Minute Zero

by Todd Moss

  When he’d moved in a few weeks earlier, he replaced the bed with a large desk made of Burmese rosewood that was more appropriate for his purposes. And a bar stocked with ice and rare single-malt scotch, an essential part of doing this type of business. O’Malley also removed the hotel room art to make way for his own celebrity wall. He hung photos of himself: posing in the Rose Garden with the President of the United States; with Dean Martin at a black-tie Americans for the Future fund-raising gala; at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel with a Saudi prince; and on the steps of the Grand Palace with the king of Thailand. Also on the wall, prominently displayed, was a framed certificate from the chairman of the President’s Reelection Committee, honoring him as a “People’s Defender,” the highest level of achievement for the party’s fund-raising bundlers. Above the photos were his diplomas, a BA from Notre Dame, an MBA from Wharton, and an MSc in nuclear engineering from Virginia Tech. He was most proud of his science degree, an edge which repeatedly proved an advantage in his commercial ventures.

  The one photograph missing from his wall, his most cherished of all, was of him standing with the Secretary of Defense on the deck of the aircraft carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt. The SecDef’s personal inscription was his favorite part. That was exactly why this particular photo was kept, not on the wall for visitors to admire, but in a safe deposit box at the HSBC branch in central Bangkok. It pained him to keep it stored in the dark, but he couldn’t take the chance the SecDef’s words of thanks and encouragement might one day be misinterpreted by an inspector general or a congressional committee of inquiry.

  O’Malley was sitting at his desk, waiting for the call, when his phone finally rang. The caller ID showed a name he recognized, his contact at Suvarnabhumi Airport. He answered with a simple grunt.

  “It’s here.”

  “I’m on my way,” O’Malley replied.

  Twenty-five minutes later, his car pulled through the gate at the executive jet arrivals hall. Waiting in a private hangar at the far side of the airport was an all-white Dassault Falcon 7X. The eight-seat ultra-long-range business jet had only one passenger today: a locked steel case. The pilot, a former South African special forces lieutenant with short hair and a thick neck, silently handed the package to O’Malley. The American accepted the case, examined it briefly, then retreated to a table at the other end of the hangar. He punched in a PIN code, held his thumb to a biometric reader beside the lock, and heard the sweet click-click of the release.

  O’Malley’s heart rate accelerated as he opened the case. Inside, surrounded by black foam, were three small velvet purses. He gently plucked one pouch from its nest and poured the contents into his palm. He angled the handful of small rocks to see them against a different light and judge their weight. Satisfied, he dumped them back inside, replaced the pouch, and slammed the case shut. He flashed a thumbs-up to the pilot, who turned and departed.

  Once O’Malley and the case were safely inside his car, he fished out his phone and placed a call.

  “This is Romeo Delta Victor Charlie One. Password six four nine Bravo November Tango six. Yes, confirmed. The payment is one hundred and fifty million, as previously arranged. Correct, one five zero million U.S. dollars. Confirmed. Send it now.”

  18.

  U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe

  Saturday, 8:50 a.m. Central Africa Time

  Get your fucking game on!”

  “Excuse me?” Judd asked the CIA chief of station, who had just jumped out of his chair. Isabella Espinosa had finished explaining to Brock Branson that her mission to Zimbabwe was to hunt General Solomon Zagwe.

  “I said, ‘Get your fucking game on!’” Brock was becoming even more excited. “I knew that Red Fear fucker was living here in Harare,” he said, jabbing a finger at Bull Durham for no apparent reason. “But I didn’t know anyone from Washington gave a shit.”

  “Well, I do,” said Isabella, pointing back at Brock. In contrast to his loud personality, there was nothing distinct about Brock’s appearance. He was in his late thirties, Caucasian, with a medium build and brown hair, and wore a full, almost shaggy beard, which, Judd assumed, was an attempt to look older in a country where seniority was often respected above all else.

  “I didn’t know anyone anywhere gave a shit,” said Brock. He was pacing back and forth in tight circles in his cramped office on the top floor of the embassy. Bull and Judd were squeezed into chairs, and Isabella was sitting on a small couch near the window. In the morning African light, Isabella’s hazel skin glistened, softening the tough mask of determination on her face.

  “I’ve been chasing this target for three years. I’ve spent months poring over witness testimony, legal archives, and banking records,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “And that’s why I’ve dropped everything to be here right now. If President Tinotenda loses today, I can’t let Zagwe get away.”

  “Well, I don’t think Tino is going to lose the election. But I’m in, sister! What do you need?” Brock’s eyes darted back and forth.

  “A local car to stake out Zagwe’s villa.”

  “Done. What else?” Brock licked his lips.

  “Really?” asked Isabella, looking at Judd, dumbfounded.

  “Yep. Done. What else do you need?” He drummed a rapid beat with his fingers on the desk.

  “It would help if you could bring down Tino,” Judd offered.

  “Believe me, I’d be more than happy to oblige. I’d pull the fucking trigger myself. Or push the old man down the stairs. But the CIA doesn’t allow us to do that kind of thing anymore. You know, Congress and all,” he said, with a wink at Isabella. “I’m here to help you D.C. boys. So, what else?”

