by Todd Moss
“No,” she said, sinking back in her chair. “I shouldn’t have even asked. After all these years, I know better.”
“Thank you. I owe you one.”
“Is that all? You came up here for gossip on skinny old Arnold Tallyberger?”
“Nah. The real favor I need is something serious.”
“More serious than asking me to dig into confidential personnel files? What could it be?”
“Can you find out who’s on the short list to be our next ambassador to Cairo? The committee hasn’t announced anything yet, but I need to know today.”
“Is Dr. Ryker working on Egypt, too? I can’t keep that man’s program straight. No wonder you’re here sweating on the weekend!”
“Nah. I just need to know. I know the Deputies Committee keeps these names tight. But it sure would make my life easier to know who will be going to Embassy Cairo.”
The secretary clicked away again on her keypad, then scanned the empty room. “I didn’t tell you anything.”
“Of course not. I’m not even here.”
“Sandoval.”
“Who?”
“Ruben Sandoval. Fund-raiser for the President. Owns a franchise chain of organic juice bars and yoga studios in Florida.”
“Never heard of him.”
“No one has.”
29.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 2:15 p.m. Central Africa Time
He is our father and our grandfather!” screamed the emcee up on the stage. The crowd, a sea of fists raised high in the air, roared its approval. “President Tinotenda is the soldier for the people! The defender of the poor! The protector of the righteous!”
Judd, watching from the back of the cavernous national stadium, had a sinking feeling of regret for not waiting until Bull and Isabella returned to the embassy so they could join him. Ambassador Tallyberger had insisted he wasn’t able to spare a security officer. That was no surprise. Brock Branson, the CIA station chief, had offered to send along an escort, but—stupidly, he realized now—Judd refused. “I’ve been in more dangerous places than a campaign rally. I’ll be fine,” he had said proudly. At the time he meant it.
“Our president is the lion that kills the enemy in the night! He feasts on their fear! He devours their hearts! He is the long spear that pierces evil in the night! He brings death and anguish to those who betray the people!”
President Winston Tinotenda, in the center of the stage, listened patiently to the praise singer from the comfort of an upholstered burgundy throne. He was wearing a dark tailored business suit and a white baseball cap emblazoned with the symbol of his party, a black fist. Across his front, a green silk sash hung over one shoulder as if he were a geriatric beauty contestant.
In a smaller but no less ornate throne next to him sat Harriet Tinotenda, the first lady. Her full-length dress had a traditional African pattern but the sunlight revealed a luxurious twist: encrusted gemstones in a ring around the collar and in long, glistening stripes along the sleeves. She wore a bored expression of disinterest but was clearly savoring the adoration.
“Our Father is the provider of our bounty! The creator of economic opportunity! The deliverer of light! The vessel of truth!” continued the emcee, who was aggressively stomping around the stage as he pumped up the crowd. “Our Father is the sun that shines brighter than all the other stars! The earthquake that shakes the foundation of our enemies!”
Behind the president stood a wall of brawny men in military uniforms, frozen at attention.
Now Judd’s regret was turning to concern. The stadium continued to fill, people streaming in from all directions.
“The victor in today’s elections! His Excellency, Father of the Nation and Warrior of the People, President Winston Tinotenda!” As the president strained to rise, the crowd shrieked and surged toward the front.
Judd ducked behind a concrete pillar to avoid being swept with the masses onto the stadium’s field. As the swelling subsided, he peeked around the corner. Tino was now on his feet but hunched over in front of the microphone. The stadium went quiet in anticipation of the president’s speech. He licked his lips and scanned the sea of faces.
Satisfied, he declared, “Today, my children, your Father will be victorious!” The crowd erupted with cheers and fist pumping.
“Today we will mightily defeat the forces that want to destroy the Revolution! We will never allow the traitors and sellouts to rule this country! We will fight them in the ballot box! We will fight them on the battlefield! We will fight them in the streets!”
The crowd roared.
“We must fight the traitors!” demanded the president.
“Fight the traitors!” yelled the crowd.
“Will we allow the puppets to win?” boomed Tino.
“No!” shouted the crowd in unison, punching the air.
Tino raised a fist over his head. “Will we ever give our nation back to the imperialists?”
“No!”
Judd’s stomach fluttered.
“Will we allow our Mother’s milk to be stolen again?”
“No!”
The crowd’s frenzy was escalating.
“Will we allow our brothers’ farms to be taken away again?”
“No!”
“Will we allow the British to ever rule this country again?”
“No!”
“Will we allow the Americans to enslave our people again?”
“No!”
Uh-oh. Not good, thought Judd.
“Will you ever have another Father of the Nation?”
“No!”
The crowd heaved again toward the front. Judd clung to the pillar, but he was pushed from behind and his fingers lost their grip. He gasped for breath as he realized he was helpless to stop the momentum.
