Minute Zero (27 page)

Harare, Zimbabwe
Monday, 12:26 p.m. Central Africa Time

“. . . I, Gugulethu Nehanda Mutonga, solemnly swear to uphold the constitution of the Republic of Zimbabwe.”

“GU-GUUUUUUUUU!” shouted the crowd, which packed the national stadium to capacity. In the center of the stage stood Gugu Mutonga in a bright red business suit, one hand held up, the other on the Bible. A judge in full robes and a horsehair wig was reading the proceedings.

Standing immediately behind Gugu was an inner circle of her closest friends and supporters, including the beaming face of Lucky Magombe. The rest of the stage was crammed with chairs holding the nation’s top judges, business leaders, and senior members of the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe. Hidden among this crowd, at the back, almost but not quite entirely out of view, sat Mariana Leibowitz.

Gugu finished the oath of office and solemnly accepted a sash across her chest, the conclusion to her inauguration as president. She turned to face the throngs of supporters, who raised their arms and screamed again. “GU-GUUUUUUUUU! GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”

A drummer on the stage began a celebratory beat. Gugu rocked her hips to the rhythm in a victory dance, igniting more cheering from the masses in front of her.

Among those closest to the stage were the faces of Tsitsi and Tinashe. The two young Zimbabweans held hands tightly and screamed until their voices were hoarse. As they danced, drunk with the dreamy jubilation of triumph and hope, Tsitsi could feel a growing queasiness in her belly, a sensation she knew was the first wave of morning sickness.

Once the drumming was finished, Gugu Mutonga raised both her hands, palms to the sky. This set off another frenzy. “GU-GUUUUUUUUU! GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”

She then took the microphone and the stadium fell silent. She lifted it to her lips and paused. The crowd held their breath, waiting for the first words of their new president.

Then she asked, “Who is ready for a new Zimbabwe?”

Bangkok, Thailand
Monday, 8:33 p.m. Indochina Time

H
arriet Tinotenda pressed button 81 and felt the thrust in her thighs as the high-speed elevator rocketed toward the sky. The Baiyoke Tower, one of Bangkok’s most exclusive addresses, was a suitable place to live, she thought. At least until she could find her own place.

The elevator’s floor panel display flashed the passing floors:
19 . . . 20 . . . 21 . . .

Once Harriet got upstairs and claimed her insurance policy, she knew she would have to start over. She had done it before. She could do it again.

Now she had nothing. Her husband was dead. Her lover was in custody and probably would be jailed for life. But she was still young. She had a life to live. Simba may have made mistakes, but she had to move on.

Worst of all, her country was in the hands of the traitors and sellouts. The most galling affront, she decided, was the uppity little woman claiming she had won the presidency. That cockroach actually believed she had won over the people!
Over my Baba! Outrageous!
“Tsaaah!” she tsked to herself.

And the Americans, she thought. They did this. The arrogant Americans and the wicked British. It was an insult. An affront! One day she would make them pay, she decided. Yaah, one day they would pay.

44 . . . 45 . . . 46. . . .

But today she had to focus on her immediate task, the first step in her new life. She had to claim the money her lion had stashed away for her. Simba promised she would be safe, that she would be kept in the style to which she had become accustomed. That, no matter what happened, she could still have it all.

Simba had called, just before he was arrested, to reveal his partner in Thailand was the gatekeeper. All she had to do was go to the office of Max O’Malley, 81F of the Baiyoke Tower in central Bangkok, and give the password. Simba told her all about the luxurious office, the photos of the rich and famous, the impressive view of the city, the soothing charm of his partner, who would welcome her with open arms and provide her with everything she needed. Max O’Malley would give her the code to the secret bank account. Max O’Malley held the key to all she had been promised, just in case anything went wrong.

Now everything had gone wrong, she lamented. She didn’t even have her luggage.

Yaah, once she extracted the bank code from O’Malley, she would make a healthy withdrawal first thing tomorrow morning and go shopping at the Emporium. Or maybe at the Gaysorn Mall. That would make her feel better, she knew. Should she withdraw twenty thousand dollars? It was the beginning of her new life. She should start with a splash. At least fifty thousand dollars. Yaah. Just to start. The idea of a shopping trip already made her relax.

62 . . . 63 . . . 64. . . .

The rumble of the elevator racing upward toward the penthouse was an apt metaphor for her life, she thought. She’d begun as nothing, a poor girl from nowhere with little more than her wits and a pretty face. Saint Catherine’s Mission School for Girls, Kwekwe Secretarial Academy, Ministry of Public Works, Office of the President, First Lady of the Republic of Zimbabwe. The events of the past few days were just a temporary setback, she told herself.

Harriet had parlayed her modest beginnings to become the wealthiest and most powerful woman in the country. She would just have to do it all over again. Regroup, rebuild, counterattack. Return to Zimbabwe to reclaim her glory. Maybe even as president herself?

