Minute Zero

by Todd Moss

  Yikes. I see where this is going.

  “I won’t pretend to fully understand the physics,” the admiral said. “But we have reports from a British intelligence source about the possible discovery of a new and highly dangerous variant of uranium with unusually high levels of the U-235 isotope. This is still unconfirmed, but it’s alarming enough that we called you all here today. The British memo is still being assessed by science teams at CIA, DIA, and a special unit at the Department of Energy. But if it turns out to be correct, this could be a naturally occurring form of highly enriched uranium. That means raw ore capable of being weaponized without complex processing.”

  Admiral Hammond leaned forward and placed both hands on the table.

  “I don’t think I need to tell the people in this room how serious this is. If such material exists and falls into the wrong hands, it would be our worst nightmare.”

  The room buzzed with nervous energy.

  “You were all asked to come here this morning to assist with our urgent risk assessment. Here are our immediate countries of interest.” The screen flashed as he read out the list: “Pakistan, Somalia, Mali, Chad, Papua New Guinea, the Philippines, Venezuela.”

  Shit. Some list, thought Judd.

  “In each of these countries, we are taking steps to upgrade the monitoring of mining zones and, as of this morning, we are establishing Intelligence Community task forces to assess the risks. This is a new classified program code-named UMBRELLA ROSE. As part of this program, you will each be asked to work with the assessment teams to provide political, economic, and other analyses. We want to ensure we consult across the interagency with country experts to make sure we aren’t missing anything. You will all be contacted by your team leaders based at Langley in the coming days. They can fill you in on more details. Any questions?”

  “I’m with OSD Special Projects. What kind of monitoring are you talking about?” asked a young woman.

  “UMBRELLA ROSE will deploy a combination of human intelligence, existing overflight capabilities, plus new technological advancements that are being field-tested now by DARPA. Next?”

  “DIA, Western Hemisphere. Are you involving local intelligence and military services?” asked an older man.

  “Negative. The existence of UMBRELLA ROSE is classified as TOP SECRET NO FORN. No foreign intelligence sharing. I repeat, this is TOP SECRET NO FORN. To the extent we notify the authorities of overflight, it will be under alternative civilian-use cover. Next?”

  “I’m with State, S/CRU, the Crisis Reaction Unit,” Judd said. “How will this work with zero local participation?”

  “It’s suboptimal. But operational security dictates we keep it close hold. Outside of the ambassador, CIA chief of station, and required military staff, no one in the embassies will be aware of UMBRELLA ROSE. In several of our target countries, we have reason to believe there may be high-level government collusion. We can’t afford any leaks on this one. With nuclear security, there’s no room for error, people.”

  Sunday raised his hand, “CIA, Africa Issue. What about Zimbabwe?”

  “Zimbabwe?” asked the admiral, turning to an aide, who just shook her head. The admiral shrugged.

  “There’s a defunct uranium mine in Kanyemba. It was closed years ago, but we have signs of new activity. If we are tracking new uranium sites in unstable countries, Zimbabwe should be on the list.”

  “Very well. Have Langley send over any information and we’ll look into adding Zimbabwe to UMBRELLA ROSE.”

  After a few more technical questions that the admiral couldn’t answer, the meeting was adjourned.

  As they retrieved their BlackBerries and departed, Judd put his hand on the shoulder of the CIA analyst. “Good to see you again, Sunday.”

  “Aaay, good to see you, too, Dr. Ryker.”

  “You’re not working on West Africa anymore?”

  “At Langley they like to move us around, keep us fresh.” Sunday glanced over his shoulder and whispered, “Plus I don’t think they want someone with Nigerian parents working too long on Nigeria.”

  “But why Zim?”

  “I must have irritated my supervisor.”

  Judd cocked his head. “What’s the problem with Zimbabwe?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Sunday said. “Zimbabwe is fascinating analytically. There’s a lot going on. Their election is this weekend.”

  “Saturday,” Judd said.

  “Right, Saturday. But Zimbabwe’s not exactly the best way to get into the President’s Daily Brief.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m working Zimbabwe, too.”

  “Aaay.” Sunday covered his mouth, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you worked on Zim.”

  “I haven’t. Not until this morning.”

  “What a coincidence.”

  Or maybe it wasn’t. Was this why Parker had sent him to this meeting?

  “We need to talk, Sunday. Right now.”

  8.

  Harare, Zimbabwe

  Thursday, 4:32 p.m. Central Africa Time

  Where are the cherry-red Jimmy Choos?”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” said the assistant, bowing her head.

  “Those aren’t cherry-red!”

  “I’m sorry. They only sent Jimmy Choos in pink and teal. I have a pair of red Manolo Blahniks, if that may suffice.”

  “Tsaaah! No!” The woman tsked. “Those are the wrong ones. That won’t do at all. Call Hong Kong and have them send the shoes I asked for!”

  The First Lady Harriet Tinotenda, disgusted with the sloppy attention to detail by her staff, threw the shoe box across the room and crashing into a tall pile of white department store boxes.

