by Todd Moss
“It’s Isabella Espinosa, from the meeting this morning. From the Zimbabwe task force.”
“Yes,” replied Judd. “You’re FBI, right?”
“Justice Department. I’m the special prosecutor seconded here to State. I hunt war criminals.”
“You’re the one tracking the Ethiopian general.”
“Zagwe. Solomon Zagwe. Yes, he’s the one.”
“I haven’t heard anything more about him, I’m sorry.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone’s told me for years.”
“Years?”
“I’ve been chasing Zagwe for a long time. Every time we get close, the Zimbabwean authorities protect him.”
“What exactly did he do?”
“We’re preparing a sealed war crimes indictment against Zagwe. As his dictatorship was weakening, he started attacking provinces that were sympathetic to the rebels. We’ve been building an evidence base to prove that he wiped out an entire village. On his orders, all the adults were rounded up and shot. Then, as a warning to the others, he deployed the army to barricade the roads and prevent any food from being brought into the province.”
“The Red Fear,” Judd said.
“Right. Zagwe called the campaign the Red Fear. He threatened to bring it to other provinces if they challenged him, too. Several thousand people were killed with bullets in the first few weeks. And then the bastard murdered another half million people by creating a famine. There was plenty of food in the country. He just wasn’t allowing any of it to move. That was the Red Fear. This guy should be in a prison cell. But instead the cabrón is living in a luxury villa in Harare.”
“Jeeesus,” said Judd. “What can I do?”
“I’ve been working for years to gather the evidence and take witness statements. The only thing missing is the target in custody. If Tinotenda falls, I want to make sure someone grabs Zagwe. This may be my only chance to get him.”
“I’ll talk to the embassy, maybe see if they can put someone on it.”
“Not good enough. I’ve tried before to get the embassy to cooperate. They always say they’re too overstretched and can’t spare the bodies.”
“So, Ms. Espinosa, what do you want me to do?”
“Take me with you.”
Serena interrupted, “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no way we can get country clearance for you before Dr. Ryker’s flight. He’s wheels-up in ninety minutes. I’m sure he’d normally be happy to assist—”
“It’s okay, Serena. I want Ms. Espinosa to come along. Go ahead and tell the Operations Center that a member of my team was accidentally omitted from the clearance cable request. Just have them add her name.”
“Gracias, Dr. Ryker,” said Isabella, bowing her head in appreciation. “You’re the first one in quite a while to help me.”
“The only problem is we are leaving for the airport now. I mean right now.”
“I’m ready.”
“Good. Serena, can you let the embassy know Ms. Espinosa will also be accompanying me as part of the S/CRU delegation and she’ll require a room and a change of clothes on arrival?”
“Anything else, Dr. Ryker?” Serena asked.
“How long is the flight to Joburg?”
“Eighteen hours. Then you have a layover before your connection to Harare.”
“Too much time lost,” he mumbled to himself. “Serena, keep pressing the embassy to get me a high-level meeting.”
“Ambassador Tallyberger already reported back that a meeting with President Tinotenda is out of the question on election day. They said there’s zero chance he will make time to see a foreign official. And definitely not an American.”
“What about General Chimurenga? Ask the embassy for a meeting with him.”
“Tallyberger said no to that, too.”
“I’ll ask him myself. If we can’t see Tinotenda, then we have to see Chimurenga.”
“You’re talking about Simba Chimurenga?” Isabella asked.
“Yes. You know him?”
“He’s the national security advisor,” she said.
“We can ask him about Zagwe, too.”
“Chimurenga’s not going to help us. He and Zagwe have history. My intel suggests they know each other from way back. Chimurenga was sent to Ethiopia just before Zagwe fell, as part of his military training. It’s not confirmed, but the timeline fits for Chimurenga to have participated in the Red Fear.”
“If they’re close, maybe you can use that?”
