Minute Zero (7 page)

“But what happens next is fascinating. After the aardvark leaves, the ants naturally reorganize themselves into new teams, and order is restored. It’s organic. Out of chaos, new teams form, and a new queen ant rises. But for that moment of chaos, their stable world is gone and no one knows what comes next.”

“Minute Zero,” Sunday said.

“Right. Watching that show was when I came up with the concept. Now imagine it was the Cold War and we found out the queen ant was a communist.”

“We’d be the aardvark.”

“Exactly. We’d punch a hole in the walls, eat a few of the queen’s minions, but our main objective would be to break up the existing order and try to start anew.”

“Or like Iraq,” Sunday said.

“Sure, like Iraq. Except if we
expected
the chaos just after Saddam fell, we would have been ready to shape events. If we had anticipated Minute Zero, we would have been prepared to alter the outcome. At least I’d hope we would.”

“Dr. Ryker, can I ask you, as two friends just talking: Why are you suddenly working on Zimbabwe?”

“I’m not sure, Sunday. I’d like to think the Secretary believes that S/CRU can help. Maybe we can make a difference. Can I ask
you
something, Sunday?”

“Sure.”

“How did you know about Kanyemba? I mean, how did you know even to be in the Situation Room to add Zimbabwe to UMBRELLA ROSE?”

“It’s my job. Did you know that the uranium for the original Manhattan Project came from Africa?”

“I didn’t.”

“From Congo. A mine called Shinkolobwe. A British prospector discovered rich uranium deposits at Shinkolobwe in 1915 and then worked with a private company, probably a front for the Defense Department, to bring it to the United States. That uranium was eventually used in our first atomic bombs.”

“I never heard that before.”

“I hadn’t, either, Dr. Ryker, until I started digging. But I think there’s more.”

“More uranium in Congo?”

“No. During the height of the Cold War, DOD began a search for high-grade uranium all over Africa. They were looking for another Shinkolobwe. As far as we know, they never found anything. But there were always rumors of a second super-uranium mine. I think that might have been—”

“Kanyemba.”

And right then, Judd knew who he had to call next.

Whitehall, London
Thursday, 5:50 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time

S
ir, you’ve got a phone call.”

Simon Kenny-Waddington set down his umbrella on his secretary’s desk and frowned.

“Tell Cairo it’s time to go home.”

“It’s not Cairo, sir,” she replied. “It’s America.”

Simon cocked his head to one side and pressed his lips together. It was one of his odd gestures, one of the many quirks the British Foreign Office official had displayed since he was a child growing up in Kent. His secretary knew this particular expression meant favorable curiosity.

“Name?”

“A Dr. Ryker. From the American State Department.”

Simon’s eyebrows leapt up to the top of his forehead, another positive sign.

“Judd Rykaaah,” he sang, nodding to himself.

“Shall I put him through, then?”

“Yes. I’ll take it in my office,” he said. “Won’t be long.”

Simon plucked his umbrella off the desk and pranced back into his oak-paneled office. Despite the grandeur of the Foreign Office building and the prestige of a Whitehall address, the inside of Simon’s office was appropriately austere. A colonial map of India hung on the wall, the only décor. His desk was entirely clear, a sign he had completed his workday and was prepared for the commute home. The only items sitting on his desk were a black telephone and a single photo in a simple brass frame.

As Simon picked up his phone, he made eye contact with the middle-aged woman in the photo. She was pale but very pretty, with a Cleopatra-style bob haircut, sitting under an umbrella at the beach. On her lap sat a little girl, just five years old at that time, with the same haircut. Simon noticed the clock, realizing he was going to miss his train.

“Judd, my boy. Nice to hear from you. How aaaare you?”

“Hello, Simon. Have you got a moment?”

“For you, of course.”

“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual. But that’s the life we’ve chosen, haven’t we, Judd?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I know it’s not politically correct to say anymore, but noblesse oblige is alive and well, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve got something important, Simon.”

“You calling about the Sudan? Just terrible what’s going on in Khartoum. It’s a real dog’s breakfast.”

