by Todd Moss
“Yaah . . .” she whimpered.
“We will rebuild Zimbabwe together. We will make it great once again. You and me. Together. We can visit Paris, Hong Kong, wherever you wish. We can have it all.”
“Yaah . . .”
“You can have it all, Harriet.”
“Yaah. I know that’s what we wanted. But it’s so terrible. Winston is dead.”
“There is no time for second thoughts. We must now be strong.”
“What about me? What will happen to me?”
“I am taking care of everything. We must follow the plan. I will assume the presidency. You will lay low. You will mourn the loss of your husband. And when the time is right, when enough time has passed, you will return as the First Lady. My First Lady.”
“But what if something goes wrong?”
“What will go wrong?”
“But what if something does? Someone killed Solomon Zagwe. It could happen to you!”
“What happened to Zagwe will not happen to me. I assure you. That thief deserved a violent death.”
“You killed him?”
“No one steals from us.”
Harriet gulped on the news. But deep down she already knew.
“Anything can happen, Simba,” she pleaded. “You saw even the guards were confused. No one knows what will happen next. Life is so fragile. They could have killed you and it would have all been over, Simba!”
“The guard? I will have him and his whole family killed for his insults today. Don’t you worry about that.”
“I don’t care about him. What will happen to me?”
“I told you. You will have everything.”
“But what if something happens to you? What do I do then?”
Simba dropped his shoulders in surrender. “If something goes wrong, I have taken care of everything. You will go to Thailand. To Bangkok, to see a man. He will take care of you.”
“Who? How will I know how to find him?”
“If it becomes necessary, I will give you instructions. But you need not worry, Harriet.”
“You promise, Simba?” she said, relief washing over her face.
“I am your lion, remember?”
“Yes, Simba. You are my lion.”
58.
U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 3:40 p.m. Central Africa Time
Ambassador Arnold Tallyberger ran his hands over his head and could feel his greasy scalp on his fingers. I should be packing for London, he thought, not stuck in the middle of this banana republic mess.
“What is happening out there?” he demanded, pointing out the window.
Brock Branson, the CIA station chief, didn’t know. “Après Tinotenda le déluge,” he said under his breath. Brock pulled down one of the venetian blinds to scan beyond the embassy gates. The streets were filled with people running, and a haze of smoke, or more likely tear gas, drifted over the compound walls. “It’s chaos, sir,” he said.
“I can see it’s chaos, goddammit. How do we not know what’s happening?”
“Sir, with all due respect, we are a very small station. You know we have very few assets in Zimbabwe. We’ve got only a handful of eyes and ears on the street. I’ve got my guys at a few key locations, that’s all.”
“What do you know?”
“Mr. Ambassador”—Brock bristled at having to answer to Tallyberger, but kept his cool—“we know that at around 14:44 local time, just under an hour ago, the presidential limousine struck an IED. That’s an improvised explosive device.”
“I know what ‘IED’ stands for,” Tallyberger sneered.
“My apologies, sir. Just being thorough. Shall I continue?”
Tallyberger responded with a flick of his wrist, as if beckoning a servant.
Brock bit his lip and inhaled though his nostrils. “The IED penetrated the security cage of the vehicle, causing massive injuries for all occupants.”
“Is Tinotenda dead?”
“The Zimbabweans aren’t confirming the president’s condition one way or the other. I’ve got a man at the hospital on the lookout for any information.”
“What’s your opinion, Brock?”
“Based on the explosion profile and the damage I’ve seen from photos taken at the scene, I would say his chances of survival are . . . zero.”
Tallyberger dropped his head and exhaled loudly.
“I doubt they’ve even recovered all of his body,” added Branson.
“So if he’s dead, who’s in charge?”
“No one, sir.”
Tallyberger lifted his head to make eye contact with Brock again. “No one?” he snarled. “How can that be?”
“Sir, their constitution states the line of succession starts with the vice president. But no one has seen him for months. It is widely known the vice president is in late-stage dementia and has been living in his rural home, essentially in hospice care by his daughter. That’s just not an option.”
“So who’s next in line? What’s the constitution—”
“The constitution isn’t relevant, sir. That’s my point.”
“It’s not? What are you talking about?”
“Tinotenda packed the constitutional court with his cronies, who have repeatedly dismissed the constitution whenever it has been inconvenient. Remember the Gokwe bank case? The Chimanimani diamond expropriation? The Chitungwiza by-election? In each case, the court ruled that executive discretion outweighed constitutional rule under exceptional circumstances.”
“I don’t remember those.”
“Well, they set a precedent that the president could overrule the constitution if he declared a pressing national interest and some exceptional conditions. I’d say the assassination of the president is about as exceptional as you can get. That means the presidency can declare anything it wants.”
