by Todd Moss
“Okay, Mariana. If you survive the voting and you somehow make it through the counting, how do you stop Tinotenda and the army from just refusing to step down?”
“That would be a coup.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Well, that’s where you come in, Judd. Why do you think I called you in the first place?”
“I’m still not sure.”
“We’ve fixed a coup together once before. We succeeded marvelously in Mali. Why can’t we do it again in Zimbabwe?”
“You dragged me into this because you are predicting a coup?”
“In a way, yes.”
“It’s a completely different situation.”
“Well, you’re here now. That’s why Landon Parker sent you. To help me.”
“I’m not sure Parker sees it that way.”
“Of course he doesn’t, darling. That’s one of Landon’s charms. Even when he’s doing the right thing, he’s not sure why. But, deep down, you also know that’s why you’re here. You have to accept it. You are here to help me ensure Gugu Mutonga beats Winston Tinotenda.”
She’s right. I am.
After an awkward pause, Judd asked, “What do you need?”
“I’ll need you soon enough. The question now is, what can I do for you?”
“Actually . . .” Judd decided it was worth a shot. “You ever heard of Royal Deepwater Venture Capital?”
“Nope.”
“How about Max O’Malley?”
“Max O’Malley?” she giggled. “What kind of Washington lobbyist would I be if I didn’t know him?”
“So, you’ve heard of him?”
“Heard of him? I’ve been to parties with him, darling.”
“Parties?”
“Max O’Malley is the definition of being plugged in. He goes way back with some very important people. He hit the big time during the Reagan arms buildup.”
“He’s a defense contractor?”
“I don’t know what he’s into these days, but that’s how he got started.”
“And why are you at parties with him?”
“He’s a bundler.”
“What’s a bundler?”
“Oh, Judd, you’re adorable. I forgot you are still new to Washington. A bundler is a fund-raiser. The guy is a money machine for politicians.”
“Which politicians?”
“He’s big-time. In the last election, Max O’Malley was one of the largest campaign fund-raisers for the President.”
Oh, shit.
“Judd, darling, why are you asking? What’s he got to do with Zimbabwe?”
“I’ll tell you when you need to know.”
32.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Saturday, 9:20 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Sunday stared with disbelief at the page in front of him, dominated by thick black lines. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
In hindsight, Sunday was perfect for the Directorate of Intelligence, the analytical branch of the Central Intelligence Agency. The geeks. His parents had fled Nigeria in the late 1960s, just around the time of the Biafran civil war, which killed close to three million people. Although Sunday’s family was Hausa-speaking and originally from the north of the country, his father had been working in the southeast. He had seen trouble brewing and cleverly decided, for reasons never made clear to Sunday, that it was time to go. But rather than return to the north and the safety of his home village, Sunday’s father took a fishing boat to Cameroon, then made his way via Chad, Tunisia, and Paris to East London. Sunday’s dad worked three jobs to earn enough money to bribe a customs officer to smuggle his young wife out of the country and into Britain. Once they were reunited, they followed a distant cousin to suburban Los Angeles, where one spring Sunday morning their first son was born and named for that day.
Like many new immigrants, they embraced their adopted country with relish. An American flag hung outside the family home. Sunday’s mother fed her growing son macaroni and cheese while his father grilled hamburgers in the backyard while sharing lawn care tips with the neighbors.
But as much as Sunday’s family became full-throated Americans, their pride in Nigeria never wavered. Every Thursday evening they ate okra and pumpkin soup, goat stew, and Hausa koko, a porridge made from millet. If they had special visitors from the homeland, which was more often than not, they would roast a whole lamb rubbed with spices in a pit in the backyard.
Most of all, Sunday’s family closely followed political events back home: coups in 1975, 1983, 1985, 1994. The rise and fall of Shagari, Buhari, Babangida, Abiola, Abacha, Obasanjo, Yar’Adua. The dinner table debates were the main reason Sunday chose political science as his college major.
The taboo topic—the Biafran war and why his father fled—drove Sunday to focus his Ph.D. on political violence. After falling under the wing of Professor BJ van Hollen, Sunday studied the tactics used in Rwanda during the 1994 genocide, trying to understand the motivations of ambitious men and the methods of orchestrating a massacre. How could politicians get neighbors to turn on each other? How did evil men convince ordinary citizens to commit mass murder? What could we learn from these events to prevent them in the future? How to better understand these great moral failures to ensure it never happens again?
Sunday was always sharp and followed his father’s rigorous work ethic. He knew his own heritage would be a benefit at any American university hungry for a young African star, which he learned could be leveraged into a successful academic career. Princeton, Yale, the University of Chicago—all came calling. But Sunday was swayed by his mentor.
BJ van Hollen had from the very first days urged his best students to consider public service. The campaign had begun with well-timed placements of short summer internships at the State Department and the Department of Defense. Sunday excelled at those opportunities, impressing his supervisors with his long days and incisive analysis of complex political trends. These attributes had also drawn the attention of the U.S. Intelligence Community.
One morning over breakfast, as Sunday was in final preparations for submitting his thesis, van Hollen gave him the pitch: Join the CIA.
