Minute Zero (6 page)

Harare, Zimbabwe
Thursday, 4:32 p.m. Central Africa Time

W
here are the cherry-red Jimmy Choos?”

“I’m sorry, madam,” said the assistant, bowing her head.

“Those aren’t cherry-red!”

“I’m sorry. They only sent Jimmy Choos in pink and teal. I have a pair of red Manolo Blahniks, if that may suffice.”

“Tsaaah! No!” The woman tsked. “Those are the wrong ones. That won’t do at all. Call Hong Kong and have them send the shoes I asked for!”

The First Lady Harriet Tinotenda, disgusted with the sloppy attention to detail by her staff, threw the shoe box across the room and crashing into a tall pile of white department store boxes.

“Yes, madam. I’ll call them right now.”

“Make sure they understand I need them by Sunday morning. The president’s swearing-in is in the afternoon, so the shoes must be here in time.”

“Yes, madam.”

“I cannot go to the inauguration in the wrong shoes. I won’t have it.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Is this everything?” the first lady asked, waving her arm at a rainbow mountain of discarded boxes from Louis Vuitton, Tiffany & Co., Cartier, and Prada. “What is that one?” she demanded, pointing to a flat unopened black box in one corner.

“Ascot Chang. They sent a hand-tailored suit for the president. As a gift.”

“Tsaaah, no. My husband doesn’t wear Italian suits. Send it back.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Where is the rest of my shopping?”

“I’ll get it now, madam,” said the assistant, who collected the suit box, bowed submissively, and then backed out the door.

Harriet surveyed the room. She clicked her teeth. This was no way to shop properly, she thought. After her husband won another term, she would persuade her friends in Hong Kong to open a branch in Harare. She knew
plenty
of women who could keep a designer shop open for business. Yes, she would ask Winston about this after the election. Maybe she’d even become an investor.

If a sufficient designer store wasn’t possible, perhaps she could befriend the British ambassador’s wife and convince her to allow an occasional shopping trip to London. Just one day at Harrods each year would be enough. They could take an Air Zimbabwe jet and load it up. These petty political games had become such a nuisance. The ambassador’s wife would surely understand, she thought.
These old men and their egos. So predictable.

“Tsaaah. Where is that useless girl?” she hissed to herself.

Bored of waiting, she wandered over to the window. It was two hours past sunset, but her garden was well lit.

Beyond the walls, the city was pitch-dark, no doubt because the nation’s main coal power station was missing spare parts again. Winston had complained about this problem ahead of the election, but his cabinet had pleaded that the fault lay with the Americans and British. Their devious sanctions prevented the national electricity company from buying the necessary replacement parts.
Hypocrites and racists,
she thought.

Within her compound walls, the lights were on, thanks to a diesel generator imported from China and running on fuel trucked in every week from South Africa. Because of these special arrangements, she could gaze at her garden even at this late hour.

Maybe she could meet with the Chinese ambassador’s wife and help with the power station problem?
Yes, after the election, I’ll raise that with Winston, too,
she decided. Such contributions to the nation would help seal her husband’s legacy. A power plant and a department store
.

As she watched heavily armed military guards pace through her grounds, she cast aside her frustrations and allowed herself a moment of pride.
Look at me,
she thought.
A poor village girl from the lowlands, sitting here in the Presidential Mansion.
Living here
as the wife of the most powerful man in the country.
How far she had come! She prayed to God for her blessings and thanked her ancestors who brought her such good luck.

Of course, she didn’t believe her circumstances had really materialized from sheer luck.
I am not lucky—I made this happen,
she thought
.
Through her own cunning and quick wit, she’d stood out among the hundreds of students at the Saint Catherine’s Mission School for Girls. She secured a scholarship to the prestigious Kwekwe Secretarial Academy. Then a strategic relationship with the headmaster—an alliance the old women of Kwekwe had unfairly scorned as immoral—was parlayed by her into a job in the Ministry of Public Works. When her moment arrived, the day the President of the Republic was due to visit the ministry, she bribed a security guard with Marlboro cigarettes for a position near the front, where she was sure her shapely red business suit would catch the president’s eye.

Their first encounter didn’t go as she’d hoped. She had shaken President Tinotenda’s limp hand and gushingly expressed her sincere appreciation for his leadership of the nation. But she wasn’t sure he’d noticed her. It was only the next day, when her supervisor arrived with a written notice of her transfer to the office of the president’s chief of staff that she knew her gambit had worked. From there, she needed only a few weeks to begin a romantic relationship with the old man, and only a year more to extract a marriage proposal.
Old men and their egos. So predictable.

