Minute Zero (5 page)

“I don’t agree that the United States’ influence ends so easily, but I’ll answer that question,” said Ambassador Tallyberger. “Election results will be reported to the commission throughout the day. It will take until early the next morning to tally the final votes. Then the election commission has to certify the results, the court has to sign off, and finally the election commissioner will hold a press conference to announce the winner. The press conference is scheduled for noon on Sunday, Harare time.”

Noon Sunday,
thought Judd. He stood to leave and checked his watch again.
Seventy hours away.

Molweni Hotel, Cape Town, South Africa
Thursday, 3:45 p.m. Central Africa Time

M
ariana Leibowitz promised herself, for the second time that day, just one last cigarette. The seasoned Washington lobbyist was used to the commotion of a campaign, but she needed a moment to clear her head.

Mariana slid open the glass doors, stepping from the cramped racket of her hotel suite onto the temporary serenity of the terrace. Perhaps it was the jet lag, she thought.
Or, good Lord, age.

Her room, one of Cape Town’s most expensive, boasted a wide vista of Table Mountain, the majestic flat-topped mesa that dominated the skyline and hugged the city against the sea. Off in the distance she could just make out Robben Island, the former prison in Table Bay that once held Nelson Mandela. It was now a museum and memorial to all who had suffered in the fight against apartheid. She had seen the ticket stand for the Robben Island ferry next to the souvenir shop at the Victoria & Albert Waterfront, a tourist mall at the city harbor. She swore to make time to visit the island.
Or
maybe next time.

By no coincidence, her top-floor suite was the very same room she had stayed in years ago on a very different kind of trip. The champagne and lobster tails were replaced this time with laptop computers and banks of cell phone chargers. Instead of an attractive young man, she was sharing the room this time with a dozen volunteers, all from neighboring Zimbabwe, working nineteen-hour days to resolve the reason for their exile. The campaign team had thrown themselves at Mariana in the idealistic hope that they might be able to soon return home. Even their names—Blessing, Lovemore, and Happiness were the three that Mariana could most easily remember—appropriately represented their aspirations. Instead of a honeymoon suite, on this trip Mariana Leibowitz was living in a war room.

She stubbed out her cigarette, snatched one last guilty glance at the view, and returned to work. Back inside, a huge map of Zimbabwe was tacked on one wall, with multicolored pins stuck in the main towns. Red pins—the color of Gugu Mutonga’s campaign—identified solid friendly territory, while dark green pins marked enemy strongholds, the towns firmly under control of President Winston Tinotenda and his ruling party. Neither of these zones were problems. In these places, everyone knew where they stood.

The trouble lay with the yellow pins, the places of unknown loyalty,
the
battlegrounds
. These yellow areas, where votes were still up for grabs and where a professional political operator could tip the balance, were the reason Mariana was there.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and scanned the map. The yellow areas were shrinking for sure. But rather than turn red, as was her objective, they were increasingly marked either green or bright fire-orange, the most worrying color pin: locations of violent attacks on Gugu Mutonga’s supporters.

Happiness was also pacing the room, speaking quietly in a mix of English and Shona, the main language of Zimbabwe, into a headset attached to her cell phone. “
Ehe,
ndino nzwisisa
. Yes, I understand. . . . How many? . . . Have they been taken to the hospital? . . .
Ehe
, please hurry. . . . I will notify the nearest defense patrol. . . . Go safely. . . .
Fambai zvakanaka
.”

Mariana eyed Happiness as she took careful notes and logged them into the laptop. Oblivious she was being watched, Happiness plucked a yellow pin from the center of the country and replaced it with a fire-orange one.

“Shit!” Mariana hissed. She spun around to face the opposite wall. A poster declared
FREEDOM!
PROSPERITY! VICTORY! GUGU!
stamped over the smiling face of a handsome middle-aged African woman. Next to the poster, a large whiteboard listed target towns, task assignments for the team, and the names of newspaper reporters. She checked the board and crossed out several names. As always, Mariana kept the most important agenda for that day in her head.

She slid open the glass doors again and stepped out on the terrace to make a private phone call. After four rings, just before she was ready to hang up, the phone was answered.

“Hello, Mariana.”

“Judd, darling, it’s so good to speak with you. I know you are busy, but it’s urgent. And it’s very important. I promise.”

Judd gazed out the tinted window as his black government SUV was nearing Pennsylvania Avenue, approaching the White House.

“I only have three minutes. Are you still in Congo?”