“I doubt it. Everything I’ve read on Chimurenga is that he’s pure macho. All male, all military. I don’t think he’s going to be inclined to help a Mexican-American woman lawyer and—no disrespect intended, Dr. Ryker—a skinny white professor.”
Judd laughed.
“What you need is a big ugly guy from the Pentagon with medals pinned across his chest,” Serena suggested.
“A big ugly guy in military uniform . . . Yes . . . you’re right, Serena,” Judd said. “And I know just the one.”
PART TWO
SATURDAY
15.
Winston Tinotenda International Airport, Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 8:04 a.m. Central Africa Time
Colonel David “Bull” Durham was already waiting for Judd on the tarmac. He hadn’t seen or spoken with his friend since their adventure in Mali three months earlier. The colonel was itching to get back in the field, but he was waiting for medical clearance. The sudden order yesterday to report for a short-term civilian liaison assignment in Zimbabwe had come as a total surprise.
It was no surprise once he learned the true nature of the mission.
Fortunately, Durham caught a U.S. Air Force C-140 supply plane already heading from Stuttgart, Germany, to Gaborone, Botswana. From Gabs, he caught a short commercial flight into Harare, arriving just thirty minutes before Judd’s South African Airways connection from Johannesburg.
“Bull!” shouted Judd when he spotted the burly bald-headed man in jeans and a crisp golf shirt. The two embraced with slap-hugs, then backed up to a professional distance.
“You look well, Bull. Back in fighting shape, I see.”
“I’ve got full use of the old shoulder.” He flapped his elbow like a chicken. “And this little souvenir,” he said, pulling up his sleeve and circling a finger around a pink bullet scar.
“You’ll always have something to remember Timbuktu.”
“Lucky for you, my medical clearance came through just in time for this latest little excursion of yours. You aren’t going to get me shot again, are you?”
“No, sir, Colonel Durham!” said Judd, with a mock salute.
“At ease, soldier!”
Dropping the joke, Judd turned to his companion. “Colonel Durham, meet Isabella Espinosa from the Justice League—”
“Department,” Isabella interrupted.
“Right. Sorry,” Judd said with a chuckle. “Isabella Espinosa from the Justice Department. She’s joining me for a few days on special assignment. We’ll brief you on the details later.”
Isabella reached out, her petite hands swallowed by Durham’s beefy palms. “Isabella, this is Colonel David Durham from Special Operations Command in Stuttgart.”
“Call me Bull.”
“He’s a career Green Beret with some unusual skills,” Judd said. “He’ll tell you he just flies Black Hawks. But his real calling is diplomacy. His specialty is dictators.”
“I have no idea what Judd’s talking about,” Durham said.
“Don’t believe him, Isabella.”
“So, you two are friends?” Isabella asked.
“We were together in the Sahara Desert not long ago,” Judd explained. “We managed to pull the rabbit out of the hat. I’m hoping we can do it again here.”
“Judd likes to have me around, Ms.
Espinosa,” Durham joked. “I’m Robin to his Batman.”
“You’re not Robin, Bull. You’re the Hulk.”
“See, I’m the big ugly guy.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“I’m just here for show.”
“And in case we need airlift,” Judd added.
“When I saw my orders were to report for an unarmed diplomatic mission in Africa requiring full formal dress, I knew immediately it had to be you, Judd.”
“That’s right. You’re welcome,” Judd replied with a smile. “In all seriousness, Bull, I appreciate you getting down here on zero notice. I hope I didn’t pull you away from something important.”
“I was preparing for deployment to the Korengal Valley in Afghanistan. But I figure playing your sidekick in Zimbabwe, where there’s no war of any kind as far as I can tell, must be more critical for national security. Right, Judd?”
“I’m glad you learned something from your civilian friends, Bull. And I don’t think we’ll be here for long.”
“I hope not.”
“If the war in Afghanistan ends while you’re stuck here with me, I’ll get you deployed to Yemen. Or maybe Somalia.”
“That’s the kind of stand-up guy you’re traveling with,” Durham said to Isabella.
