Minute Zero

by Todd Moss

  “What about leaking rumors that Tino is dead or dying?”

  “Sure, but how long would it last? Only until he got on TV.”

  “What about supporting the opposition?”

  “Nope.”

  “‘Nope’?” Judd leaned forward again.

  “No,” Sunday said.

  “Why not? That seems like the logical thing to do. Lend support to Gugu Mutonga and help her win a democratic election. What’s wrong with that strategy?”

  “Won’t happen. Simba Chimurenga would never allow it.”

  “Chimurenga,” Judd said flatly. “He’s the national security advisor?”

  “That’s his official title, yes. And army chief. But his real power comes from his personal relationship with the president.”

  “Are they family?”

  “We don’t think so, but Tino treats him like blood. Not quite a son, but maybe a nephew. They either have some special bond or they have dirt on each other. Probably both.”

  “Are they in business together?”

  “I don’t know. Wouldn’t surprise me.” Sunday shrugged.

  “What can you tell me about a massacre many years ago. Moto . . . something.”

  “Motowetsurohuro,” Sunday said. “In the north, not far from the Kanyemba mine, actually. We don’t know what happened exactly, but there used to be villages there, and now there aren’t.”

  “They’re just gone?”

  “Yes. Erased from the map.”

  “How does that happen?”

  “The government denies it ever happened. The record has been totally expunged. They claim it was always propaganda from local troublemakers. Our ambassador inquired about it at the time in a meeting with their foreign minister and they nearly expelled him from the country.”

  “My God, Sunday. We didn’t do anything?”

  “A local church recorded the names of those who disappeared. They have a list of several hundred people. But no living witnesses and no bodies.”

  “No bodies?”

  “Nope.”

  “No case.”

  “Aaay.”

  “The trail’s gone completely cold?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “So that’s what Simba has on Tino? The massacre?”

  “Plausible. Or maybe that’s what Tino has on Simba. Ever since, Chimurenga has been treated almost like Tino’s son. And that’s what brings us back to this weekend’s voting. If Tinotenda somehow lost the election, then Chimurenga would make sure, one way or another, it never happened. Just like Motowetsurohuro.”

  “How could he do that? There are hundreds of election observers.”

  “Good question. Since I was put on Zimbabwe, I’ve been watching how they operate and where they draw lessons. Chimurenga visited Gabon and Angola to see how they run elections, plus he’s run election security for the past two voting cycles at home. Based on what I’ve gathered, I assess that Chimurenga’s built three layers of protection.”

  Sunday paused to check they were still alone. He then leaned in and whispered, “Phase one is to intimidate the electorate. That usually works. With some money and guns, it’s not hard to bribe the right people and frighten the rest into voting for the Big Man.”

  “Incumbents don’t always win.”

  “True. ‘The people who cast the votes don’t decide an election, the people who count the votes do.’ You know who said that?”

  “Tinotenda?”

  “Joseph Stalin.” Sunday smiled again.

  “So that’s phase two?”

  “I think so. If intimidation doesn’t work, then Chimurenga can steal the election by vote rigging, ballot stuffing, and, if it comes down to it, falsifying the results.”

  “How can they get away with that? Aren’t the ballots counted at local stations and posted outside so all the people can all see the local tallies?”

  “Control the computer network, control the result. Even if the local counting is accurate, they can change the numbers in the aggregation. There are always discrepancies in an election. One constituency here and there where you get some odd results. They can just fix the numbers. Even if the opposition could get their hands on the raw data, it would take months to challenge the final results in court. And by that time it’s too late. Once the final election results are announced and the new government is sworn in, it’s very hard to reopen the books.”

  “The opposition needs real-time data.”

  “Sure. But how are they going to get that? The election commission is run by Judge Makwere. Do you know who he is?”

  “I’m guessing he’s close to Tinotenda?”

  “Bingo. Makwere is the uncle of Harriet Tinotenda.”

  “The First Lady.”

  “Right.”

  Judd sighed. “Does the Agency have polling numbers?”

  “We always do.”

  “Well, what do they say?”

  “It’s a small sample size, but the numbers are pretty clear that, in a truly free and fair election, Gugu Mutonga would take it in a landslide.”

  “A landslide? Really?”

  “Most voters were born after independence. The ruling party is a bunch of greedy, out-of-touch old men. Most voters get that. Even people in the countryside have relatives in the city. Zimbabweans know what’s happening.”

  “Assuming Mutonga can make it through the vote and somehow finds a way to get through the counting, you said there were three layers. What’s next?”

  “Chimurenga just refuses. Phase three is declaring a state of emergency, probably on trumped-up claims of a national threat.”

  “Walk me through that scenario. What happens?”

  “The election and the constitution are suspended, the opposition arrested, and the army deployed into the villages. We’ve got plenty of evidence that the Green Mambas—those are the party’s youth militias—are already fanning out, just in case.”

