Minute Zero (11 page)

Lalibela, Ethiopia
Saturday, 10:21 a.m. East Africa Time

P
apa Toure strolled slowly in the searing heat. He walked along the dirt path, following the directions he’d been given. It was impossible to see his destination. As he came up and over a large rock, however, suddenly there it was: the Church of Saint George. Rather than build the church up high on the ground out of stone as they did in Europe, the twelfth-century Ethiopian Orthodox Christian monks had carved the cross-shaped church out of the rock, deep down below the ground.

Papa stood at the edge of the hole, admiring the craftsmanship, the intricate detail around the windows, the careful use of light and shade to keep the church cool.

He descended the stairs to the lower level, where he circled around the church. The outer walls had dozens of small dark caves, a watchman napping inside one. Once he returned to the main entrance of the church, he stepped inside.

An elderly monk approached him. He was dressed in a purple robe, with a white turban-like hat and a large silver cross hung around his neck. “Welcome, my brother.”

Papa bowed his head and returned the greeting.

“Are you here to pray, my brother?”

“I am not,” answered Papa.

“Are you a Christian?”

“I am not. I am Muslim.”

“You are very welcome. You may still pray here. But you are not Ethiopian, I am sure.”

“I am from Mali. From the Sahara.”

“What brings you all the way to Ethiopia? Are you with the United Nations?”

“No. I am here because of water. My work is water.”

“
Inshallah
, my brother. We need water here. You are very welcome to Lalibela. To Bete Giyorgis, the Church of Saint George.”

“
Inshallah.
This is a very beautiful place.”

“Yes, this is the new Jerusalem.”

“You live here, yes?”

“Yes. Here and at the orphanage in town.”

“You are the caretaker for the church and the orphanage, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I have brought you this for the orphans,” Papa said, bowing his head and handing the monk a thick roll of local currency.

“Thank you, my brother. The children will thank you. Praise to God.”

“Praise to God,” Papa repeated. “Can I visit the orphanage? Will you show me?”

The monk led Papa out of the church, up the steps, and onto a path toward the center of town.

They crossed through a small marketplace with women sitting in rows, selling yellow beans, bright red chili peppers, and tall pyramids of brown grain. Large pots of dark red stew bubbled on open flames. Papa stopped to watch a woman pour batter on a wide, flat stove, just like one of the many creperies he had visited in Paris.

“Injera,” said the monk. “She is making injera, our national bread.” The steam of the stove rose, and the savory sour smell tickled Papa’s senses. The woman pulled the spongy bread off the stove and stacked it on a pile. “You are hungry, water man?” asked the monk.

“No, brother. I am here to see the orphanage.”

“We are here,” he said, pointing to a dilapidated concrete building with peeling orange paint on the walls.

Inside, groups of children sat quietly reading books or writing in small notebooks.

“How many children are here now?”

“Two hundred and six,” said the monk.

“It is many.”

“Yes. We always have many.”

“How do you manage?”

“Generous donations. Like yours.”

“This is the same orphanage that raised Solomon Zagwe, yes?”

“You
are from the United Nations!”
gasped the monk, backing away from Papa.

“No, brother. I am not from the UN.” He handed over his business card, which read
PAPA TOURE, DIRECTOR, WATER ENGINEERING INTERNATIONAL, A PROJECT OF THE HAVERFORD FOUNDATION
with a logo of a blue raindrop and phone numbers listed for New York, Geneva, and Bamako.

“Why, then, are you asking about Solomon?”

“It is not every day I meet a holy man who lives in a church and raised a former president. I am interested in history.”

“Solomon was a good boy.” The monk shook his head. “I don’t know where he went wrong, but
he was good
.”

“I see. I also have a son. It is so difficult to raise them, you give them everything.”

“Yes, we do.”

“And then you have no more control. We do our best. But we can’t be held responsible for what they do as adults. Isn’t that true, brother?”

“Yes.”

“It can be painful, yes?”

“So painful.”

“What was Solomon like as a boy?” asked Papa.

“Always working to get ahead. He never liked to rest. Never satisfied.”