“Not today. I’m calling about Zimbabwe.”

“Ahhh, of course you are. Zimbabwe. The election this weekend.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, Zimbabwe is a tricky one for us. We’ve got to be cautious, you know. They’re still sensitive about the whole colonial power business. Our travel sanctions against the president haven’t bought us any friends in Harare, either, have they? It’s best for everyone if we keep a low profile. It’s tedious, I know. I am sorry. But it’s probably for the best.”

“Yes, I know that’s the British position. But I also know you’re paying more attention than you let on. Come on, Simon. I know you have a view.”

“What’s the sudden American interest in Zimbabwe, of all places?”

“We want a free and fair election.”

“Of course you do!” laughed Simon. “Free and fair! We all want that. What is your real interest here, Judd?”

“That is our real interest. Africa is booming and we can’t have Zimbabwe, sitting in the heart of southern Africa, going down the drain and dragging down the others. Some old men just don’t know when it’s time to quit and turn the keys over to the next generation.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors, my boy.” Simon was still chuckling. “I should have asked, what’s
your
interest, Judd? Aren’t you supposed to be the State Department’s crisis man? Where’s the crisis in Zimbabwe?”

“I’m keeping an eye on it.”

“If you say so. What can I do for you?”

“Do you have a view on Gugu Mutonga’s chances of winning?”

“Unlikely, I’m afraid. We are making our peace with President Tinotenda and his cronies. I’m supposed to review the travel policy after the election. At least until the old crank dies, we’re strictly hands-off.”

“What about Simba Chimurenga?”

“Ahhhh, General Chimurenga. Well, funny you should ask. He’s quite the blue-eyed boy, isn’t he? The twinkle in Tino’s eye.”

“So you think he’s the chosen one. That seems to be the consensus here, too. Do you have any dirt on him? There’s no way he rose that quickly through the army ranks without doing something extraordinary. I’m hoping you and Her Majesty’s Government know what it is.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, you may be sitting this election out, but I’m sure you’re still plugged in. I bet you have a man in close on Chimurenga.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, we don’t. If it comes down to something serious, I may call on you. Pardon my French, but if the shit goes down, Simon, I’ll need your inside man.”

“If you say so, Judd.”

“You know anything about a British memo on”—Judd lowered his voice—“uranium?”

“Ahhhh, Judd, that’s what I’ve been waiting for! I
knew
you had another interest in Zimbabwe. Uranium. Of course, my boy.”

“Do you know about the memo?”

“There is no memo.”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially, I don’t know.”

“Well, then if I’m keeping you at work late today, it’s partly your fault. That non-memo is one reason there is heightened interest here in Washington.”

“I see. I should have guessed that. My fault.”

“But do you believe it? Is there something suspicious going on with uranium in Zimbabwe?”

“I can’t answer that. Plus I told you: We are sitting this one out. Zimbabwe is on your plate.”

“What can you tell me about the mine at Kanyemba?”

“I think I should be asking
you
that question, Judd.”

“It was a British company, right?”

“I don’t know about that, Judd.”

“Come on, Simon. A British company hunting for uranium in Zimbabwe. There’s no way Her Majesty’s Government wasn’t involved.”

“If there was a British company involved—and I’m not saying there was—then it would have only been on paper. The real owners most certainly were not subjects of the Queen.”

“They’re not? Then who are they, Simon?”

“Judd, I’m terribly sorry. I have to run.”

“Simon, it’s your bloody memo sending me on this wild-goose chase. At least tell me what you know.”

“Ha,” laughed Simon again. “Too true. Too true.”

“Help me on this and maybe I can help you with one of your problems? What else are you working on?”

“You . . . have anything on Egypt?”

“Like what?”

“It would be jolly useful to know if you Yanks are ever going to put an ambassador in Cairo. It’s been vacant for six months and your embassy is acting like time is frozen. We don’t have anyone to work with.”

“I’m sure we will send someone before the elections. Egypt is too important.”

“Can you tell me who?”

“Not yet, but I’ll try to find out.”