“No, South Africa. But I’m calling you about
Zimbabwe
.”

“Zimbabwe? How do you know about that? I only just found out.”

“That’s cute, Judd. You know I can’t tell you that. But I know you are working on Zimbabwe. And you’re just in time. I need you.”

“You need me?” Judd was impressed with Mariana’s sources.

“The election is two days away. This is crunch time, baby. Gugu Mutonga has a real shot at beating Tinotenda, but Washington is missing its chance to make history here. The administration is completely asleep at the wheel.”

“We aren’t at the wheel, Mariana.”

“Okay, bad analogy. But that’s precisely the point, Judd. Where is the United States on the election?”

“You know how these things work, Mariana. Have you talked to the ambassador?”

“Tallyberger? He’s fucking useless, Judd. You should know that. Arnold Tallyberger is exactly why I need your help.”

Judd’s car was now one block away. “Why are you calling me?”

“Judd,” she barked. “You realize Tino has been president for six terms already? Six! That’s thirty years. And he’s running again!”

“Yes, I know. It’s a long time.”

“Zimbabwe finally has a chance to make a fresh start. We can help Gugu Mutonga win.”

“‘We’?”

“Yes, Judd. You and me. I am working with her party, the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe. They’re a longtime client. I’m sure you know that. I want your help to get the United States on board and help us win.”

“You know the U.S. doesn’t pick sides in a foreign election.”

“That’s bullshit. You think they aren’t picking sides in Egypt?”

“I don’t know, Mariana. But they aren’t picking sides in Zimbabwe as far as I know.”

“Believe me, I know that. It pisses me off! What I want the U.S. government to do is to just stand up for the truth. No hiding behind diplomatic protocol and all this neutrality crap. Just keeping things quiet isn’t good enough, Judd.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Gugu is going to win this thing.”

“She is?”

“I don’t work for losers. You should know that by now. I’m not going to work for a candidate I can’t help win. You know I always do my homework.”

“Yes, Mariana. You always do your homework.”

“Always a deep dive, Judd. Always a deep dive. That’s why I’m working for Gugu. And now I’ve got private polling showing we are going to take the election on Saturday. We’re winning this fucking thing.”

“You’re winning? You have the data?”

“I can’t show you any numbers yet, but I’ve got it. And Tino is going to do everything he can to stop us. He’ll cheat, lie, and steal if he has to. He’s already sent out his goon squads to suppress the vote. I’m documenting all the election abuses and intimidation. I’m going to need the U.S. to push for a speedy announcement of the election results and then to stand up for the winner.
The real winner.
When it comes to a head on Sunday, I need to be able to count on you.”

“Have you spoken with Landon Parker? Is that why you’re calling me?”

“I always speak with Landon. He’s a dear, but he’s being cagey on Zimbabwe. I don’t understand it. He should know what’s right, what’s in the interests of the United States, but he says it’s complicated and won’t commit. I’ll keep working on him, but
I need you
, Judd.”

“What about William Rogerson?”

“You must be joking. Bill Rogerson’s got his head so far up South Africa’s ass, he has no idea what’s going on anywhere else. All he cares about is keeping Pretoria happy. He doesn’t give two shits about Zimbabwe.”

“I can’t make any promises, Mariana.”

“I know you only do crises, Judd. That’s your thing, right? Crisis reaction? Zimbabwe could easily blow up. So how about getting ahead of this? How about
preventing
a crisis? How’s that for your Golden Hour?”

“Maybe.”

“So you’re in, then. Good.”

“That’s not a yes, Mariana,” Judd said, stepping out of his ride and onto the cobblestone path leading to the White House. “The politics here are . . . complicated.”

“That’s what Landon said! What’s wrong with you guys? Has the United States government completely lost its balls?”

“I’ve got to run, I’m sorry. I will look into it. That I promise,” Judd said as he approached the visitors’ security gate for the West Wing.

“Do you know about Motowetsurohuro, Judd?”

“What?” he said, stopping to listen.

“Moto-wet-suro-huro. In Shona it means the Great Rabbit Fire.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“To hunt rabbits in Zimbabwe, people burn a field using the flames to chase the rabbits into a trap so they can be killed, skinned, and eaten. Well, back in the 1980s, in a remote part of the country, a group of kids—you know, teenage boys—got into a fight with a policeman over a girl or a goat or something, I don’t know. But the policeman was killed. When the police came, the families hid the kids. So they called in the army on trumped-up charges that they were rebels or something. The army flooded the area with troops and attack helicopters. They went on a rampage. They burned down the villages. They killed hundreds of people.”

