Minute Zero (17 page)

Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 5:22 p.m. Central Africa Time

H
is Excellency, Father of the Nation and Warrior of the People, President Winston H. R. Tinotenda, will see you now,” said the butler.

Retired General Solomon Zagwe, formerly the President of Ethiopia and once the leader of a fearsome million-man army, bowed his head and entered the salon alone.

“My dear Solomon. Come in, my brother,” said Tinotenda, gesturing to a chair beside him. Like all the other seats in the room, it was six inches shorter than his throne, a deliberate furniture alteration that had grown over the years as the president’s slouch worsened.

“Thank you, Mr. President, for seeing me today.”

“Of course! For you, my dear Solomon, of course!” replied the president, shooing away the staff with a flick of his wrist.

Once the two old men were alone, the visitor looked up at his protector. “I know this is a very busy day for you, Winston.”

“Election today? Ha!” Another dismissive flick. “So many elections . . . The work for today was complete long ago. There was nothing for me to do other than to speak to the people and then go home to my
kumusha
to vote. It was rather boring.” The president coughed gently, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I understand your speech at the national stadium today was a great success,” Zagwe offered.

“I have given so many speeches . . .” Tinotenda trailed off, his attention distracted by a bird landing on the windowsill.

Tino’s head jolted as if he had suddenly awoken. He looked again at his visitor as if for the first time. “Solomon! So good of you to come see me! We have been through much together, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Winston.”

“Poland?”

“Saudi Arabia. You remember Jeddah?”

“Yes, of course. Jeddah. Horrid place. Den of troublemakers. You were so young. So hungry. Just a boy. But they made you a man.”

“Yes, they did.”

“And they gave you a start in business—your first mining investment if I am not mistaken.”

“Yes, Winston. I met many powerful people in Saudi Arabia.”

“Yes, yes, Solomon. Your first mining investment. You and the prince and the American. It was right here in Zimbabwe. Somewhere in the north. Kan . . . Kanya . . . Kanyambo, is it?”

“Kanyemba.”

“Ah, yes, Kanyemba! Of course. Horrid place. Den of troublemakers.” The president coughed again, then looked frantically over his shoulder. “Where is the steward? Where is my tea?”

“You sent him away, Winston. Shall I call him back?”

“No. He cannot be trusted.”

“The tea boy?”

“None of them.”

“Who, Winston? Who cannot be trusted?”

“The Saudis. The British.
The Americans,
” he sneered. “They are all traitors and sellouts.” The president’s face suddenly contorted with confusion. “Solomon, my dear. What has happened to your face?”

Zagwe touched the bandage on his nose, broken by the punch from the American woman. “Oh, this? It is nothing. A small car accident.”

“Car accidents can be very dangerous in Zimbabwe.”

“Yes, Winston.”

“Chenjeri Mutomboro, Dumiso Dube, and Herbert Chingawa—all dead.”

“Yes, I know, Winston.”

“They were two of my generals and a high court judge. All dead in car accidents.”

“Yes, Winston.”

“They were accidents. Nothing was ever proven.”

“No, Winston.”

“No proof!” he shouted.

“Of course not, Mr. President.”

“Is that why you are here, Solomon? To inquire about the dead?”

“I am here to check on you, Winston. I’m here to visit my friend.”

“But you chose today to visit me, did you not? Election day. I don’t believe in coincidences. What do you need, my old friend?”

“I only came to see how the election is going. To ask how great a victory will you achieve today?”

“‘Après moi
le déluge!’”
cried the president, who stood up with a loud groan. Zagwe reached out to help his friend to his feet.

“I can do it!” Tino insisted, pulling away. “They will regret when I’m gone. But I have no plans to go! You hear that? No plans!”

“Yes, Winston. No one wants you to go.”

“‘Après moi
le déluge,’”
he repeated, slumping back down into his chair with a thud.

“I came to check on you and the election results.”

“Ha! Don’t lie to me, Solomon,” he said, patting Zagwe’s hand. “You have come to me today to ask for protection.”

Zagwe bowed his head again. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“You fear I will lose?”