“I bloody well hope you’re right! And I hope it’s a real ambassador and not just another rich friend of your president.”

“I’ll get you a name, Simon.”

“I just don’t understand you Americans sometimes.”

“I’ll get you a name.”

“Do you know who your last ambassador to Cairo was? The Winnebago king of Oklahoma. Or maybe it was Ohio. For ambassador to Egypt, Judd!”

“Simon, what can you tell me about the mine at Kanyemba?”

There was no response, and for a moment Judd thought the line had gone dead. Simon had set the phone down and moved to close his office door.

“Simon?”

After a few seconds more, he came back on the line and whispered. “The main investor in Kanyemba was Arabia Sunrise Investments, a private equity fund managed out of Jeddah and linked to a member of the Saudi royal family.”

“Saudis?”

“They had a silent minority partner who was the real player. A fixer who made things happen.”

“Okay, who was that?”

“The partner was hidden behind multiple layers of front companies in Jersey, Mauritius, and the Isle of Man. Someone was trying to cover their tracks.”

“And?”

“And we think the end of the trail leads to a firm called Royal Deepwater Venture Capital.”

“Royal Deepwater? Should that mean something to me?”

“It should. It’s American.”

Mufakose, Suburb of Harare, Zimbabwe
Thursday, 11:51 p.m. Central Africa Time

M
ost strangers assumed Tinashe and Tsitsi were siblings. The young couple was in love, but they dared not show it in public. That would be inappropriate of course. And, most importantly this evening, it would invite unwanted scrutiny.

Tinashe was tall and too skinny, but he knew how to protect himself. That was one of the first things he learned growing up running around the streets of Mufakose, one of the poor neighborhoods encircling Zimbabwe’s capital city.

Officially, Mufakose was designated a “high-density suburb.” To Tinashe, the one-room brick-and-aluminum-roof house on Mbizi Road, where he lived with his parents, grandparents, four siblings, and two cousins, was just like every other house on the street. The crowded living conditions were normal. Mufakose was just home.

Tinashe never thought much about it until, once he was a little older, he visited Borrowdale, one of the leafy northern “low-density suburbs” where the government officials and foreign expatriates lived in grand houses behind high walls and barbed wire with signs that read
HAPANA BASA—NO WORK
. He couldn’t believe it when his friend insisted that just three or four people lived in one of those enormous houses.

“
Aiwa!
No! You are lying,
shamwari
!” We could fit one hundred in that house!”

That was when Tinashe understood what “high-density” really meant. It wasn’t in his nature to be envious. Tinashe’s grandmother, his
ambuya
, read him the Bible every Sunday, and she would never have allowed him to covet. Instead he promised himself he would one day own one of those big houses. And he would invite everyone from Mbizi Road to live there with him.

Tinashe’s plan began with skipping school to sell gum and fruit by strolling in between cars stuck in traffic or hawking his snacks to the riders in emergency taxis, the ancient station wagons that plowed the bus routes picking up passengers and cramming them ten, twelve, sometimes fourteen to a car. “High-density customers,” he called them.

Tinashe made enough money to eat every day and, usually, bring home some extra cash to his family. He knew the real profits were made not by the street sellers like him and not even by neighborhood bosses who controlled the most lucrative intersections. The real money was made by the Big Men. Those who lived behind the walls of the low-density suburbs.

Every time Tinashe managed to save some money, the bosses would take a bigger cut or the police would arrive to beat the boys and steal their goods. Whenever Tinashe started to get a little bit ahead and begin to imagine a better life for his family, someone above him would stop it. Back to square one. Back to Mufakose.

Tsitsi had been the one to introduce Tinashe to Gugu Mutonga. In reality, neither had ever met the Big Woman. But he felt he knew her intimately. And that Gugu knew him. When she spoke on the radio or at rallies about the frustrations and unmet hopes of Zimbabwe’s youth, it was like she was talking directly to him. She knew exactly what he was thinking. She knew who Tinashe was. Gugu Mutonga knew what Tinashe wanted.