“That’s horrific, Mariana.”

“They called it Operation Motowetsurohuro. They hunted down the people like rabbits. They trapped them and killed them. Can you even imagine?”

“Awful.”

“It was a massacre, Judd. A slaughter.”

“Why are you telling me this, Mariana?”

“Guess who tried to help those people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, the United States and Britain didn’t say shit. Not a fucking word, Judd. The only person who tried to help those poor people get justice was a young attorney who was barely out of law school. She fought for those families, taking their cases to the courts, even to the United Nations. And she never accepted a dime.”

“And?” Judd asked, flashing his ID badge to the security guard, who released the White House gate.

“The Zimbabwean courts took up the case, but once the lawyer began to present evidence of the deaths and the army’s role, the witnesses started disappearing. And then the government removed the judge. Tinotenda appointed a new judge, whose first act was to throw out the whole case. He put pressure on the UN to bury it, which they did, claiming lack of evidence.”

“Mariana, hold on for a second.” Judd set down his phone on the X-ray belt and walked through the metal detector. Once through to the other side and cleared by the marine guard, he picked up his phone.

“So, Mariana, are you asking me to raise this case with the Justice Department?”

“No. I’m telling you this story because that young lawyer is Gugu Mutonga.”

“Your client.”

“This woman is the real deal. And this election isn’t just about politics. It’s a mission for justice. This could be Zimbabwe’s fresh start. A chance for redemption.”

Judd walked up the path toward the West Wing and had nearly arrived at the door, where another guard stood at attention.

“It’s a chance for redemption for the United States, too,” she said. “That’s why I need your help.”

“I’ll look into it, Mariana,” said Judd just as the marine opened the door for him. “I’m still getting up to speed on Zimbabwe.”

“That’s why you need my help, too. I’ll be calling you again soon.”

“I know you will, Mariana.”

Click.

Mariana set down the phone and returned inside to the hubbub of the campaign war room. “Where are we, Happiness? What’s the latest?”

Happiness glanced up at Mariana from her laptop, pursed her lips, and shook her head. Then she stood up, walked over to the map, and replaced one more yellow pin with an orange one.

White House, Washington, D.C.
Thursday, 9:58 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

J
udd entered the West Wing, cleared another security post, and then took a short flight of stairs down into the secure complex. He dropped his BlackBerry in a cubbyhole, swiped his ID card one more time, and then entered the Situation Room.

Every seat at the cramped conference table was taken, so he slipped into an empty chair in the outer perimeter by the door. All six of the flat panel screens were off. He scanned for a friendly face but didn’t see anyone he recognized. He still didn’t know why he was in this meeting, and he dearly wanted to catch his breath. Parker had told him to get on a plane to Zimbabwe
tonight
, and he had a lot to do beforehand. But if Parker wanted him here . . . Suddenly, the room went quiet as a tall man in a crisp white naval uniform marched in and stood at the head of the table.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Admiral Hammond, special assistant to the President and National Security Council coordinator for arms control and weapons of mass destruction.”

The admiral was interrupted by the release of the sealed door as all eyes turned to see the late arrival. A young black man with a wide face and a short goatee slunk into the room. “Sorry . . .” he muttered, with an apologetic bow of the head. Judd’s face brightened as the man sat down next to him.

“Sunday!” he whispered, with a paternal pat on the back.

“Hello, Dr. Ryker,” Sunday whispered back. Sunday was a CIA analyst who’d been a big help with Mali. Maybe he knew what—

“We’ve brought together this specific mix of DOD, State, and the Intelligence Community here today,” said Admiral Hammond. “You in this room are considered experts in countries with known deposits of uranium.”

Uranium?
thought Judd.
Am I in the right meeting?

“The White House, under advisement from the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, is increasingly concerned about the security of radioactive materials. Here are our target countries.”

A screen lit up with a map of the world. About two dozen countries were highlighted in bright red. “Mali,” sighed Judd, finally understanding why he was there.
Am I being pulled off Zimbabwe already?
he wondered.

“Nearly two-thirds of all uranium comes from just three countries: Kazakhstan, Australia, and Canada. We’ve established high-confidence monitoring systems in those locations. But there are a growing number of new discoveries. Estimated reserves are low, and these new sites are typically not large enough for commercial mining companies. So governments have been inviting small, lesser-known prospecting companies to conduct seismic studies and carry out test drilling. We have concerns that several of these unknown wildcat miners may be connected to international criminal cartels or extremist networks seeking high-grade uranium. They won’t care about the price or commercial viability. They only need access to enough material to create a weapon.”

