by Todd Moss
“But why alter the amounts?”
“Precise repeats typically get flagged, too.”
“I see.”
“Whoever is transferring that money doesn’t want the bank to notice,” Glen said.
“Or the Zimbabwean intelligence services?”
“Or us,” Glen said, wiping his hands on his jeans as he wandered away.
Sunday pulled up the website for SunBank in South Africa, clicked on CLIENT LOGIN, typed in the BST account number, and then ran a PIN search algorithm. After a few seconds he was in. He moved through the system and found account details:
SunBank Account 786252
Black Star Trust (BST)
Millennium Tower, Sandton, Johannesburg
Authorized Trustees: Lucky Magombe
Who in the world is Lucky Magombe? he thought.
Sunday opened a separate screen and searched for Lucky Magombe in the agency’s profile database. All that came up was a simple biography about a Zimbabwean stock trader who’d moved his business to South Africa. No known criminal record. No known political affiliations. Sunday pushed his chair back and exhaled loudly. He rolled his head in a circle, cracking his neck.
Winston Tinotenda versus Gugu Mutonga? Or is it Max O’Malley versus Lucky Magombe?
26.
Johannesburg, South Africa
Saturday, 1:15 p.m. Central Africa Time
Sitting in his corner office at the headquarters of Black Star Capital, Lucky Magombe studied the blinking screens. One screen displayed a long list of district names with rolling columns of numbers as the votes came in. The other showed a map of his home country, Zimbabwe, broken down by individual voting constituency. The data on the first screen fed into an algorithm projecting final outcome probabilities on the second screen. These calculations were converted into a color-coding for each district on the map. Lucky had written the code himself.
So far, there was little to report. Several obvious strongholds glowed green for Winston Tinotenda and red for Gugu Mutonga. But, only a few hours into voting, most of the map’s zones remained black. Too early to predict the result with any confidence.
Lucky zoomed in on the map for his home area, in the far north of the country, just near the town of Kanyemba. It, too, was black. He overlaid the map with satellite imagery and zoomed in to the center of Kanyemba. He began at the old mine compound, the easiest landmark to find from space. He could clearly spot the straight lines of the roads and rectangular shapes of the compound’s now-derelict buildings. He followed with his finger the winding snake of a river flowing east. Several miles downstream, the river merged with a small creek to form a familiar triangle. This was the site of the village where he’d grown up. Lucky Magombe, sitting on the fourteenth floor of an air-conditioned office in Johannesburg, was staring at a photo of his home.
Except nothing was there. Just trees and dark red earth. There was in fact no sign at all there had ever been a village on that spot. Lucky’s stomach ached as he zoomed in closer to scour for any sign of a house, a well, anything. Nothing.
If only he had a satellite photo from before his village was completely erased. When the young lawyer Gugu Mutonga took the village’s case to court and then all the way to the United Nations. The government denied a village had ever existed there. There was no proof of a village, so there was no atrocity. No records, no photographs, no witnesses, no bodies ever found.
Of course, everyone knew the truth about Operation Motowetsurohuro, the Great Rabbit Fire. Everyone knew that three villages and their nine hundred residents had lived there for years in peace. And now they did not. Everyone knew about the army and the attack helicopters. And everyone knew the message of Motowetsurohuro: Silence.
Lucky also knew that as long as there was proof a village had once been, then the fight for justice would not be over. He knew there was proof that those people lived, that his mother existed. That proof was him.
As Lucky stared at the place that denied he was a real person, he wrestled with what to do next. He closed the screen with the satellite map and turned back to the voting tabulations. Satisfied, he picked up his phone and called a number inside Zimbabwe.
A deep voice answered, “Hello.”
“Is this the Canterbury Cricket Club?” asked Lucky.
“Is this Cannonball?”
“Yebo.”
“Your membership has been prepared. Are you now ready to play?”
“Is the cricket team there?”
“Yes, everything is in place. The target is in our sights. We are only waiting for your approval.”
Lucky longed for revenge. He wanted to taste blood. He wanted to pull the trigger on those who had destroyed his village and killed his mother. But Lucky thought of the woman who had carried him on her back, taught him to read, had made him who he was. He decided she would not want retaliation. She would want justice.
27.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 1:30 p.m. Central Africa Time
What exactly are we looking for, Isabella?”
Special Agent Isabella Espinosa and Colonel David “Bull” Durham slumped down in the front seat of the battered Mitsubishi Pajero SUV with standard local license plates. They had a clear sight line on the front gate but were parked a safe distance from the villa of former Ethiopian President General Solomon Zagwe. The whitewashed wall of the compound was decorated with flowering vines and the lawn was neatly trimmed.
“Anything,” she replied. “Luggage in the driveway. Any signs of flight preparation.”
“It doesn’t look like the house of a monster.”
“Don’t be fooled. Zagwe is a war criminal. Thirty years ago he launched the Red Fear. He ordered the massacre of thousands of civilians. And then he starved another half million innocents. He’s a certified mass murderer.”
