Minute Zero (10 page)

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Saturday, 2:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

S
unday 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 grandmother 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.

Bangkok, Thailand
Saturday, 1:43 p.m. Indochina Time (Eastern Standard Time + 11 Hours)

M
ax 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-tuk
s while he pulled the strings from the heavens. Plus this room was close to the rooftop cocktail lounge.

When he’d moved in a few weeks earlier, he replaced the bed with a large desk made of Burmese rosewood that was more appropriate for his purposes. And a bar stocked with ice and rare single-malt scotch, an essential part of doing this type of business. O’Malley also removed the hotel room art to make way for his own celebrity wall. He hung photos of himself: posing in the Rose Garden with the President of the United States; with Dean Martin at a black-tie Americans for the Future fund-raising gala; at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel with a Saudi prince; and on the steps of the Grand Palace with the king of Thailand. Also on the wall, prominently displayed, was a framed certificate from the chairman of the President’s Reelection Committee, honoring him as a “People’s Defender,” the highest level of achievement for the party’s fund-raising bundlers. Above the photos were his diplomas, a BA from Notre Dame, an MBA from Wharton, and an MSc in nuclear engineering from Virginia Tech. He was most proud of his science degree, an edge which repeatedly proved an advantage in his commercial ventures.

The one photograph missing from his wall, his most cherished of all, was of him standing with the Secretary of Defense on the deck of the aircraft carrier USS
Theodore Roosevelt
. The SecDef’s personal inscription was his favorite part. That was exactly why this particular photo was kept, not on the wall for visitors to admire, but in a safe deposit box at the HSBC branch in central Bangkok. It pained him to keep it stored in the dark, but he couldn’t take the chance the SecDef’s words of thanks and encouragement might one day be misinterpreted by an inspector general or a congressional committee of inquiry.

O’Malley was sitting at his desk, waiting for the call, when his phone finally rang. The caller ID showed a name he recognized, his contact at Suvarnabhumi Airport. He answered with a simple grunt.

“It’s here.”

“I’m on my way,” O’Malley replied.

Twenty-five minutes later, his car pulled through the gate at the executive jet arrivals hall. Waiting in a private hangar at the far side of the airport was an all-white Dassault Falcon 7X. The eight-seat ultra-long-range business jet had only one passenger today: a locked steel case. The pilot, a former South African special forces lieutenant with short hair and a thick neck, silently handed the package to O’Malley. The American accepted the case, examined it briefly, then retreated to a table at the other end of the hangar. He punched in a PIN code, held his thumb to a biometric reader beside the lock, and heard the sweet click-click of the release.

O’Malley’s heart rate accelerated as he opened the case. Inside, surrounded by black foam, were three small velvet purses. He gently plucked one pouch from its nest and poured the contents into his palm. He angled the handful of small rocks to see them against a different light and judge their weight. Satisfied, he dumped them back inside, replaced the pouch, and slammed the case shut. He flashed a thumbs-up to the pilot, who turned and departed.

Once O’Malley and the case were safely inside his car, he fished out his phone and placed a call.

“This is Romeo Delta Victor Charlie One. Password six four nine Bravo November Tango six. Yes, confirmed. The payment is one hundred and fifty million, as previously arranged. Correct, one five zero million U.S. dollars. Confirmed. Send it now.”

U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 8:50 a.m. Central Africa Time

G
et your fucking game on!”

“Excuse me?” Judd asked the CIA chief of station, who had just jumped out of his chair. Isabella Espinosa had finished explaining to Brock Branson that her mission to Zimbabwe was to hunt General Solomon Zagwe.

“I said, ‘Get your fucking game on!’” Brock was becoming even more excited. “I knew that Red Fear fucker was living here in Harare,” he said, jabbing a finger at Bull Durham for no apparent reason. “But I didn’t know anyone from Washington gave a shit.”

“Well, I do,” said Isabella, pointing back at Brock. In contrast to his loud personality, there was nothing distinct about Brock’s appearance. He was in his late thirties, Caucasian, with a medium build and brown hair, and wore a full, almost shaggy beard, which, Judd assumed, was an attempt to look older in a country where seniority was often respected above all else.

“I didn’t know anyone
anywhere
gave a shit,” said Brock. He was pacing back and forth in tight circles in his cramped office on the top floor of the embassy. Bull and Judd were squeezed into chairs, and Isabella was sitting on a small couch near the window. In the morning African light, Isabella’s hazel skin glistened, softening the tough mask of determination on her face.

“I’ve been chasing this target for three years. I’ve spent months poring over witness testimony, legal archives, and banking records,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “And that’s why I’ve dropped everything to be here right now. If President Tinotenda loses today, I can’t let Zagwe get away.”

“Well, I don’t think Tino is going to lose the election. But I’m in, sister! What do you need?” Brock’s eyes darted back and forth.