“Speaking of a stand-up guy, where’s the ambassador? Isn’t he supposed to meet us?” Judd asked.
The three scanned the area, but no one from the embassy was anywhere in sight. With no other options, they moved to the back of the line at passport control.
After twenty minutes the line had barely moved. Eventually an arrival party of suits arrived, surrounding a gaunt white man with small spectacles, a silver mustache, and wavy gray hair.
“Terribly sorry to be late, Dr. Ryker. I’m Ambassador Tallyberger. You’ve arrived on the most hectic of days. You know it’s election day, right?”
“Hello, Ambassador. Yes, we know. That’s why we’re here.”
“I told the Operations Center that meeting you at the airport would be a problem, but they insisted you had to arrive this morning. So I’m here. We’re extremely short-staffed, so let’s move.”
After quick introductions and handshakes with Bull and Isabella, the ambassador flashed an ID card at the security guard and their entourage was led through a side room, their passports were checked, and they were escorted out to a waiting limousine.
Once safely inside the car, Tallyberger asked Judd, “So, please tell me. Why exactly are you here?”
“Wasn’t it all in my clearance cable?”
“Yes, but I still don’t understand. There’s no crisis here. I’m not sure why the Secretary’s office has sent their crisis envoy.”
“Crisis prevention. Disputed elections can often be a flashpoint, so Landon Parker wanted me to be here to see what I could do to help the embassy.”
“Help the embassy . . .” Tallyberger repeated, rubbing his mustache. “Well, I don’t expect the elections to be disputed. So far all the voting procedures seem to be aboveboard. Our field reports are coming in and most polling stations have already opened on time. The lines are long, but that’s always the case in Africa. People don’t mind waiting here. I certainly don’t expect an outbreak of civil war or anything like that. This is Zimbabwe, Dr. Ryker. It’s not the Congo.”
“I appreciate that, Ambassador. And thank you for making time on such a busy day to collect us from the airport.”
“What kind of embassy resources will you require while you are here, Dr. Ryker?”
“A car and a driver should be plenty. And I’d like to speak to the chief of station as soon as possible.”
“Yes, we can arrange that. I’m afraid we probably don’t have spare hands to escort you. Will you be all right getting around the city on your own?”
“I brought my own security,” said Judd, gesturing toward Bull.
“We could use you as election observers. We’ve already got teams posted in all the major neighborhoods of Harare. But we need one in Rusape.”
“Rusape? Where’s that?” Bull asked.
“About two, maybe three hours east. It’s a lovely town, on the road to Mutare and the border with Mozambique. We could have you there by lunchtime.”
“That’s a generous offer, but I think we’ll stay in the capital,” Judd replied. “We’ll stay out of your hair, Ambassador.”
“You are no trouble at all, Dr. Ryker,” said Tallyberger as he crossed his arms.
“Actually, one thing, Ambassador,” Isabella added. “Is there, by any chance, someone—perhaps from diplomatic security or the marine guard—who could keep an eye on Solomon Zagwe’s villa?”
“You are asking me to deploy embassy resources for a stakeout?”
“Yes, sir. Just for the next forty-eight hours.”
“Ms. Espinosa, I would love to help with your little project, but I’ve already told you we’re down on manpower. This isn’t like the old days when we had a full political section and plenty of consular support. I’m afraid I just can’t spare the bodies.”
16.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Saturday, 2:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Sunday rubbed his eyes and checked the clock. No point in going home now, he thought. Satisfied that decision was made, Sunday rolled his head in a wide circle, stretching his neck muscles, then reversed direction until he could feel his neck bones crack.
Sunday had been hunting down Royal Deepwater Venture Capital since Judd Ryker had called him several hours ago. He wanted to have a lead by the time Dr. Ryker landed in Johannesburg. But so far he was coming up empty.
He’d found old tax records that reported Royal Deepwater was a hedge fund investing in mining and rare commodities and had once had an office in downtown Washington, D.C. That was consistent with a connection to Kanyemba. But according to the IRS, Royal Deepwater had closed years ago.
