I Am the Mission

by Allen Zadoff

  Near her is a tall, thin boy with an intense expression on his face.

  Lee Moore.

  He’s nervous as he looks from his sister to the crowd and back.

  I do my own scan of the space, matching the actual room to the schematics I went over with Father this afternoon. I note entrances and exits, a door next to the stage, which I’m guessing leads to the anteroom with an exit to the back of the building. I imagine that’s where Moore is now, and where he will be again after the event.

  I use my time to adjust the map of the building in my head, working again through the dozen or so escape scenarios I developed this afternoon, rating them in order of preference.

  As I complete my prep, the room starts to buzz with excitement. I sense movement back in the anteroom.

  Suddenly Eugene Moore strides onto the stage flanked by two young security men. He looks like an older, more forceful version of the man in the pictures. He is tall and well built with the military bearing of an ex-soldier. He has an iPad in his hands that he places on a lectern, and then he begins pacing back and forth in front of it.

  He says nothing, only walks the same pattern, the energy building inside him.

  Finally he speaks:

  “You’ve no doubt heard a lot about me,” he says, “about my beliefs, about Camp Liberty and the things we do there.”

  He looks across the crowd, making sure he has our attention.

  “Everything you’ve heard is a load of crap,” he says.

  Most of the people in the room lean forward, fascinated.

  “Forgive my language, but I’m a plain-spoken man. I say it like it is. And what it is, my friends, is a fabrication. They say I’m building robots here, children who can’t think for themselves, who follow authority blindly. Is that why you’re here tonight, to follow blindly?”

  “No!” a bunch of kids shout.

  “I didn’t think so,” Moore says with a smile. “Let me tell you what it is I really do. I support young people in becoming strong, independent thinkers who are empowered to take action in the world. The powers that be have a problem with that. They don’t want you thinking independently, because what if you disagree with them? And what if you decide to do something about it?”

  Half the room applauds, while half are more cautious, sitting back in their seats, listening passively.

  “People have accused me of being a radical for starting Camp Liberty. Some have even called me a traitor to our country,” he says.

  The applause stops. There’s a hush across the room.

  “That’s right. A traitor. But I say if they can’t tell the difference between a traitor and a patriot, I pity them.”

  Laughter and cheers from the khaki crowd in the back of the room. Goaded by their approval, Moore spreads out across the stage, relaxed and in his element now.

  “If you’ve come here tonight, it’s because you know something is broken in America. And maybe, just maybe, if we all start by admitting that, we can get on with the more important business of figuring out how to fix it.”

  Heads nod around the room.

  “Out there,” he says, gesturing to the world beyond the community center, “they are not ready. They are in denial. But in here?” He smiles. “It’s a different story.”

  He looks across the audience.

  “You are ready to hear the truth. Your parents want you to hear it because they brought you here tonight. Some are in the room with us now. I’ll tell you what, parents. Why don’t we send you away for a bit while I have a talk with the young people here?”

  The parents stay seated, slightly confused. Moore urges them to stand, and a group of kids from Camp Liberty gather them up and guide them toward a side door.

  A small, powerful man in his early forties with a shaved head appears in the doorway waiting for them. He’s somewhat incongruous among the young people from the camp, but he obviously commands their respect.

  Moore trades nods with the man. “Sergeant Burch will take good care of you,” he says, reassuring the parents. “You’ll rejoin us in a little while.”

  With the adults gone, it’s easier to see how many recruits are in the room. Maybe three dozen of us in numbered folded chairs, while an equal amount of kids from Camp Liberty are lined up on the sides of the room and behind us.

  I think about the logistics of my mission tonight.

  Seventy-five people in the room, including two young security guards flanking Moore. Maybe twenty parents in another room somewhere in the center.

  That’s a lot of eyes that might see me, and a lot of bodies that could try to stop me.

  “Now it’s just us,” Moore says softly, drawing our attention back to the stage. The room instantly quiets down.

  The two security guys spread out on either side of him now, moving slightly in front of him like Secret Service agents. The boy on the left is in his early twenties with a tight, wiry build, his head on constant swivel, more performance than security assessment.

  Not so with the other boy. There is a stillness about him as he looks into the crowd, his head barely moving. He has thick hair and a beard, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt despite the summer evening’s heat. At first glance Flannel looks crazed, like a New Hampshire mountain man who stumbled out of the woods. His gaze drifts left and settles on me for a moment. I match the energy of the other young people in the room, mimicking their excitement and anticipation, but I add a deeper layer. A layer of doubt.

  It’s the layer that I think will interest Moore. It’s easy to recruit people who already believe in you. But to convince someone who is curious yet skeptical requires greater skill.

  And it’s a greater challenge.

  Flannel studies me for a moment, then moves on to the next person.