“No, of course not. You cannot lose. But there are people still chasing me. Those who want to reopen ancient history. To bring the lies of my enemies from Ethiopia here to me. To your beautiful country. I already dealt with one such mosquito.”

“Yes, Solomon. I know about Victoria Falls.”

“I am sorry about that. I don’t want to create problems, Winston. You have been so generous to me. I don’t want to bring you any trouble.”

“Tourists!” spat Tinotenda.

“It won’t happen again. I can assure you.”

“Was your accident today another mosquito?” asked Tinotenda, touching his own nose. “Another tourist?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. What can I do for you today?”

“You have been a good friend. You have allowed me to live with dignity here in your beautiful city. To continue to work for a living.”

“Yes.”

“And I have tried to show my gratitude. To stay quiet.”

“Yes.”

“And to provide you with resources when you need them.”

“Yes.”

“When you need money for the First Lady, whom can you trust? When you have another campaign, whom can you count on?”

“Yes, yes, Solomon. What is your point?”

“But, Winston,” Solomon whispered, “I fear our enemies are getting closer. And we are getting older. What will happen to you when I am gone?”

“Ha!” laughed the president. “You surely did not come here today because you are worried about me.”

“You are too wise.”

“Why, then, are you here, Solomon?”

“I want to know what will happen to me when you are gone?”

“I have made arrangements.”

“What kind of arrangements? Do I need to go back to Jeddah? I need to know, Winston.”

“Solomon, my dear”—the president took Zagwe’s hand and stroked it gently—“old friends do not abandon each other in their time of need.”

U.S. Embassy, Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 5:35 p.m. Central Africa Time

I
t says right here, UMBRELLA ROSE is shut down until further notice,” repeated Ambassador Arnold Tallyberger, handing the classified cable to Judd. “The uranium mine surveillance program is off.”

“Any idea what happened?” Judd asked Brock Branson, who was sitting at the back of the room.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry, amigo. Game off.”

“New information must have changed the threat assessment,” offered Tallyberger. “Happens all the time, Dr. Ryker.”

“But so fast?” Judd realized how naïve his question sounded and immediately regretted asking.

“Washington probably changed their minds,” scoffed Branson. “Who knows where the fuck the intel came from in the first place. Once you start paying people for information in the world’s shitholes, you get all kinds of weird bullshit. Most of it right out of
Alice in
fucking
Wonderland
.”

Tallyberger stared at his shoes.

“So where does that leave us with the drone?” asked Judd.

“Drone?” scoffed Tallyberger. “There was never any drone for Zimbabwe. Who told you that?”

Judd looked to Branson, whose face was a total blank.

“I . . . uh . . . I just assumed, since Zimbabwe was on the list, that a drone would be deployed.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Ryker, but it doesn’t happen that way. I doubt Zimbabwe would ever make it far enough up the list to warrant a drone overflight. And if it did, I don’t see how the local authorities would approve it. Certainly not in the middle of an election. They are very sensitive about sovereignty. Isn’t that correct, Brock?”

“Yep. These Zimbos are fucking obsessed with sovereignty. They’d rather starve than give an inch to the imperialists.”

Judd’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The little screen, in a text from Serena, read simply:

Judd replied:

Huh?

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Judd stepped out of the room and dialed a phone number.

“Foreign Office,” answered a woman on the other end.

“Simon Kenny-Waddington, please.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Judd Ryker, State Department.”

“Ah, yes, very good,” she said. “He’s been waiting for your call.”

Harare, Zimbabwe
Saturday, 7:05 p.m. Central Africa Time

G
eneral Simba Chimurenga rolled over in the bed to reach for a highball glass of Johnnie Walker Blue. He was still breathing heavily, so he paused before sipping. Once he caught his breath, he inhaled deeply, then tipped the glass back. The smoky cool liquid ran down his throat. For the second time that evening, he exhaled intensely and moaned from an ecstatic sensation. He licked his lips.

Simba turned his attention to the body lying next to him, a rolling wave of tight black skin glistening with sweat. A white bedsheet covered one leg, but her other leg was in full view. His gaze started at her toes and inched up over her calf, her thigh, her plump
magaro
.

He took another swallow of the Scotch and purred, “Mmmm . . . gooood.”

