by Todd Moss
U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 4:52 p.m. Central Africa Time
We have to let her in!” Isabella insisted.
“She is a sitting duck out there, sir,” said Branson. “If we know she’s here, then so does Chimurenga. There’s an army post less than one kilometer away. If we are going to act, we need to do so right now.”
“If we let her in—if we give her refuge—we are taking sides in an internal political matter,” Tallyberger said, shaking his head.
“What’s your option? Let them arrest her?” Judd asked.
“And probably kill her,” Isabella said.
“I estimate you’ve got two minutes, sir,” said Branson.
“I need Washington on the line. Where the hell is Bill Rogerson?” screamed the ambassador.
“Trying to reach him, sir,” a voice shouted from another room.
“The crowd is getting bigger,” said Bull, peering out the window.
“Ambassador, if you don’t open the gate and let Gugu Mutonga into the embassy, then you are sealing her fate,” Judd said. “That’s not neutral, either. If you allow her in, that should give everyone time to calm down. Some breathing space. The embassy can be a stabilizing force and not allow this thing to spiral out of control. We can shut the window of chaos.”
“I’m not inserting the United States government into this fight without explicit instructions from headquarters. We aren’t doing anything until I hear from Washington.”
“Ambassador, a word, please,” said Judd, indicating the door to the ambassador’s private office. Once inside, he closed the door.
“Mr. Ambassador, you’ve got an opportunity to do the right thing here. For Zimbabwe and for the United States.”
“Ryker, don’t you come here and, after one day in my country, start telling me how to run my post!”
“You can do the right thing and show some balls, Arnold.”
“Get out of my office!”
“I didn’t want to have to do this, but there’s no more time. Ambassador, this is how it’s going to play out. One: You’re going to order the gates opened and allow Gugu Mutonga and her people onto the embassy compound. Two: You’re going to grant Gugu Mutonga immediate asylum and full diplomatic protection. Three”—Judd jabbed his finger toward Tallyberger—“you and I are going to draft a statement together outlining how the United States is going to support a peaceful, democratic transition. I’ve already done most of the work. You’ll just need to read it.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, Ryker?” Tallyberger’s face went from pallid white to blood red. “Why on earth would I do any of that?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“That’s not your call, Ryker! You are way the hell out of your lane!”
“And,” Judd said calmly, “because I know all about what happened in Haiti.”
The ambassador’s face returned to ashen.
“I already have an inquiry from the British Foreign Office—I spoke to them just a few hours ago, in fact—and they were asking some pointed questions about your suitability to be deputy chief of mission in London. They haven’t yet agreed to you.”
“There’s no agrément for a DCM. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ryker.”
“I know there’s no formal agrément. But if our friends in London knew about Haiti, I’m sure they would find a way to let the Secretary of State know your presence in the United Kingdom was . . . undesirable.”
“Undesirable? Why is the British Foreign Office calling you about my posting? What the hell do you have to do with any of this?”
“It’s a good question,” said Judd, nodding and trying to restrain any sign of smugness. “It’s a very, very good question, Ambassador.”
“You blackmailing me, Ryker?” Tallyberger narrowed his eyes.
“No, Mr. Ambassador. This is most definitely not blackmail. This is diplomacy.”
66.
U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 8:00 p.m. Central Africa Time
Ladies and gentlemen, please!” Ambassador Arnold Tallyberger implored the crowd. But no one was listening.
The ambassador was standing under the fluorescent lights of the modest stage in the embassy pressroom. The State Department seal, a bald eagle gripping arrows in the talons of one foot and an olive branch in the talons of the other, was pasted, slightly crooked, on the front of the podium. Also on the stage, off to one side, a large flat-panel television announced WELCOME TO THE U.S. EMBASSY, HARARE. American and Zimbabwean flags hung together on the back wall.
Half a dozen embassy aides with dark circles under their eyes crowded onto the same stage around the ambassador and the TV screen. Their suits were badly rumpled. Several burly security guards, with short-cropped hair and coiled wires in their ears, formed an imposing perimeter around the stage.
The room was mayhem. Word had spread quickly, likely aided by Brock Branson’s discreet network, that the Americans had a major announcement at a press conference called for eight o’clock. Reporters, staff from other embassies, and a curious turnout of Zimbabwean government officials rushed the embassy gates. A lucky few made it into the pressroom, where they squeezed into all the available chairs and stood packed along the back. Several hundred more people who had not been allowed inside swarmed outside in a growing throng.
Bull Durham had suggested the embassy broadcast the press conference on a projection screen at the front gate, but Tallyberger objected on security grounds. Instead, Bull and Isabella helped the marine guards rig up several speakers, so the crowd outside could at least hear the audio.
But now, the only thing anyone could hear, both inside and out, was the pleading of the ambassador.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please!”
