the ambassador. “I need Bill Rogerson on the phone right now!” he demanded as the embassy staff filed out of the room. “And where the hell is Brock Branson?”

“Ambassador,” Judd began. “We need to—”

“We aren’t doing anything until I hear from Bill Rogerson. We need to reconvene the Zimbabwe task force before we do anything rash. I’m not running some rogue operation here, Ryker.”

Before Judd could reply, Brock Branson appeared in the doorway, out of breath.

“Sir. We’ve got a situation outside the embassy gates.”

“What is it now?” asked Tallyberger, color draining from his face.

“A crowd is forming, several hundred people.”

“Have the marine guard put us on lockdown!”

“They’ve already sealed the perimeter. That’s not the issue.”

“Well, what is it?” Tallyberger’s eyes widened.

“It’s not just any crowd, sir. Gugu Mutonga is at the gate.”

Palisades, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 10:50 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

L
andon Parker jumped out the taxicab and paid the driver by flicking a twenty-dollar bill over the headrest. A uniformed policeman immediately stopped him.

“I’m sorry, sir, this road is closed. No pedestrians.”

“Good morning, officer,” he said, and flashed his State Department ID. The officer apologized and waved him through.

Parker walked the remaining block before encountering plainclothes diplomatic security officers at the bottom of the circular driveway. After he showed his ID again, he strode up toward the Georgian Colonial mansion, with its tall white columns and redbrick façade. The porch was already decorated with pumpkins and an autumn wreath hung on the front door. He rang the doorbell.

“Landon!”

“Hello, Madam Secretary.”

“We couldn’t wait for you. I’m sorry, we started brunch already. I was starting to worry you wouldn’t make it!”

“I apologize, ma’am. Got hung up with something at the office.”

“Well, you’re here now,” she said. “That’s what counts.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Senator McCall is regaling us with stories about his recent trip to Indonesia and New Zealand.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I hope you weren’t delayed by anything too important. No new crisis, I hope?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Russia again?”

“Just a small problem in Thailand.”

“Thailand? What’s going on there?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, Madam Secretary. I made the problem go away. I promise you that.”

“Wonderful. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Landon Parker, accepting a tall crystal flute of champagne from the Secretary of State and stepping into her foyer. “I’m still hungry.”

U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 4:52 p.m. Central Africa Time

W
e have to let her in!” Isabella insisted.

“She is a sitting duck out there, sir,” said Branson. “If we know she’s here, then so does Chimurenga. There’s an army post less than one kilometer away. If we are going to act, we need to do so
right
now
.”

“If we let her in—if we give her refuge—we are taking sides in an internal political matter,” Tallyberger said, shaking his head.

“What’s your option? Let them arrest her?” Judd asked.

“And probably kill her,” Isabella said.

“I estimate you’ve got two minutes, sir,” said Branson.

“I need Washington on the line. Where the hell is Bill Rogerson?” screamed the ambassador.

“Trying to reach him, sir,” a voice shouted from another room.

“The crowd is getting bigger,” said Bull, peering out the window.

“Ambassador, if you don’t open the gate and let Gugu Mutonga into the embassy, then you are sealing her fate,” Judd said. “That’s not neutral, either. If you allow her in, that should give everyone time to calm down. Some breathing space. The embassy can be a stabilizing force and not allow this thing to spiral out of control. We can shut the window of chaos.”

“I’m not inserting the United States government into this fight without explicit instructions from headquarters. We aren’t doing anything until I hear from Washington.”

“Ambassador, a word, please,” said Judd, indicating the door to the ambassador’s private office. Once inside, he closed the door.

“Mr. Ambassador, you’ve got an opportunity to do the right thing here. For Zimbabwe and for the United States.”

“Ryker, don’t you come here and, after one day in my country, start telling me how to run my post!”

“You can do the right thing and show some balls, Arnold.”

“Get out of my office!”

“I didn’t want to have to do this, but there’s no more time. Ambassador, this is how it’s going to play out. One: You’re going to order the gates opened and allow Gugu Mutonga and her people onto the embassy compound. Two: You’re going to grant Gugu Mutonga immediate asylum and full diplomatic protection. Three”—Judd jabbed his finger toward Tallyberger—“you and I are going to draft a statement together outlining how the United States is going to support a peaceful, democratic transition. I’ve already done most of the work. You’ll just need to read it.”

“Who the hell do you think you are, Ryker?” Tallyberger’s face went from pallid white to blood red. “Why on earth would I do any of that?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s not your call, Ryker! You are way the hell out of your lane!”

“And,” Judd said calmly, “because I know all about what happened in Haiti.”

The ambassador’s face returned to ashen.

“I already have an inquiry from the British Foreign Office—I spoke to them just a few hours ago, in fact—and they were asking some pointed questions about your suitability to be deputy chief of mission in London. They haven’t yet agreed to you.”

“There’s no agrément for a DCM. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ryker.”

“I know there’s no formal agrément. But if our friends in London knew about Haiti, I’m sure they would find a way to let the Secretary of State know your presence in the United Kingdom was . . . undesirable.”

“Undesirable? Why is the British Foreign Office calling you about my posting? What the hell do you have to do with any of this?”

“It’s a good question,” said Judd, nodding and trying to restrain any sign of smugness. “It’s a very, very good question, Ambassador.”

“You blackmailing me, Ryker?” Tallyberger narrowed his eyes.

“No, Mr. Ambassador. This is most definitely not blackmail. This is
diplomacy
.”