But the first step on that road to redemption was to find this Max O’Malley.
Perhaps he is not only rich and powerful. Perhaps he is even handsome?

79 . . . 80 . . . 81.
Ding!

The elevator doors slid open. She stepped into the hallway, pausing to peer out a glass window at the bustling urban streets far below. From up here, from high in the sky, she looked down on all the little lights, all the little scurrying people. She suddenly felt on top of the world again. She was already nearly back on top.

Harriet extracted a bright pink tube from her pocket, one of the few items she’d managed to salvage when she fled to the private airport and began the hasty journey to Thailand. She applied the lipstick, smacked her lips, and blew the city of Bangkok a kiss. She then found door 81F and, just as Simba had instructed, knocked three times. Harriet called out, “The lioness is here.”

No reply.

She knocked again and repeated, this time more loudly, “The lioness is here!”

Still nothing.

Harriet gripped the handle and, to her surprise, the door gave way. She cracked it open an inch and called out. “Hellooooo? Mr. O’Malley? You should be expecting me. The lioness is here.”

When she again received no reply, she swung open the door.

“Tsaaah!” she screamed, eyes wide, in shock and horror.

In front of her was a room, entirely empty.

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 9:25 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

W
hen Judd opened their front door, Jessica was sitting on the living room sofa, ready. He set down his carry-on bag, walked over, leaned in, and kissed her. Jessica’s lips tasted of red wine and she smelled of vanilla and honey.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” she said, and started to pour him a glass of pinot noir. “Sit. We need to talk.”

“What is it?” he asked, still standing. “Can I take a shower first?”

“No. I need to tell you something important.”

“Okay,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen. Judd returned with a bottle of beer and sat down next to her on the couch. Judd took a deep breath and then a long swig of his drink.

“I haven’t told you everything about my life, about where I come from,” she began.

“You told me you were adopted. You were an army brat.”

“True. I was adopted. And my parents were both in the military and we moved around a lot. And yes, they both died before I met you. That’s all true.”

“Okay.”

“What I didn’t tell you is that I was born . . . in Ethiopia.”

“Ethiopia?”

“I don’t know much more. I really don’t remember much more.”

“You don’t remember?”

“It’s all a blur.”

“You’re Ethiopian and you never thought to tell your husband?”

“No. I’m American now. It was never relevant,” she said.

Judd took another gulp of beer.

“Until now,” Jessica said.

“Okay . . . I’m listening.”

“Did BJ ever push you to go into public service?”

“BJ van Hollen? What does the professor have to do with any of this?”

“He introduced us.”

“Of course I know that, Jess. I was there too. In Kidal twelve years ago when we met.”

“Don’t get mad, Judd. I’m trying to explain. Did BJ ever try to . . .
recruit
you?”

“Sure. He pressured me. He wanted me to work for the government. He hated after all his mentoring that I chose to teach. His disappointment was one of the reasons I jumped at the chance to create the Crisis Reaction Unit. BJ van Hollen was a big reason I took the risk and left Amherst to come to the State Department. But you know all this.”

“Well, BJ recruited me, too. Only he
succeeded
.”

“Succeeded? Succeeded how?”

“I think you can guess.”

Judd didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned over and took her hand. “I already did.”

“You—you knew?” Jessica asked. “For how long?”

“I think I finally put it together when Noah told me on the phone about birds and purple umbrellas. Once I figured out you weren’t telling me everything, all the other little clues started to fit together. All the advice arriving at just the right time, the insights, the observations, the
coincidences
. Even though it took a while for me to admit it, even to myself.”

“So . . . are we good?” She squeezed his hand and gave him a puppy-dog look.

“I’ll need time to get used to this, Jess. You know everything about me and I’m still finding out everything about you. About your secret second life.”

“I don’t have a second life, Judd. It’s just professional cover.”

“So, who are you?”

“I’m me. I’m the same person. I’m Jessica Ryker. I’m your wife and mother to your children. We’re a real family. None of that’s changed.”

“Are you an agronomist?”

“Yes.”

“What else don’t I know about you?”

“With time . . . I’ll tell you everything with time, Judd. But just know our marriage is real, our love is real. That’s what matters most.”

“Is your water project in Ethiopia real?”

“No. That’s a cover.”

“Is Papa in the CIA, too?”

“I can’t say.”

“You can’t say or you don’t know?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know what matters anymore, Jess.”

“Well, I do, Judd. I’ll tell you what matters. You just helped catch two mass murderers and depose a dictator. You, Judd Ryker, just helped bring justice to thousands, maybe millions, of people. Why aren’t we celebrating that?”

“Were you secretly helping me in Mali three months ago?”

“Yes.”