  “Yes, madam. I’ll call them right now.”

  “Make sure they understand I need them by Sunday morning. The president’s swearing-in is in the afternoon, so the shoes must be here in time.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I cannot go to the inauguration in the wrong shoes. I won’t have it.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Is this everything?” the first lady asked, waving her arm at a rainbow mountain of discarded boxes from Louis Vuitton, Tiffany & Co., Cartier, and Prada. “What is that one?” she demanded, pointing to a flat unopened black box in one corner.

  “Ascot Chang. They sent a hand-tailored suit for the president. As a gift.”

  “Tsaaah, no. My husband doesn’t wear Italian suits. Send it back.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Where is the rest of my shopping?”

  “I’ll get it now, madam,” said the assistant, who collected the suit box, bowed submissively, and then backed out the door.

  Harriet surveyed the room. She clicked her teeth. This was no way to shop properly, she thought. After her husband won another term, she would persuade her friends in Hong Kong to open a branch in Harare. She knew plenty of women who could keep a designer shop open for business. Yes, she would ask Winston about this after the election. Maybe she’d even become an investor.

  If a sufficient designer store wasn’t possible, perhaps she could befriend the British ambassador’s wife and convince her to allow an occasional shopping trip to London. Just one day at Harrods each year would be enough. They could take an Air Zimbabwe jet and load it up. These petty political games had become such a nuisance. The ambassador’s wife would surely understand, she thought. These old men and their egos. So predictable.

  “Tsaaah. Where is that useless girl?” she hissed to herself.

  Bored of waiting, she wandered over to the window. It was two hours past sunset, but her garden was well lit.

  Beyond the walls, the city was pitch-dark, no doubt because the nation’s main coal power station was missing spare parts again. Winston had complained
about this problem ahead of the election, but his cabinet had pleaded that the fault lay with the Americans and British. Their devious sanctions prevented the national electricity company from buying the necessary replacement parts. Hypocrites and racists, she thought.

  Within her compound walls, the lights were on, thanks to a diesel generator imported from China and running on fuel trucked in every week from South Africa. Because of these special arrangements, she could gaze at her garden even at this late hour.

  Maybe she could meet with the Chinese ambassador’s wife and help with the power station problem? Yes, after the election, I’ll raise that with Winston, too, she decided. Such contributions to the nation would help seal her husband’s legacy. A power plant and a department store.

  As she watched heavily armed military guards pace through her grounds, she cast aside her frustrations and allowed herself a moment of pride. Look at me, she thought. A poor village girl from the lowlands, sitting here in the Presidential Mansion. Living here as the wife of the most powerful man in the country. How far she had come! She prayed to God for her blessings and thanked her ancestors who brought her such good luck.

  Of course, she didn’t believe her circumstances had really materialized from sheer luck. I am not lucky—I made this happen, she thought. Through her own cunning and quick wit, she’d stood out among the hundreds of students at the Saint Catherine’s Mission School for Girls. She secured a scholarship to the prestigious Kwekwe Secretarial Academy. Then a strategic relationship with the headmaster—an alliance the old women of Kwekwe had unfairly scorned as immoral—was parlayed by her into a job in the Ministry of Public Works. When her moment arrived, the day the President of the Republic was due to visit the ministry, she bribed a security guard with Marlboro cigarettes for a position near the front, where she was sure her shapely red business suit would catch the president’s eye.

  Their first encounter didn’t go as she’d hoped. She had shaken President Tinotenda’s limp hand and gushingly expressed her sincere appreciation for his leadership of the nation. But she wasn’t sure he’d noticed her. It was only the next day, when her supervisor arrived with a written notice of her transfer to the office of the president’s chief of staff that she knew her gambit had worked. From there, she needed only a few weeks to begin a romantic relationship with the old man, and only a year more to extract a marriage proposal. Old men and their egos. So predictable.

  Her wedding was the grandest affair in Zimbabwe since independence. The marriage ceremony was held in a private church, but the reception had to be moved to the national stadium to accommodate all the well-wishers. It was a glorious event, she recalled, despite the newspapers’ petty grumbling about the cost to taxpayers. And the tabloids made a fuss about their age gap. What difference should fifty years make when you are in love? Jealousy is an ugly sentiment for small people, she thought.

  Those same small people were also no doubt envious of what she had now. Twenty-two bedrooms, fine English furniture, the latest in Japanese televisions, the best designer clothing flown in from East Asia. Perhaps it was better to have the shopping brought to you, she suddenly wondered.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of her assistant. “This just arrived by courier for you, madam,” she announced, holding a black velvet box about the size of a Burberry hand purse.

  “Set it down and leave me.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Did the courier say who it’s from?”

  “No, madam. I’m sorry, madam. Shall I have the boy chase him and ask?”

  “Tsaaah. Aiwa. No,” she said emphatically and waved the girl away.

  She walked over to the mysterious gift. She took a deep breath and then gently opened the hinged box as if it were a giant oyster shell. Inside the silk-lined box lay a diamond necklace, twelve large-carat stones on a delicate gold chain.

