Minute Zero
Page 13
Back then the Zimbabwe Stock Exchange had been all paper and chalk. Clients would call in their orders by phone or, more often, send a houseboy from the northern suburbs on a bus downtown to the brokerage office. The broker would write down the buy or sell order with a dull pencil on a small pale blue memo pad, tear off the top sheet, and then shout, “Lucky!” His job was to run the order slip down the street, across African Unity Square—around the brokerage, it was still known by its pre-independence name, Cecil Square—to a squat office building over on Union Avenue. Then he’d run up four flights of stairs to the stock exchange floor and hand the paper slip to Carrington & Cobb’s floor trader.
The traders—on a normal day there were six or seven of them—sat at a long U-shaped table. At the end of the room was a blackboard with the list of stocks traded on the ZSE, the latest prices, and the current bid-ask prices all written in chalk. After a sale, the floor manager would erase the price with an efficient swipe and scribble the new price. Once the trade was complete, the other broker would countersign the blue order slip and, victorious, Lucky would run the paper back to the Carrington & Cobb head office. That had more or less been the system since the ZSE first started trading in 1946.
But these days there was no paper and no chalk. The ZSE brokers, who had grown to more than twenty, still called out the trades aloud, but the exchange’s trading board was a giant electronic screen and the records were all kept on a secure computer network.
Lucky Magombe’s big break was seeing the technological changes coming. After only a few months on the job, he’d noticed the paper-and-runner system was full of errors. Sometimes the original order was incorrect or a trader would make a mistake. Occasionally, a runner would lose the slip altogether.
He soon discovered that not all of the errors were accidental. When the manipulation of prices might make someone extra money, he quickly learned, foul play was inevitable. Lucky started keeping track of the mistakes. Eventually, he found patterns and concluded, to his horror, that the fraud was not the occasional slippery work of one or two corrupt individuals. He realized Carrington & Cobb was padding its profits by systematically cheating its own customers.
That was when Lucky had quit and started Black Star Capital. His idea was to turn the old system against itself, to make money by arbitraging inefficiencies. The Black Star model would be leaner, quicker, and especially more accurate than all the other brokers.
Lucky’s firm had started small. He was the first to use cell phones as a parallel reporting system to double-check all trades. Then Black Star Capital stopped using runners and instead directed the floor trader by mobile phone and confirmed all activities via e-mail. As an early adopter, Black Star quickly gained a reputation for using the latest technology to get the best price. And with a zero-error guarantee, clients started pouring in.
Black Star Capital was also the first to develop online trading for its clients and to provide analytical data tools on all the listed companies. Then Lucky deployed cloud computing to store records and to run algorithms on all trading data to search for anomalies in the market. Lucky had realized using the latest technology would not only give him a competitive edge but allowed him to police the entire trading system. Which led him to other uses for the technology . . .
As Lucky Magombe pondered the best course of action today, he recognized the irony of his own success: Black Star Capital had been born by eliminating the very job that had given him his start. Progress often requires destruction, he thought.
Just then his phone rang. He answered quickly without checking the caller ID. “Magombe,” he said, like a punch.
“I am calling for Cannonball,” said a deep voice.
“What is it?” Lucky asked.
“Are you ready to join the Canterbury Cricket Club? Your membership has been prepared. It will be available this Sunday. At noon.”
Lucky pondered the question, his mind racing.
“Sir?” the voice asked again.
“Not yet,” Lucky finally answered. “Wait for my word.”
“Shall we continue with your membership preparations for the Canterbury Cricket Club?”
“Yes,” he said before hanging up.
The truth was that Lucky Magombe was sad, because despite all his wealth and apparent success, he could not do the one thing he most longed to do: go home.
24.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 12:38 p.m. Central Africa Time
As their vehicle crossed over a highway bridge, the driver turned to Judd Ryker and Isabella Espinosa in the backseat and said, “Welcome to Mbare.”
Colonel Bull Durham, in the front seat, asked, “What is this place?”
“Mbare is a high-density neighborhood of Harare.”
“High-density? You mean it’s a slum?”
“We prefer ‘high-density.’ Mbare is famous. It’s the neighborhood where the British put the most rebellious Africans. It became a forward base for the anticolonial struggle. Today it is a base of the opposition.”
“It’s Gugu Mutonga country,” Judd said.
The shops were all closed, since election day was an official holiday, but the streets were filled with people selling biscuits, bottles of Coca-Cola, phone cards, and plastic shoes. As they drove deeper into Mbare, the traffic slowed. Judd noticed Durham adjust the rearview mirror.
“What is it, Bull?”
“Two cars back. They’re following us.”
“Who?” asked Isabella, spinning around in her seat.
“Don’t be alarmed,” offered the driver with a chuckle. “They always tail embassy vehicles. When we catch them, they claim it’s for our own safety.”
‘Who’s ‘they’?” asked Isabella.
“Probably the Central Intelligence Organization,” said Durham. “CIO is responsible for tracking the opposition and monitoring foreign embassies.”
“Yes, but don’t worry,” said the driver.
“Well, I don’t like it,” Isabella said.