The stampede thrust forward. Oh, shit! He was lifted off his feet and swept down toward the stadium floor. I’m going to be trampled! Just as panic began to swell inside his stomach, firm hands gripped his arm and pulled him up and back against the tide.
Judd turned to face his anchor, a huge African man with thick arms but no expression at all on his face. Like walking upriver in a whitewater rapid, the man towed Judd against the waves of people rushing forward. As Judd limply allowed himself to be dragged, he suddenly wondered: Am I being rescued? Or kidnapped?
Before Judd could decide, they reached a sanctuary underneath the stadium.
“You are safe now,” said his rescuer.
“Who are you?” asked Judd.
“But you must leave. It is not safe for you to stay here.”
“I’m with the American embassy,” said Judd, hoping this might help protect him but immediately realizing how stupid it must have sounded.
“Please. You must go,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
“I am no one.”
“Why did you help me?”
“Brock,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I am a friend of Brock’s.”
“Brock Branson? From the embassy? He sent you?”
“You must go now.”
Crack! Crack! Crack! exploded in the air. Judd whipped his head toward the source of the gunshots. Up onstage, President Tinotenda was firing a pistol into the air.
“Forward with the Revolution! Forward with Zimbabwe!” he chanted, pointing the gun at the heavens. Crack crack crack!
Judd turned back toward his rescuer, but he was gone.
30.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Saturday, 8:58 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Sunday rubbed his eyes. He’d been staring at banking records on his computer screen for hours. He didn’t want to use his trump card, but he felt it was his only choice. He needed answers. Reluctantly he picked up the
phone.
“I’ve got an urgent Purple Cell request for voiceprints on a target.”
The other end of the line responded with several questions, which Sunday answered in rapid response. Then: “Max O’Malley, DOB January 15, 1950, AmCit, last known location, Bangkok, Thailand. Let’s start with anything from the past week.”
Sunday paused to sip coffee while he waited for results. When they arrived, he nearly choked.
“Nothing? Nothing at all? How is that possible? What about the past month? . . . Nothing?”
Sunday drummed his fingers on his desk.
“Okay. New target. Lucky Magombe, no DOB, likely Zimbabwean citizen, possibly South African. Last known location, Johannesburg, South Africa. Again, start with the past week.”
After a few moments his screen flashed. Four hits, starting with the most recent, a call intercepted less than two hours ago:
SATURDAY OCT07, CALL INITIATED 1.15PM CAT/7.15AM EST. TRANSCRIPT:
Unidentified 1: Hello.
Target: Is this the Canterbury Cricket Club?
U1: Is this Cannonball?
T: Yebo.
U1: Your membership has been prepared. Are you now ready to play?
T: Is the cricket team there?
U1: Yes, everything is in place. The target is in our sights. We are only waiting for your approval.
[inaudible]
[End call]
SATURDAY OCT07, CALL INITIATED 12.24PM CAT/6.24AM EST. TRANSCRIPT:
Target: Magombe.
Unidentified 1: I am calling for Cannonball.
T: What is it?
U1: Are you ready to join the Canterbury Cricket Club? Your membership has been prepared. It will be available this Sunday. At noon. Sir?
T: Not yet. Wait for my word.
U1: Shall we continue with your membership preparations for the Canterbury Cricket Club?
T: Yes.
[End call]
The third call was from two days earlier.
THURSDAY OCT05, CALL INITIATED 4.22PM CAT/10.22AM EST. TRANSCRIPT:
Target: Magombe.
Unidentified 2: It’s me, Mariana.
T: Are we making progress?
U2: Yes, all the materials have been pre-positioned for the vote on Saturday. It’s looking good. I think Gugu should feel confident.
T: Very good.
U2: How about the parallel voting tabulation?
T: We will be ready, Mariana. I will let you know when we have the real numbers.
U2: Excellent.
T: Have you spoken with your friend in Washington?
U2: Yes, Lucky. He will help us.
T: Has he agreed?
U2: Not yet, but I’m confident he will.
T: He’ll have influence with the embassy?
U2: Yes. He’s not part of the regular diplomatic corps. He’s a special envoy. I’ve worked with him before. We can trust him.
T: His name is Rider?
U2: Ryker. Judd Ryker.
Shit. Sunday kept reading.
T: What else does he know?
U2: Only what he needs to.
T: Very good. Keep me informed.
[End call]
The final intercepted call was nearly a week old.
MONDAY OCT02, CALL INITIATED 11.54PM CAT/5.54PM EST. TRANSCRIPT:
Unidentified 1: Hello.
T: Is this the Canterbury Cricket Club?
U1: Is this Cannonball?
T: Yebo. Is this line clear?
U1: Yes.
T: Are you certain? We need to be careful.
U1: Yes, Cannonball. We are following security protocols.
T: Is the team here?
U1: The team has arrived. They are ready and awaiting your orders. The payment is complete. They only need the time and the target.