  “You’re talking about a total police state.”

  “Total police state,” Sunday repeated.

  “But South Africa and the other neighbors wouldn’t accept that. Neither would the United Nations, right?”

  “Probably not. But it only takes a few weeks to dismantle the opposition and squeeze their supporters. Then Tino can announce an amnesty and a new election. All he really has to do is promise a transition plan, make some noise about reconciliation, and drag it all out. He knows everyone will back off.”

  “Is Tinotenda involved in this?”

  “Probably not. He tries to stay above the fray. I find it hard to believe he’s unaware of what Chimurenga is doing to keep him in power. But I think he’s happy to feign ignorance and keep his hands clean.”

  “This is a lot worse than I thought, Sunday.”

  “It’s not pretty.”

  “How likely is it to get really ugly?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like real violence?”

  “I don’t want to put a number on it, Dr. Ryker. But the stories are pretty chilling. The Ministry of Agriculture is run by Chimurenga’s cousin. Last month he imported truckloads of machetes for a farm extension program. But we did some analysis at Langley and the pattern of machete distribution is more aligned with opposition votes from the last election than with food production. So I’m fairly certain the machetes are intended as weapons, not farming tools.”

  “Shit.”

  “That’s exactly what I said when I figured it out!”

  “What did Rogerson say when he heard about the machetes?”

  “I don’t know. I was told the analysis was passed to State. I never heard anything. The embassy has been funding a farming initiative, so they probably thought machete deliveries were a good sign.”

  “We have to stop this,” Judd said.

&nb
sp; “The embassy is cautious. They don’t want to be blamed for inciting violence. Ambassador Tallyberger doesn’t want blood on his doorstep.”

  “‘No bodies on the streets.’ Those were Rogerson’s words this morning.”

  “See? The embassy isn’t going to take any risks of creating chaos.”

  “But doing nothing can’t be the only alternative.”

  “If I may, Dr. Ryker?” Sunday asked. “Nothing will change while everyone in Harare and in Washington is convinced they already know what’s going to happen. If we want an outcome that doesn’t reinforce the status quo, the only way is to break confidence in the whole system.”

  “Minute Zero,” whispered Judd under his breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Minute Zero,” Judd said. “It’s the moment you’re talking about. When certainty breaks down and no one knows what’s going to happen next. We need to create Minute Zero in Zimbabwe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You ever watch the Discovery Channel?”

  “Sure,” Sunday said.

  “So a few months ago I’m watching Discovery with my kids. It’s a program about ant colonies. The narrator is explaining how this one anthill is rock solid. The anthill is strong enough to withstand a tropical storm. A hurricane, even. And hidden inside is a complex city, with all of the ants moving in organized teams through tunnels to reinforce the walls and bring food and everything else needed to sustain the colony. And most of all, to protect the queen ant. If one of the teams breaks down, fails to do their job, then the whole city would be under threat. But as long as everyone works, the colony survives.

  “Then all of the sudden, the anthill is crushed”—Judd clapped his hands together—“by an aardvark. The aardvark sticks his snout into the hole he’s just punched and starts eating ants. Most of all, he creates total chaos. The ants all abandon their jobs, the teams disperse, no one knows where to go. It’s total mayhem. They even start attacking each other. And in the frenzy after an aardvark attack, the queen ant is usually killed.

  “But what happens next is fascinating. After the aardvark leaves, the ants naturally reorganize themselves into new teams, and order is restored. It’s organic. Out of chaos, new teams form, and a new queen ant rises. But for that moment of chaos, their stable world is gone and no one knows what comes next.”

  “Minute Zero,” Sunday said.

  “Right. Watching that show was when I came up with the concept. Now imagine it was the Cold War and we found out the queen ant was a communist.”

  “We’d be the aardvark.”

  “Exactly. We’d punch a hole in the walls, eat a few of the queen’s minions, but our main objective would be to break up the existing order and try to start anew.”

  “Or like Iraq,” Sunday said.

  “Sure, like Iraq. Except if we expected the chaos just after Saddam fell, we would have been ready to shape events. If we had anticipated Minute Zero, we would have been prepared to alter the outcome. At least I’d hope we would.”

  “Dr. Ryker, can I ask you, as two friends just talking: Why are you suddenly working on Zimbabwe?”

  “I’m not sure, Sunday. I’d like to think the Secretary believes that S/CRU can help. Maybe we can make a difference. Can I ask you something, Sunday?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did you know about Kanyemba? I mean, how did you know even to be in the Situation Room to add Zimbabwe to UMBRELLA ROSE?”

  “It’s my job. Did you know that the uranium for the original Manhattan Project came from Africa?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “From Congo. A mine called Shinkolobwe. A British prospector discovered rich uranium deposits at Shinkolobwe in 1915 and then worked with a private company, probably a front for the Defense Department, to bring it to the United States. That uranium was eventually used in our first atomic bombs.”