  Moore begins again: “I come into Manchester from time to time and walk around. I see good people like your parents who are trying to do the right thing, trying to be good citizens, working hard to take care of themselves and their families. They live their lives as best they know how—go to work, raise children, vote, save for retirement. So what’s the problem?”

  He looks out into the crowd.

  “It’s boring!” one kid shouts from the middle row.

  Gentle laughter all around.

  “Boring it may be,” Moore says with a grin, “but it’s something else, too. Something more dangerous.”

  He pauses, waiting until all eyes are on him.

  “It’s expected,” he says.

  A few heads nod around the room.

  “People do what’s expected of them, and nothing changes. The system stays broken. Meanwhile everyone goes about their business, never asking the bigger questions.”

  Moore strolls around the stage now, his shoulders relaxed, his demeanor softer.

  “And you know what? I don’t blame them. It’s difficult to question the status quo. It takes effort. It takes courage. And most of us, nearly all of us, do not have that courage. We follow the rules and play the game. That’s what I did. I went to school and got decent grades. When I got out I joined the military so I could make myself and my parents proud. I wanted to fit in. I wanted to find my place in the world. Mostly, I wanted to support our government as a member of the military because I believed what they told me—that they were a government of the people, by the people, for the people. Who wouldn’t want to be part of a government like that?”

  An uncomfortable chuckle passes through the crowd.

  “You know already,” he says, “that’s not the government we have. We have a government of the money, by the money, and for the money. Big government, big money. Reformers appear from time to time, many of them our friends in the Republican Party, well-meaning folks who try and bring about change from the inside, but the system resists. We end up with bigger government, bigger budgets, higher taxes.”

  He looks at the ground, his head seemingly weighed down with sadness.

  “When you go inside, you become an insider. It’
s inevitable. There’s a belief that change can only happen from the inside, but it’s a myth. Your parents know this because they’ve tried it and it hasn’t worked. That’s why they brought you here tonight.”

  He walks forward, standing on the lip of the stage.

  “They brought you to me.”

  He looks across the faces in the crowd.

  “I am the outside. I am the place where change begins.”

  A roar of approval goes up from Moore’s people around the room. They gaze at Moore with admiration in their eyes. I try to see what they see when they look at him, but I cannot. Not yet, at least.

  “Your parents want you to be a part of that change. They need you to do what they could not do, not with all their money and power. But let me tell you a secret: You can do it.”

  Heads nod around the room.

  “You may have come here today because you’re afraid for your future. You worry things are only going to get worse, that we adults are making it worse, and you’re the ones who are going to have to live with that.”

  He pauses, letting the idea sink in.

  “You’re right about that. But if that’s not the future you want—you can do something about it.”

  The audience leans forward now.

  “Today. Right now. I have some ideas about how we can change things. Together. What do you think?”

  “Yes!” the crowd shouts in unison.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes!”

  “If you trust me and if you’re ready”—Moore looks into my eyes—“I can show you how to change.”

  Something leaps in my chest, a powerful sensation of hope and excitement.

  Then Moore looks away, and the sensation is gone almost as quickly as it arose.

  It’s gone for me, but not for others, because I see the smiles around me in the room, young people glowing, caught up in the same magnetism I felt a moment ago.

  “Who wants to join me at Camp Liberty?” Moore says.

  He looks across the room, meeting the eyes of one person at a time. I look at the kids looking back at him, conviction on their faces.

  I want to show Moore fervor. But I have to show him something else, too.

  Uncertainty.

  You know what it feels like to have doubts, Mother said.

  Is this what Mother meant, the reason she sent me on this mission?

  I want to clamp down on these feelings, but I do not. I let the doubts in.

  Doubts about my life. My choices. The person I think I am versus the person I want to be someday.

  Suddenly I feel a rift opening up inside me. I try to stay in the room, but memories rush up, pulling me with them to another place and time.

  MY FATHER IS IN FRONT OF ME.

  My real father. He is tied to a chair, drugged, his head sagging, a drop of blood trickling from the corner of his lip.

  I am twelve years old. Mike is next to me. He did this to my father—I know that now. I knew it then, too, in the terrible moment when I came home from my father’s office to find Mike at the house waiting for me.

  I think about what happened after that. Another house.

  The training house for The Program.

  Mike took me there the day he killed my parents. He put me in a room and left me to scream, left me to cry. And then he left me to my silence.

  Only later did a man appear and ask if I was ready.

  Ready for what?

  I did not have the courage to ask the question.

  This man was Father, but I did not know it at the time.

  He gave me a towel and supplies and left me to clean myself up. When I was ready, he led me through the house.

  He brought me to the office where I would come to know the woman who I now call Mother. She asked me what I wanted. Now that my father was dead. Now that my old life was gone. Now that everything was permanently and irrevocably different.