“How did he ever rise from this place to become president?”

“He was clever. He worked hard. He joined the army and was sent to Saudi Arabia for training. He made many friends there and was very powerful when he returned. On a very bad day, he killed the emperor and became president. I should have been proud. One of my charges became the most powerful man in the country. But it did not feel Christian.”

“I understand.”

“I am ashamed,” said the monk.

“I understand, my brother,” said Papa, placing a hand gently on the monk’s shoulder.

“I am a humble servant of the Lord. I know of the word of God. I don’t know these games of power. These games of big men.”

Papa nodded his head in sympathy.

“Something went wrong,” continued the monk, tears welling in his eyes. “Something terrible. Something unbearably un-Christian. I cannot speak of what he did.”

“I understand. No more questions.”

After a few moments of silence, Papa asked, “My brother, are you still in contact with Solomon?”

“No!” he insisted. “He cannot return to Ethiopia. He can never return to this place.”

“He doesn’t write? To the man who raised him? I don’t believe that.”

“No, he does not write.”

“He has forgotten you? Despite all that has happened, despite all you did for him, he has forgotten the place that raised him?”

“I did not say that. You asked if he writes.”

“So, what does he do?”

“He has not forgotten the Church of Saint George or the orphanage.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those books,” he said, pointing to a crooked shelf holding several dozen dog-eared volumes. “The soccer balls, the clothing, even our new television. He has sent them all. He does not write, but he has sent us these gifts. I know they are from him.”

“I see. He sent you a television?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it, brother?”

The monk led Papa into a side room. A flat-screen television was in one corner, a crowd of young children sprawled in front, focused intently on the soccer match on the screen. The game commentary was very loud and in Italian.

“Solomon Zagwe sent you this television?”

“He is still a good boy deep down. He has not forgotten us.”

“Yes. I see. It is a fine television, yes.”

In the upper corner of the screen a blue sticker announced
SAMSUNG, THE NEXT BIG THING
. Behind the TV, a cardboard box lay propped up against the wall. Papa walked around the back to examine it. In one corner of the box was a shipping label:

PATTANAKARN ELECTRONICS, SUVARNABHUMI, BANGKOK 10250, THAILAND.

“Yes, brother, it is a fine television,” Papa repeated.

Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 9:44 a.m. Central Africa Time

G
eneral Simba Chimurenga was feeling confident. He watched the lines of new recruits for the Green Mambas, most of them young boys no older than fifteen or sixteen years old, conscripted from the villages. They were all wearing new dark green jumpsuits, but few had shoes. Those lucky enough to have anything on their feet wore ratty sandals made from old tires. They appeared strong. And angry.

Chimurenga called over the unit commander, who arrived with a sharp salute.

“How many today?”

“Two hundred here, sir. We have another fourteen recruitment sites around the country, sir.”

“Why aren’t these recruits wearing shoes?” demanded the general.

“I’m sorry, General. Only uniforms were delivered from headquarters.”

“I want these boys to have proper shoes. The Green Mambas cannot attack barefoot. Buy them boots,” he said, pulling a fat wad of U.S. dollars from his pocket.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want them to have the boots
today
. Before they deploy.”

“Yes, sir. I know where to get boots for the men,” he replied, shoving the money into his pocket.

“Are the trucks ready for them?”

“Nearly, sir.”

The general’s phone rang, a sign the commander took to depart. Chimurenga eyed the caller ID. He had been waiting anxiously for this call from his business partner.

“The package has been delivered,” said Solomon Zagwe on the other end. “I have just spoken with our man in Asia.”

“Very good,” said the general. “Just in time. Have the funds arrived as well?”

“Yes. I spoke with the bank. They will have the cash on hand. Your man can pick it up.”

“What is the total?”

“One fifty.”

“One fifty? That is less than our agreement.”

“I know. That is the discount for our urgency. I told you we could get more if we waited for full production, for the full order. But you insisted we needed the money today.”

The general watched as the recruits marched in straight lines, holding pipes or knobkerries, the short Zulu sticks with a heavy ball on one end. They swung their sticks in unison, smashing them on the ground with a loud thud.