Tsitsi was the pretty young girl who’d grown up a few houses down. Both families came from the same rural home village, their
kumusha
, several hours’ bus ride from Harare.

Tsitsi’s father had once been the village chief. Although the government had long ago taken away any formal duties, her
baba
continued to command respect among the people. Although her family never spoke of it, Tsitsi had pieced together what had happened. In the weeks before independence, her father had mediated a land dispute and ruled in favor of a poor family against a richer one. The loser retaliated by reporting to the advancing guerrillas that Tsitsi’s father was a snitch for the hated colonial police. Tsitsi never learned if it was true. But from that day, her family was blacklisted.

As a child, Tsitsi was unaware of her family’s political problems. She was just like any other kid on Mbizi Road. She attended Rusununguko Primary School and then Mufakose No. 4 High School. Like all the other girls, she spent her early mornings fetching water and firewood for her mother while the boys played soccer in the streets. In the late afternoon, after her schoolwork and chores were complete, she was allowed to join the boys.

She was always drawn to a tall one who smiled at her. Tinashe and Tsitsi hid their friendship at first, but as they grew older, they also grew closer. Hiding their affection became harder.

Once they reached the age of sixteen, the parents, fully aware of their relationship, began negotiations for marriage and the
lobola
, or bride price. When Tsitsi caught wind of it, she was secretly relieved. Some of her friends had already been arranged to marry much older men. She was pleased Tinashe was her age and she already had feelings for him. But she resented having her husband chosen by her parents. And that her family was exchanging her future for cash and cattle. That was the old village way, not how she believed things should happen in the city. But despite her love for Tinashe, she refused to marry him.

Tinashe was oblivious to the brewing rebellion and how his fate was being negotiated by others. He was smitten with Tsitsi, but—like every boy in Mufakose—he was also obsessed with Manchester United.

One evening, when the two of them found some privacy, he confided in her. He was frustrated. He wanted a better life, to escape the bonds of the local bosses, to create his own opportunity. He wanted a big house for Tsitsi, for them to raise a family. That was when she conceded to the marriage. And soon after their wedding, Tsitsi introduced Tinashe to Gugu Mutonga. Not the person, but the idea that a better future was possible.

—

O
n this evening, the couple slipped down one of the alleys running between the houses. Tsitsi was careful not to step in the open canal of raw sewage and trash. They rounded a corner to find a gang of young boys smoking cigarettes. One was wearing a white T-shirt with a black fist, the symbol of President Tinotenda’s party. The gang eyed Tinashe and Tsitsi as they crossed the street, the couple averting their eyes. The boy in the T-shirt blew smoke out of his nostrils, and then called out. “You! Where are you going after curfew? It is past midnight.”

“Not yet midnight,” replied Tinashe, noticing the boy wasn’t wearing a watch.

“Don’t be clever, cockroach! Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry,
baas
,” Tsitsi said. “This is my brother. We are going for
muti
for our mother. She is sick.”

The boy took a long drag on his cigarette again and blew the smoke in their direction. “Where is your party card?”

“We are going for medicine for
amai
. We don’t have our card.”

“To pass by here, you must have your card. We don’t allow traitors and sellouts to be in this place. You understand?”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, the boy released them. “Go for your
muti
,” he scoffed.

“Thank you,
baas
.”

The two slunk down the street, then took a sharp turn into a narrow alley. At the end was a small shop with the windows locked and the lights out. Tsitsi rapped softly on the metal shutter three times.

“We are closed.”

“We are here for
muti
,” she said.

“Malaria or diarrhea?”

“No. We need
muti
for our hearts.”

The door click-clacked and opened a few inches. “Ahh, Tsitsi! We’ve been waiting for you!” a woman whispered.

They entered the small store and the door was locked behind them. “We are nearly ready for tomorrow,” she said, and turned on a single lightbulb.

“Tssss!” hissed Tsitsi, her eyes wide with excitement.

The room was stacked from floor to ceiling with posters and T-shirts, all emblazoned with the smiling face of Gugu Mutonga.