Her wedding was the grandest affair in Zimbabwe since independence. The marriage ceremony was held in a private church, but the reception had to be moved to the national stadium to accommodate all the well-wishers. It was a glorious event, she recalled, despite the newspapers’ petty grumbling about the cost to taxpayers. And the tabloids made a fuss about their age gap.
What difference should fifty years make when you are in love?
Jealousy is an ugly sentiment for small people,
she thought.

Those same small people were also no doubt envious of what she had now. Twenty-two bedrooms, fine English furniture, the latest in Japanese televisions, the best designer clothing flown in from East Asia. Perhaps it was
better
to have the shopping brought to you, she suddenly wondered.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of her assistant. “This just arrived by courier for you, madam,” she announced, holding a black velvet box about the size of a Burberry hand purse.

“Set it down and leave me.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Did the courier say who it’s from?”

“No, madam. I’m sorry, madam. Shall I have the boy chase him and ask?”

“Tsaaah.
Aiwa.
No,” she said emphatically and waved the girl away.

She walked over to the mysterious gift. She took a deep breath and then gently opened the hinged box as if it were a giant oyster shell. Inside the silk-lined box lay a diamond necklace, twelve large-carat stones on a delicate gold chain.

“Naka!”
she exclaimed. “So beautiful!”

There was no note, no explanation. The only hint of the jewelry’s origin was a small gold label:
CHAKRI DIAMOND COLLECTION, BANGKOK
.
Old men and their egos.

She unfastened the necklace and draped it around her neck. She walked over to the mirror to admire herself. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life, she thought.
Perhaps I am lucky after all?

Her elation came to a screeching halt with the realization she might never wear this necklace in public. She didn’t care what the press might say, or even about the vapid chatter of the political classes. She didn’t care where the jewels came from. She could never wear her new gift because her husband, President Winston Tinotenda, would know it was not from him.

White House, Washington, D.C.
Thursday, 10:38 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

J
udd led Sunday out the White House gate and across Pennsylvania Avenue to Lafayette Square. They weaved through a swarm of high school students in matching orange T-shirts and skirted a dozen protestors holding signs about illegal government eavesdropping. They walked past the statue of Andrew Jackson to find, on the far side of the park, an empty bench away from the crowds.

The two men sat for a moment in silence, scanning the area. Once Sunday was satisfied they were alone, he asked, “What do you need?”

“To get up to speed on Zimbabwe damn fast,” Judd said. “I’m leaving for Harare tonight.”

“Where should I start?”

“I’ll read my briefing book on the plane, but it’s all new to me. I need the context. Tell me what’s most critical.”

“The place to start is with the British. The sting of colonialism, the psychological trauma of being dominated by a foreign power—all that’s still raw.”

“Still?” Judd asked.

“Zimbabwe’s not like Nigeria or even Kenya. My grandparents are still living in Nigeria. They remember British rule, but they’ve come to terms with it. It’s not part of their lives anymore. My parents barely remember the British. I don’t think my father interacted at all with Europeans until he went to college. And now most of my family are American citizens. There’s no issue.

“It’s not like that with the men running Zimbabwe. They are the same ones who fought the British and won. They think about the war every day. It’s part of their identity. It’s the core of their legitimacy as a government. So they are highly sensitive to what the British or Americans might be up to.”

“Is that what’s driving Tinotenda? Fear of the British?” Judd asked.

“Fear and paranoia. He sees plots all around him. He keeps his cabinet in a state of ignorance. They never know when a shuffle is coming or where they’re going. It helps him maintain loyalty and disrupt any factions within the party from growing too strong.”

“An old Mobutu trick.”

“Aaay. Mobutu Sese Seko was the master. He used to sleep with the wives of his ministers, just to show them who’s boss. I don’t think Tino’s got that kind of stamina left in him. But Tino has been accelerating the rotation of his security detail. This suggests he is worried about internal plots. The only constant has been his national security advisor, General Chimurenga. He’s the only one Tino seems to trust.”

“So what’s Tino’s game plan?”

“My assessment is that Tino is stuck. He still views himself as the father of the nation. He wants to defend the country from all of the forces he spent his whole life fighting. But he’s lost the fire in his belly. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s fatigue. No one knows. But he isn’t showing any signs that he’s ready to quit. My hunch is that he just can’t imagine Zimbabwe without himself as president.”

“What about the rest of the party?”

“They’re locked in, too,” Sunday said. “The party bosses have all spent so many years manipulating each other, building their own little empires, repeating the same propaganda. No one even knows what the truth is any longer. They long ago started believing their own lies. Everyone is frozen. They’re all stuck in ice.”

“So how do we crack the ice?”

Sunday tilted his head and gave Judd a mischievous smile.

“What exactly do you mean, Dr. Ryker?”

