Minute Zero

by Todd Moss

  The Matabele people in southwestern Zimbabwe, his country’s largest minority, knew their ancestors well. A Zulu warrior named Mzilikazi had fled the powerful Shaka Zulu in the early nineteenth century, crossing north over the Limpopo River to create Matabeleland. Tinotenda had mixed feelings about the pesky Matabele. They were unwilling to cede authority to his government, so he was periodically forced to send in his troops. But he respected the Matabele’s plucky resolve.

  He held no such ambiguity about Cecil Rhodes. The British imperialist, through trickery and military force, had stolen the land of Zimbabwe from its rightful African owners and claimed it in the name of Anglo commerce. In his early days as president, Tinotenda had sworn to erase, as much as possible, any memory of Rhodes: streets and towns were renamed, memorials torn down, his accomplishments—if not the details of his treachery—carefully expunged from school history books.

  A better precedent for the Tinotenda legacy, he believed, was Mbuya Nehanda. She was a famous spirit medium who had led the First Chimurenga, a revolt against the British in 1896. An old woman, she’d been fierce and brave. She even managed to capture the British native commissioner and cut off his head. Oh, if only I could have been there! wished Tinotenda.

  Mbuya Nehanda was eventually captured and hanged by the British army, but Winston Tinotenda could feel her alive within his body. Her spirit was one reason he, too, had risen up against the British to fight the Second Chimurenga, the war for independence. A fight he was proud to have won. But he was always on the watch for new plots. For the return of his enemies.

  This day, his first post-tea visitor was the head of the army and his personal national security advisor. His name was, by no coincidence, General Simba Chimurenga. Tinotenda had discovered Simba long before he became president. The small boy had grown up not far from Tino’s home village, an orphan raised by a family friend. The young Simba had shown a knack for killing things swiftly and covering his tracks. Tinotenda had noticed.

  After independence, the boy who had grown up on stories of the glory of war couldn’t wait for military service. He longed to prove he was a true patriot. When Simba joined the army at the age of sixteen, he formally changed his last name to Chimurenga in honor of his predecessors. Tinotenda had approved of his nom de guerre and taken the promising young man under his wing. The president had then guided Simba through the army ranks, providing discreet but unmistakable orders to the military promotion boards. Simba was selected for special training in Romania and Ethiopia. After he had been handpicked by the president to command a particularly sensitive mission and performed marvelously, Simba Chimurenga was promoted yet again, becoming the youngest general in Zimbabwe’s history.

  He’d further burnished his reputation when, just after his ascendance, he stood before his men and bit the head off a deadly green mamba snake. In a country where snakes are feared as spirits of evil, this was an extraordinary show of bravery and—his men believed—magical powers.

  —

  General Simba Chimurenga now stood, in full military dress and a chest covered in medals, waiting outside the president’s parlor. He tapped his feet with impatience.

  “His Excellency, Father of the Nation and Warrior of the People, President Winston H. R. Tinotenda, will see you now,” said the butler, with a dramatic bow at the waist.

  “My dear Simba,” the president greeted him.

  “Thank you, Your Excellency. I am not interrupting your tea?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I have come to brief you on preparations for Saturday.”

  “Yes, yes, I want to hear. I have been worried about the voting in Matabeleland and the central provinces. They are a stubborn people. They cannot be reasoned with.”

  “Your Excellency, I agree.” Simba gestured toward the butler, whom the president then ordered to leave.

  Once they were alone, the general continued, “I want to assure you we have taken measures to ensure security. The army and police are already positioned in enemy territory and we have our networks deployed to watch for troublemakers. I am confident the outcome will be satisfactory.”

  “Good, good. That is very good, my Simba.”

  “We are also watching the foreigners. The embassies are once again attempting to interfere with our election, but we will not allow any threat to our sovereignty. That is also taken care of. I beg you not to worry, Sekuru.”