“But who is the presidency if the president is dead?”
“He’s not officially dead, sir. That’s the point.”
“So who is in charge?”
“That’s what we don’t know. I assume Simba Chimurenga will assert his authority. But it depends on what happens next. Whoever killed Tinotenda will probably go after Chimurenga, too, so he may be keeping his head low until he has the security forces lined up.”
“We don’t know who did it?”
“No, sir.”
“We have no idea? The CIA has no idea who just assassinated the president of Zimbabwe? Right here under our noses?”
“It wasn’t us, sir.”
“Well, I should hope the hell not!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who could it have been, Brock?”
“I wouldn’t want to guess at this stage, sir.”
“The Iranians? The South Africans? Al-Qaeda? Who?”
“Unlikely any of those. If I was a betting man, and I’m not, I’d put my money on an internal dispute. Maybe the Matabele finally got fed up? Or one of Tinotenda’s business partners. He had many of those.”
“Could it have been the opposition?”
“The DUZ? Gugu Mutonga? Mr. Ambassador, I don’t think that’s a likely scenario.”
“Maybe Mutonga found out Tino was going to declare victory and she had him killed? Why is that implausible? Isn’t that why Chimurenga is looking for Mutonga? Because she was linked to an assassination plot?”
“Sir, I don’t doubt Tino was intending to declare victory. We’ve got an analyst back at Langley working on this very question. But there’s no evidence Gugu Mutonga or any of her allies had any intention or capability to assassinate senior government officials.”
“I see,” said Tallyberger. “I think . . . I should reach out to Chimurenga. Yes, I can assure him of American cooperation and support at this critical stage. We can help to stabilize the situation with an asse
rtive American position. Can you get him on the phone for me?”
“I’ve been trying to contact Chimurenga for the past hour, but no luck. He’s not answering his phone.”
“Should we go find him?”
“I wouldn’t recommend leaving the embassy compound right now, sir. The police have abandoned their posts, and the army is mostly AWOL. We’ve got reports of looting by army units. The whole command-and-control of the security forces has collapsed.”
“It’s chaos out there is what you are saying?”
“Yes, sir. Chaos. Total breakdown. State of nature.”
“So we do what? Shelter in place?”
“Yes, sir. This won’t last. Until order is restored, we stay here behind the compound walls.”
Tallyberger nodded reluctantly. He didn’t like being constrained by the CIA, even though he knew Branson was right. But what else to do? Then he remembered: Pack for London.
59.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 10:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
It was the Pentagon,” said Sunday.
“What are you saying?” Jessica asked into the phone as she spied through a crack in the curtains out her front window.
“Kanyemba was a covert Defense Department operation. They were using a private contractor to hunt for supergrade uranium, but then it all went wrong.”
“No wonder . . .” she said as a black Chevy Suburban with blacked-out windows came to a screeching halt in front of her house. “Hold on, Sunday . . . Toby, sweetie! Take your brother up to the bedroom and put on Dora the Explorer. Mommy needs to finish her call and then talk with some men.” Then back into the phone: “Sunday, you better hurry.”
“The records have been wiped, but I think I’ve figured out what happened. Soon after independence in 1980, an American company, working with a Saudi investor and some local authorities, began exploring at Kanyemba for uranium. As far as I can tell, things were proceeding on track. But then, in July of 1982, the Zimbabwean security forces swept into the area to suppress a local dispute and the operation got out of hand. President Tinotenda sent in his protégé, Simba Chimurenga, who wiped out whole villages.”
“Motowetsurohuro.”
“Aaay. And the mine was forced to close.”
“And why did the mine shut?” asked Jessica. The doors of the Suburban opened, and a security officer, with sunglasses and a wire in his ear, held open the rear door.
“That’s where it gets interesting. The company claimed the mine was exhausted and shut down for commercial reasons. But that makes no sense, given they had just started early-stage excavation. The timing tells me that it closed because of the military operation. The Kanyemba mine was shut because of Motowetsurohuro. This fits with the new pictures from our bird.”
A short man in a dark gray suit with a shiny bald head stepped out of the SUV and peered up at Jessica in the window. She released the curtain and turned back to the room.
“So they sealed Kanyemba to hide the bodies.”
“Aaay. The images from the Global Hawk confirm several hundred bodies buried in the mine.”
“So a DOD site became a mass grave. No wonder they tried to whitewash it. Why not just let the company take the fall?”
“Because the Kanyemba Mining Company is Max O’Malley.”
“Who is?”
“A major political contributor. Plugged in at the highest levels.”
“Judd’s blowback,” she whispered.
“And that’s not all. Max O’Malley is back in business in Zimbabwe as we speak. This time he’s not mining uranium.”
“Diamonds,” Jessica said. The visitor strode up the front steps, followed by another man carrying a briefcase.
