Minute Zero

by Todd Moss

  “Congress won’t want you!” he laughed. “You don’t even exist as far as they’re concerned.”

  “Then why are you here, sir?”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “Hear what, sir?”

  “If you want to play it that way . . .” The deputy director demanded, “Read the charges.”

  The man standing behind him opened the briefcase, extracted a stack of papers, and began reciting, “Failure to adhere to operational chain of command, failure to clear operations in a timely manner, failure to follow a direct order to abort operations, failure to adhere to duty-to-warn obligations, willful negligence, insubordination—”

  “Enough,” interrupted the deputy director. “This is currently an internal Agency matter. The more serious charges about the unauthorized assassination of General Solomon Zagwe are still under investigation. The lawyers are looking into it. Jessica, tell me you didn’t kill that bastard.”

  “No, sir. It was not me.”

  “No one in Purple Cell?”

  “No, sir. No one in Purple Cell killed that bastard.”

  “Well, someone in the building isn’t convinced. I hope you have covered your ass on this one.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Arrest? No.”

  “Am I fired?”

  “Did you have prior knowledge of an assassination plot against a senior official of the government of Zimbabwe?”

  “That was a false report. It was just idle phone chatter.”

  “And you knowingly sat on it! Why didn’t your people follow duty-to-warn protocols?”

  “That had nothing to do with Zagwe or Tinotenda.”

  “It doesn’t matter. One of your people broke intelligence protocol and now two men are dead.”

  “Sunday didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Why did one of your people provide false information to senior White House officials?”

  “Sir?”

  “Why did your team falsify information to get Zimbabwe included in Operation UMBRELLA ROSE?”

  “He was following my orders. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “Anything about what?”

  “The operation.”

  “What operation, Jessica?”

  “If there is any fallout, sir, it should land on me, not my team.”

  “Why did you need Zimbabwe in UMBRELLA ROSE? Why did you keep the Global Hawk flying after UMBRELLA ROSE was shut down? Why did you have people asking questions in Ethiopia? What the hell are you looking for?”

  “How do you know about all of that, sir?”

  “I know everything, Jessica. I just want to hear it from you.”

  “It’s all part of the operation.”

  “What operation is that?”

  “Purple Cell was on a mission to detect and neutralize a potential WMD threat against the United States, sir. We thought we had a line on a possible second supergrade uranium site.”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit! I didn’t give you that order. What the fuck were you investigating?”

  “Uranium.”

  “Uranium? I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “And possible war crimes linked to the mine. We were gathering evidence.”

  “On whose orders?”

  “No orders, sir.”

  “Then what the hell are you really up to, Jessica Ryker?”

  “I thought you knew everything, sir.”

  “Fucking van Hollen,” he laughed to himself. “BJ fucked me from the grave.” He shook his head.

  “I’m prepared to hand in my notice,” Jessica said.

  “What?”

  “My resignation. Monday morning. If that’s what I have to do to protect my team. If that’s what’s best for the Agency, sir.”

  “I can’t have you running rogue operations. I just can’t have it.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “I don’t want your fucking apology.”

  “I’m not offering one, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not apologizing, sir. I’m offering to resign. If that’s what’s best.”

  The deputy director rubbed his hands and turned to his aide, who revealed no emotion. “Fucking van Hollen . . .” he muttered to himself. Then he turned back to Jessica. “No.”

  She suppressed a smirk.

  “But as of today,” he snapped, “Purple Cell is suspended until further notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re going to need a full damage assessment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re going to have clean up this fucking mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Until Purple Cell is reactivated, I’m going to have to find someplace else in the Agency to put you, Jessica Ryker.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But if I find out you did kill Solomon Zagwe . . .” He shook his head as he trailed off. “Jessica, there is one thing I really don’t understand.”

  She looked up at him, suddenly feeling sorry for her boss.

  “I’ve been racking my brain and I just don’t get it.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re one of our best. You’re calculating, deliberate, decisive—”

  She shifted her weight. She didn’t like where this was going.

  “—cold-blooded, even. It’s what makes you so effective,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “So what I don’t get is . . . what I really want to try to understand is . . . why?”

  “Why what, sir?”

  “See, that’s precisely what I mean. Cold-blooded. I want to know why you give a shit about some forgotten Ethiopian general hiding out in a forgotten corner of Africa. I want to know why you risked your entire career over some two-bit retired thug.”

  A loud “Mommy!” came from upstairs. Jessica turned her head. “Sir, I’ve got to go.”

  “Why did you insert Purple Cell into Zimbabwe on your own accord?”

  “I’m not cold-blooded, sir.”

  “What does that mean? I’ve just saved your career for the second time. You owe me an explanation. Jessica Ryker, why did you care so much about this?”