“Yes, we need the money today.”

“So the number is one fifty.”

“It is enough,” said Chimurenga, flipping the phone closed.

He beckoned the commander back.

“How much are we paying the boys?”

“The new recruits are paid ten dollars for the day. Plus food and a uniform.”

“And boots.”

“Yes, sir. And boots.”

“I want to address the Green Mambas. Call them over.” Within a few seconds the two hundred boys lined up nervously in front of General Chimurenga. The commander directed them to sing a revolutionary song about the bravery of their ancestors and the glory of fighting imperialists. When they were finished, the commander shouted, “Forward with the revolution!”

“Pamberi!”
was the chorus reply with raised fists.

“Forward with the people!”

“Pamberi!”

“Forward with Zimbabwe!”

“Pamberi!”

“Forward with President Tinotenda!”

“Pamberi!”

“Forward with the Green Mambas!”

“Pamberi!”

“Forward with General Chimurenga!”

“Pamberi!”

The commander then bowed and backed away, leaving the floor to the general. The recruits stood at attention in tense silence.

“Yesterday you were village boys. Today you are men.”

“Yes, sir!” they shouted in unison.

“Yesterday you were children. Today you are Green Mambas.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yesterday you were nothing. Today you are part of the Revolution.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yesterday you had nothing in your pocket. Today you will be paid fifty dollars.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yesterday you served your mother. Today you serve your nation.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yesterday there were traitors and sellouts among us. Today you will destroy them.”

“Yes, sir!”

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 5:54 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

T
he kitchen was a perfect aromatic brew of fresh coffee, sizzling bacon, and French toast. The sun had just risen over the trees in her back garden. Jessica had been up for only ten minutes but she was wide-awake. And she was ready.

“Juice!” shouted one of her boys.

“Noah,” she scolded, waving a spatula, “how do we ask?”

“Juice,
please
, Mommy!”

“Toby, you’re six years old. You can pour your brother a glass of orange juice,” she directed her other son. “Not too full.”

As she flipped the French toast on the stove, she checked the time. Nearly six o’clock.

Jessica nudged the bacon strips around the griddle and was watching the clouds of bubbling fat sizzle when her phone rang. She hooked on an earpiece, instructed her children with a “Boys, let Mommy take a phone call,” and pressed the button.

“Good morning.”

“This is two four one Zebra Charlie,” said Sunday on the other end.

“Yes, it is a good morning,” she responded, taking a gulp of coffee.

“Ma’am, we need to scramble.”

Jessica set down the spatula and punched a string of digits into her phone. After a few seconds she heard a static signal and then three beeps in ascending pitch.

“We’re now secure on Purple Cell protocols. Shall I proceed, ma’am?”

“Yes,” said Jessica.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been working on our case throughout the night and making headway, but we’ve got a problem.”

“Yes?”

“I learned just a few minutes ago that the British memo on uranium threats is under suspicion. There is now doubt within the Intelligence Community whether there was any threat at all. It may be that naturally occurring, highly enriched uranium doesn’t even exist. The DNI is launching an after-action investigation into the memo’s sources and methods. Until that is complete, they are putting all uranium surveillance operations on a stand-down.”

“Doesn’t exist?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I only know the current assessment is no longer an imminent threat from uranium proliferation. UMBRELLA ROSE is on hold until further notice.”

Shit.
“And our target?”

“Kanyemba is no longer considered a potential risk. Just when we got Kanyemba added to the list, they’ve suspended the program. Does that mean Purple Cell is on stand-down?”

“Hold,” she said. Jessica plucked the bacon from the pan while she thought about her next move. She scooped up the French toast and placed two golden brown slices on each Cookie Monster plate.

“Eat up,” she instructed as she set down breakfast in front of her children.

“Ma’am?” asked Sunday.

“Not you,” she said, turning her back. “Is the stand-down order for UMBRELLA ROSE relayed yet?”

“Not yet. Should be official later today. But I have it from a good source, so I called you right away . . .”

“Keep this close-hold.”