T: This Sunday. Noon.
U1: Yes, Cannonball. Sunday noon. And the target?
T: Chimurenga. General Simba Chimurenga.
U1: Confirmed, Cannonball. Chimurenga is the target.
[End call]
Shit, shit. He picked up the phone again.
Jessica was driving her white Honda minivan, both children strapped into car seats in the back, when her cell phone blinked. “Good morning,” she answered.
“Ma’am. Sorry to call you again,” Sunday said. “We’ve got another problem. A big problem.”
31.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 3:05 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Judd pushed through the crowds outside the national stadium. When he finally spied the embassy car, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The driver opened the door and Judd dove inside, savoring the quiet and space of the rear of the vehicle.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Back to the embassy.”
“Are you quite sure, sir?”
“Yes, thank you. The embassy.” Judd slumped back into the seat as the car accelerated. Relieved, he ran through the events of the past few minutes in his head and tried to make sense of them.
Ding. Text message from Sunday.
New info. $275m today from Bangkok to Chimurenga.
Wow, thought Judd. He texted back.
How much?
USD 275,000,000
Bangkok?
Royal Deepwater
$ for what?
IDK. Working on it.
Thx. Keep me posted.
After a pause, Sunday asked:
Do you know Max O’Malley?
No. Who is he?
Royal Deepwater
What does that mean?
IDK yet. Still digging.
Judd turned his attention to the window and the passing scene. Rows of market stalls lined the road, displaying bright green avocados the size of footballs, mountains of small oranges, and stacks of brown bread loaves. The vehicle whisked past columns of women, each one carrying a baby on her back and balancing a huge bundle on her head. Judd noticed one woman sashaying down the side of the road with a colorful wrap around her waist, the middle of her wide backside displaying the smiling face of President Winston Tinotenda. Judd dialed a number.
“Mariana Leibowitz,” the other end replied.
“It’s Judd,” he said.
“Yes, darling. Of course. What do you have for me?”
“I’ve just been to Tinotenda’s campaign rally at the national stadium.”
“It was scary, right?”
“It was huge.”
“That’s because the party buses them in from the countryside and gives them a free meal.”
“They were all wearing Tino T-shirts,” Judd said.
“Yes, of course. They give them those, too. Sometimes they even pay cash. I wouldn’t be surprised if they drugged the boys before they got to the rally. It’s all for show, Judd darling. Don’t be fooled.”
“I’ve seen my share of African elections, but this was still a sight. What are you hearing about the voting?”
“Not good. The entire southern belt is short of ballot papers and some voting stations haven’t even opened yet. We’re getting reports from many of our strongholds, like Mutare, Chitungwiza, and Gweru, that groups of party youth militia are openly threatening people if they vote for the opposition. We have video from Masvingo showing Tino’s thugs in green jumpsuits escorting people into the voting booths. Into the booths. Can you believe it?”
“After what I just witnessed, yes, I can.”
“The police aren’t doing a thing. How can people possibly vote with someone holding a gun to their head? Can you imagine an election like this?”
“Didn’t you expect organized intimidation?
”
“Yes, but it’s still a horrible thing to watch unfold. The worst abuses are taking place in the far north. The army has deployed all around Kanyemba. They’ve barred international observers and no one can get in or get out. Kanyemba is on complete lockdown,” she said.
“What’s going on up there?”
“No one is saying. I can’t find out anything.”
“So what are you going to do, Mariana?”
“We’ll document all of the abuses and present them to the observer teams. Not much more we can do.”
“You know that won’t work,” Judd said. “The observers will report any incidents as isolated problems. Unless you can prove it affected the final outcome, it won’t matter, Mariana.”
“I am well aware, darling.”
“So then . . . ?”
“Gugu Mutonga can still win. She’s that popular.”
“Assuming you get enough votes despite Tino’s thugs and the missing ballots, what are you doing to keep the counting fair?”
“Oh, Judd,” said Mariana. “That is an excellent question. That is, in fact, the question. I’m so glad you asked.”
“And?”
“We have a guardian angel.”
“A what?”
“A guardian angel. Watching over the voting.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’m sorry, I cannot say.”
“You just said you were glad I asked. Now you won’t tell me who it is?”
“I’m glad you asked because it means you understand what’s happening in Zimbabwe today.”
“But you won’t say who?”
“I’ll tell you when you need to know, darling.”
“Is it an embassy? Is one of the foreign embassies helping you?”
“Fuck no, Judd.” Mariana forced a laugh. “You should have learned that by now. We can’t count on any of them. They are all too worried about relations to get involved with any one candidate. They’re all neutral.”
“Yes, yes. I know.”
“And do you know who’s the worst?”
“I think I can guess.”
“Right. The Yankee fucking Doodle dandies. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to be an American in Africa. And that Tallyberger is a joke. A sick joke.”