  Jessica turned and just walked away.

  62.

  Central Ethiopia

  Thirty years ago

  The little girl with mocha skin and a bright white smile marched down the pathway cut into the side of the hill. On her head she wore short braids and balanced a bronze calabash full of water. Her mother, three steps behind, wore long braids and carried an even larger calabash. Several strands of thick wooden and glass beads hung around her neck, creating a rhythmic click-clack, click-clack as they walked. The tempo of the beads comforted the little girl, a constant reminder of her mother’s presence.

  As they hauled water back to the family compound from the nearest well several kilometers from the village, they followed a familiar goat path between the coffee trees, the green shrubs with bright red berries grown on those hillsides for centuries. When the girl got too far ahead, out of sight, she would stop underneath one of the umbrella-like acacia trees that dotted the landscape and provided an oasis of shade.

  As she did every day, the mother watched closely over her only daughter. Her steps were careful but deliberate.

  “Faster,” she urged. “You cannot be late for school today.”

  “Yes, Mama,” the girl replied, and resumed their hike.

  Although the mother had never herself been to school, she knew, even when this girl was a tiny baby, she was a clever one. She knew her little girl was destined for something greater than the hard life of a remote village in the Ethiopian highlands.

  Once the girl turned five years old, the woman and her husband
made a major decision: This one would go to school. The family would have to grow and sell extra teff, the grain used to make injera bread, to pay for her uniform and the unofficial fees the teacher would demand in exchange for allowing a girl to attend. In addition to the financial burden, the whole family would also need to wake earlier than the rest of the village to collect water. It was the only way she could be back home in time for her daughter to wash, dress, and still make the forty-minute trek to school.

  That had been a year ago. Now the early chores had become their normal daily ritual.

  None of the other six-year-old girls in the village were going to school, and most never would. The few boys who attended school teased her for being the only girl, for being out of place, for trying to be something they said she could never be.

  But her mother instructed her daughter to ignore their taunts and to focus on learning. The girl followed these orders. Her mother also counseled that the best response to silly boys was to prove to them she belonged there, that a girl could even be the head of the class. She did this, too.

  On this particular day, as they came around a bend in the path approaching the village, the girl’s head was already filling with letters and numbers. Her father came running to meet them, terror on his face. “The Red Fear is here! The soldiers are coming!”

  “What are you saying?” her mother asked, gently placing down the calabash. “Who is coming?”

  “The army! To this place! Now!”

  “Why here?”

  “I don’t know. We must run. Now!”

  “Why us?”

  “I don’t—” he started to answer, but was interrupted by the hollow whump whump whump of artillery shells in the distance, and then, nearer, the sharp crack crack crack of small-arms fire.

  “Mama?” the little girl cried.

  “The Red Fear is coming. It is Zagwe!” shouted her father, grabbing his daughter’s hand.

  The crack crack crack grew closer. They turned to run just as a bullet shattered the calabash on the girl’s head, drenching her with the cool water.

  “Nooooo!” wailed her mother, throwing herself on top of the girl.

  Suddenly, advancing soldiers poured over the hill and into the village. The first wave, in green uniforms and hard hats, slung long guns at their hips and fired wildly as they charged. The girl’s father raised his hands in surrender, but before he could speak, before he could plead for mercy, his body was raked by bullets, crack crack crack, and he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

  Her mother, now wrapped like a blanket over the girl, suddenly went limp, too. The little girl felt warm blood mix with the cool water.

  At that moment, as the little girl hid underneath her mother’s dead body, when her entire world was coming to an end, when she should have been screaming and crying but instead sat perfectly still, calculating, deliberate, decisive, one name stuck in her head, a name she would carry with her to her next life in America—the very last word her father had ever spoken: Zagwe.

  63.

  U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe

  Sunday, 4:47 p.m. Central Africa Time

  You need to see this!” yelled Colonel David Durham from his perch on the couch.

  “What is it, Bull?” asked Judd, emerging from his office-cave into the foyer with the television.

  “Chimurenga. They were showing music videos on state TV, but now it broke to a live press conference with Chimurenga. I think this is it.”

  “Turn up the volume,” ordered Ambassador Tallyberger, who was running in, followed by Isabella Espinosa and a crowd of embassy staff.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the great people of Zimbabwe . . .” began Simba Chimurenga. The general was standing behind a podium in formal military uniform with a wall of soldiers at attention behind him. A show of force, thought Judd.

  “Is this a coup?” asked one of the staff, who was quickly shushed by the ambassador.

  “. . . I have important and sad news to share with you today. His Excellency, Father of the Nation and Warrior of the People, President Winston H. R. Tinotenda, has passed.”

  Chimurenga then paused as the room erupted with gasps and camera flashes. The television picture jerked back and forth as the camera was jostled.