“And now you were helping me in Zimbabwe, too?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay . . .” he said, his mind still spinning. “Jess, I still don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“A lot. Why were you pushing me to get involved in Zimbabwe’s election? Why were you strategizing for regime change? What was . . . your agenda?”

“Redemption,” she said.

“Redemption for what?”

“And revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Solomon Zagwe,” Jessica whispered.

“Ethiopia . . . the Red Fear . . . thirty years ago . . . I should have known,” Judd said aloud, talking to himself. “But you never mentioned Ethiopia to me before.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t need to.”

“You didn’t even ask me about Zimbabwe until”—Judd rubbed his forehead—“until last week, when that tourist jumped off the bridge at Victoria Falls . . . Wait, was that tourist one of yours?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“The tourist was a private investigator. I contracted him to help build an evidence base against Zagwe. I couldn’t discount the chance Zagwe might be arrested and I’d have to get him in court. But Zagwe must have caught him.”

“What about the Justice Department? They were tracking him, too.”

“I couldn’t count on that. Their special investigator, your friend Isabella Espinosa, she’s good, but she kept hitting brick walls. I just couldn’t take the chance Zagwe might escape. Or be captured and then somehow find a way to get off.”

“So the CIA hired a private contractor to collect evidence against a war criminal?”

“Not the Agency. Me.”

“I don’t understand, Jess.”

“Hunting Solomon Zagwe wasn’t an official operation.”

“So you went rogue to help me?”

Jessica nodded. “Or . . . you could think about it the other way around. More like
you
went rogue to help
me
. Even if you didn’t realize it.”

“So you’re the reason I was sent to Zimbabwe?”

“Indirectly.”

Judd was hearing this new information faster than his brain could process it. Then he froze. “Are you behind the firebomb that killed—” Judd stopped and held up a palm. “Scratch that. Actually, Jess, don’t say a thing. Don’t say another word. I don’t want to know.”

“If you’re asking whether I killed Zagwe, the answer is no. Chimurenga did. Did I have a hand in bringing about circumstances that led Chimurenga to believe he needed to kill his business partner? Well, there I think we both played a role.”

“Both of us?”

She locked eyes with Judd and nodded.

“So . . . the whole thing was never about democracy in Zimbabwe? Concern over the election was just another cover?”

“In the beginning, yes.”

“The supergrade uranium hunt was a ploy?”

“Sorry, yes. That too.”

“UMBRELLA ROSE was just a cover for your rogue operation?”

Jess nodded.

“How did you pull that off?”

“I had to get S/CRU involved in Zimbabwe and find a reason for you to fly there immediately, before the election window closed. That was the only way. I figured I could get you to help me to get Zagwe and at the same time you’d get the big success you needed to save S/CRU.”

“Helping me was a coincidence, then?”

“I think of it as collateral benefit,” she said. Then, realizing how cold that sounded, she softened her voice. “I’m sorry I had to lie to you. I’m sorry about everything. But it couldn’t be avoided. I just couldn’t miss what might be my only shot at Solomon Zagwe. I had to do it.”

“But why did you need me?”

“S/CRU was perfect. I had to force Zagwe out in the open. I needed to shake things up in Zimbabwe. I needed Tino to lose. And I needed
you
to make all that happen. We both needed the same thing to win.”

“How exactly did I do that?”

“Another time, sweetheart, another time. But just know we had to create a window of chaos. It was the heart of the plan.”

“Minute Zero,” Judd said.

“Exactly. Your idea was essential to our success. Creating Minute Zero
was the strategy
.”

“It worked.” Judd allowed himself to smile. “Minute Zero . . .
worked
.”

“Once we figured out what really happened at Kanyemba—that we could get two mass murderers instead of just one—we had to go for it. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“‘We’?” Judd’s smile disappeared. “Who exactly is ‘we’?”

“Please don’t ask.”

“Who else is working for you? Bull Durham? Brock Branson? Sunday? Jessica, does Sunday really work for you?”

“Who do
you
really work for, Judd?”

He thought about that as he drank the rest of his beer.
The Secretary of State? The President? Landon Parker? Some hidden puppet master?

He set down his bottle. “I guess I don’t really know.”

“Right. What matters now is that we all played our part. And we prevailed. Zagwe is gone, Chimurenga’s in prison, and Gugu Mutonga is president.”

“And S/CRU will get credit,” Judd realized.

“It all worked out.”

“We make a pretty good team,” Judd conceded.

“A powerful team.”

“So I guess you were part of my Justice League all along?”

“In a way, yes,” Jessica said. “If it helps you to accept all of this by thinking of it that way, Judd, then yes. Minute Zero was a success and the Justice League triumphed.”

“So . . . if I’m Superman and this is my team, then . . . who exactly are you?”

“Oh, you’re not Superman, Judd.”

“I’m not? Who is Superman, then?”

Jessica lifted her wineglass and blew her husband a soft kiss.

“Me.”