  “Naka!” she exclaimed. “So beautiful!”

  There was no note, no explanation. The only hint of the jewelry’s origin was a small gold label: CHAKRI DIAMOND COLLECTION, BANGKOK. Old men and their egos.

  She unfastened the necklace and draped it around her neck. She walked over to the mirror to admire herself. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life, she thought. Perhaps I am lucky after all?

  Her elation came to a screeching halt with the realization she might never wear this necklace in public. She didn’t care what the press might say, or even about the vapid chatter of the political classes. She didn’t care where the jewels came from. She could never wear her new gift because her husband, President Winston Tinotenda, would know it was not from him.

  9.

  White House, Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, 10:38 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Judd led Sunday out the White House gate and across Pennsylvania Avenue to Lafayette Square. They weaved through a swarm of high school students in matching orange T-shirts and skirted a dozen protestors holding signs about illegal government eavesdropping. They walked past the statue of Andrew Jackson to find, on the far side of the park, an empty bench away from the crowds.

  The two men sat for a moment in silence, scanning the area. Once Sunday was satisfied they were alone, he asked, “What do you need?”

  “To get up to speed on Zimbabwe damn fast,” Judd said. “I’m leaving for Harare tonight.”

  “Where should I start?”

  “I’ll read my briefing book on the plane, but it’s all new to me. I need the context. Tell me what’s most critical.”

  “The place to start is with the British. The sting of colonialism, the psychological trauma of being dominated by a foreign power—all that’s still raw.”

  “Still?” Judd asked.

  “Zimbabwe’s not like Nigeria or even Kenya. My grandparents are still living in Nigeria. They remember British rule, but they’ve come to terms with it. It’s not part of their lives anymore. My parents barely remember the British. I don’t think my father interacted at all with Europeans until he went to college. And now most of my family are American citizens. There’s no issue.

  “It’s not like that with the men running Zimbabwe. They are the same ones who fought the British and won. They think about the war every day. It’s part of their identity. It’s the core of their legitimacy as a government. So they are highly sensitive to what the British or Americans might be up to.”

  “Is that what’s driving Tinotenda? Fear of the British?” Judd asked.

  “Fear and paranoia. He sees plots all around him. He keeps his cabinet in a state of ignorance. They never know when a shuffle is coming or where they’re going. It helps him maintain loyalty and disrupt any factions within the party from growing too strong.”

  “An old Mobutu trick.”

  “Aaay. Mobutu Sese Seko was the master. He used to sleep with the wives of his ministers, just to show them who’s boss. I don’t think Tino’s got that kind of stamina left in him. But Tino has been accelerating the rotation of his security detail. This suggests he is worried about internal plots. The only constant has been his national security advisor, General Chimurenga. He’s the only one Tino seems to trust.”

  “So what’s Tino’s game plan?”

  “My assessment is that Tino is stuck. He still views himself as the father of the nation. He wants to defend the country from all of the forces he spent his whole life fighting. But he’s lost the fire in his belly. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s fatigue. No one knows. But he isn’t showing any signs that he’s ready to quit. My hunch is that he just can’t imagine Zimbabwe without himself as president.”

  “What about the rest of the party?”

  “They’re locked in, too,” Sunday said. “The party bosses have all spent so many years manipulating each other, building their own little empires, repeating the same propaganda. No one even knows what the truth is any longer. They long ago started believing their o
wn lies. Everyone is frozen. They’re all stuck in ice.”

  “So how do we crack the ice?”

  Sunday tilted his head and gave Judd a mischievous smile.

  “What exactly do you mean, Dr. Ryker?”

  Judd leaned forward. “If the United States wanted to break up the ice, to help create a whole new system, something better, how would we do that?”

  “Do we want to do that?”

  “Consider it a hypothetical, Sunday. If I wanted to do this, what would I do first?”

  “Isn’t regime change a bit above the pay grade of a State Department office director?” Sunday’s grin grew wider.

  Judd nodded, accepting the challenge. “Is the CIA supposed to be providing objective analysis or second-guessing civilian officials?”

  “Is that what’s happening here? Am I an analyst briefing a policy maker, or is this just two friends chatting in the park?”

  “You’re right,” Judd said. “Let me rephrase my question. Between friends, of course. If the President of the United States determined it was in the interest of American foreign policy to shake things up in Zimbabwe, the best way to do this would be to—”

  “Kill President Tinotenda,” said Sunday, with a casual shrug.

  Judd sat back in the bench and exhaled.

  “Obviously,” added Sunday.

  “Okay, okay,” Judd said. “If we don’t want to do that—”

  “Technically, that would be illegal.”

  “Yes, of course,” Judd said. “If assassination is off the table, what other steps might be taken?”

  “You could attack their business interests. You could try to break up the support base. You could try to lure some of Tinotenda’s allies into challenging him. The key to these tactics is all the same. You have to convince people that change has arrived, that Tinotenda is on his way out. As soon as people believe it, they’ll jump faster than you can say ‘Every man for himself.’ No one wants to be the last rat on a sinking ship.”