Minute Zero

by Todd Moss

  “Do you know about the memo?”

  “There is no memo.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, I don’t know.”

  “Well, then if I’m keeping you at work late today, it’s partly your fault. That non-memo is one reason there is heightened interest here in Washington.”

  “I see. I should have guessed that. My fault.”

  “But do you believe it? Is there something suspicious going on with uranium in Zimbabwe?”

  “I can’t answer that. Plus I told you: We are sitting this one out. Zimbabwe is on your plate.”

  “What can you tell me about the mine at Kanyemba?”

  “I think I should be asking you that question, Judd.”

  “It was a British company, right?”

  “I don’t know about that, Judd.”

  “Come on, Simon. A British company hunting for uranium in Zimbabwe. There’s no way Her Majesty’s Government wasn’t involved.”

  “If there was a British company involved—and I’m not saying there was—then it would have only been on paper. The real owners most certainly were not subjects of the Queen.”

  “They’re not? Then who are they, Simon?”

  “Judd, I’m terribly sorry. I have to run.”

  “Simon, it’s your bloody memo sending me on this wild-goose chase. At least tell me what you know.”

  “Ha,” laughed Simon again. “Too true. Too true.”

  “Help me on this and maybe I can help you with one of your problems? What else are you working on?”

  “You . . . have anything on Egypt?”

  “Like what?”

  “It would be jolly useful to know if you Yanks are ever going to put an ambassador in Cairo. It’s been vacant for six months and your embassy is acting like time is frozen. We don’t have anyone to work with.”

  “I’m sure we will send someone before the elections. Egypt is too important.”

  “Can you tell me who?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll try to find out.”

  “I bloody well hope you’re right! And I hope it’s a real ambassador and not just another rich friend of your president.”

  “I’ll get you a name, Simon.”

  “I just don’t understand you Americans sometimes.”

  “I’ll get you a name.”

  “Do you know who your last ambassador to Cairo was? The Winnebago king of Oklahoma. Or maybe it was Ohio. For ambassador to Egypt, Judd!”

  “Simon, what can you tell me about the mine at Kanyemba?”

  There was no response, and for a moment Judd thought the line had gone dead. Simon had set the phone down and moved to close his office door.

  “Simon?”

  After a few seconds more, he came back on the line and whispered. “The main investor in Kanyemba was Arabia Sunrise Investments, a private equity fund managed out of Jeddah and linked to a member of the Saudi royal family.”

  “Saudis?”

  “They had a silent minority partner who was the real player. A fixer who made things happen.”

  “Okay, who was that?”

  “The partner was hidden behind multiple layers of front companies in Jersey, Mauritius, and the Isle of Man. Someone was trying to cover their tracks.”

  “And?”

  “And we think the end of the trail leads to a firm called Royal Deepwater Venture Capital.”

  “Royal Deepwater? Should that mean something to me?”

  “It should. It’s American.”

  11.

  Mufakose, Suburb of Harare, Zimbabwe

  Thursday, 11:51 p.m. Central Africa Time

  Most strangers assumed Tinashe and Tsitsi were siblings. The young couple was in love, but they dared not show it in public. That would be inappropriate of course. And, most importantly this evening, it would invite unwanted scrutiny.

  Tinashe was tall and too skinny, but he knew how to protect himself. That was one of the first things he learned growing up running around the streets of Mufakose, one of the poor neighborhoods encircling Zimbabwe’s capital city.

  Officially, Mufakose was designated a “high-density suburb.” To Tinashe, the one-room brick-and-aluminum-roof house on Mbizi Road, where he lived with his parents, grandparents, four siblings, and two cousins, was just like every other house on the street. The crowded living conditions were normal. Mufakose was just home.

  Tinashe never thought much about it until, once he was a little older, he visited Borrowdale, one of the leafy northern “low-density suburbs” where the government officials and foreign expatriates lived in grand houses behind high walls and barbed wire with signs that read HAPANA BASA—NO WORK. He couldn’t believe it when his friend insisted that just three or four people lived in one of those enormous houses.

  “Aiwa! No! You are lying, shamwari!” We could fit one hundred in that house!”

  That was when Tinashe understood what “high-density” really meant. It wasn’t in his nature to be envious. Tinashe’s grandmother, his ambuya, read him the Bible every Sunday, and she would never have allowed him to covet. Instead he promised himself he would one day own one of those big houses. And he would invite everyone from Mbizi Road to live there with him.

  Tinashe’s plan began with skipping school to sell gum and fruit by strolling in between cars stuck in traffic or hawking his snacks to the riders in emergency taxis, the ancient station wagons that plowed the bus routes picking up passengers and cramming them ten, twelve, sometimes fourteen to a car. “High-density customers,” he called them.

  Tinashe made enough money to eat every day and, usually, bring home some extra cash to his family. He knew the real profits were made not by the street sellers like him and not even by neighborhood bosses who controlled the most lucrative intersections. The real money was made by the Big Men. Those who lived behind the walls of the low-density suburbs.