Judd leaned forward. “If the United States wanted to break up the ice, to help create a whole new system, something better, how would we do that?”

“Do we
want
to do that?”

“Consider it a hypothetical, Sunday. If I wanted to do this, what would I do first?”

“Isn’t regime change a bit above the pay grade of a State Department office director?” Sunday’s grin grew wider.

Judd nodded, accepting the challenge. “Is the CIA supposed to be providing objective analysis or second-guessing civilian officials?”

“Is that what’s happening here? Am I an analyst briefing a policy maker, or is this just two friends chatting in the park?”

“You’re right,” Judd said. “Let me rephrase my question. Between friends, of course. If the President of the United States determined it was in the interest of American foreign policy to shake things up in Zimbabwe, the best way to do this would be to—”

“Kill President Tinotenda,” said Sunday, with a casual shrug.

Judd sat back in the bench and exhaled.

“Obviously,” added Sunday.

“Okay, okay,” Judd said. “If we don’t want to do that—”

“Technically, that would be illegal.”

“Yes, of course,” Judd said. “If assassination is off the table, what other steps might be taken?”

“You could attack their business interests. You could try to break up the support base. You could try to lure some of Tinotenda’s allies into challenging him. The key to these tactics is all the same. You have to convince people that change has arrived, that Tinotenda is on his way out. As soon as people believe it, they’ll jump faster than you can say ‘Every man for himself.’ No one wants to be the last rat on a sinking ship.”

“What about leaking rumors that Tino is dead or dying?”

“Sure, but how long would it last? Only until he got on TV.”

“What about supporting the opposition?”

“Nope.”

“‘Nope’?” Judd leaned forward again.

“No,” Sunday said.

“Why not? That seems like the logical thing to do. Lend support to Gugu Mutonga and help her win a democratic election. What’s wrong with that strategy?”

“Won’t happen. Simba Chimurenga would never allow it.”

“Chimurenga,” Judd said flatly. “He’s the national security advisor?”

“That’s his official title, yes. And army chief. But his real power comes from his personal relationship with the president.”

“Are they family?”

“We don’t think so, but Tino treats him like blood. Not quite a son, but maybe a nephew. They either have some special bond or they have dirt on each other. Probably both.”

“Are they in business together?”

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t surprise me.” Sunday shrugged.

“What can you tell me about a massacre many years ago. Moto . . . something.”

“Motowetsurohuro,” Sunday said. “In the north, not far from the Kanyemba mine, actually. We don’t know what happened exactly, but there used to be villages there, and now there aren’t.”

“They’re just gone?”

“Yes. Erased from the map.”

“How does that happen?”

“The government denies it
ever
happened. The record has been totally expunged. They claim it was always propaganda from local troublemakers. Our ambassador inquired about it at the time in a meeting with their foreign minister and they nearly expelled him from the country.”

“My God, Sunday. We didn’t do anything?”

“A local church recorded the names of those who disappeared. They have a list of several hundred people. But no living witnesses and no bodies.”

“No bodies?”

“Nope.”

“No case.”

“Aaay.”

“The trail’s gone completely cold?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“So that’s what Simba has on Tino? The massacre?”

“Plausible. Or maybe that’s what Tino has on Simba. Ever since, Chimurenga has been treated almost like Tino’s son. And that’s what brings us back to this weekend’s voting. If Tinotenda somehow lost the election, then Chimurenga would make sure, one way or another, it never happened. Just like Motowetsurohuro.”

“How could he do that? There are hundreds of election observers.”

“Good question. Since I was put on Zimbabwe, I’ve been watching how they operate and where they draw lessons. Chimurenga visited Gabon and Angola to see how they run elections, plus he’s run election security for the past two voting cycles at home. Based on what I’ve gathered, I assess that Chimurenga’s built three layers of protection.”

Sunday paused to check they were still alone. He then leaned in and whispered, “Phase one is to intimidate the electorate. That usually works. With some money and guns, it’s not hard to bribe the right people and frighten the rest into voting for the Big Man.”

“Incumbents don’t always win.”

“True. ‘The people who cast the votes don’t decide an election, the people who count the votes do.’ You know who said that?”

“Tinotenda?”

“Joseph Stalin.” Sunday smiled again.

“So that’s phase two?”

“I think so. If intimidation doesn’t work, then Chimurenga can steal the election by vote rigging, ballot stuffing, and, if it comes down to it, falsifying the results.”

“How can they get away with that? Aren’t the ballots counted at local stations and posted outside so all the people can all see the local tallies?”