“Yaah, that was good, baby,” murmured the woman, rolling over to face him. She clutched his hand and stroked it gently. When he didn’t seem to respond, she dug her claws into his skin and scratched the length of his forearm. “You are my lion,” growled Harriet Tinotenda.

Simba stared down at her hungrily, but when her eyes met his gaze, he turned away and set the Scotch glass back on the side table.

“Tell me again,” the first lady pleaded.

“I told you. It will be soon.”

“When, Simba? I don’t know if I can take another day.”

“I said soon!” He pulled his arm away and poured more Scotch into the crystal glass. He made a mental note to buy another case the next time he passed through Dubai.

“I can’t live with that man any longer. Tsaaah! He is so old. So soft. I deserve to be with a real man. I want to be with you. I want us to be together.”

“So do I, baby.”

“In public.”

“So do I. But you have to be patient.”

“I
have
been patient! I have kept our secret for years. But I don’t want to hide any longer. I can’t do it!”

“You won’t have to.”

“I want it all. And I don’t want to apologize for it.” She dug her nails into his chest.
“I want it all.”

“You will have it all, Harriet. I promise you.”

“Once you are president, I have many ideas. For the schools. For women’s health clinics. To make Zimbabwe great again.”

“Yes, Harriet.”

“Yaah. I want to build a hospital, too. A modern one. Named after my mother.”

“She would be proud.”

“And I want our first state visit to be to China. I want to go to Hong Kong again.”

“Yes, Hong Kong. If that’s what you wish.”

“Or Paris.”

“Yes, Paris.”

“I will need all new clothes. The French paparazzi are the cruelest. Tsaaah! They have no scruples. I cannot possibly be photographed next to the French First Lady in old clothes.”

“Yes, of course. Whatever you wish, Harriet. You can have it all.”

She liked the sound of that. “That’s what I want, Simba.”

“I will give everything to you.”

She nestled into the crook of his arm.

“Did you receive anything special today?” he asked.

“Oh, yaah. Someone sent me the most beautiful diamond necklace,” she said with mock confusion. “But he never left a note, so I do not know who he is. I cannot thank my gallant suitor properly.” She pressed against his chest and wiggled her hips.

“I had it flown in especially from a jeweler in Asia,” he said, ignoring her gestures. “But made from the stones of our homeland.”

“Zimbabwe diamonds.”

“
Our
diamonds.”

“Yaah.
Our
diamonds,” she repeated. She especially liked the sound of that. Harriet rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling, dreaming of the possibilities of what was about to happen.

“But you must be patient,” he scolded. “No one can know about us until the time is right.”

“Yes, Simba.”

“There will be political considerations.”

“Yaah. I understand. I know about politics.”

“I still have to clean up a few loose ends.”

“Please hurry, my lion.” She lowered her chin and glared into his eyes. This time he did not avert her stare. As their eyes locked, she ran her hand under the sheets, up his leg.

Simba Chimurenga snatched the Scotch and took another slug. Setting the glass back on the side table, he missed and it tumbled to the floor. Neither cared about the small pool of golden brown seeping into the carpet.

“Mmmm . . . gooood,” groaned the general.

Johannesburg, South Africa
Saturday, 8:13 p.m. Central Africa Time

L
ucky Magombe hadn’t moved from his seat in ten hours. His eyes watered from staring at the screens through his reading glasses. A steaming cup of tea, recently delivered by his assistant, rested on his desk. A plate of beef stew, bitter greens, and
sadza
, the cornmeal paste that is the national dish of Zimbabwe, sat cold and untouched.

Lucky couldn’t eat. His focus was on the eight flat panels arrayed in front of him. At that moment two screens broadcast live television news. The national ZBC1, the government-owned channel, was broadcasting President Winston Tinotenda’s speech from earlier that day at the national stadium on a loop. Tinotenda was hunched over the lectern, pounding his fist, and stirring up the crowd. The shot panned to show thousands of the president’s supporters raising their fists in unison. Lucky couldn’t bear to listen to another Tino rant, so the volume was off. The other TV screen, also silenced, was tuned to the South African Broadcasting Corporation. SABC was running highlights from the South Africa versus West Indies five-day test. Cricket. No news on Zimbabwe.

