by Todd Moss
In the upper corner of the screen a blue sticker announced SAMSUNG, THE NEXT BIG THING. Behind the TV, a cardboard box lay propped up against the wall. Papa walked around the back to examine it. In one corner of the box was a shipping label:
PATTANAKARN ELECTRONICS, SUVARNABHUMI, BANGKOK 10250, THAILAND.
“Yes, brother, it is a fine television,” Papa repeated.
20.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 9:44 a.m. Central Africa Time
General Simba Chimurenga was feeling confident. He watched the lines of new recruits for the Green Mambas, most of them young boys no older than fifteen or sixteen years old, conscripted from the villages. They were all wearing new dark green jumpsuits, but few had shoes. Those lucky enough to have anything on their feet wore ratty sandals made from old tires. They appeared strong. And angry.
Chimurenga called over the unit commander, who arrived with a sharp salute.
“How many today?”
“Two hundred here, sir. We have another fourteen recruitment sites around the country, sir.”
“Why aren’t these recruits wearing shoes?” demanded the general.
“I’m sorry, General. Only uniforms were delivered from headquarters.”
“I want these boys to have proper shoes. The Green Mambas cannot attack barefoot. Buy them boots,” he said, pulling a fat wad of U.S. dollars from his pocket.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want them to have the boots today. Before they deploy.”
“Yes, sir. I know where to get boots for the men,” he replied, shoving the money into his pocket.
“Are the trucks ready for them?”
“Nearly, sir.”
The general’s phone rang, a sign the commander took to depart. Chimurenga eyed the caller ID. He had been waiting anxiously for this call from his business partner.
“The package has been delivered,” said Solomon Zagwe on the other end. “I have just spoken with our man in Asia.”
“Very good,” said the general. “Just in time. Have the funds arrived as well?”
“Yes. I spoke with the bank. They will have the cash on hand. Your man can pick it up.”
“What is the total?”
“One fifty.”
“One fifty? That is less than our agreement.”
“I know. That is the discount for our urgency. I told you we could get more if we waited for full production, for the full order. But you insisted we needed the money today.”
The general watched as the recruits marched in straight lines, holding pipes or knobkerries, the short Zulu sticks with a heavy ball on one end. They swung their sticks in unison, smashing them on the ground with a loud thud.
“Yes, we need the money today.”
“So the number is one fifty.”
“It is enough,” said Chimurenga, flipping the phone closed.
He beckoned the commander back.
“How much are we paying the boys?”
“The new recruits are paid ten dollars for the day. Plus food and a uniform.”
“And boots.”
“Yes, sir. And boots.”
“I want to address the Green Mambas. Call them over.” Within a few seconds the two hundred boys lined up nervously in front of General Chimurenga. The commander directed them to sing a revolutionary song about the bravery of their ancestors and the glory of fighting imperialists. When they were finished, the commander shouted, “Forward with the revolution!”
“Pamberi!” was the chorus reply with raised fists.
“Forward with the people!”
“Pamberi!”
“Forward with Zimbabwe!”
“Pamberi!”
“Forward with President Tinotenda!”
“Pamberi!”
“Forward with the Green Mambas!”
“Pamberi!”
“Forward with General Chimurenga!”
“Pamberi!”
The commander then bowed and backed away, leaving the floor to the general. The recruits stood at attention in tense silence.
“Yesterday you were village boys. Today you are men.”
“Yes, sir!” they shouted in unison.
“Yesterday you were children. Today you are Green Mambas.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yesterday you were nothing. Today you are part of the Revolution.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yesterday you had nothing in your pocket. Today you will be paid fifty dollars.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yesterday you served your mother. Today you serve your nation.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yesterday there were traitors and sellouts among us. Today you will destroy them.”
“Yes, sir!”
21.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 5:54 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
The kitchen was a perfect aromatic brew of fresh coffee, sizzling bacon, and French toast. The sun had just risen over the trees in her back garden. Jessica had been up for only ten minutes but she was wide-awake. And she was ready.
“Juice!” shouted one of her boys.
“Noah,” she scolded, waving a spatula, “how do we ask?”
“Juice, please, Mommy!”
“Toby, you’re six years old. You can pour your brother a glass of orange juice,” she directed her other son. “Not too full.”
As she flipped the French toast on the stove, she checked the time. Nearly six o’clock.
Jessica nudged the bacon strips around the griddle and was watching the clouds of bubbling fat sizzle when her phone rang. She hooked on an earpiece, instructed her children with a “Boys, let Mommy take a phone call,” and pressed the button.
“Good morning.”
“This is two four one Zebra Charlie,” said Sunday on the other end.
“Yes, it is a good morning,” she responded, taking a gulp of coffee.
“Ma’am, we need to scramble.”
Jessica set down the spatula and punched a string of digits into her phone. After a few seconds she heard a static signal and then three beeps in ascending pitch.