“Control the computer network, control the result. Even if the local counting is accurate, they can change the numbers in the aggregation. There are always discrepancies in an election. One constituency here and there where you get some odd results. They can just fix the numbers. Even if the opposition could get their hands on the raw data, it would take months to challenge the final results in court. And by that time it’s too late. Once the final election results are announced and the new government is sworn in, it’s very hard to reopen the books.”

“The opposition needs real-time data.”

“Sure. But how are they going to get that? The election commission is run by Judge Makwere. Do you know who he is?”

“I’m guessing he’s close to Tinotenda?”

“Bingo. Makwere is the uncle of Harriet Tinotenda.”

“The First Lady.”

“Right.”

Judd sighed. “Does the Agency have polling numbers?”

“We always do.”

“Well, what do they say?”

“It’s a small sample size, but the numbers are pretty clear that, in a truly free and fair election, Gugu Mutonga would take it in a landslide.”

“A landslide? Really?”

“Most voters were born after independence. The ruling party is a bunch of greedy, out-of-touch old men. Most voters get that. Even people in the countryside have relatives in the city. Zimbabweans know what’s happening.”

“Assuming Mutonga can make it through the vote and somehow finds a way to get through the counting, you said there were three layers. What’s next?”

“Chimurenga just refuses. Phase three is declaring a state of emergency, probably on trumped-up claims of a national threat.”

“Walk me through that scenario. What happens?”

“The election and the constitution are suspended, the opposition arrested, and the army deployed into the villages. We’ve got plenty of evidence that the Green Mambas—those are the party’s youth militias—are already fanning out, just in case.”

“You’re talking about a total police state.”

“Total police state,” Sunday repeated.

“But South Africa and the other neighbors wouldn’t accept that. Neither would the United Nations, right?”

“Probably not. But it only takes a few weeks to dismantle the opposition and squeeze their supporters. Then Tino can announce an amnesty and a new election. All he really has to do is promise a transition plan, make some noise about reconciliation, and drag it all out. He knows everyone will back off.”

“Is Tinotenda involved in this?”

“Probably not. He tries to stay above the fray. I find it hard to believe he’s unaware of what Chimurenga is doing to keep him in power. But I think he’s happy to feign ignorance and keep his hands clean.”

“This is a lot worse than I thought, Sunday.”

“It’s not pretty.”

“How likely is it to get really ugly?”

“Like what?”

“Like real violence?”

“I don’t want to put a number on it, Dr. Ryker. But the stories are pretty chilling. The Ministry of Agriculture is run by Chimurenga’s cousin. Last month he imported truckloads of machetes for a farm extension program. But we did some analysis at Langley and the pattern of machete distribution is more aligned with opposition votes from the last election than with food production. So I’m fairly certain the machetes are intended as weapons, not farming tools.”

“Shit.”

“That’s exactly what I said when I figured it out!”

“What did Rogerson say when he heard about the machetes?”

“I don’t know. I was told the analysis was passed to State. I never heard anything. The embassy has been funding a farming initiative, so they probably thought machete deliveries were a good sign.”

“We have to stop this,” Judd said.

“The embassy is cautious. They don’t want to be blamed for inciting violence. Ambassador Tallyberger doesn’t want blood on his doorstep.”

“‘No bodies on the streets.’ Those were Rogerson’s words this morning.”

“See? The embassy isn’t going to take any risks of creating chaos.”

“But doing nothing can’t be the only alternative.”

“If I may, Dr. Ryker?” Sunday asked. “Nothing will change while everyone in Harare and in Washington is convinced they already know what’s going to happen. If we want an outcome that doesn’t reinforce the status quo, the only way is to break confidence in the whole system.”

“Minute Zero,” whispered Judd under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Minute Zero,” Judd said. “It’s the moment you’re talking about. When certainty breaks down and no one knows what’s going to happen next. We need to create Minute Zero in Zimbabwe.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You ever watch the Discovery Channel?”

“Sure,” Sunday said.

“So a few months ago I’m watching Discovery with my kids. It’s a program about ant colonies. The narrator is explaining how this one anthill is rock solid. The anthill is strong enough to withstand a tropical storm. A hurricane, even. And hidden inside is a complex city, with all of the ants moving in organized teams through tunnels to reinforce the walls and bring food and everything else needed to sustain the colony. And most of all, to protect the queen ant. If one of the teams breaks down, fails to do their job, then the whole city would be under threat. But as long as everyone works, the colony survives.

“Then all of the sudden, the anthill is crushed”—Judd clapped his hands together—“by an aardvark. The aardvark sticks his snout into the hole he’s just punched and starts eating ants. Most of all, he creates total chaos. The ants all abandon their jobs, the teams disperse, no one knows where to go. It’s total mayhem. They even start attacking each other. And in the frenzy after an aardvark attack, the queen ant is usually killed.