Sunday presented his final two options to his parents: take a tenure-track job at the University of Chicago or become a junior CIA analyst. A prestigious professorship at one of America’s elite centers of learning, writing books, security of tenure, even celebrity. Or toiling in anonymity for your country.
It wasn’t even a close call.
Sunday also followed his mentor’s advice and shied away from working on Africa early in his career. The last thing he wanted was to be pigeonholed in the continent. Or worse, expose himself to accusations of clientitis.
What he really loved about the job was the open access. To understand what was happening, to solve the world’s many puzzles, he had entrée to more information than anyone on the outside. The bargain in his mind was giving up fame and status for the closest thing that existed on the planet to total information awareness.
That thought dug into his gut as he stared at the page before him.
Office of Acquisition, Department of Defense
Memo Ref: Oooooooooooooo/August 1982
SECRET: Operation Ooooooooooo: Alternative Uranium Sources
Operation Oooooooooooooo launched with Ooooooooooo OooooooooooOooooooooooOooooooooooOoooooooooo contractors exploring uranium mines in the following locations:
Shinkolobwe, Zaire
Ooooooooooo Ooooooooooo
Kanyemba, Zimbabwe
Ooooooooooo Ooooooooooo
Progress limited due to Ooooooooooo Ooooooooooo Ooooooooooo Ooooooooooo. Kanyemba, Zimbabwe operations aborted following compromise of local security arrangements and Ooooooooooo Oooooooo Oooooooooooo.
Operation Ooooooooooo closed.
; Sunday dialed a familiar number.
“Ma’am. It’s me again. I’ve been digging in the archives looking for anything on Kanyemba. At first I could only find exploratory contracts. Nothing solid. But now I think I’ve found something. Buried deep in the vault. I’ve discovered a memo from the early 1980s about a DOD operation at the Kanyemba mine. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but all the key details have been blacked out, even at my security level. Practically the whole memo is redacted. Yes, redacted.”
After a long pause, Jessica replied, “I will deal with this.”
33.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 3:38 p.m. Central Africa Time
Ambassador Arnold Tallyberger stood at a safe distance observing. He was strategically positioned in the parking lot of the school that was normally closed on a Saturday but today was a hive of activity.
A long, orderly line of voters had formed: younger men in T-shirts and flip-flops, while most of the older men wore ties and leather shoes. The women were similarly divided by attire. The middle-aged and the elderly showed off their church best and shielded themselves with sun umbrellas. The younger women wore casual dresses, many with babies safely cocooned on their backs in colorful print wraps. The line wasn’t moving, but Zimbabweans had grown accustomed to waiting in long queues. It was what many of them did every day, waiting for the bank or a bus or a paycheck. Seizing a captive audience, young boys walked the line selling gum, bags of fried mopane worms, and fluorescent orange Fanta soda. A uniformed policeman, swinging a nightstick, watched intently over the proceedings. Other men watched, too, from the shadows, unseen by most but with the full awareness of the crowd.
Tallyberger was trying to appear inconspicuous today, so he’d replaced his usual pin-striped business suit with casual khaki. Not the tacky safari gear tourists wore, he thought, but the real stuff from South Africa. Hiking boots from a camping gear catalog in Maine and a hunting hat from Australia rounded out his outfit. He was trying to blend in.
The ambassador’s attempt at discretion was undermined by the entourage standing directly behind him: two staff assistants, a political officer, his driver, two journalists, and four burly State Department security guards. Out of respect, the local voters pretended not to notice.
If anyone looked at Tallyberger’s face, it would have been easy to detect his sense of satisfaction. Hands on hips, lower lip protruding, nodding.
But the true target of his approval that afternoon was not the voting. He wasn’t even really absorbing the scene before him. Arnold Tallyberger, the U.S. ambassador to the Republic of Zimbabwe and at that moment the chief of the American Embassy Election Observer Mission in Zimbabwe, was daydreaming about London.
Tallyberger had given eight tours, twenty-four years of his life, to the U.S. Foreign Service. He’d stamped passports in Pakistan, Peru, and Papua New Guinea. He’d managed embassy budgets in Finland, Jordan, and Sri Lanka. He’d even survived the ugly incident in Haiti. He shuddered at the thought of that unpleasantness, but, like the Foreign Service, he’d decided what happened was better left quiet, safely out of sight. His rewards for loyalty were the ambassadorships to, first, Mongolia and then Zimbabwe. He was grateful to his patrons within the bureaucracy for his rise to the top. But he harbored a secret disappointment that when his moments of professional glory—being named chief of mission—finally arrived, it was in the isolated capitals of Ulan Bator and Harare. These cities were fine, of course. Lovely places, he thought. Friendly people. And the United States of America had important national interests everywhere, he’d convinced himself. But Mongolia and Zimbabwe weren’t hubs for anything. No one ever dropped by on their way somewhere more important. For any trip Ulan Bator and Harare were, literally, the end of the line. But Tallyberger had one last diplomatic tour in him before retirement—the crown jewel, so to speak.