Sunday also found, buried deep in the CIA’s archives, references to a firm called Royal Deepwater with offices in northern Virginia, Delaware, Beirut, and Dubai. But they all had long been closed and the trail had gone cold. The company seemed to have vanished. Or it was hiding.
Sunday refocused his eyes on the computer screen, worrying that maybe he was looking in the wrong place. Company registers, tax records—those were easy to forge. Or erase. He needed another angle. He needed to clear his head.
Sunday left his cubicle and power walked around the perimeter of the Africa Issue office, his usual way of getting some exercise during all-nighters and for problem solving. As he passed by a window he noticed, through the trees to the north, lights in the distance, flying low. An aircraft following the Potomac River on its course into Washington, D.C. It was too late for an airplane landing at Reagan Airport. Must be helicopters heading for the Pentagon, he guessed. The rules don’t apply to the Defense Department.
At that thought, Sunday stopped, spun on his heels, and ran back to his cubicle. He quickly logged into a database of sensitive Defense Department procurement records. He typed into the search field: Royal Deepwater.
The reply: No records found.
He typed: Kanyemba.
No records found.
Next, he tried: Shinkolobwe
No records found.
Nothing? This wasn’t right. Sunday knew for sure that Shinkolobwe was an old DOD project. Why wasn’t it in the procurement records? Sunday stood up again to continue his pacing and to figure out what to do next.
As he passed the adjacent cubicle, where his brilliant but slovenly colleague Glen sat, he scowled at the messy workstation. Glen had left coffee cups and plates on his desk, stacked on top of piles of papers. Newspapers, reports, and books were scattered over everything. How does Glen work like that? Sunday wondered.
A clean desk was a clean mind. That was something Sunday’s grand
mother had taught him at an early age. That was why Sunday was all digital, all the time. Everything he did was electronic. He only read newspapers and books online. If someone gave him a hard copy of a research paper, he would have it scanned and stored so he could always find it later.
Scanned and stored, he thought.
Sunday returned to his computer and searched again: Uranium.
Thousands of records were listed. He sorted them by date, then opened the most recent record, a contract with a private security company. Nothing out of the ordinary. He jumped down to 1945 and opened another random document. On the screen was an out-of-focus page, a low-quality scan of a contract that had been originally written on a typewriter. Sunday could read the address of the company as Reno, Nevada. He typed into the document search field: Reno.
No records found.
Huh? He was staring at the word “Reno” and the computer wasn’t seeing it? Didn’t the Pentagon run optical character recognition on all its old records? Or did it not bother with the oldest ones?
Sunday narrowed the search dates for uranium-related contracts to 1980–1984, the years he believed the Kanyemba mine was being explored. This produced 214 records. Sunday opened each, one at a time, scanning with his own eyes for key words: Zimbabwe, Kanyemba, Royal Deepwater.
After nearly an hour, he hit the jackpot. A 1981 contract for an exploratory survey of the Zambezi river valley, starting in Kanyemba, Zimbabwe. The contract listed:
Primary contractor: Kanyemba Mining Company
Approved partners: Allied Surveyors, Global Logistics Inc., Royal Deepwater Venture Capital
At the very bottom of the contract was a scrawled signature. Sunday squinted to make out the rolling letters of someone named Max O’Malley.
17.
Bangkok, Thailand
Saturday, 1:43 p.m. Indochina Time (Eastern Standard Time + 11 Hours)
Max O’Malley outfitted his office in a corner room on the eighty-first floor of the Baiyoke Tower with the same care and precision he brought to all his business deals. He’d chosen the location for its stunning views of downtown Bangkok and the anonymity of a busy commercial hotel. Sitting up so high also gave him a sense of omniscience, watching all the little ants below move in their cars and tuk-tuks while he pulled the strings from the heavens. Plus this room was close to the rooftop cocktail lounge.