by Todd Moss
“And what about it, Judd? Who’s going to win?”
“No results yet. That’s what I’m working on,” Judd stared down at his computer screen. UNITED STATES’ CONCERNS ABOUT THE INTEGRITY OF THE ELECTION IN ZIMBABWE was written across the top. Below the title, the screen displayed a table showing reported election results compared side by side with the parallel voting tabulation he’d received from Mariana.
“Remember you told me to force the issue? That’s what I’m doing, Jess. I’m seizing Minute Zero.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m taking your advice, sweets.”
“You were worried about some kind of political blowback?”
“I think I’ve got that covered, too. Your advice again.”
“Good. I’m glad I was helpful.”
“For the first time since I got to Zimbabwe, I think we’ve got a real chance to make a difference here,” he said.
Jessica’s phone buzzed and flashed DANIEL DOLLAR. Her shorthand code for DDO, the deputy director of operations. Her boss. She pushed DIVERT TO VOICEMAIL.
“Sweets, I’m glad things are looking up,” she said. “The kids are starting to shout. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine, Jess. Just know I’m safe. Don’t worry.”
“I won’t. I only wish I could help you.”
“You’ve helped plenty already. I’ll call you again soon. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” She blew him a kiss and ended the call.
Once they were disconnected, Judd stared at his phone, unsure of his next move.
Jessica, however, knew exactly what to do. She immediately dialed a different number.
“Yes, ma’am?” Sunday answered.
“We haven’t got much time. I need you to copy the best of the shots from our bird over Kanyemba and send them to Judd in Harare. We need the ones that are very clear, the indisputable ones.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now. Do it right now. Don’t take any other calls. Don’t do anything else. Don’t even talk to anyone until you are done. Just send the pictures.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thank you, Sunday.”
“I’m being pulled off Zimbabwe, ma’am. Starting tomorrow.”
“I know. Somali pirates get all the glory. More of a reason to hurry.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Click.
Jessica was satisfied the pieces were falling into place. And she thought she’d pulled off the misdirection with Judd on the phone. She knew the manipulation of her husband would come back to haunt her. She would have to deal with that problem soon enough. For now, she had to stay focused on her task. After years of waiting, this was her moment. She couldn’t allow sentiment to cloud her judgment. Or deter her. She finished dressing and descended the stairs to make her children breakfast.
Eight thousand miles away, Judd’s computer chirped with an urgent message from Sunday. He double-clicked and opened the attached photos. Sunday’s only notation was: Kanyemba mine. Taken over the past 24 hours. Scroll in sequence.
At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. But then he realized Sunday had sent the photos in order of increasing amplification. When he got to the final picture—a close-up geothermal image of an underground room within the Kanyemba mine—and he could see what was inside, the moment he realized what was hidden in that hole in the ground, his stomach convulsed. His mind spun and he felt dizzy. He turned and vomited violently into the trash can.
As Judd coughed and spit the sour acids from deep in his stomach, he suddenly realized the sickening image on his screen was in fact . . . a magnificent gift.
54.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 2:38 p.m. Central Africa Time
People cleared the streets when they heard the sirens coming. The president’s convoy began with two dozen policemen on motorcycles, blocking traffic and chasing slow pedestrians from the oncoming assault. Next came six military trucks, each bristling with soldiers in sunglasses, their AK-47s pointing menacingly in all directions. They shouted obscenities at the bystanders and cleared whatever traffic remained. The third wave was a train of three identical black Mercedes limousines with tinted windows. One of those—no one could ever be sure which—carried President Winston Tinotenda. The final wave was an ambulance and communications vehicle surrounded by another cloud of policemen.
Tinotenda had initially been resistant to the idea that he needed such protection to move around his own capital. He worried that it isolated him from his people and displayed arrogance. But as his paranoia grew, so, too, did his security entourage. General Simba Chimurenga had proposed the mass show of force combined with extra vehicles as a deterrent to potential assassins. Who those assassins might be was a question no one ever asked. But over the years, both the president and the public had grown accustomed to this regular tornado of security blowing through the city whenever the president was on the move.
On this day, Tinotenda, sitting in the backseat of the second limousine, squinted through thick reading glasses at the text in front of him. It was a victory speech one of his public relations lackeys had prepared that he’d been due to give nearly forty minutes ago. The speech was to follow the announcement of the final results of another overwhelming election landslide. He now intended to explain the need for the state of emergency and the new security measures he was taking to protect the nation.
Tino had considered a reconciliatory speech. He’d even toyed with the idea of using the occasion of another massive victory to reach out to his opponents, perhaps even offer Gugu Mutonga a cabinet position, something small and powerless. Maybe even create a new ministry. No budget or staff, of course, but it would come with a government house and a generous expense account. The point would be an unmistakable peace offering. Maybe that would shut her up. Maybe it would smooth the way for whatever came after his eventual death. He saw that the people didn’t believe he would ever die, that the father of the nation would live forever. But after eighty-eight years he also knew his time on earth was limited.