  “I never heard that before.”

  “I hadn’t, either, Dr. Ryker, until I started digging. But I think there’s more.”

  “More uranium in Congo?”

  “No. During the height of the Cold War, DOD began a search for high-grade uranium all over Africa. They were looking for another Shinkolobwe. As far as we know, they never found anything. But there were always rumors of a second super-uranium mine. I think that might have been—”

  “Kanyemba.”

  And right then, Judd knew who he had to call next.

  10.

  Whitehall, London

  Thursday, 5:50 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time

  Sir, you’ve got a phone call.”

  Simon Kenny-Waddington set down his umbrella on his secretary’s desk and frowned.

  “Tell Cairo it’s time to go home.”

  “It’s not Cairo, sir,” she replied. “It’s America.”

  Simon cocked his head to one side and pressed his lips together. It was one of his odd gestures, one of the many quirks the British Foreign Office official had displayed since he was a child growing up in Kent. His secretary knew this particular expression meant favorable curiosity.

  “Name?”

  “A Dr. Ryker. From the American State Department.”

  Simon’s eyebrows leapt up to the top of his forehead, another positive sign.

  “Judd Rykaaah,” he sang, nodding to himself.

  “Shall I put him through, then?”

  “Yes. I’ll take it in my office,” he said. “Won’t be long.”

  Simon plucked his umbrella off the desk and pranced back into his oak-paneled office. Despite the grandeur of the Foreign Office building and the prestige of a Whitehall address, the inside of Simon’s office was appropriately austere. A colonial map of India hung on the wall, the only décor. His desk was entirely clear, a sign he had completed his workday and was prepared for the commute home. The only items sitting on his desk were a black telephone and a single photo in a simple brass frame.

  As Simon picked up his phone, he made eye contact with the middle-aged woman in the photo. She was pale but very pretty, with a Cleopatra-style bob haircut, sitting under an umbrella at the beach. On her lap sat a little girl, just five years old at that time, with the same haircut. Simon noticed the clock, realizing he was going to miss his train.

  “Judd, my boy. Nice to hear from you. How aaaare you?”

  “Hello, Simon. Have you got a moment?”

  “For you, of course.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual. But that’s the life we’ve chosen, haven’t we, Judd?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I know it’s not politically correct to say anymore, but noblesse oblige is alive and well, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve got something important, Simon.”

  “You calling about the Sudan? Just terrible what’s going on in Khartoum. It’s a real dog’s breakfast.”

  “Not today. I’m calling about Zimbabwe.”

  “Ahhh, of course you are. Zimbabwe. The election this weekend.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, Zimbabwe is a tricky one for us. We’ve got to be cautious, you know. They’re still sensitive about the whole colonial power business. Our travel sanctions against the president haven’t bought us any friends in Harare, either, have they? It’s best for everyone if we keep a low profile. It’s tedious, I know. I am sorry. But it’s probably for the best.”

  “Yes, I know that’s the British position. But I also know you’re paying more attention than you let on. Come on, Simon. I know you have a view.”

  “What’s the sudden American interest in Zimbabwe, of all places?”

  “We want a free and fair election.”

  “Of course you do!” laughed Simon. “Free and fair! We all want that. What is your real interest here, Judd?”
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  “That is our real interest. Africa is booming and we can’t have Zimbabwe, sitting in the heart of southern Africa, going down the drain and dragging down the others. Some old men just don’t know when it’s time to quit and turn the keys over to the next generation.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors, my boy.” Simon was still chuckling. “I should have asked, what’s your interest, Judd? Aren’t you supposed to be the State Department’s crisis man? Where’s the crisis in Zimbabwe?”

  “I’m keeping an eye on it.”

  “If you say so. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have a view on Gugu Mutonga’s chances of winning?”

  “Unlikely, I’m afraid. We are making our peace with President Tinotenda and his cronies. I’m supposed to review the travel policy after the election. At least until the old crank dies, we’re strictly hands-off.”

  “What about Simba Chimurenga?”

  “Ahhhh, General Chimurenga. Well, funny you should ask. He’s quite the blue-eyed boy, isn’t he? The twinkle in Tino’s eye.”

  “So you think he’s the chosen one. That seems to be the consensus here, too. Do you have any dirt on him? There’s no way he rose that quickly through the army ranks without doing something extraordinary. I’m hoping you and Her Majesty’s Government know what it is.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, you may be sitting this election out, but I’m sure you’re still plugged in. I bet you have a man in close on Chimurenga.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, we don’t. If it comes down to something serious, I may call on you. Pardon my French, but if the shit goes down, Simon, I’ll need your inside man.”

  “If you say so, Judd.”

  “You know anything about a British memo on”—Judd lowered his voice—“uranium?”

  “Ahhhh, Judd, that’s what I’ve been waiting for! I knew you had another interest in Zimbabwe. Uranium. Of course, my boy.”