  The younger man’s usage of the Shona title of “Grandfather” to address the president of the republic was technically illegal. But an exception was made for Simba Chimurenga.

  “I have confidence in you, my son.”

  “Thank you, Sekuru.”

  “But one thing is troubling me. If the unthinkable should happen . . . if the forces of evil succeed and convince our own people to turn against the nation . . . if somehow the people are weak and they vote for the sellouts and the traitors . . . what will become of everything we have built?”

  “Do not worry, Sekuru. I will never allow that to happen,” Chimurenga said firmly.

  “I will not worry,” said the president. “But I am an old man and I am getting tired. I have fought my whole life. But I am not sure I have another war within me.”

  “You need not fight. Leave it to me. That woman will not win.”

  “Perhaps an old man who has given so much to his country deserves a quiet ending?”

  “Your Excellency, no! If you need quiet and a peaceful rest, you can do that when the time is right. When we decide. We can never concede to the stooges and turncoats. Retire when you wish. But lose—never!”

  “Very well, Simba.”

  “If we must fight a third Chimurenga, Your Excellency, then we will fight. We will never lose. We will never surrender.”

  “Simba, you are the Third Chimurenga.”

  5.

  U.S. Department of State, Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, 9:18 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Judd had gone straight to the Zimbabwe task force meeting hoping to catch Bill Rogerson before it started. He knew Rogerson would be pissed off to see him. Judd couldn’t be sure he had gotten Landon Parker’s message—that the Secretary of State personally had requested that Judd’s unit get involved—and he knew with certainty how the news would be received.

  Zimbabwe was now his best and perhaps last chance to show what S/CRU could do, and he didn’t want to fail before even getting started. But Judd knew that Rogerson wasn’t going to just let him interfere, no matter what Landon Parker said. Instead, his more likely conclusion would be that Judd had committed one of the most egregious fouls of bureaucratic gamesmanship: an end run.

  But Rogerson was nowhere to be found. The room was full, but the chairman was already nearly twenty minutes late. There would be no time for an explanation. To avoid an embarrassing confrontation with the Assistant Secretary in front of two dozen colleagues, Judd abandoned his post near the door and took a seat in the corner at the end of the room, as far as possible from where Rogerson was likely to sit.

  A low murmur of idle chatter filled the room, people mostly making small talk or checking their BlackBerries. A video screen projected a dozen more staff sitting quietly in another room. “Embassy Harare” flashed in the lower corner. Judd turned to his phone, thumbing through the news clips, searching for anything on Zimbabwe.

  Judd’s phone buzzed with an urgent text from Serena:

  WH Situation Room, 10am. Don’t be late!

  The White House? What could they want? His heart raced and he pounded a quick reply with his thumbs.

  Got it. What happened?

  After a few seconds, Serena replied:

  Don’t know. Orders from Landon Parker.

  Just as Judd was about to respond, Bill Rogerson, now a full twenty-three minutes late, walked through the door. Without making eye contact with anyone, he took
his seat, mumbled an apology about the tourism minister from Sudan talking too much, and opened his briefing book.

  “Okay, folks. This meeting is about Zimbabwe’s election,” he said, reminding himself more than anyone else. As Rogerson belatedly scanned the room, he paused for a barely perceptible moment, when he noticed Judd. “I see we’ve got all the bureaus here,” he said. “So let’s save time by skipping introductions.” Straight poker face.

  “The embassy is with us. Welcome, Ambassador Tallyberger.” Rogerson waved at the screen. After a three-second delay, those on the screen waved back. “Why don’t you brief us first, Ambassador?”

  “Thank you, Assistant Secretary Rogerson,” said the oldest man in the other room. He wore round spectacles and had a white mustache, which was hard to see against his ashen skin. He looked exhausted. “It is now just after two p.m. Thursday in Zimbabwe. The polls open on Saturday at eight a.m. local time.”

  Judd glanced at his watch. Forty-two hours away.