  “I’ve already arranged face time with Gugu Mutonga,” Judd said.

  “You’re ahead of the game. How’d you manage that?” Brock asked.

  “Through a friend.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Brock raised his hands in mock surrender. “So what do you need from me?”

  “How about a meeting with President Tinotenda?”

  “That’s a tough one, amigo. He’s not gonna waste time meeting you. Nothing in it for him. You’re all downside, Dr. Ryker.”

  “How about General Chimurenga?” Judd asked.

  “You wanna meet old Simba, eh? All the charm of a rattlesnake in heat, that one! It’ll be tough to get him today with the election and all.” Brock grimaced. “But . . . old Simba owes me one or two.”

  “So, is that a yes?” Judd asked.

  “Special Agent Espinosa, what do you think?” he asked, turning to face Isabella.

  “What do I think about what?”

  “Should I burn a valuable favor to help Dr. Ryker get a meeting with General Chimurenga?” Brock Branson was rubbing his head.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Definitely.”

  “Then it’s a yes, amigo!” Brock slapped Judd on the back. “What time do you want to see him?”

  “How about right now?”

  “You might be pushing your luck, Dr. Ryker! But let’s see what the bastard says.” Brock shrugged and picked up his phone. After a few seconds he shouted, “Simba! It’s me! Makadii! Ndiripo makadiwo! I want you to meet someone! Today. No. . . . No. . . . No, it has to be today. I know . . . I know . . . Okay . . . Yeah, sure. Yeah, that will be fine. Ndatenda, shamwari. Fambai zvakanaka.” He hung up the phone with a loud clunk.

  “Okay, we’re on.”

  “Now?” Judd asked. “Just like that?”

  “Nah. He’s tied up with security for the election. Plus he said he has to go to his home district to vote. Can you fucking believe that? Chimurenga has to go home to vote! Sometimes these Zimbos crack me up.” Brock shook his head, as if remembering an old joke.

  Then, snapping back to the conversation, Brock continued. “Simba will give you five minutes this afternoon. Five o’clock. At the Meikles. It’s a sweet hotel, right
downtown, old-school. Good gin and tonics. It’s full of spies and all, but that’s where the Harare elites like to meet.”

  “Don’t you think somewhere more, I don’t know, discreet might be better?” asked Isabella.

  “Nah! It’ll be fine. The safest place is wide out in the open,” said Brock, holding up his hands again. “It’s, like, ‘Fuck you, I have nothing to hide.’”

  “If you say so.” Isabella shrugged.

  “I would like nothing more than to play host to you D.C. boys, but if there isn’t anything else, I’ve got work to do.”

  “One last thing,” Judd said. “What do you know about the Kanyemba uranium mine?”

  “Good question!” Brock said, squinting. “I’ve been trying to get a man in there for weeks. They won’t let me get in close. They’ve got troops manning checkpoints on all the roads into Kanyemba. It’s tighter security than the fucking diamond mines in the Eastern Highlands. I don’t get it. It’s damn suspicious. But I don’t yet know what they’re up to.”

  “What about UMBRELLA ROSE?” Judd asked.

  “What do you know about that?”

  “I was fully briefed by Admiral Hammond at the White House on the operation. If it’s a uranium mine and it’s potentially dangerous, then you should be receiving some help.”

  “I’d love a surveillance drone. But my station wasn’t on the original list. Unless I’ve got evidence of an imminent threat, I’m just going to have to wait my turn.”

  “Zimbabwe was added to UMBRELLA ROSE,” Judd said. “Doesn’t that mean you get a drone?”

  “Zimbabwe’s low-priority. I’m used to it. I don’t expect a UAV overflight anytime soon.”

  “The United States is short on Predators?” Judd shook his head.

  “Not Predators. For this kind of mission, we need a Global Hawk,” Brock said.

  “You need an RQ-4 UAV?” interrupted Bull.

  “Yup.”

  “I might know a guy,” Bull said.

  “You can get me a Global Hawk?” the station chief asked. “With geothermal sensors?”

  “I can make a call back to Stuttgart,” said Bull, without breaking his poker face. Judd and Isabella looked at each other with raised eyebrows and suppressed smiles.

  “He might know a guy,” Judd smirked.

  Brock Branson was impressed, too. “Get your fucking game on!”

  19.

  Lalibela, Ethiopia

  Saturday, 10:21 a.m. East Africa Time

  Papa Toure strolled slowly in the searing heat. He walked along the dirt path, following the directions he’d been given. It was impossible to see his destination. As he came up and over a large rock, however, suddenly there it was: the Church of Saint George. Rather than build the church up high on the ground out of stone as they did in Europe, the twelfth-century Ethiopian Orthodox Christian monks had carved the cross-shaped church out of the rock, deep down below the ground.

  Papa stood at the edge of the hole, admiring the craftsmanship, the intricate detail around the windows, the careful use of light and shade to keep the church cool.

  He descended the stairs to the lower level, where he circled around the church. The outer walls had dozens of small dark caves, a watchman napping inside one. Once he returned to the main entrance of the church, he stepped inside.