Judd, standing off to the side of the stage, was huddled over a laptop, loading slides he had been assembling. He clicked a button and the screen next to the podium flashed UNITED STATES’ CONCERNS ABOUT THE INTEGRITY OF THE ELECTION IN ZIMBABWE.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may, thank you very much,” said Tallyberger, finally gaining their attention. He fiddled with his tie, trying to hide his discomfort with what he was about to do. He cleared his throat. “Welcome to the Embassy of the United States of America. I am Ambassador Arnold Tallyberger. I am here today to share with you some new information. Thank you for joining us on such short notice. I am pleased to see so many friends and colleagues here this evening.” He searched the room for familiar faces. “We have taken the unusual step of calling this press conference this evening, but I am sure you will all agree, these are unusual times in Zimbabwe.”
Another murmur went through the crowd. Tallyberger coughed into his hand, taking the pause to check his notes again, words that had been carefully negotiated with Judd over the past few hours.
“The United States is a friend of Zimbabwe and a friend of the Zimbabwean people. I want first to share our deep condolences for the loss of your president today in a terrible act of terrorism. The international community stands with Zimbabwe at this critical time and condemns any violence intended to spread fear, desperation, or chaos. President Tinotenda’s wisdom and leadership will be missed.”
Tallyberger, closely following the instructions in his notes, paused here and bowed his head.
After a moment he continued, “It is precisely for these extraordinary reasons we are taking the extraordinary step of calling you here today. As many of you may know, the election commissioner Justice Makwere is missing. Our hearts go out to his family and we hope he will be found safe and be able to return to his duties. We understand from the government that the election results are therefore being delayed. However, democracy cannot wait for one man. Fortunately, this evening we are able to share with you an independent assessment of yesterday’s election results.”
Judd clicked on
the mouse and the screen changed to ZIMBABWE ELECTION RESULTS.
The ambassador continued, “As a complement to the brave and tireless efforts of Zimbabwe’s election commission, a parallel voting collection system was deployed by a nongovernmental organization working closely with the Zimbabwe National Youth Training Association. Based on these data, which the U.S. Department of State has analyzed and certified, we are able to announce, with a hundred percent confidence, the victor in yesterday’s elections.”
Tallyberger gripped the lectern with both hands and took a deep breath. Then he turned to Judd and gave him a nod. “Dr. Ryker?”
Judd pressed the button on the laptop, showing the next slide:
Tinotenda 32%
Mutonga 68%
The crowd exploded with shouting, a mix of jubilation and anger. The security guards tightened the perimeter around the stage as part of the crowd surged forward.
“Please! Please!” shouted Tallyberger. “Before you ask, yes, we are prepared to share the full results publicly so there can be no doubts.” Tallyberger held up a thick binder. “We are fully confident that when the election commission’s official results are revealed, they will confirm this conclusion. However, it is in no one’s interest to further delay the election results, especially in this time of great uncertainty.
“Based on these results and in the interest of promoting stability in Zimbabwe, the United States is also providing security for President-elect Mutonga until she is sworn in as the next President of the Republic of Zimbabwe. Until the inauguration tomorrow at high noon, she will remain under the protection of the embassy at an undisclosed location.”
Judd resisted the urge to look up at the ceiling, toward Tallyberger’s office, where he knew Gugu was watching the proceedings on a closed-circuit monitor.
“We have not taken this step lightly. But following the events of the past several days, and the clear desire of the people of Zimbabwe to exercise their democratic rights, this became unavoidable. When a friend is in need, you help them through tough times. That is what the United States is doing today: helping a friend through a difficult period. We are confident that in the coming days, with the hard work of the Zimbabwean people, the nation will persevere and emerge even stronger.
“Before I close this event, we have one final announcement. I am turning the podium over to Special Prosecutor Isabella Espinosa from the U.S. Department of Justice. Ms. Espinosa?”
Tallyberger backed away and Isabella emerged from behind a security guard. She approached the microphone, angled it down, and cleared her throat.
67.
Outskirts of Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 8:08 p.m. Central Africa Time
A police car, the first in a line of more than a dozen security vehicles, flashed its lights and pulled over the white Mercedes CL600 luxury coupe. The vehicles formed a ring around the Mercedes and beamed lights into the driver’s seat, revealing a hefty African man talking on a cell phone.
“Driver! Exit the vehicle with your hands up!” a policeman shouted through a bullhorn. Several officers took up positions, aiming rifles at the Mercedes.
The driver ignored the order and continued speaking into the phone.
“Driver! Exit now or we will shoot!” yelled the bullhorn.
Calmly, the man set down his phone and reached for something on the passenger seat, prompting the sharpshooters to cock their weapons.
“Hands! Hands!” screamed the bullhorn.
The man delicately placed a flat-top army-green cap on his head and then clicked open the door.
“Muchinono! Muchinono! Slowly! Slowly!”
The man carefully exited the vehicle with his hands raised. As he stood up straight, his impressive size and his military uniform revealed an imposing figure.
“Do you know who I am?” bellowed General Simba Chimurenga.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. We are under orders to take you into custody.”
“What orders?”
“From our commander, sir.”
“I am your commander,” the general said.