  “We have launched the AEEOMZ, the American Embassy Election Observer Mission in Zimbabwe. We will have embassy teams deploying across the capital city,” the ambassador continued. “They will be checking poll sites and monitoring campaign rallies. We’ve concentrated our AEEOMZ teams in Avondale, Highfield, and Mufakose. We are coordinating closely with the regional observers from the United Nations and the African Union, which are blanketing the major towns around the country, especially Mutare, Bulawayo, Gweru, and Chitungwiza. There are approximately six hundred international polling monitors now in-country, so I think we’ll be pretty well covered. We should be very proud to have AEEOMZ participate in this historic event. As of now, everything is peaceful and all seems to be going smoothly.”

  “Thank you, Ambassador Tallyberger,” said Rogerson. “I have the Zimbabwe desk officer here with me. Anything to add, Brad?”

  “It’s Brian, sir. No, nothing to add at this time.”

  “Well, Brian, you are very lucky to be working with Arnold Tallyberger,” said Rogerson, turning to face the table. “We are all very lucky to have Ambassador Tallyberger out there at post. He’s an experienced diplomat. One of our best. He knows Africa and he will be our point on all matters related to Zimbabwe’s elections. I have full confidence in him.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the ambassador.

  “Well deserved, Ambassador. I don’t have any questions from headquarters,” Rogerson said. “Anyone else?”

  Several hands went up around the table. Rogerson called on a young woman. “I’m with the Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor. Most Zimbabweans live in the countryside and that’s where election violence has been the worst. So why are the monitors concentrated in the cities?”

  “Let me take this one,” interjected Tallyberger. “Yes, that’s correct. First, we assess the likelihood of major outbreaks of violence during or after the election to be low. Second, yes, we would have wanted to deploy more observers at rural polling stations, but it is a matter of limited resources. We only have so many people. And the local authorities specifically requested we keep to the main towns. We are here at their invitation.”

  Local authorities? thought Judd. Since when do you ask those you are observing where to observe?

  “Thank you. Next question?” asked Rogerson, pointing at a middle-aged man sitting near Judd. “I’m with Political-Military. How close do we expect the results to be? Do we have any polling data?”

  “Polls are very unreliable in this part of the world,” the ambassador responded. “People here are just not used to answering questions about their political preferences. They aren’t like us.”

  “Excuse me, I’ve got a two-hander,” said a woman in the outer ring.

  “Yes, young lady, go ahead,” said Rogerson.

  “I’m with Policy Planning,” she said, with a wince. “I think we need to step back here for a moment. Many of us are new to Zimbabwe and haven’t been following closely. What exactly are our objectives here? Do we have clear instructions from the Secretary? Where is the White House?”

  “I’ll take this,” Rogerson said, sitting up straight. “The United States is very clear about our objectives this weekend. Our first priority is to ensure a safe, peaceful vote for the people of Zimbabwe. They are expressing their democratic rights and we want to prevent any unseemly behavior that could lead to violence or even a breakdown of order. Our primary task is to promote stability throughout the election and the post-election period.”

  Rogerson scanned the room, glancing past Judd, looking for signs of recognition.

  “I also need to share,” Rogerson continued, “that I’ve had a call from the Secretary this morning.” He paused to let the importance of his announcement sink in. “She informed me that people at the highest levels are paying attention to Zimbabwe and they expect a good outcome. We may be in the spotlight on this more than we think. No bodies on the streets. Everyone got that?” Rogerson nodded to himself. “Our goal is to keep the seventh floor and the White House happy by maintaining calm. Our bar of success here is keeping Zimbabwe off the Secretary’s desk and out of the President’s Daily Brief. Everyone got that?”

  Heads around the table nodded.

  “No bodies in the streets. Is that clear?” he added.

  More nodding.

  “I’m sorry to ask again,” said the middle-aged man. “I realize we have no firm polling numbers, but you haven’t mentioned the candidates. Could the opposition actually win this thing?”

  “Ambassador, do you want to take that?”