“We’re now secure on Purple Cell protocols. Shall I proceed, ma’am?”
“Yes,” said Jessica.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been working on our case throughout the night and making headway, but we’ve got a problem.”
“Yes?”
“I learned just a few minutes ago that the British memo on uranium threats is under suspicion. There is now doubt within the Intelligence Community whether there was any threat at all. It may be that naturally occurring, highly enriched uranium doesn’t even exist. The DNI is launching an after-action investigation into the memo’s sources and methods. Until that is complete, they are putting all uranium surveillance operations on a stand-down.”
“Doesn’t exist?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I only know the current assessment is no longer an imminent threat from uranium proliferation. UMBRELLA ROSE is on hold until further notice.”
Shit. “And our target?”
“Kanyemba is no longer considered a potential risk. Just when we got Kanyemba added to the list, they’ve suspended the program. Does that mean Purple Cell is on stand-down?”
“Hold,” she said. Jessica plucked the bacon from the pan while she thought about her next move. She scooped up the French toast and placed two golden brown slices on each Cookie Monster plate.
“Eat up,” she instructed as she set down breakfast in front of her children.
“Ma’am?” asked Sunday.
“Not you,” she said, turning her back. “Is the stand-down order for UMBRELLA ROSE relayed yet?”
“Not yet. Should be official later today. But I hav
e it from a good source, so I called you right away . . .”
“Keep this close-hold.”
“Shall I inform our field operatives?”
“Negative. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Keep looking for connections. Focus on the banks. The money trail will lead us where we want to go. That’s our window. That’s all for now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jessica hung up the phone. “Syrup, boys?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
She opened the fridge, pulled a small jug of Vermont maple syrup, and drizzled it over the French toast.
How long can I keep this up? she thought.
—
The strains of her double life were weighing heavily on Jessica that morning. How had it come to this? Twelve years ago, she’d been a young agronomist, fresh from graduate school and fortunate to be placed on a research team with the eminent Professor BJ van Hollen. Her mentor had dragged her to Kidal, a remote city in northern Mali, to work on an exciting new water project. Or so she thought.
She now knew the real purpose of the project was to recruit her into the Central Intelligence Agency. Van Hollen didn’t know at the time she would wind up marrying the other student on the Kidal team, a fresh-faced data nerd from Vermont named Judd. They were opposites in almost every way, so how could BJ have known?
As Jessica’s romance with Judd had progressed, so too did her career in the CIA. Everything changed one day when she was pulled into a “red cell,” a special analytical unit assembled outside the normal structures and isolated from everything else. The purpose of a red cell was to get out of your normal team, to take an unconventional view of a tough problem.
She loved it. Her memory of that first secret project was of total exhilaration. It probably helped that the day her red cell assignment was complete was also the very day that Judd proposed. Heady with love and the adrenaline of a clandestine job, she accepted.
Her red cell experience had convinced her that small, capable teams given total freedom could be highly valuable at problem solving. Jessica started thinking about how a similar independent cell might be effective on the operational side of the Agency. She shared her new idea with BJ van Hollen, who took it right to the CIA’s deputy director for operations. Purple Cell was born.
The upside was Jessica could pick her teams and operate with total independence, outside normal reporting channels. As she’d won recognition and racked up operational successes, demand for Purple Cell had grown among the very elite policy makers who knew about the top secret unit.
The downside was she could never tell her family about any of it. To run the covert team, she had to maintain her cover as an agronomist and soccer mom. Judd’s long hours at Amherst College and then at the State Department allowed her ample space to run both her family and Purple Cell.
But it wasn’t the physical demands that were wearing on her. It was the psychological stress of living a double life, of lying every day to those she loved. She could handle the deception and political games at work. She thrived on that. It was the lies at home that were becoming the problem. It was one thing to keep her emotions in check when exfiltrating a hostage from Bolivia. Or to remain cold and calculating when destroying the personal life of a corrupt Jordanian politician.
Maintaining the deceptions with her husband was taking its toll. She had held it all together so far. Judd knew little about her true background and was in the dark about her real job. But he was analytical by nature and she knew he would eventually figure out the truth. She was pushing the limits—and violating the rules—by working on projects that overlapped with her husband’s. The recent assignment in Mali had been an especially close call. Now she was testing her luck again. Actually, she was doubling down on the risks to both work and life. Maybe Judd already knew?
Jessica dialed another phone number. As it rang, she dropped two slices of bacon on each son’s plate.
“Go,” answered Brock Branson on the other end.
“Confirm, please.”
“This is seven six six Zebra Charlie.”
“Are we secure?”
“Affirmative, ma’am.”
“Where’s my bird?”
“Ma’am, we were so far down the list, I didn’t think we’d see any goddamn birds for months, but we’ve had a stroke of luck. A resourceful bastard landed right in my lap. We’ll have a bird up and out of the nest later today. The first pictures from Kanyemba should be back tonight.”