Arnold always loved British adventure novels: Rudyard Kipling, Robert Louis Stevenson, Arthur Conan Doyle. Now he could barely contain himself thinking that he, too, would soon be living in London and enjoying the high life. The black-tie parties, the afternoon strolls in Regent’s Park, the chance to meet royalty. He’d paid his dues in the backwaters of the world. Now, at the pinnacle of his career, he was ready for real diplomacy.
If he was pleased finally to be posted to the United Kingdom, his wife, Bernice, was jubilant. Ever since she had had a tea set as a child, she’d dreamed of high teas at a posh Bloomsbury hotel. A pot of Earl Grey, raisin scones, strawberries with clotted cream, dainty crustless sandwiches of watercress and cucumber. Civilization. Not only would she soon be at the Dorchester or the Savoy whenever she desired, but she would preside over high tea as the wife of the U.S. deputy chief of mission. Arnold knew Bernice would love that.
It was too bad, Tallyberger mused, that he would have to be satisfied with playing number two in Britain. Like all the plum ambassadorships, Embassy London always went to a political appointee rather than a career Foreign Service officer. One of the unfortunate realities of the American diplomatic system, he thought. But no time to grumble, he reminded himself. Chin up! Arnold Tallyberger was going to London!
“How do you judge it so far?” asked one of the journalists.
“Excuse me?” asked Tallyberger, snapping back to the present.
“The voting, Mr. Ambassador. How do you judge the voting so far?”
“Ah, yes,” he said, taking an exaggerated scan of the line of Zimbabweans waiting patiently for their turn at the ballot box. “Very orderly. Very calm.”
“Is that all, Mr. Ambassador?”
Tallyberger turned to the entourage to see all eyes were on him. His political officer, a young woman in her late twenties with wide librarian-style glasses and a clipboard, nodded encouragingly at her boss.
“Are you ready?” the ambassador asked the journalist.
“Yes, sir,” he said displaying his pen.
“Fine. The United States is today participating as an international observer. I am proud to be leading the American Embassy Election Observer Mission in Zimbabwe. We are cautiously optimistic the election today will be conducted in a free and fair manner. We are hopeful the will of the Zimbabwean people and their desire for democratic government will be reflected in today’s historic vote. From what I have seen so far, I am strongly encouraged. I have witnessed only calm and orderly voting.”
“When will the AEEOMZ be issuing a final verdict on the conduct of the elections?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Have you spoken with any of the other observer team chiefs?”
“Not yet. But I shall soon call the ambassador from Great Britain.”
Great Britain, he thought again.
34.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 10:36 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Safe!” yelled Jessica, jumping out of her forest green fold-up camping chair.
“Out!” called the umpire.
“Safe by half a step,” she said a little quieter. Other parents shot looks of disapproval. “Little League umpires,” she muttered under her breath, returning the stares with an awkward smile.
Jessica checked her phone again. Still no messages. He’s probably busy, she thought.
“Good hit, Toby,” she called out to her son, walking back to the dugout with his head hung low. He glanced up at her, expressionless. No read. “You’ll get him next time!”
As the players, skinny six-year-old boys in baggy baseball uniforms, changed sides, she got up to stretch her legs. “Noah, honey, stay here. Mommy will be right back.” She air-dropped a peanut butter granola bar in her son’s lap and strolled down the first-base line toward right field. Out of earshot, but maintaining a clear sightline on her younger son.
The sun was already high in the sky, but the Washington autumn air had not yet warmed up. The parking lot behind the field was full of minivans and gian
t SUVs, packs of small children pouring out in brightly colored uniforms, dragging baseball, soccer, and lacrosse gear. In the distance, over the trees, she could just make out the top of the Washington Monument.
She checked her phone one more time. Nothing.
It’s late afternoon already in Harare, she thought. “Fuck it,” she said aloud, and pressed a button on her phone.
“Hi, Jess,” Judd answered. No read.
“I’m sure you are busy. I just wanted to check in.”
“Actually, now’s a good time. I’ve got a short break between meetings. How are the boys?”
Jessica glanced up. Noah was happily munching on his breakfast bar. Toby was dancing in center field, straining to pay attention to the game. “They’re good. We’re at Toby’s T-ball game.”
“What’s the score?”
“They don’t keep score in T-ball. How are you?”
“Busy. How about you, sweets?”
“I’m busy, too. How’s Zimbabwe?”
“Give me a minute,” Judd said. Jessica could hear a door click closed and then her husband returned in a quieter voice. “Jess, I don’t really know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“The voting is under way and everyone is acting like it’s all going smoothly. On the surface everything appears fine. But I’m watching a slow-motion train wreck, and no one else sees it.”
“What about the ambassador?”
“Checked out.”
“What about your team? You have your superheroes yet?”
Judd knew his wife would eventually ask this very question, so he was ready for a quick mental inventory. Bull, Sunday, and Serena—he could definitely count on them. Mariana Leibowitz and Landon Parker were maybes. Isabella Espinosa? Brock Branson? Too soon to say.
“Yeah. I’ve got a few folks here I can trust,” he replied. “I’ve got a core team to start with.”