But no, the First Lady had convinced him otherwise. Reaching out to that woman would make him seem weak and indecisive. It would only embolden their enemies, Harriet insisted. She counseled lowering the hammer. Using their defeat at the ballot box to crush them once and for all. Tinotenda was unsure, but Chimurenga agreed with Harriet. So the president was reading a text full of revolutionary vitriol. It was red meat for the party faithful. It attacked the opposition as traitors and sellouts.
Tino slouched back in the seat, oblivious to the sirens and the chaos outside his limousine. No, he thought, that was not the right path. He would soften the speech, he decided, if only to show he was no monster. President Tinotenda reached into the breast pocket of his jacket to find his fountain pen. After fumbling for a few seconds, his unsteady fingers grasped it. He eyed the black and gold Mont Blanc Special Edition closely, remembering fondly it was a gift from the Malaysian prime minister. Yes, he would make a peace offering. He would rewrite the speech, even if his people had to wait.
As he touched the paper with his pen, the president suddenly sensed a whoosh of air in his eardrums. His vision went bright white, a loud explosion cracked through his skull, and then everything went solid black.
55.
Twickenham, London
Sunday, 1:40 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time
“. . . Not in this land alone,”
bellowed eighty thousand rugby fans in unison.
“But be God’s mercies known,
From shore to shore!
Lord make the nations see,
That men should brothers be,
And form one family,
The wide world over.”
Simon Kenny-Waddington, sporting a sparkling white England jersey with a bright red rose emblem on his l
eft breast, took a deep breath for the final stanza.
“From every latent foe,
From the assassin’s blow,
God save the Queen!
O’er her thine arm extend,
For Britain’s sake defend,
Our mother, prince, and friend,
God save the Queen!”
Simon suddenly remembered the call he really should make before the game began.
“Pardon me,” he said as he slipped past a line of men in identical shirts.
“Where you off to, my boy?” asked one of his friends.
“Shan’t be a minute,” he said. “I’ll be back in my seat before kickoff.”
“The office?”
“Simon, you must be joking!” scolded another.
“The Empire never sleeps,” he replied with a shrug, and ducked out of the aisle and into a tunnel.
With a finger in one ear and the phone pressed hard against the other, he shouted in the phone, “Judd, my boy!”
“Yes, Simon, it’s me. What’s that noise?”
“Samoa.”
“What?”
“Samoa!”
“You’re in the Pacific?”
“No, rugby, my boy! We’re playing Samoa! You’re hearing the roar of Twickenham!”
“Samoa?”
“They’re bloody good! They gave the All Blacks a rough go!”
“I can barely hear you, Simon,” said Judd, trying not to yell himself.
“I’ll be quick. It’s almost kickoff. I’m calling because I discovered something that may be of interest.”
“Yes?”
The roar of the crowd grew louder as the English team took the field. “Can you hear me, Judd?”
“Yes!” Judd shouted back into the phone.
“I think I figured out why your man Tino loves his boy Simba so much!”
“Yes! Go ahead!”
“Kanyemba.”
“Kanyemba, right! What’s the connection?”
“Simba was the commander.”
“The commander?”
“Our man confirmed this today.”
“Motowetsurohuro,” muttered Judd.
“What?” shouted Simon, pressing the phone tighter to his ear.
“The massacre. You’re saying Simba Chimurenga was the commander during the massacre at Kanyemba twenty years ago.”
“That’s why I’m calling you!”
“So that’s why Chimurenga rose so quickly through the ranks?”
“Seems so, yes!”
“That’s why Chimurenga is trying to cover up the massacre now?”
“I think you’re onto something, my boy!”
“That’s why the two of them have remained so close?”
“I think so, yes!”
“That’s why they have protected each other!”
“Yes—”
But Judd didn’t hear that affirmation from Simon. The only thing he heard was the soft thud of another explosion off in the distance.
56.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 2:44 p.m. Central Africa Time
When Tsitsi heard the explosion, her first instinct was to run toward the sound. Tinashe tried to pull her away, but she resisted. “Tssss! We must see!”
A cacophony of crying and frantic shouting filled the air. The crowd rushed past them. Sirens wailed in the distance. An old woman holding her forehead, blood running through her fingers, stumbled past in a haze. Up in the sky, a thin cloud of smoke was rising, guiding them to the bomb site.
As they neared the wreckage, an acrid smell of burning rubber invaded Tsitsi’s nostrils. She covered her face with a handkerchief, one she’d brought for tear gas.
“My God . . .” she said to herself, staring down at twisted metal and the unmistakable sight of a severed human arm.
“The president’s car?” Tinashe asked.
Tsitsi nodded.
“The president?”
Tsitsi shrugged.