Yikes. I see where this is going.

“I won’t pretend to fully understand the physics,” the admiral said. “But we have reports from a British intelligence source about the possible discovery of a new and highly dangerous variant of uranium with unusually high levels of the U-235 isotope. This is still unconfirmed, but it’s alarming enough that we called you all here today. The British memo is still being assessed by science teams at CIA, DIA, and a special unit at the Department of Energy. But if it turns out to be correct, this could be a naturally occurring form of highly enriched uranium. That means raw ore capable of being weaponized without complex processing.”

Admiral Hammond leaned forward and placed both hands on the table.

“I don’t think I need to tell the people in this room how serious this is. If such material exists and falls into the wrong hands, it would be our worst nightmare.”

The room buzzed with nervous energy.

“You were all asked to come here this morning to assist with our urgent risk assessment. Here are our immediate countries of interest.” The screen flashed as he read out the list: “Pakistan, Somalia, Mali, Chad, Papua New Guinea, the Philippines, Venezuela.”

Shit. Some list,
thought Judd.

“In each of these countries, we are taking steps to upgrade the monitoring of mining zones and, as of this morning, we are establishing Intelligence Community task forces to assess the risks. This is a new classified program code-named UMBRELLA ROSE. As part of this program, you will each be asked to work with the assessment teams to provide political, economic, and other analyses. We want to ensure we consult across the interagency with country experts to make sure we aren’t missing anything. You will all be contacted by your team leaders based at Langley in the coming days. They can fill you in on more details. Any questions?”

“I’m with OSD Special Projects. What kind of monitoring are you talking about?” asked a young woman.

“UMBRELLA ROSE will deploy a combination of human intelligence, existing overflight capabilities, plus new technological advancements that are being field-tested now by DARPA. Next?”

“DIA, Western Hemisphere. Are you involving local intelligence and military services?” asked an older man.

“Negative. The existence of UMBRELLA ROSE is classified as TOP SECRET NO FORN. No foreign intelligence sharing. I repeat, this is TOP SECRET NO FORN. To the extent we notify the authorities of overflight, it will be under alternative civilian-use cover. Next?”

“I’m with State, S/CRU, the Crisis Reaction Unit,” Judd said. “How will this work with zero local participation?”

“It’s suboptimal. But operational security dictates we keep it close hold. Outside of the ambassador, CIA chief of station, and required military staff, no one in the embassies will be aware of UMBRELLA ROSE. In several of our target countries, we have reason to believe there may be high-level government collusion. We can’t afford any leaks on this one. With nuclear security, there’s no room for error, people.”

Sunday raised his hand, “CIA, Africa Issue. What about Zimbabwe?”

“Zimbabwe?” asked the admiral, turning to an aide, who just shook her head. The admiral shrugged.

“There’s a defunct uranium mine in Kanyemba. It was closed years ago, but we have signs of new activity. If we are tracking new uranium sites in unstable countries, Zimbabwe should be on the list.”

“Very well. Have Langley send over any information and we’ll look into adding Zimbabwe to UMBRELLA ROSE.”

After a few more technical questions that the admiral couldn’t answer, the meeting was adjourned.

As they retrieved their BlackBerries and departed, Judd put his hand on the shoulder of the CIA analyst. “Good to see you again, Sunday.”

“Aaay, good to see you, too, Dr. Ryker.”

“You’re not working on West Africa anymore?”

“At Langley they like to move us around, keep us fresh.” Sunday glanced over his shoulder and whispered, “Plus I don’t think they want someone with Nigerian parents working too long on Nigeria.”

“But why Zim?”

“I must have irritated my supervisor.”

Judd cocked his head. “What’s the problem with Zimbabwe?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sunday said. “Zimbabwe is fascinating analytically. There’s a lot going on. Their election is this weekend.”

“Saturday,” Judd said.

“Right, Saturday. But Zimbabwe’s not exactly the best way to get into the President’s Daily Brief.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m working Zimbabwe, too.”

“Aaay.” Sunday covered his mouth, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you worked on Zim.”

“I haven’t. Not until this morning.”

“What a coincidence.”

Or maybe it wasn’t. Was
this
why Parker had sent him to this meeting?

“We need to talk, Sunday. Right now.”