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. My direct orders are to take you into custody.”
“You realize, small boy, you are risking your life. Your life and the lives of everyone in your family. Your entire village will be mine.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the policeman said, clasping on handcuffs and frog-marching the general toward one of the cars.
“All of you,” Simba sneered at the other officers. “I will eat all of your children.”
“No, sir. I don’t think so,” the policeman said as he pushed Chimurenga’s head down and into the back of the vehicle.
Chimurenga dropped into the seat and realized another man was sitting beside him: another big man, an American.
“Hello, General,” said Colonel David Durham.
“You? What are you doing here? You Americans have nothing to do with this.”
“I’m afraid we do now, General.”
“This is a domestic political matter. We are a sovereign nation. You have no business here!”
“I’m here to ensure you are taken safely into custody—”
“The arrogance!”
“—and delivered to the court.”
“The court? What court?”
“If I wasn’t here, they probably would have killed you, General. The tide is turning. It’s over.”
“Over? The hypocrisy! Where is Brock Branson?”
“Once you are at the court—”
“Where is Branson? You tell Branson I will reveal everything I know. Everything!”
“Excuse me, General. Once you are at the court—”
“I will burn him! I will burn everyone!”
“It’s over, General.”
68.
U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Sunday, 8:14 p.m. Central Africa Time
Ladies and gentlemen,” Isabella Espinosa began. “Thank you, Ambassador. I’m with a special unit of the U.S. Department of Justice investigating international war crimes. We have spent years amassing evidence about atrocities in Cambodia, Ethiopia, Sudan, the former Soviet Union, and other countries. Our team’s purpose is to hold accountable those perpetrators of mass civilian killings. Our goal is to enable the victims of these crimes to seek justice, to assist countries in healing from these terrible episodes in their history, and to deter future aggression against innocent people.
“Zimbabwe was not originally on our list of countries under investigation,” she continued. “However, we have unearthed, so to speak, new evidence we believe should come to light. Dr. Ryker, if you will?”
Judd projected the next slide on the large TV for the embassy audience. The screen flashed with an overhead shot of trees. “These photos were taken yesterday in the Kanyemba district in northern Zimbabwe. In the center, you can see these lines.” Isabella pointed to faint brown lines running along the ridge. “And this”—she pointed to a black square—“is the opening of the Kanyemba mine shaft which was sealed in 1982. Next.”
The screen changed to a multicolored photo, a swirl of red, yellow, blue, and green. “This is the same photo using geothermal readings. I’m going to ask Dr. Ryker to show increasing magnification of the photos.”
As Judd clicked through the slides, the images zoomed in on an area showing a dark underground room with hundreds of tiny gray dots.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve sent these images to our experts back in Washington, D.C., who have used similar technology to search World War II sites in Germany and Poland. They have confirmed our worst fears. The Kanyemba mine is a mass grave site. We believe this is the missing proof of the Great Rabbit Fire.”
“Motowetsurohuro!” shouted someone in the crowd. A gasp went through the crowd.
“We are still gathering evidence, but we now ha
ve army records and testimony from more than two dozen witnesses, all pointing to a special unit of the Zimbabwe National Army as the perpetrator of this massacre.”
The crowd wailed. Isabella pressed ahead. “We will be turning all this evidence over to the new attorney general of Zimbabwe once one has been appointed by the new government. The U.S. Department of Justice and the Federal Bureau of Investigation will remain engaged on this case for as long as necessary. The United States stands ready to assist the new government in any way possible to bring this case to court and to closure.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have one final piece of information to share at this time. From the evidence we have gathered, we now believe we can identify the prime suspect for the massacre at Kanyemba, the disposal of the bodies in the mine, and the subsequent cover-up. The person responsible for Motowetsurohuro is”—she paused in front of a room of wide eyes—“General Simba Chimurenga.”
69.
Lalibela, Ethiopia
Sunday, 10:23 p.m. East Africa Time
The elderly monk set down a chipped enamel cup of steaming hot tea and excused himself for the evening. Papa Toure sat up in his bed and said, “Thank you, Brother Gabriel. Sleep well.”
“We have work to do in the morning,” the old man said. Then he bowed and backed out of the doorway.
When Papa was sure he was alone, he reached into his rucksack, pulled out a thin titanium laptop, and fired it up. He logged in, placing the four fingers of his right hand on the computer screen. Once the machine recognized the user, Papa was connected to a secure satellite for his video call.
As he waited for the encryption software to load, Papa examined his temporary home. Bare whitewashed walls, a concrete floor with a reed mat, a slim mattress sagging on a rusty metal frame, a cinder-block table with a cup of tea and a kerosene lamp. It was perfect.
Papa’s satisfaction was interrupted by the laptop announcing that the video call was connecting and, ominously, that any unauthorized use was punishable by a large fine and a lengthy sentence in a U.S. federal prison. He rubbed his scalp with his palms and sat up straight. The screen suddenly came alive with the face of Jessica Ryker.