  “Pleasure,” said Tallyberger. “President Tinotenda has won six straight elections. He has the party bosses lined up in all the major towns and the governors of each of the provinces. He controls parliament. He also has the firm support of the military, police, and intelligence services. I don’t think he is facing a serious challenge.”

  “The lawyer lady. Gigi something. She can’t win?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” the ambassador said. “Gugu Mutonga is the candidate for the opposition Democracy Union of Zimbabwe. They have the youth vote and support in parts of Matabeleland in the south, but the DUZ hasn’t really penetrated the Shona heartland. So, no. I don’t believe she can win.”

  “Let me share my perspective,” Rogerson interrupted. “I’ve been speaking with the South African government. As you know, they are the regional power and they currently sit on the UN Security Council, so we are in close and regular contact with the South Africans. Zimbabwe is their neighbor. This is their backyard. They have a strong interest in keeping things quiet. Like us, they can’t have chaos.”

  “Does that mean we are active or not?” asked a man at the back.

  “We have to maintain a robust presence to prevent unrest and ensure American interests are pursued. But the United States cannot be the world’s policeman,” Rogerson declared.

  “Which means we will do what, exactly?”

  “Luckily, the South Africans don’t appear too worried about Zimbabwe,” said Rogerson, ignoring the question. “But they are keeping a close eye on the parties, including the DUZ.”

  “The South Africans have surveillance on the DUZ?” asked a staffer.

  Rogerson grimaced. “I cannot speak to any specific South African intelligence operations. But there is concern in Pretoria about suspicious financing of Zimbabwe’s political parties. Money coming from private actors in South Africa and from places like Lubumbashi in the Congo. Gugu Mutonga may be under the influence of these outsiders. At this stage we just don’t know. We will continue to dialogue with the South Africans on these concerns, but I believe they have it under control.”

  “President Tinotenda is now eighty-eight years old and running for a seventh term. Aren’t the South Africans worried about his age and durability?”

  “He’s a strong old ox,” said Rogerson. “I’ve known him for many years and
think he’s still got a few more to go. Do you concur, Ambassador Tallyberger?”

  “I do. He was on television last week addressing the nation. He stood and spoke for over two hours. I don’t think he’s lost a beat. He doesn’t look like he’s ready to retire.”

  “What’s the instability risk?” asked the Pol-Mil staffer.

  “‘Après moi le déluge,’” Rogerson said.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Tell them, Ambassador,” said Rogerson, pointing to the video screen.

  “‘Après moi le déluge. After me, the flood,’” Tallyberger said. “It’s one of Tinotenda’s favorite lines. It was actually Louis XV who said it first. Then Mobutu used it in Congo. It’s a warning. You may not like me, but beware of what comes next.”

  “We should beware of what comes next,” said Rogerson. “Louis XV and Mobutu were both right. After they were gone, we had the French revolution and the Congolese civil war. I don’t think anyone wants another revolution in Zimbabwe.”

  “What are the succession scenarios?” asked a staffer who was biting her nails.

  “There is still jostling within Tino’s party to be next in line,” answered the ambassador, “but we in the Harare diplomatic corps now believe Simba Chimurenga, the army chief and national security advisor, is the most likely successor. He’s not yet fifty years old and by far the youngest general in the country. But he and the president are very close.”

  “Can we live with Chimurenga? Will he keep the lid on?” asked Pol-Mil.

  “I think so. He’s a career military man and very capable,” Rogerson said. “Any more questions before we close?”

  A hand went up at the back, a young woman with short black hair and bronze skin. “Does the embassy have any information about the whereabouts or activities of Solomon Zagwe?”

  “I’m sorry, who?” asked Ambassador Tallyberger.

  “General Solomon Zagwe,” she said. “Former President of Ethiopia. The perpetrator of the Red Fear. He’s been in exile in Zimbabwe since he fled Ethiopia twenty years ago. He is living in Harare under the protection of President Tinotenda. Do you have any new information about him?”