“With eagle eyes?”
“Yes, ma’am. With geothermal sensors.”
“Very good.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“No one kills my bird except me. I don’t care what you hear from Langley. Is that clear?”
“Roger that.”
“No. One. But. Me. Kills. My. Bird.”
“No one but you kills your bird, ma’am. Got it. Game on.”
Jessica hung up the phone and turned back to breakfast.
“Who’s killing a birdie, Mommy?”
“No one, Noah. No one is killing any birds. Your mom would never allow that. More bacon?”
22.
Mufakose Suburb, Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 12:12 p.m. Central Africa Time
The line of people wound all the way down Mbizi Road, past the roadside shops hanging dried meat, the tall pyramids of oranges, and the rolling mounds of fresh tomatoes and onions.
Tinashe fidgeted with two stones in his hand and danced in place. He craned his neck to try to see the front of the voting line. He couldn’t. Only hundreds of people waiting patiently in the midday sun to cast a vote.
“Ah! Tssss! Calm yourself,” urged Tsitsi, who was holding an open red-and-white-striped umbrella. “Our turn will come.”
“I want to vote,” he replied. “I am ready.”
“Be patient, Tinashe. You are always in a rush.”
Tinashe ignored her scolding but he knew she was right. Tsitsi was always right. He paced back and forth and scanned up and down the line again.
“I don’t see any Tino boys. Only Gugu’s people. Only our people,” he said.
“Zvakanaka, very good.” She spun the umbrella handle between her fingers.
“Ehe, zvakanaka.”
“Police?” she asked.
Tinashe gestured toward a hill in the distance. A small crowd of uniformed policemen with batons stood under an acacia tree.
“Zvakanaka, very good.”
“Perhaps, Tsitsi, the police are with us today?”
She shrugged.
“I have to see,” he said, ducking away.
A few moments later an old woman in a red and purple wrap dress approached. “Little Tsitsi! Yesterday you were running down Mbizi Road, playing with the boys. Today you are a woman! You are old enough to vote?”
“Ehe. Yes, ambuya,” she said, bowing her head and averting her eyes in deference. “I am a woman.”
“How is your day?” the old woman asked.
Tsitsi clapped her hands in the polite form of Shona greetings. “My day is well if your day is well.”
The old woman clapped her hands in response and nodded. “My day is well.”
“Then so is mine.”
“Zvakanaka. Very good.”
“Zvakanaka.”
“How is your father, Tsitsi?”
“He was sick, but now he is better.”
“God willing, he will recover,” the old woman said.
“Thank you, ambuya. How are your sons?”
“All down south. They all are in Johannesburg. They send me money. It’s the only way I survive.”
“Survive. That is good,” Tsitsi said.
“Now you are a woman, little Tsitsi, why no children?”
“Not yet, ambu
ya,” she replied, hiding her annoyance out of respect.
“God willing, soon.”
“Yes, God willing,” Tsitsi said, scanning the long voting line, which hadn’t moved during their conversation.
“How long have you been queueing, Tsitsi?”
“All morning, ambuya.”
“I am too old to stand in queues like this.”
“Fambai zvakanaka. Go well, ambuya.”
“Fambai zvakanaka.”
As the old woman shuffled off, Tinashe returned excited. “No Tino boys, Tsitsi. Only Gugu’s people. I don’t see how Gugu can lose!”
“The people are with her.”
“We are ready. I am ready!” he said quickly.
She looked up again at the long, unmoving line and, against her better judgment, allowed herself a brief moment of delight. “Our turn will come.”
23.
Johannesburg, South Africa
Saturday, 12:24 p.m. Central Africa Time
Lucky Magombe peered over his reading glasses, out the window of his office, at a cluster of modern steel-and-glass office towers. Black Star Capital’s new headquarters, on the urban edge of northern Johannesburg, was the high-tech hub of his operation.
In the next room was the company’s modest trading floor. Five days a week, two dozen young African men and women worked the trading floor, each wearing a headset and staring at a computer screen, watching for tiny movements in share prices to exploit. When Lucky’s traders discovered discrepancies of some kind, they would shout their orders into their headsets. These orders would be executed nearly instantaneously by other Black Star employees sitting in Harare or Nairobi or Accra. It wasn’t New York or London, he knew, but it was something. The growth of Lucky’s net worth could attest to that.
On this Saturday, the trading floor was empty and money was far from Lucky’s mind. Instead he was pondering his options. Despite his wealth and professional success, Lucky was unhappy. His friends and colleagues in South Africa sensed a deep sadness he carried with him. But he never spoke of it.
Lucky Magombe was most comfortable when surrounded by numbers and blinking trading screens. It hadn’t always been like this. There’d been no electronic screens at all when he was a young trainee just out of technical college in Harare and ecstatic to have his first job as a runner for the stockbroker Carrington & Cobb.