  Every time Tinashe managed to save some money, the bosses would take a bigger cut or the police would arrive to beat the boys and steal their goods. Whenever Tinashe started to get a little bit ahead and begin to imagine a better life for his family, someone above him would stop it. Back to square one. Back to Mufakose.

  Tsitsi had been the one to introduce Tinashe to Gugu Mutonga. In reality, neither had ever met the Big Woman. But he felt he knew her intimately. And that Gugu knew him. When she spoke on the radio or at rallies about the frustrations and unmet hopes of Zimbabwe’s youth, it was like she was talking directly to him. She knew exactly what he was thinking. She knew who Tinashe was. Gugu Mutonga knew what Tinashe wanted.

  Tsitsi was the pretty young girl who’d grown up a few houses down. Both families came from the same rural home village, their kumusha, several hours’ bus ride from Harare.

  Tsitsi’s father had once been the village chief. Although the government had long ago taken away any formal duties, her baba continued to command respect among the people. Although her family never spoke of it, Tsitsi had pieced together what had happened. In the weeks before independence, her father had mediated a land dispute and ruled in favor of a poor family against a richer one. The loser retaliated by reporting to the advancing guerrillas that Tsitsi’s father was a snitch for the hated colonial police. Tsitsi never learned if it was true. But from that day, her family was blacklisted.

  As a child, Tsitsi was unaware of her family’s political problems. She was just like any other kid on Mbizi Road. She attended Rusununguko Primary School and then Mufakose No. 4 High School. Like all the other girls, she spent her early mornings fetching water and firewood for her mother while the boys played soccer in the streets. In the late afternoon, after her schoolwork and chores were complete, she was allowed to join the boys.

  She was always drawn to a tall one who smiled at her. Tinashe and Tsitsi hid their friendship at first, but as they grew older,
they also grew closer. Hiding their affection became harder.

  Once they reached the age of sixteen, the parents, fully aware of their relationship, began negotiations for marriage and the lobola, or bride price. When Tsitsi caught wind of it, she was secretly relieved. Some of her friends had already been arranged to marry much older men. She was pleased Tinashe was her age and she already had feelings for him. But she resented having her husband chosen by her parents. And that her family was exchanging her future for cash and cattle. That was the old village way, not how she believed things should happen in the city. But despite her love for Tinashe, she refused to marry him.

  Tinashe was oblivious to the brewing rebellion and how his fate was being negotiated by others. He was smitten with Tsitsi, but—like every boy in Mufakose—he was also obsessed with Manchester United.

  One evening, when the two of them found some privacy, he confided in her. He was frustrated. He wanted a better life, to escape the bonds of the local bosses, to create his own opportunity. He wanted a big house for Tsitsi, for them to raise a family. That was when she conceded to the marriage. And soon after their wedding, Tsitsi introduced Tinashe to Gugu Mutonga. Not the person, but the idea that a better future was possible.

  —

  On this evening, the couple slipped down one of the alleys running between the houses. Tsitsi was careful not to step in the open canal of raw sewage and trash. They rounded a corner to find a gang of young boys smoking cigarettes. One was wearing a white T-shirt with a black fist, the symbol of President Tinotenda’s party. The gang eyed Tinashe and Tsitsi as they crossed the street, the couple averting their eyes. The boy in the T-shirt blew smoke out of his nostrils, and then called out. “You! Where are you going after curfew? It is past midnight.”

  “Not yet midnight,” replied Tinashe, noticing the boy wasn’t wearing a watch.

  “Don’t be clever, cockroach! Where are you going?”

  “I’m sorry, baas,” Tsitsi said. “This is my brother. We are going for muti for our mother. She is sick.”

  The boy took a long drag on his cigarette again and blew the smoke in their direction. “Where is your party card?”

  “We are going for medicine for amai. We don’t have our card.”

  “To pass by here, you must have your card. We don’t allow traitors and sellouts to be in this place. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  After a long pause, the boy released them. “Go for your muti,” he scoffed.

  “Thank you, baas.”

  The two slunk down the street, then took a sharp turn into a narrow alley. At the end was a small shop with the windows locked and the lights out. Tsitsi rapped softly on the metal shutter three times.

  “We are closed.”

  “We are here for muti,” she said.

  “Malaria or diarrhea?”

  “No. We need muti for our hearts.”

  The door click-clacked and opened a few inches. “Ahh, Tsitsi! We’ve been waiting for you!” a woman whispered.

  They entered the small store and the door was locked behind them. “We are nearly ready for tomorrow,” she said, and turned on a single lightbulb.

  “Tssss!” hissed Tsitsi, her eyes wide with excitement.

  The room was stacked from floor to ceiling with posters and T-shirts, all emblazoned with the smiling face of Gugu Mutonga.

  12.

  U.S. Department of State, Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, 7:15 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Dr. Ryker, there’s still nothing out of Ethiopia.”

  “Excuse me, Serena?”

  “You asked me this morning for anything out of Lalibela. There’s nothing. The only report I could find was about a mid-level embassy official visiting the archaeological sites a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, right. Thank you.”

  So, Lalibela is quiet. Phew.