“Sounds like Saddam Hussein.”
“In a way. Zagwe tried to appear to the world like a gentleman. But underneath, to his own people, he was a total psychopath.”
“Yep, that was Saddam.”
“You served in Iraq?”
“Yes, ma’am. Three tours. You should’ve seen the palaces. Makes Zagwe’s villa look like an ice-fishing shack.”
“Ice fishing?”
“Minnesota. Born and raised,” Bull said.
“Los Angeles,” Isabella replied.
They both turned their attention back to the front gate.
“So if Zagwe’s been in exile here for so many years, why now, Isabella?”
“This is probably our best chance to get him. If Tinotenda loses today, Zagwe will have to make a run for it. If he gets to North Korea or Russia, we’ll never be able to extradite him. I’ve got to grab him in the chaos after Tino falls.”
“Why don’t we grab him right now?”
“Believe me, I’d love to,” she said. “But we’ve got no authority here. If we handcuff and hood him, the Zimbabweans would never let us leave the country. They’d probably arrest us.”
Durham scowled.
“That’s why it was fortunate Dr. Ryker invited me along,” Isabella said.
“What’s Judd’s interest in your case?”
“I don’t know, actually,” she paused. “I guess he just understood that my best window of opportunity will be in the minutes after Tino is down.”
“Right.”
“Judd agreed that if we wait, even for an hour, it could be too late.”
“Minute Zero,” said Durham. “Yeah, he told me all about it.”
Isabella was about to respond, when there was sudden activity at the front gate. The two ducked down farther. Durham carefully raised his binoculars while Isabella watched through a camera with a long-range zoom.
“Is that him? Is that Zagwe?” asked Durham, watching a tall thin man exit the gate.
“Ye
s!” she said, snapping away with the camera. Zagwe was wearing a light gray suit, far too big for his skinny frame. Aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes. “I’m going to follow him. You stay here and watch the house.”
“I’ll do it,” offered Durham. “You’re a civilian.”
“Negative. This is my case. I’m going.”
“I see that,” he replied. “But you’ve got no experience tailing bad guys. I do. And if something goes wrong, better it falls on me than you. We need you to keep the case moving forward.”
“It’s my case,” she insisted.
“You just said Zagwe was a mass murderer. A psychopath.”
Isabella dropped her head in concession and Durham slipped out of the vehicle and into the street.
The residential avenues of the lush Gun Hill neighborhood were mostly empty. Bull, a huge bald American in a golf shirt and jeans, stood out, so he kept a healthy distance. Zagwe marched forward at a steady clip, puffing impatiently on a long cigarette.
Durham cut across an empty field, walking diagonally through a patch of burned grasses. The smell of the embers filled Bull’s nose, mixing with the sweet fragrance of the jacaranda trees.
The general stopped at a small corner kiosk. Durham hid behind a thick baobab tree. He watched Zagwe make small talk with the proprietor and then hand him a paper bill in exchange for a pack of cigarettes. Just out for smokes, thought Durham.
But rather than return to the villa, Zagwe continued his journey away from the house. He followed a path along the outer edge of another compound, closely hugging the concrete wall. When he came to the end of the block, Zagwe checked over both shoulders before disappearing around the corner.
Bull waited behind the tree for a few moments, then continued his pursuit.
As he peered around the corner of the wall, whack! His ears rang and a sharp pain pierced his skull. Durham stumbled back, holding his head. Zagwe hit him again in the face with something sharp. Bull’s head snapped back and blood oozed from a gash on his cheek. In the face of a surprise attack, Durham’s instinct was to lunge forward, using his weight against the lighter man. He rushed the general, driving him back into the concrete wall. Zagwe yelled in pain as Bull released a forceful punch into the general’s stomach. Bull stepped back to regain his balance and cocked his fist for another blow when he saw a 9mm Makarov pistol in Zagwe’s hand.
Durham stepped back again and raised his hands.
“Who the fuck are you?” demanded Zagwe. He was waving the pistol back and forth and trying to catch his breath.
“I’m no one,” said Durham.
“You’re American. Why are you following me?”
“I’m not following anyone. You attacked me.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“You are the guy who just hit me in the face.”
“Do you know what happened to the last American who was caught following me?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” replied Bull. “I don’t know who you are.”
“I had him thrown off a bridge.”
“I don’t know.”
“I killed that Yankee like a dog,” said Zagwe, narrowing his eyes and raising the pistol to Bull’s head.
“I don’t know—”
“Just like I’m going to kill you—” Which was when Isabella Espinosa’s fist collided with the side of Zagwe’s head. The gun fired, the bullet sparking as it ricocheted off the concrete wall. Zagwe turned toward his new attacker just as Isabella unleashed another punch to the base of his nose, which exploded in blood. Zagwe howled and covered his face, blood seeping through his fingers. Isabella spun and delivered a roundhouse kick to his midsection. Zagwe spilled backward onto the dust, his hand releasing the gun as he hit the ground. Durham grabbed the pistol. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and the two Americans turned and fled at full speed.