“Shall I inform our field operatives?”

“Negative. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep looking for connections. Focus on the banks. The money trail will lead us where we want to go. That’s our window. That’s all for now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jessica hung up the phone. “Syrup, boys?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

She opened the fridge, pulled a small jug of Vermont maple syrup, and drizzled it over the French toast.

How long can I keep this up?
she thought.

—

T
he strains of her double life were weighing heavily on Jessica that morning.
How had it come to this?
Twelve years ago, she’d been a young agronomist, fresh from graduate school and fortunate to be placed on a research team with the eminent Professor BJ van Hollen. Her mentor had dragged her to Kidal, a remote city in northern Mali, to work on an exciting new water project. Or so she thought.

She now knew the real purpose of the project was to recruit her into the Central Intelligence Agency. Van Hollen didn’t know at the time she would wind up marrying the other student on the Kidal team, a fresh-faced data nerd from Vermont named Judd. They were opposites in almost every way, so how could BJ have known?

As Jessica’s romance with Judd had progressed, so too did her career in the CIA. Everything changed one day when she was pulled into a “red cell,” a special analytical unit assembled outside the normal structures and isolated from everything else. The purpose of a red cell was to get out of your normal team, to take an unconventional view of a tough problem.

She loved it. Her memory of that first secret project was of total exhilaration. It probably helped that the day her red cell assignment was complete was also the very day that Judd proposed. Heady with love and the adrenaline of a clandestine job, she accepted.

Her red cell experience had convinced her that small, capable teams given total freedom could be highly valuable at problem solving. Jessica started thinking about how a similar independent cell might be effective on the operational side of the Agency. She shared her new idea with BJ van Hollen, who took it right to the CIA’s deputy director for operations. Purple Cell was born.

The upside was Jessica could pick her teams and operate with total independence, outside normal reporting channels. As she’d won recognition and racked up operational successes, demand for Purple Cell had grown among the very elite policy makers who knew about the top secret unit.

The downside was she could never tell her family about any of it. To run the covert team, she had to maintain her cover as an agronomist and soccer mom. Judd’s long hours at Amherst College and then at the State Department allowed her ample space to run both her family and Purple Cell.

But it wasn’t the physical demands that were wearing on her. It was the psychological stress of living a double life, of lying every day to those she loved. She could handle the deception and political games at work. She thrived on that. It was the lies at home that were becoming the problem. It was one thing to keep her emotions in check when exfiltrating a hostage from Bolivia. Or to remain cold and calculating when destroying the personal life of a corrupt Jordanian politician.

Maintaining the deceptions with her husband was taking its toll. She had held it all together so far. Judd knew little about her true background and was in the dark about her real job. But he was analytical by nature and she knew he would eventually figure out the truth. She was pushing the limits—and violating the rules—by working on projects that overlapped with her husband’s. The recent assignment in Mali had been an especially close call. Now she was testing her luck again. Actually, she was doubling down on the risks to both work and life.
Maybe Judd already knew?

Jessica dialed another phone number. As it rang, she dropped two slices of bacon on each son’s plate.

“Go,” answered Brock Branson on the other end.

“Confirm, please.”

“This is seven six six Zebra Charlie.”

“Are we secure?”

“Affirmative, ma’am.”

“Where’s my bird?”

“Ma’am, we were so far down the list, I didn’t think we’d see any goddamn birds for months, but we’ve had a stroke of luck. A resourceful bastard landed right in my lap. We’ll have a bird up and out of the nest later today. The first pictures from Kanyemba should be back tonight.”

“With eagle eyes?”

“Yes, ma’am. With geothermal sensors.”

“Very good.”

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“No one kills my bird except me. I don’t care what you hear from Langley. Is that clear?”

“Roger that.”

“No. One. But. Me. Kills. My. Bird.”

“No one but you kills your bird, ma’am. Got it. Game on.”

Jessica hung up the phone and turned back to breakfast.

“Who’s killing a birdie, Mommy?”

“No one, Noah. No one is killing any birds. Your mom would never allow that. More bacon?”