They both turned back to the wreckage, when Tsitsi noticed a black and gold pen lying on the road between her feet. She bent down and picked it up, gently rolling it in her fingers. Amid the soot and smoke and debris, it was remarkably shiny, she thought.
“Where are the police, Tsitsi?” asked Tinashe, grabbing her other hand and squeezing tightly. They scanned the scene, no police, no army could be seen, just people running in every direction. The crack crack crack of gunfire went off in the distance.
“Chaos,” she said, tossing the pen away with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “It’s chaos.”
57.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 3:02 p.m. Central Africa Time
Is the Presidential Mansion on lockdown?” demanded General Simba Chimurenga.
“Yes, General,” said the soldier, saluting stiffly. “We are Emergency Code Red activated. All the roads leading up to the mansion have been closed. The gates have all been locked down. Tanks and Hippos have all been moved into defensive positions. The Presidential Guard has been fully deployed to all critical locations. Nothing is getting in here, sir.”
“Commander, have they been issued with emergency orders?”
“Yes, General. All Presidential Guards have live ammunition and been granted emergency shoot-to-kill permissions.”
“Good. What about the First Lady?”
“Sir?”
“Harriet Tinotenda! The First Lady!” he growled. “Where is she, soldier?”
“In the bunker, sir.”
“I want your best men protecting her. Redeploy immediately.”
“Yes, General. Right away. Is there a threat against the First Lady?”
“Commander, we don’t know yet. We must be on our highest alert. The nation is under attack as we speak and we are the last line of defense. I want the First Lady protected at all costs. Do you understand, soldier?”
“Yes, sir!” he barked, saluting again.
“Good. I’m going to check on the First Lady now and assure her she has nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all. Go, Commander!”
“Sir?” asked the soldier quizzically.
“Make it quick, Commander. I have a nation to save.”
“The president, sir?”
Chimurenga paused, then glanced down, averting his eyes. “The president is in critical condition. He sustained massive injuries from the terrorist blast that destroyed his car.”
“Is President Tinotenda alive, General?”
“I don’t have confirmation one way or the other. Once I know, the nation will be informed. For now, we must fight to protect Zimbabwe.”
“Who is in charge, sir?”
“I am, Commander. Now go!”
The soldier paused for a brief moment and looked into Simba Chimurenga’s eyes. “Yes, sir!”
Chimurenga descended a secret flight of stairs and walked down a long hallway lit only by bare industrial bulbs. The only sounds he could hear were the hollow click-clack of his own footsteps on the concrete floor. And a steady drip . . . drip . . . drip echo of water drops.
After fifty meters, he reached a steel door. He rapped on the door three times and a small sliding window opened. Two angry yellow eyes appeared.
“Open the door, soldier!” hissed Chimurenga.
“I’m under strict orders not to open the door for anyone, sir.”
“Do you know who I am, soldier?”
“Yes, sir. But my commander—”
“I am your commander. Now open the door!”
“Open the door, you fool!” said a husky woman’s voice inside the room. The window slid shut and the yellow eyes disappeared.
After a few seconds the hallway was filled with the s
ound of scraping steel and a loud clang. Then the door banged open.
Inside, six soldiers in army-green uniforms and black berets drew their handguns and stood in a semicircle aiming at the general. Behind them was an ornate living room. French sofas were arranged around a large television set. Off to one side sat a radio, boxes of canned food and bottled water, and a rack of brand-new AK-47s.
“General!” exclaimed a woman sitting on the sofa.
“Stand down, soldiers!” insisted Chimurenga, holding up his hands and showing both palms. “I’m unarmed.” But they didn’t move.
Yellow Eyes spoke first. “Ma’am, we are under strict orders not to allow anyone in here.”
“This is General Chimurenga, you fool. He is here to protect us.”
“We are Code Red. The presidency is under attack and our orders are to protect the First Lady.”
“I issued those orders, soldier,” said the general through clenched teeth. “Now stand down.”
“Tsaaah! Stand down, fool!” hissed Harriet, pushing the soldier aside. Yellow Eyes nodded to his colleagues and they all lowered their guns.
“I’m sorry, General,” he said, hanging his head.
“I understand, soldier. These are unusual times. You are doing your job. Now leave us.”
“Sir?”
“Leave us alone. You are being redeployed. Check with your commander.”
“Ma’am?” he asked, looking to the First Lady for instructions.
“Leave us!” she said, pointing to the door.
Once the soldiers departed, Harriet closed the door, threw her arms around Chimurenga’s neck, and burst into tears.
“Oh, Simba! They haven’t told me anything! What’s happened? Is Winston dead?”
“He is gone.”
“Ahhhhhhh!” she wailed and gripped his neck tighter.
“It will be all right, baby,” he said, lightly patting her back as she sobbed. “Your lion is here to protect you . . .” After a few moments she caught her breath and backed away.
“Simba, what have we done?”
“There is no time for that, Harriet. We can now be together. Just like we planned.”