But Lucky’s attention was really concentrated on the other monitors, the ones tracking Zimbabwe’s election results in real time. A panel to his left revealed Lucky’s hack into the electoral commission’s own computers showing the voter roll and live count. He had broken into their system to see exactly what the president’s henchmen could see.

It was his own small, private victory against the government that he had hacked their network by himself. He was slightly disappointed it hadn’t been more difficult. Didn’t the president have enough respect for the opposition to install a proper security system? Of course, Lucky reminded himself, the old man didn’t know anything about computers. He probably had never even used one, Lucky guessed. But surely those around him would know better? Surely his national security advisor, Simba Chimurenga, knew about cybersecurity?

An adjacent screen mirrored the official results, a parallel voting tabulation Lucky was compiling through crowdsourcing. The Zimbabwe National Youth Training Association, a nonprofit also secretly bankrolled by Lucky Magombe’s personal foundation, had sent its trainees into the field with the latest—and, for Africa’s dictators, the most dangerous—weapon in an election: mobile phones. At each of the country’s 9,015 polling stations, votes were counted on-site as they came in and the periodic tallies posted on a chalkboard outside every few hours. Lucky’s secret army of volunteers was discreetly watching and sending in text messages with the number of voters in line and the voting results as they were posted. Lucky’s computers then aggregated all the data, allowing him to compare the official results with the actual results and turnout figures being reported by his parallel network. So far, the two different databases were reporting a 96.45 percent correlation. An acceptable margin of error. Tinotenda was not cheating, thought Lucky.
At least, not yet.

A third monitor on his right displayed the same election data on a detailed map so Lucky could visualize who was winning each district. So far the results were as expected. Tinotenda was holding his base in the rural swathes of the northern two-thirds of the country. The top half of the map glowed a bright green to show the zones where the president was winning. This was where most Zimbabweans lived and also were places the government could most easily control. The southern third of the country, Matabeleland, was reporting a solid red. Gugu Mutonga was handily winning the south. This was little surprise, as this part of the country was never a power base for Tinotenda. They hated him, in fact. It was also an area his government, by no coincidence, chronically neglected and to which it repeatedly sent in the army at the slightest sign of trouble. Unfortunately for Lucky’s electoral math, it was also sparsely populated.

The real battleground today was the cities, especially the burgeoning capital of Harare. The election would be won or lost on the swelling urban youth vote. Would they brave the police and the Green Mambas to come out in support of Gugu Mutonga? Lucky wondered as he focused on the map showing results in Harare. Gugu’s advisors were convinced this was the crucial question. But they didn’t know the answer.

Harare, smack in the middle of the country, glowed bright red on the monitor. Lucky zoomed in to see the results in more detail. Highfield was red. Dzivarasekwa red. Mufakose red. Mbare red. Rugare red. Epworth red. Glen Norah red. Warren Park red. Kambuzuma red. The cities were coming out to vote in droves. And Gugu was dominating.

For the first time that day, Lucky Magombe took a bite of food and relaxed his shoulders. And for the first time that day, Lucky allowed himself to smile.
And to hope.

He picked up the phone, paused, then thought again and set it back down. He stroked his chin and tried to suppress any emotions. The math was swirling in his head. He knew he had to be cold and calculating. That was the only way. Hope was a folly for idealists and politicians. His path could only be through hard numbers.

Lucky opened a software program and uploaded the data for one more check. He ran statistical tests on the census figures, the voter rolls, and the election results rolling in. He didn’t believe it at first, but the numbers couldn’t lie. Statistical probability gave him the answer. It was screaming loud and clear. Even if he was the only person on the planet who knew it yet,
the election had been decided
.

Satisfied, Lucky picked up the phone again and dialed a familiar number.

In a posh waterfront hotel in Cape Town, 785 miles to the southwest, a middle-aged American woman in a lavender tracksuit was power walking on a treadmill and watching CNN to keep her mind fresh while she waited. Her phone lit up and vibrated from an incoming call. She hopped off and answered.

“Mariana Leibowitz.”

The voice on the other end said simply, “It’s over. Gugu has won.”