by Todd Moss
“Poetry, Arnie.”
“I’m glad you still like it, Bill.”
“Still?”
“It’s the statement you and I wrote together after the elections in Benin back in ’96. Nearly word for word.”
“Holds up, Arnie.”
“Yes, it does.”
“So what’s Ryker’s problem?”
“Ryker insists there are major problems with the election. That AEEOMZ got it wrong. That I got it wrong.”
“What went wrong?”
“If you ask him, everything. The conditions for a free and fair vote, the polling stations, the vote tallies.”
“Did you tell him it’s Africa? That no vote is perfect? That he’s being naïve?”
“Of course. He’s holding his ground. I told him a delay in the U.S. statement would have consequences. It would create uncertainty and could even spark violence. But he doesn’t care.”
“If persuasion won’t work, what about the facts? You’ve got the observer mission reports on your side. What’s his evidence?”
“He doesn’t have any. He says it’s coming.”
“Coming? The United States is supposed to sit on its hands and unnecessarily invite chaos in a foreign country while we wait for him? Ryker wants to withhold the U.S. endorsement on a hunch?”
“He’s not just asking for a delay. It’s much worse than that. He’s proposing alternative language condemning the official result. I’ll read it to you.”
“No, don’t. I don’t want to hear it. Ryker is trying to single-handedly change our policy.”
“Right.”
“That’s not his job.”
“That’s what I told him, Bill.”
“I won’t allow it.”
“He’s using his direct line to Landon Parker as leverage.”
“Not for long. I’ll sort this out,” said Rogerson.
“One more thing, Bill.”
“What is it, Arnie?” he growled.
“Ryker and this woman Espinosa from DOJ are asking questions.”
“About what?”
“An incident twenty years ago. An army operation in the north. Supposedly there were civilian deaths. I’m hearing from my staff they are digging deep and asking some tough questions around town about what happened.”
“Twenty years ago?”
“Yep.”
“He was sent to deal with the election and now he’s sticking his nose into ancient history?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“Ryker is supposed to be fixing crises, not creating new ones, goddammit.”
“Uh-huh,” Tallyberger grunted.
“Are there bodies in the streets? Are there bodies, Arnie?” Rogerson asked.
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, it’s not a crisis. Is it?”
“No, it’s not. What do you want me to do about it, Bill?”
“I told you, I’ll sort this out. I’ll sort Ryker out once and for all.”
49.
Mufakose, Suburb of Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 11:24 a.m. Central Africa Time
The Green Mambas are stealing our votes!” shouted Tinashe, bursting through the door.
Tsitsi looked up from the stove where she was stirring a black pot full of sadza. With one hand on her hip, the other wielding a wooden spoon like a baton, she tsked. “Tssss, Tinashe!”
“The Green Mambas. Tino is using those boys to steal our votes. Sekai says they have ways to make our votes disappear.”
“Sekai? Tssss! Where was he? Drinking chibuku at the shebeen again?”
Tinashe didn’t answer.
“This fool is drinking beer on a Sunday morning?” She was shaking her head. “On the Lord’s Day? And you are listening to him? What does that make you?”
“Sekai’s brother is in the army. He says the big men have special powers. He says they have magic!”
“Why do you believe such foolishness?”
“The big men use the Green Mambas to make our votes disappear.”
“The street boys they pay to beat up old women? Those Green Mambas?”
“Ehe. They are dangerous.”
“Tssss!”
“The big men give them muti to make them numb.”
“Tinashe, you are too clever for this.”
“When they take the muti, they have no fear. They can kill without feeling.”
“Tssss! They are street boys who don’t even have shoes. What magic can they have? Why do you believe such rubbish?”
“Why hasn’t Gugu been declared the winner? Sekai says—”
“Sekai?!? Why do you listen to anything that fool says?”
She turned her back on him and stirred her pot.
“You are right. Forget Sekai. But, Tsitsi, do you believe our votes will be counted? Do you believe Gugu will be allowed to beat the old man?”
Tsitsi felt a rush of tension rise from her toes up through her body and into her neck. She didn’t answer.
“Sekai says the people are gathering in town. At two o’clock. If there is no announcement of the election, the people will demand it.”
Tsitsi turned and, for the first time that day, really looked at Tinashe’s face, recognizing the fear.
“We must go,” he said, his eyes wide. “We must stand up for Gugu.”
She set down the spoon and turned off the stove. She brushed the front of her apron, then nodded. “Let’s go.”
50.
Bangkok, Thailand
Sunday, 4:45 p.m. Indochina Time (5:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time + 11 Hours)
Max O’Malley swished the golden Scotch in his mouth, feeling the leathery liquid burn his tongue. He swallowed hard, smacked his lips, and exhaled a loud “Ahhhhh.” He collapsed in his leather desk chair and spun around to take in the view. The city simmered silently below, the weekend traffic already coagulating Bangkok’s arteries.