“A local car to stake out Zagwe’s villa.”

“Done. What else?” Brock licked his lips.

“Really?” asked Isabella, looking at Judd, dumbfounded.

“Yep. Done. What else do you need?” He drummed a rapid beat with his fingers on the desk.

“It would help if you could bring down Tino,” Judd offered.

“Believe me, I’d be more than happy to oblige. I’d pull the fucking trigger myself. Or push the old man down the stairs. But the CIA doesn’t allow us to do that kind of thing anymore. You know, Congress and all,” he said, with a wink at Isabella. “I’m here to help you D.C. boys. So, what else?”

“I’ve already arranged face time with Gugu Mutonga,” Judd said.

“You’re ahead of the game. How’d you manage that?” Brock asked.

“Through a friend.”

“Okay, I get it,” Brock raised his hands in mock surrender. “So what do you need from me?”

“How about a meeting with President Tinotenda?”

“That’s a tough one, amigo. He’s not gonna waste time meeting you. Nothing in it for him. You’re all downside, Dr. Ryker.”

“How about General Chimurenga?” Judd asked.

“You wanna meet old Simba, eh? All the charm of a rattlesnake in heat, that one! It’ll be tough to get him today with the election and all.” Brock grimaced. “But . . . old Simba owes me one or two.”

“So, is that a yes?” Judd asked.

“Special Agent Espinosa, what do you think?” he asked, turning to face Isabella.

“What do I think about
what
?”

“Should I burn a valuable favor to help Dr. Ryker get a meeting with General Chimurenga?” Brock Branson was rubbing his head.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Definitely.”

“Then it’s a yes, amigo!” Brock slapped Judd on the back. “What time do you want to see him?”

“How about right now?”

“You might be pushing your luck, Dr. Ryker! But let’s see what the bastard says.” Brock shrugged and picked up his phone. After a few seconds he shouted, “Simba! It’s me!
Makadii!
Ndiripo makadiwo!
I want you to meet someone! Today. No. . . . No. . . . No, it has to be today. I know . . . I know . . . Okay . . . Yeah, sure. Yeah, that will be fine.
Ndatenda, shamwari
.
Fambai zvakanaka
.” He hung up the phone with a loud clunk.

“Okay, we’re on.”

“Now?” Judd asked. “Just like that?”

“Nah. He’s tied up with security for the election. Plus he said he has to go to his home district to vote. Can you fucking believe that? Chimurenga has to
go home to vote
! Sometimes these Zimbos crack me up.” Brock shook his head, as if remembering an old joke.

Then, snapping back to the conversation, Brock continued. “Simba will give you five minutes this afternoon. Five o’clock. At the Meikles. It’s a sweet hotel, right downtown, old-school. Good gin and tonics. It’s full of spies and all, but that’s where the Harare elites like to meet.”

“Don’t you think somewhere more, I don’t know,
discreet
might be better?” asked Isabella.

“Nah! It’ll be fine. The safest place is wide out in the open,” said Brock, holding up his hands again. “It’s, like, ‘Fuck you, I have nothing to hide.’”

“If you say so.” Isabella shrugged.

“I would like nothing more than to play host to you D.C. boys, but if there isn’t anything else, I’ve got work to do.”

“One last thing,” Judd said. “What do you know about the Kanyemba uranium mine?”

“Good question!” Brock said, squinting. “I’ve been trying to get a man in there for weeks. They won’t let me get in close. They’ve got troops manning checkpoints on all the roads into Kanyemba. It’s tighter security than the fucking diamond mines in the Eastern Highlands. I don’t get it. It’s damn suspicious. But I don’t yet know what they’re up to.”

“What about UMBRELLA ROSE?” Judd asked.

“What do you know about that?”

“I was fully briefed by Admiral Hammond at the White House on the operation. If it’s a uranium mine and it’s potentially dangerous, then you should be receiving some help.”

“I’d love a surveillance drone. But my station wasn’t on the original list. Unless I’ve got evidence of an imminent threat, I’m just going to have to wait my turn.”

“Zimbabwe was added to UMBRELLA ROSE,” Judd said. “Doesn’t that mean you get a drone?”

“Zimbabwe’s low-priority. I’m used to it. I don’t expect a UAV overflight anytime soon.”

“The United States is short on Predators?” Judd shook his head.

“Not Predators. For this kind of mission, we need a Global Hawk,” Brock said.

“You need an RQ-4 UAV?” interrupted Bull.

“Yup.”

“I might know a guy,” Bull said.

“You can get me a Global Hawk?” the station chief asked. “With geothermal sensors?”

“I can make a call back to Stuttgart,” said Bull, without breaking his poker face. Judd and Isabella looked at each other with raised eyebrows and suppressed smiles.

“He might know a guy,” Judd smirked.

Brock Branson was impressed, too. “Get your fucking game on!”