  “Be calm!” insisted Chimurenga, holding up both palms. The camera steadied and the room quieted. “Our great leader was murdered today by terrorists. Our great nation is under attack. But we have identified the culprits and we will bring them to justice. I assure you of that. The security forces are now fully mobilized and rounding up suspects. We have sufficient evidence pointing to senior members of the Democracy Union of Zimbabwe. The DUZ was once a legitimate political party and enjoyed the benefits and freedoms of our democracy. But it has become poisoned by violence. The DUZ is responsible for the assassination of our president and the explosion in our capital last night. Our prime suspect in these murders and attacks on the nation is Gugu Mutonga.”

  “No!” shouted Isabella.

  “Ms. Mutonga is not yet in custody. It is only a matter of time,” declared Chimurenga, pounding his fist on the lectern. “We have sealed the borders and have erected roadblocks around the capital. We call on all peace-loving members of the public to assist the security forces in apprehending her and her coconspirators.”

  “This is bullshit,” hissed Durham.

  “Their president was just murdered,” snapped Tallyberger.

  “I want to assure the people of Zimbabwe and our friends abroad,” Chimurenga continued, “Zimbabwe will survive this unprovoked attack and we will emerge stronger. I want to convey to the nation and to the world our assurances the government is still in control. We are still in charge. I am in charge.”

  “It is a coup!” Isabella shouted at the TV.

  “We are still operating under the state of emergency I announced earlier today. According to Section 128 of the Constitution of the Republic, the president may initiate special decrees in a time of extraordinary circumstances. Early this morning”—Chimurenga held up a sheet of paper—“the president signed Special Presidential Decree 128.7, which appoints the national security advisor as interim head of state if the president becomes incapacitated during a state of emergency. Based on this authority, I have assumed executive authority.”

  “It is a coup,” Judd said, making eye contact with Durham.

  “The election results which were due to be announced later today would have given President Tinotenda another five-year term. However, following the unfortunate events over the past twenty-four hours, we will, as soon as possible, hold new elections. The elections held yesterday are hereby declared null and void.

  “I urge all Zimbabwean patriots to remain vigilant in defense of the nation. If anyone has information about the whereabouts of Gugu Mutonga or any subversive activities, you are obligated to share that information with the security forces. Thank you. And God bless the Republic of Zimbabwe.”

  The screen went dark.

  “Everyone out! Back to work!” ordered the ambassador. “I need Bill Rogerson on the phone right now!” he demanded as the embassy staff filed out of the room. “And where the hell is Brock Branson?”

  “Ambassador,” Judd began. “We need to—”

  “We aren’t doing anything until I hear from Bill Rogerson. We need to reconvene the Zimbabwe task force before we do anything rash. I’m not running some rogue operation here, Ryker.”

  Before Judd could reply, Brock Branson appeared in the doorway, out of breath.

  “Sir. We’ve got a situation outside the embassy gates.”

  “What is it now?” asked Tallyberger, color draining from his face.

  “A crowd is forming, several hundred people.”

  “Have the marine guard put us on lockdown!”

  “They’ve already sealed the perimeter. That’s not the issue.”

/>   “Well, what is it?” Tallyberger’s eyes widened.

  “It’s not just any crowd, sir. Gugu Mutonga is at the gate.”

  64.

  Palisades, Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, 10:50 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Landon Parker jumped out the taxicab and paid the driver by flicking a twenty-dollar bill over the headrest. A uniformed policeman immediately stopped him.

  “I’m sorry, sir, this road is closed. No pedestrians.”

  “Good morning, officer,” he said, and flashed his State Department ID. The officer apologized and waved him through.

  Parker walked the remaining block before encountering plainclothes diplomatic security officers at the bottom of the circular driveway. After he showed his ID again, he strode up toward the Georgian Colonial mansion, with its tall white columns and redbrick façade. The porch was already decorated with pumpkins and an autumn wreath hung on the front door. He rang the doorbell.

  “Landon!”

  “Hello, Madam Secretary.”

  “We couldn’t wait for you. I’m sorry, we started brunch already. I was starting to worry you wouldn’t make it!”

  “I apologize, ma’am. Got hung up with something at the office.”

  “Well, you’re here now,” she said. “That’s what counts.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Senator McCall is regaling us with stories about his recent trip to Indonesia and New Zealand.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I hope you weren’t delayed by anything too important. No new crisis, I hope?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Russia again?”

  “Just a small problem in Thailand.”

  “Thailand? What’s going on there?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about, Madam Secretary. I made the problem go away. I promise you that.”

  “Wonderful. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Landon Parker, accepting a tall crystal flute of champagne from the Secretary of State and stepping into her foyer. “I’m still hungry.”

  65.