So many opportunities out there, he thought. Ripe pickings.
The sun was still high in the sky, but the skyscrapers cast elongated shadows. Definitely not too early for good Scotch, he assured himself. He reached again for the bottle.
As he poured a second drink, O’Malley wondered if all this hassle was worth it. After all the years, all the close calls, all the money, did he really need more? He had spent more than four decades putting together complicated business deals in complicated places. That’s why the margins were so fat. O’Malley had learned early on that a little knowledge, like the right kind of chemicals to determine copper ore content or the latest spectrometry technology, could be highly profitable in the right place at the right time. Once he threw in knowing the right people, the profits could be disgusting. Dirty fuck-you money. The kind that could buy you a jet or your own island. Or a president. At that thought, he smiled and took another gulp.
O’Malley had gotten his start through sheer luck. He knew that. The dormitory lottery at Notre Dame put him in a ten- by twelve-foot room with a spotty teenager from Newport News, Virginia, named Randolph Whitaker. What luck that the Whitakers were a fourth-generation U.S. Navy family and Randy’s mother was connected deep into the Washington political fund-raising circuit. That combination of fortune had projected little Randy meteorically through the ranks of the Pentagon hierarchy, eventually making him the youngest-ever Undersecretary of Defense for Acquisition. The Pentagon’s checkbook. The little prick, thought O’Malley, tipping back his glass.
Even if no one could have predicted all those years ago his college roommate’s eventual success, O’Malley regularly congratulated himself for recognizing a rising star early and getting close. Even better, he’d leveraged his friendship with Randy to break into defense contracting, just as the Reagan Cold War buildup was gaining steam. Shooting fish in a barrel. A small heavy-equipment
procurement contract was parlayed into ever larger deals and, more importantly, new relationships around the world.
Technology + contacts + discretion = fat profits. That was Royal Deepwater Venture Capital’s business model. It was the formula that had made Max O’Malley rich and powerful. Dirty fuck-you money.
In the early days of Royal Deepwater, Randy approached Max to put together a top secret deal for the U.S. government, some kind of experimental uranium exploration in a godforsaken corner of Africa that required extreme discretion and arm’s-length deniability. O’Malley jumped on the opportunity. The Kanyemba mining project had barely started when the local security forces got out of hand and the whole thing was shut down. It was always petty local politics that complicated the really big deals. He had seen it first in Zimbabwe. And then in Bolivia and Sri Lanka and Ethiopia.
His team was pulled out of Kanyemba, and the very next day thick-necked men arrived at his office in northern Virginia to seize each and every document related to the deal. The whole project was wiped clean from company records. That’s when he opened offices in Panama, Dubai, and Bangkok. O’Malley thought at the time that that was the end of the Kanyemba investment, that it was a total write-off, and he moved on.
Even when the mining deals would go bad, Max O’Malley always extracted a commodity more valuable: new contacts. Back then he hadn’t realized that failed ventures in Ethiopia and Zimbabwe would one day prove even more lucrative. After diamonds were discovered in the same country that had granted refuge to Solomon Zagwe, O’Malley fell into another combination of fortune.
Technology + contacts + discretion = fat profits. The formula was paying hefty dividends again. O’Malley also knew he needed protection from unforeseen consequences. The political wind could blow one way and then the other. He never wanted to find himself defenseless, too far out on a limb. He had seen it in too many places, and not just in the developing world, but in the most dangerous place of all: Washington, D.C.
Fortunately, buying influence in Washington wasn’t too difficult. Host a cocktail party for well-connected friends, write a few small checks to campaigns and a few large checks to political action committees, and you were in. The prize was not the “People’s Defender” certificate hanging on his wall or even the celebrity photos. Sure, they stoked his ego and even occasionally proved helpful in sealing a business deal. But their real value was insurance. If things ever went bad, someone would answer his phone calls.
At that thought, Max O’Malley’s phone rang. His caller ID showed a 202 area code, but the rest of the number showed as 000-0000. A scrambled call from Washington.
He picked up the phone and grunted into the handset.
“Diamond smuggling?” shouted Landon Parker on the other end. “Really, Max? Diamonds? What the fuck are you thinking?”
“Calm down. You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I know a bank account linked to your business is transferring large sums from Asia to accounts controlled by the military in Zimbabwe. How do you explain that?”
“The State Department doesn’t always have the whole picture. You should know that by now, Landon.”
“Does the Washington Post have the whole picture, Max? I didn’t get this from intel. I know about your diamond business because a civilian plugged deep into the Post told me. A motherfucking civilian, Max! Now, how the fuck do you explain that?”
“You know I have many business interests,” replied O’Malley. “You know I can’t possibly control every entity in the value chain.”
“Cease and desist, Max. You got that? Cease and fucking desist.”
“I haven’t done anything to cease, Landon.”