“Diamonds,” Sunday repeated. “And you want to guess O’Malley’s new business partner?” The doorbell rang. “Simba Chimurenga.”
Jessica opened the door. “A guest has just arrived, dear,” she said loudly into the phone. “Please make sure you share your news with my husband. Au revoir!”
She hung up the phone and instantly dropped her cheery demeanor.
Her eyes met those of the bald man standing on her doorstep.
60.
Molweni Hotel, Cape Town, South Africa
Sunday, 4:15 p.m. Central Africa Time
It’s all going to shit!” Mariana Leibowitz screamed into the phone.
Judd Ryker, on the other end of the line, took a deep breath and tried to calm her. “I’m working on a strong statement. Ambassador Tallyberger—”
“Tallyberger? You think this is about the American embassy? Judd, we are way past that now!”
“I am rewriting—”
“Fuck that. Fuck. That. Gugu’s gone into hiding.”
“Hiding?”
“Tino’s dead. Everyone knows that now. They are going to use the assassination as an excuse to clamp down. And before you ask, no, she’s got nothing to do with Tino’s death. I swear. But I’m sure they are going to try to pin it on Gugu. That’s why she’s gone underground.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Chimurenga! Who the hell else could it be? You’re supposed to be the one on top of all this. Fucking American government!” she shouted.
Simba Chimurenga. Sunday said so, now Mariana. It all keeps coming back to him, Judd thought. “I’ll make sure the U.S. is on the right side. What else do you need?”
“What have I been saying all along? I need your help. Gugu’s definitely going to need you. I have to reach her. I can’t get through on the phone.”
“Okay.”
“Judd, I need to be able to count on you.”
“You can.”
“I hope so.”
“But, Mariana, you’ve got to let me know what you know. We’re in the dark.”
“In the dark. Yes, Judd, we’re all in the dark.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We never know everything we need to know. Not about our enemies. And not about our friends.”
“Do we ever know everything we need to, Mariana?”
“Not in our business. Hell, I do my homework on every client—on every contact—and I still get caught by surprises.”
“Like Lucky Magombe?”
“I spoke to him about your cricket warning. He said there was never going to be a match, so you needn’t worry. Whatever the fuck any of that means.”
“As long as it’s over.”
“Everyone has their secrets, Judd,” she said, calming herself down. “Shit, I just found out my daughter has a baby she never told me about.”
“You’re a grandmother?”
“Fuck you. I’m telling you something personal.”
“Sorry, Mariana.”
“Sorry is right. I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m just making the point that we never know everything. Even your own family can surprise you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing, Judd. Nothing at all.”
61.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 10:22 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Hello, Jessica,” the CIA’s deputy director of operations said without emotion.
“Hello, sir.”
He looked down at the device in her hand. “Your phone does work.” Back to her eyes. “I was starting to worry you might have been thrown off a bridge or something.”
“No, sir. I’m here. I’m working.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m working hard on a special operation.”
“Even if you don’t believe it, you still work for me,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there something you should be telling me, Jessica?”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
&n
bsp; “Who did you come to when you had the bright idea for Purple Cell?”
“You, sir.”
“And why did you come to me, of all people?”
“Professor van Hollen suggested it. He said you’d understand the concept. That you like fresh ideas. That you might take a risk on something new.”
“Right, BJ van Hollen. That old kook is why you have a job in the first place. He swore you were the brightest recruit he had ever known. He’s why you were fast-tracked through training. He’s why you rose so fast through the Agency.”
“Yes, sir.”
“BJ van Hollen is the reason I ever agreed to Purple Cell in the first place.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it was BJ van Hollen who swore to me I could trust you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So it was for BJ that I stuck my neck out when no one else believed a young new case officer could launch a new kind of off-grid operational cell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I trusted BJ and I trusted you with Purple Cell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, Jessica, why are you fucking with me?”
“Sir?” she asked, as innocently as she could muster.
The deputy director lowered his chin and peered at Jessica below his brow. “The President of Zimbabwe was killed in an explosion forty-five minutes ago. And you are running a rogue CIA operation in that same location. Need I say more?”
“We didn’t kill President Tinotenda. We’re trying to figure it all out ourselves.”
“What about the Ethiopian. What’s his name?”
“Zagwe,” said the man standing behind him. “General Solomon Zagwe. Killed last night in another unexplained explosion.”
“Yes, I know,” Jessica said.
“So we have two senior politicians killed by explosions within fifteen hours of each other and you are running an unauthorized operation, all in the same city. I don’t buy it,” said the deputy director. “So, you tell me, what the hell is going on, Jessica?”
“It’s my operation. I take full responsibility.”
“For what exactly?”
“If there’s an investigation. If Congress starts asking questions.”