“We’re almost there,” said the driver, pointing ahead to stadium lights. “There is Rufaro.”
“Gugu Mutonga is holding her final campaign rally in Rufaro Stadium,” explained Judd. “It’s right in the heart of Mbare. And it’s the same place Bob Marley played on Zimbabwe’s independence day.”
As they approached the stadium, the crowds grew so thick that traffic ground to a halt.
“Let’s walk,” suggested Durham. He directed the driver to stay with the car, and the three Americans stepped out of their air-conditioning and into the throng. The crowds all flowed like a giant river in one direction toward the stadium entrance.
As they struggled to stay together, Judd grabbed Durham’s arm and pulled him in close. “Are they still tailing us?”
“Yep.”
Judd strained to try to spot their pursuers, but it was a sea of unfamiliar faces.
“Mauya, murungu!” a boy yelled at Judd before disappearing into the crowd. Then another shouted, “Hello, murungu! You are welcome!”
“Murungu!” yelled a third child, before giggling and running off.
“Murungu?” asked Bull.
“White guy,” said Judd. “Brock told me kids would yell that at me when we entered the townships. He says it’s not meant as an insult. More matter-of-fact.”
“Okay, murungu,” Durham said.
Once they reached the stadium entrance, Durham found a side corridor and eventually led them to a door marked PRIVATE. Judd knocked. A large man with thick sunglasses opened the door. “We are from the American embassy. Mariana Leibowitz called ahead,” Judd explained. The door slammed closed.
They waited for a few moments, then the door swung wide-open.
“You are welcome,” said the guard, with a bow and a sweep of the hand. He led them down a long corridor underneath the stadium. The crowd
was cheering and stomping their feet. Judd could feel the vibrations in the floor and wondered if the old stadium could withstand the pounding.
They arrived at another door. “The Americans are here,” said the guard, who then pushed the door open. Inside, sitting on a plastic chair, was a handsome middle-aged woman in a well-pressed business suit. Her hair was pinned back tightly and her rectangular designer glasses were low on her nose.
“Dr. Ryker,” she said with a warm smile and firm handshake. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Mariana Leibowitz has told me much about you. Welcome to Zimbabwe.”
“Thank you, Ms. Mutonga.”
“Call me Gugu.”
“Thank you, Gugu. I’d like you to meet Colonel Durham and Special Agent Espinosa. They are from the Departments of Defense and Justice.”
“You are also welcome,” she said with a friendly bow. “When the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe wins this election today and our party has the opportunity to rebuild our beautiful country, we will need your help. Today we have no security. We have no justice. We have neither here in this place. We will need our American friends.”
“We are here today to do what we can to try to prevent trouble,” offered Judd.
“Very good. You are welcome. We need you to be here to witness what is happening. To ensure the will of the people is revealed. We need you here to do a very simple thing: to tell the truth.”
The truth. Seems so simple, thought Judd, but it never is.
“How is the voting going?” Isabella asked.
“The government is attacking our people in too many places. But we are confident we can still win. We are optimistic. We are certain if the rules are followed, the DUZ will be victorious. The people are with us. Can you hear them?”
Gugu Mutonga opened her palms and looked up to the ceiling. The tremors of the stomping crowd could be felt through the floor, and the din of the chanting filled their ears.
“My friends, I’m sorry. I beg you to excuse me. I’m expected outside.”
—
A few minutes later Gugu Mutonga walked onto the stage and the masses erupted. Judd, watching from the side of the stage alongside Bull and Isabella, instinctively ducked his head, expecting the stadium to collapse from the crowd’s exploding energy.
“GU-GUUUUUUUUU!” chanted the crowd. Thousands of raised hands formed the letter G, as if they were squeezing oranges. “GU-GUUUUUUUUU! GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”
Gugu Mutonga, now pacing the stage, clapped her hands over her head in appreciation, then opened her palms and bench-pressed the sky as if holding the country on her shoulders. This ignited another round of frenzied “GU-GUUUUUUUUU! GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”
When the chanting finally slowed, Gugu took the microphone. “Who is ready for a new Zimbabwe?”
“WE ARE!” shouted the crowd.
“Who is tired of the past built on hatred and fear?”
“WE ARE!”
“Who is ready for a better life for our mothers and our fathers?”
“WE ARE!”
“Who is ready for a brighter future for our sons and our daughters?”
“WE ARE!”
“Who can deliver on a new Zimbabwe?”
“GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”
“Who can lead a new Zimbabwe?”
“GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”
“Who believes in you?”
“GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”
“Who will win today?
“GU-GUUUUUUUUU!”
25.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Saturday, 7:08 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
You’re here on the weekend again, S-Man?”
Sunday looked up from his computer terminal to find his colleague leering over the cubicle’s half wall. Glen held a Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and a donut in the other. His hair was standing up on one side as if he had just rolled out of bed. “You need to get a life, Sunday.”
“Aaay. That’s what my girlfriend says.”
“You’ve got a girlfriend?” Glen chuckled, taking a shark bite out of the donut, leaving a thin mustache of powdered sugar on his upper lip.