“Do you really want everything out in the open, Max? Do you really want reporters digging into the history of Royal Deepwater? In Zimbabwe, for Christ’s sake? Of all places, you had to go back to Zimbabwe? Do any of us want that?”
“I never did anything wrong. The mistakes were all the Pentagon’s. I don’t have anything to hide. Uranium exploration isn’t illegal.”
“That’s not the point. How do you think the White House will react? Political donations are public records, Max. They screened you. You think they’ll just allow this to come out? You think they’ll take this lying down?”
“That’s not my problem.”
“What about the Secretary of State? Do you think she’s going to allow this?”
“That’s not the right question, Landon. The right question is, how does the Secretary plan to run for the highest office without my money? Do you know how much the next presidential campaign is going to cost, Landon?”
“You are threatening the wrong guy, Max. We don’t need you. There are plenty of rich assholes in Washington.”
“But the Secretary has already needed me. You’ve already accepted this asshole’s money. Check the PAC records.”
After a brief pause, Landon Parker yelled, “Fuck you!” and shattered his phone against the wall.
51.
Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 12:12 p.m. Central Africa Time
A buzz rippled through the crowd as a fat man wearing a tight pin-striped suit waddled from a side door up to the podium. A floral bouquet of microphones adorned the top of the stand. The Ministry of Information’s banquet hall had been turned into a makeshift press room for the election announcement.
The man tapped the microphones roughly before removing his sunglasses and eyeing the room of journalists and diplomats. He then extracted a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. All eyes in the room focused on him. Judd Ryker, standing at the far back, craned his neck to get a better view.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the fat man began, a slight quiver in his voice. “Thank you for your patience. The election commissioner has not yet arrived. Therefore we do not have results to report.”
“Where is Commissioner Makwere?” asked a reporter in the front row.
“I’m not taking questions.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, I’m not taking questions,” he replied.
“No, you don’t know where he is? How does the ministry not know the location of the commissioner?”
“No, no . . .” he repeated, waving his hands and turning to leave. “That is not what I said. No questions.”
“Is there any truth to the rumor that Commissioner Makwere is missing?” shouted a journalist at the back.
The spokesman averted his eyes and wobbled toward the exit, unleashing a barrage of new questions from the audience.
“Is Makwere missing?”
“Is Makwere still the commissioner?”
“Has he fled the country?”
“Is Makwere alive?”
“Can you confirm the election commissioner is still alive?”
At that last question, the man reached the door, ducked inside, and slammed it shut. On cue, the journalists and diplomats all dialed their phones in an outburst of chatter.
A few seconds later, on the other side of town, in a windowless conference room, phones vibrated in the pockets of Arnold Tallyberger and Brock Branson.
Judd’s mind raced. What’s happening? Is this Minute Zero? How can I know?
Judd plucked his phone out and was about to dial when a sudden movement at the front of the room sent another ripple through the crowd. With no warning, General Simba Chimurenga marched in through the side door. The crowd gasped and then hushed. Chimurenga strode up to the microphones and, without hesitation, began speaking.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I know you are here for the election results. I will come to that in a moment. But I first must address an urgent threat facing the Republic of Zimbabwe. As many of you have seen on the television, Zimbabwe was attacked early this morning. A terrorist explosion in our own Gun Hill neighborhood resulted in the deaths of several of Zimbabw
e’s patriots. This was a direct attack on our great nation. I do not have any further details to share at this time, but as the president’s national security advisor, I assure you we will find the culprits and bring them to justice.
“I am urging the public now to assist the authorities by providing any information you may have about the bombers. What I can share with you now is we are on the lookout for a black Nissan sedan seen in the area at the time of the attack. We have reports of a foreign woman driving the Nissan. A white woman,” he snarled.
“If anyone has further information about the car, this woman, or her coconspirators, please alert the authorities. Cash rewards will be available for anyone who provides information leading to the capture of these terrorists.”
Chimurenga paused to assess the audience. As he scanned the back of the room, he caught Judd’s eye. Judd wasn’t certain, but he thought Chimurenga’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m afraid I have another important announcement. Our security forces charged with protecting the people have uncovered an assassination plot against senior members of the government. This is a grave threat to the nation and to Zimbabwe’s precious democracy. In the midst of our election, this is a direct assault on the people. But I am here to tell you, the public and our friends around the world, we will not be shaken. Zimbabwe is strong,” he said as he pounded his fist on the lectern.
“I cannot go into any detail for security reasons, but we have new information linking this conspiracy to members of the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe. I am shocked and appalled, as I’m sure all Zimbabweans are, that one of our own political parties is engaged in violent and treasonous activity to destabilize the state. We do not yet know with certainty if the attack in Gun Hill and the new plot are connected, but we believe they are. The army and police are conducting sweeps as I speak, rooting out our enemies. I urge the public to assist the security forces in this task. Rest assured, we will not allow these traitors and sellouts to succeed.