  An elderly monk approached him. He was dressed in a purple robe, with a white turban-like hat and a large silver cross hung around his neck. “Welcome, my brother.”

  Papa bowed his head and returned the greeting.

  “Are you here to pray, my brother?”

  “I am not,” answered Papa.

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “I am not. I am Muslim.”

  “You are very welcome. You may still pray here. But you are not Ethiopian, I am sure.”

  “I am from Mali. From the Sahara.”

  “What brings you all the way to Ethiopia? Are you with the United Nations?”

  “No. I am here because of water. My work is water.”

  “Inshallah, my brother. We need water here. You are very welcome to Lalibela. To Bete Giyorgis, the Church of Saint George.”

  “Inshallah. This is a very beautiful place.”

  “Yes, this is the new Jerusalem.”

  “You live here, yes?”

  “Yes. Here and at the orphanage in town.”

  “You are the caretaker for the church and the orphanage, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have brought you this for the orphans,” Papa said, bowing his head and handing the monk a thick roll of local currency.

  “Thank you, my brother. The children will thank you. Praise to God.”

  “Praise to God,” Papa repeated. “Can I visit the orphanage? Will you show me?”

  The monk led Papa out of the church, up the steps, and onto a path toward the center of town.

  They crossed through a small marketplace with women sitting in rows, selling yellow beans, bright red chili peppers, and tall pyramids of brown grain. Large pots of dark red stew bubbled on open flames. Papa stopped to watch a woman pour batter on a wide, flat stove, just like one of the many creperies he had visited in Paris.

  “Injera,” said the monk. “She is making injera, our national bread.” The steam of the stove rose, and the savory sour smell tickled Papa’s senses. The woman pulled the spongy bread off the stove and stacked it on a pile. “You are hungry, water man?” asked the monk.

  “No, brother. I am here to see the orphanage.”

  “We are here,” he said, pointing to a dilapidated concrete building with peeling orange paint on the walls.

  Inside, groups of children sat quietly reading books or writing in small notebooks.

  “How many children are here now?”

  “Two hundred and six,” said the monk.

  “It is many.”

  “Yes. We always have many.”

  “How do you manage?”

  “Generous donations. Like yours.”

  “This is the same orphanage that raised Solomon Zagwe, yes?”

  “You are from the United Nations!” gasped the monk, backing away from Papa.

  “No, brother. I am not from the UN.” He handed over his business card, which read PAPA TOURE, DIRECTOR, WATER ENGINEERING INTERNATIONAL, A PROJECT OF THE HAVERFORD FOUNDATION with a logo of a blue raindrop and phone numbers listed for New York, Geneva, and Bamako.

  “Why, then, are you asking about Solomon?”

  “It is not every day I meet a holy man who lives in a church and raised a former president. I am interested in history.”

  “Solomon was a good boy.” The monk shook his head. “I don’t know where he went wrong, but he was good.”

  “I see. I also have a son. It is so difficult to raise them, you give them everything.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “And then you have no more control. We do our best. But we can’t be held responsible for what they do as adults. Isn’t that true, brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “It can be painful, yes?”

  “So painful.”

  “What was Solomon like as a boy?” asked Papa.

  “Always working to get ahead. He never liked to rest. Never satisfied.”

  “How did he ever rise from this place to become president?”

  “He was clever. He worked hard. He joined the army and was sent to Saudi Arabia for training. He made many friends there and was very powerful when he returned. On a very bad day, he killed the emperor and became president. I should have been proud. One of my charges became the most powerful man in the country. But it did not feel Christian.”

  “I understand.”

  “I am ashamed,” said the monk.

  “I understand, my brother,” said Papa, placing a hand ge
ntly on the monk’s shoulder.

  “I am a humble servant of the Lord. I know of the word of God. I don’t know these games of power. These games of big men.”

  Papa nodded his head in sympathy.

  “Something went wrong,” continued the monk, tears welling in his eyes. “Something terrible. Something unbearably un-Christian. I cannot speak of what he did.”

  “I understand. No more questions.”

  After a few moments of silence, Papa asked, “My brother, are you still in contact with Solomon?”

  “No!” he insisted. “He cannot return to Ethiopia. He can never return to this place.”

  “He doesn’t write? To the man who raised him? I don’t believe that.”

  “No, he does not write.”

  “He has forgotten you? Despite all that has happened, despite all you did for him, he has forgotten the place that raised him?”

  “I did not say that. You asked if he writes.”

  “So, what does he do?”

  “He has not forgotten the Church of Saint George or the orphanage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those books,” he said, pointing to a crooked shelf holding several dozen dog-eared volumes. “The soccer balls, the clothing, even our new television. He has sent them all. He does not write, but he has sent us these gifts. I know they are from him.”

  “I see. He sent you a television?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see it, brother?”

  The monk led Papa into a side room. A flat-screen television was in one corner, a crowd of young children sprawled in front, focused intently on the soccer match on the screen. The game commentary was very loud and in Italian.

  “Solomon Zagwe sent you this television?”

  “He is still a good boy deep down. He has not forgotten us.”

  “Yes. I see. It is a fine television, yes.”