  Judd turned his attention back to the stacks of paper on his desk. Since returning to the office from the White House, he had immersed himself in intelligence reports and diplomatic cables on Zimbabwe. It was the usual minutiae about visiting foreign officials from Angola and Venezuela, tedious details about the opening of the Chinese-built Winston Tinotenda College of Nursing, and unsubstantiated reporting on missing workers from a voter education drive. Judd turned to the next cable, which contained a sterile list of deficiencies in the voter list. “A key challenge for democracy in Zimbabwe is weak capacity within the Election Commission” was the cable’s conclusion. No shit, he thought.

  On its own, each document was typical reporting by a political officer who spent too much time behind the walls of the embassy compound playing the Foreign Service’s game of CYA. Cover your ass. Judd had gotten used to reading between the lines on these cables. But when taken together, the reports left Judd uneasy. Am I reading too much into these? Or am I missing the bigger picture?

  Judd had spoken to Sunday again to ask the analyst to look into Royal Deepwater Venture Capital, the name given to him by Simon Kenny-Waddington. Judd was feeling pleased with himself that he had exploited his personal network to unearth clues. And that his contact in the British Foreign Office had come through. This was often how he found the best information: backchannel.

  He was also grateful for Sunday. It was useful to have a private line of communication with a CIA analyst with access to all of the Agency’s resources. And he was glad that it was someone he could trust.

  That was the good news. He was wheels-up in a few hours and still had little idea of what he was flying into. Even if Judd figured out a plan in Zimbabwe, would he be able to act? S/CRU was still an experiment.

  —

  It had all happened so fast. The early phone call on a Saturday morning, a State Department seminar on his Golden Hour theory on Monday, and a job offer that same day from Landon Parker before he was on the plane back to Boston. A few weeks later, the whole family had moved from Massachusetts to Washington, D.C. The transition had been so quick, Judd’s new colleagues could hardly believe it. Some even whispered it was “highly suspicious.”

  Judd’s old colleagues, the other professors at Amherst College, also couldn’t believe it. After all his hard work, Judd had given up his own research—and tenure—for what? A temporary assignment in the belly of a government bureaucracy. What was he thinking? they sighed. Judd often asked himself the same question.

  He knew Professor BJ van Hollen had been an influence, perhaps even the decisive one. BJ had always encouraged Judd to apply his skills to real problems and not just sit back and milk the comforts of academic life.

  “Inquiry for its own sake is virtuous but indulgent,” BJ had told him over one of their long dinners. “Inquiry for the real world is imperfect but consequential.” Judd had even quoted this saying at BJ’s funeral.

  Imperfect but consequential. That was a laudable goal.

  Jessica had also encouraged him to take a chance with public service. His wife had been less emphatic, more subtle, than BJ had been, but probably more persuasive in the end. That’s how Jess always did it: discreet influence.

  —

  Judd’s concentration was broken by a knock on his office door.

  “Hello, sweetheart” came the soft, familiar, if unexpected voice.

  “Jess?” He forced his look of confusion into a happy facial expression. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to take you to dinner. I’ve been working so hard on my Ethiopia water project and you’ve been in the office late almost every night. So I called the babysitter. We haven’t had a date in weeks.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry about that.”

  “And I get the sense you will be traveling again soon.”

  “I am traveling soon. Tonight, in fact.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I’m that good.”

  “But how did you know I
wasn’t coming home? I, um, I was going to send you a text . . . Actually, how did you get up here? How did you even get into the building?”

  “Let me close this door and give you some privacy, Dr. Ryker,” interrupted Serena. “And nice to see you again, Dr. Ryker,” she said to Jessica before slipping out and shutting the door.

  “Serena, of course!” said Judd. “That’s how you got up here.”

  “Girls’ secret,” Jessica replied, pressing an index finger to her lips. She had put on bright red nail polish, Judd noticed.

  Then she approached Judd and gave him a delicate kiss. He closed his eyes to accept and relaxed his shoulders.

  “Very nice. Now let me take you out of here,” she said, waving her hand dismissively at his messy desk.

  “I’ve got a lot of work before my flight.”

  “It’ll be good for you to clear your head for an hour. Plus you’ve got to eat.”

  Judd nodded his assent.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “There’s not much choice around here. Foggy Bottom is a food wasteland.”

  “Well, we’re not having dinner in this place,” she said emphatically.

  “So, you’ve eaten at the State Department before?”

  “No. But I’ve heard . . .”

  The couple walked out the employees-only back door of the Harry S. Truman Building, which deposited them onto Virginia Avenue. “If we walk north toward the World Bank, the restaurants get better.”

  After a few blocks, they found an intimate Italian bistro and took a quiet table at the back, out of sight. Once they had settled into their seats and ordered a bottle of red wine, Judd began, “So, any news from Papa?”

  “Nothing more than what you heard this morning. He’s still laying the groundwork for the project.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Clean water retention systems. You remember I told you about it yesterday? We are infiltrating the underwater aquifers and installing new polymer tank and piping systems to enable OCSWP.”