Sunday frowned. “You’re here on Saturday morning, too, Glen.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Sunday brushed his top lip with his hand. The other man tentatively copied Sunday, then glanced down at the powder on his fingers, shrugged, and wiped it on his jeans. “Seriously, Sunday, what’s going on? What’re you doin’ here?”
“Zimbabwe. It’s election day.”
“Oh, shit. That’s right! That old fucker Tino’s still holding on, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I remember running tracers on that man’s accounts, like, a decade ago. Maybe longer. You sure Tino’s really still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe they are just propping him up. Like Castro. Or Weekend at Bernie’s.”
“He’s alive.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and it will all blow up this weekend. Yep. Maybe this is the weekend Tino finally kicks it. Boy, that would be something, eh, Sunday?”
Sunday didn’t respond and turned back to his desk. After a few seconds Sunday looked up again and Glen was still there, still leering, still grinning.
Sunday exhaled. “What, Glen, are you here working on?”
“Somali pirates,” he said firing finger guns at the ceiling. “They seized another Korean container ship last night.”
“You don’t say,” Sunday said.
“Yup, that’s the third grab-and-go this month. I can’t say any more. So, Sunday, who’s this girlfriend of yours?”
Sunday ignored the question and turned his attention back to his computer.
“Okay, S-Man, I can take a hint. I’ve got pirates to catch anyway. We can talk about your girlfriend later.”
Sunday grunted as he logged into the network and clicked through several security screens to access a database. With a few keystrokes he pulled up all financial transactions in or out of Zimbabwean banks for the past month. Long endless lists scrolled on his screen. He opened a data filter and set the size minimum at $1 million. The list shrunk from millions of transactions to a few hundred. One immediately stuck out as larger than all the rest.
Oct07 $150,000,000 ZimBank (HRE) 1015655 ABC from HSBC (IOM) 786252 XXX
That’s today, Sunday thought. Who is transferring $150 million into a volatile country on election day? He opened another screen and logged into another CIA database. He typed in the receiving account information, and the screen reported:
ZimBank Account 1015655
African Ballistics Corporation (ABC)
500 Fidel Castro Avenue, Harare, Zimbabwe
Authorized Holder: Simba Chimurenga
“Aaay!” Sunday said aloud. “Christmas for the general. Who is Santa Claus?” he mumbled to himself. He entered the sender account data and received:
HSBC Account 786252
Anonymous(XXX)
Prevost Avenue, Douglas, Isle of Man
Authorized Holder: Name Withheld
Sunday scratched his head. He picked up the phone. “I’ve got an anonymous bank account linked to a suspicious transaction I need network mapped. I’m sending over the account information now.” A few moments later his screen popped.
HSBC 786252, Anonymous (XXX), Isle of Man, Name Withheld
AsiaOne Bank 786252, XTC Trading Co, Mauritius, Name Withheld
Barclays 786252, Orca Financial, Jersey, M.O. Smith
HSBC 786252, RDVC, Bangkok, Thailand, Max O’Malley
Max O’Malley? Sunday pushed his chair back away from his desk. The same person who had tried to mine uranium at Kanyemba and failed was now bankrolling Simba Chimurenga? And presumably these were campaign funds for President Tinotenda. Elections always brou
ght out dirty money, he thought. But what is an American mining investor living in Bangkok doing in . . . Zimbabwe? It made no sense.
And who was funding the opposition? Sunday returned to the database and searched for any accounts associated with Gugu Mutonga or the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe, but came up empty. He cleared the $1 million minimum filter and searched again. The page began to fill.
Oct07 $9872 ZimBank (HRE) 6764882 DUZ from SunBank (JHB) 786252 BST
Oct06 $9994 ZimBank (HRE) 6764882 DUZ from SunBank (JHB) 786252 BST
Oct05 $9765 ZimBank (HRE) 6764882 DUZ from SunBank (JHB) 786252 BST
Oct04 $9902 ZimBank (HRE) 6764882 DUZ from SunBank (JHB) 786252 BST
Oct03 $9881 ZimBank (HRE) 6764882 DUZ from SunBank (JHB) 786252 BST
Sunday scratched his head again. One transaction every day from the same account in Johannesburg to the same account in Harare. DUZ was Gugu Mutonga’s party. But what was BST? And why were the amounts so random? And so small?
“Glen!” Sunday yelled.
“You need girlfriend advice over there, S-Man?”
“You’ve worked on underground money transfers in Somalia, right?”
“Yeah, they’re called hawala. They’re a way for people working overseas to send money home to relatives. But the terrorists started using them to move money, so we’ve mostly shut all the hawala down.”
“I’ve got repeat transactions, one per day, every day, from one account to another. What would that tell you?”
“A hair under ten thousand dollars, right?”
“Exactly,” Sunday said.
“And slightly different totals each day, right?”
“Yes! How did you guess?”
“Classic under-the-radar strategy.” Glen attacked another donut. Talking with his mouth full, he explained, “Most of the financial tracking software defaults to flag all transactions above $10K. If you were trying to mask money transfers, you’d keep it under that level.”