As they ran between two houses, Durham flung the gun over a compound wall. “Go, go, go!” he barked.
Once they reached the Mitsubishi, Durham started up the vehicle and drove slowly out of the neighborhood.
“What happened back there?” Isabella demanded, still fighting to catch her breath.
“He got me.”
“I thought you were a professional tracker? A Green Beret!”
“I messed up.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Thanks for saving me back there.”
“Mierda, Bull,” she hissed, shaking her head.
“I’ll bet it felt pretty good to unload on that guy?” asked Durham with a grin.
“It’s my case, Bull.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Now he knows we are onto him. He’s going to be even more careful.”
“I know. I fucked up. You saved me. We’ll still get him.”
“My case. . . .”
They drove in silence, making several U-turns to check for surveillance. When Bull was confident no one was following them, they headed back to the embassy. As they pulled up to the security barrier and waited for the car to be inspected, Isabella said, “Yes.”
“Yes what?” Bull asked.
“Yes. It felt pretty good to unload on that cabrón.”
28.
U.S. Department of State, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 8:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Here again early on a Saturday?” Serena asked.
“Mmm-mmmm. You know how it is,” replied the heavyset secretary who had squeezed herself into her office chair. “If the boss has to work, I got to work.”
“That’s right.”
“Why’re you here? Isn’t Dr. Ryker traveling?”
“Africa,” Serena said. “I’m using the peace and quiet to get my work done.”
“Tell me about it! I can’t get anything done when Mr. Parker is here, either. I’m putting out fires fourteen hours a day.”
“Is Mr. Parker here now?”
“Mmm-hummm, he’s here. The Secretary’s in a breakfast meeting with the Brazilians, so he’s in there with her. Munching on bagels and talking about biofuel subsidies or saving the rain forest or something.”
“How’s your momma?” asked Serena, noticing a Christmas family picture on her friend’s desk.
“She’s doing better. I hope to have her come back to the house soon. The doctor says maybe next week.”
“Oh, that’s good. That’s real good. Tell me when she’s home. I’ll bring you all my crab cakes. A welcome-home crab cake celebration. Maybe that’ll motivate her to get better faster and come on home?”
“That’d be nice. Momma’d love that.”
“I owe her that at least.”
“Serena, you aren’t here early on a Saturday morning to talk about crab cakes. What’re you here for?”
“Research. Dr. Ryker is over in Zimbabwe and there’s something funny about the ambassador out there.”
“Tallyberger?”
“That’s the one.”
“With a name like that, how could something not be funny?”
“That’s the truth!” The two women laughed aloud. “But I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong.” Serena lowered her voice. “You know anything about him?”
“Skinny white fella. Close to Rogerson. They did some tours together. Helsinki and Port Moresby, if I remember right.”
“His Zimbabwe tour is up soon, right?”
The secretary typed into her computer for a few moments, her long fingernails clacking loudly on the keys. “Yep. He’s a short-timer. Due to leave for Embassy London in a few weeks. Maybe he’s acting funny because he’s got one foot out the door already. I’ve seen it before.”
“Could be. I think there’s something else,” Serena whispered.
“You know something about Tallyberger?” her friend asked in a hush.
> Serena leaned in farther. “Maybe something from . . . Port-au-Prince?” Serena pointed at the computer.
“Haiti? What do you know about what happened in Haiti?”
“That’s why I’m asking you,” Serena said. “Can you check his file?”
The secretary shuffled in her chair, then craned her neck to look over Serena’s shoulder. Satisfied no one was watching them, she shrugged.
“You’re not here, right?”
Serena shook her head.
“And so you’re not asking me about anything, right?”
Another shake. “So you’ll check his file for me?”
“Don’t need to. Already know what happened,” she said, tapping a long fingernail to her temple.
“You do? I knew I came to the right woman.”
“Well, I mostly know. He curtailed Port-au-Prince.”
“Tallyberger cut short his Haiti tour?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When? Why?”
“About ten years ago. I don’t know why for real, but something happened. Something bad. There was an investigation and then some kind of settlement. As part of the deal, he was moved early. That’s how he got reposted to Helsinki.”
“Helsinki?”
“Yep. To be with Rogerson. That’s why he’s so loyal. Rogerson saved his career.”
“What did he do to have to curtail?”
“Dunno.”
“You don’t know why he was forced to leave Haiti?”
“Nope. They buried it. Must’ve been part of the deal. I only know there were no charges. No press. No personnel records. Someone swept it right under the rug. But it must’ve been something bad for him to agree.”
“Wow. That is something. How do you know about it?”
“Because I was sitting right here.”
“I knew I came to the right woman!”
“The question is: How did you know to ask me about Tallyberger in Haiti?”
“I can’t say. Girls’ secret.”
“I just gave you the dirty goods on him and you can’t say why you’re even asking?”
“Do you really need to know?”