  She told me I had a choice to make, a choice that would forever change the course of the rest of my life.

  THE RIFT CLOSES.

  I am back in the community center, back in the moment with Moore.

  Who wants to join me? Moore said.

  Rather than reject Moore, I allow myself to get excited. About the greatness Moore sees in us. About the secrets he promises to show us if we follow him.

  Moore continues a slow scan of the room, making marks on his iPad with a stylus as he goes. I now understand the reason for the assigned seats. Moore must have a seating chart on his screen. He’s selecting the kids he wants to meet.

  I wait for his gaze to come across me again. Our eyes lock for the second time.

  I show him what I want him to see, the confusion and excitement I’ve allowed inside my mind just for him. I maintain eye contact, so I do not see whether he makes a mark with the stylus. Instead I make myself unconcerned with the results, focusing instead on the moment.

  But in an instant, the moment passes.

  Moore continues his survey of the room, finishing quickly and walking from the stage in silence. His security team reacts, forming up at his sides. They move him toward the anteroom next to the stage.

  Kids from Camp Liberty are walking around the room now, searching out various candidates, chatting with them briefly before bringing the excited teens to meet Moore.

  I adjust my glasses on my head. I wait.

  A moment later I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  IT’S LEE.

  “My father wants to meet you,” he says.

  “Your father?”

  “I’m Lee Moore,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  I note pride in the statement, along with something else. He emphasizes his first name rather than his last, thereby subtly setting himself apart from his father.

  “Daniel Martin,” I say, extending a hand.

  “Daniel. That’s right. I read your application. Your family lives in Manchester, don’t they? I’m surprised you haven’t been here before.”

  “We just moved six months ago from Boston. I’m an Exeter guy now,” I say, reciting my back story.

  “You’re a prep,” he says with a smirk.

  “Something wrong with that?” I say.

  I’m showing him the Daniel Martin I’ve readied for tonight, a kid from a wealthy family, arrogant on the surface but with some serious doubts about himself and his family lurking at his core.

  “Nothing wrong with it,” Lee says, backing off. “I just forgot that part of the story. To be honest, there are a lot of applications. Sometimes I have to skim through the pile when the committee gives them to me.”

  It’s an insult and an admission at the same time. On one hand, he’s letting me know I’m not important enough for a serious read. On the other hand, he’s admitting he’s fallible, perhaps so I’ll let my guard down.

  “The committee,” I say. “You don’t handle recruiting yourself?”

  “Not my thing. I just consult.”

  “What is your thing?”

  I note a tightening in his jaw. The question irks him. Which tells me he doesn’t know what his thing is yet.

  The expression disappears in a split second, replaced by something else.

  “I’m the son,” he says, his voice certain. “That’s my thing.”

  I take a breath, pulling my energy down to a lower level. Lower energy, lower status.

  “To be honest, I don’t know what my thing is,” I say.

  I see him relax, disarmed by my vulnerability.

  “Your application mentioned your dad was a big deal in the energy sector. You don’t want to follow in his footsteps?”

  I guess he read my application more closely than he admitted.

  I shrug. “It’s true he’s successful, but at what cost? Sometimes I think I’m less of a son and more of a tax write-off. Know what I mean?”

  He looks at me, his interest piqued.

  “I noticed your father didn’
t come with you,” he says.

  “He dropped me off, but he couldn’t stay. Just so you know, he wants me here more than anything. It was his idea in the first place.”

  “Not yours?” he says, paying close attention.

  “Not mine,” I say, “but I’m coming around to his point of view.”

  Lee smiles. “It’s tough to admit that your dad is right about something, even when you know he is.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “Anyway, my dad is totally supportive, especially if it means writing a check. That’s one thing he’s very good at.”

  “Nothing to write a check for. You didn’t get in yet,” he says.

  It’s a reminder of my status in the conversation. Lee has a strange way of opening up then pulling back again.

  I decide to let him pull rank for now. Play on his arrogance to try and get him on my side.

  “I’m not in yet,” I say, “but I’m hopeful.”

  I look at him like I need his help. I feel his energy soften.

  “Let’s see what we can do,” he says, looking toward the anteroom. “I’d better bring you over now.”

  He walks me across the back of the room, where we pass a table filled with snacks. It’s split down the middle between healthy and unhealthy, one side packed with vegetables, cheeses, and protein bars, the other with cupcakes, brownies, cookies and various forms of chocolate. He glances at the table as we pass, then looks back again.

  “Hold up for half a second,” he says.

  He doubles back to the table, looking around the room with great care before turning his attention to the desserts.

  “I’ve got a sweet tooth,” he says.

  He studies a plate of chocolate chip cookies like he’s contemplating the secrets of the universe.

  His hand moves toward the cookies, then over to the brownies, then back to the cookies.

  “I can’t decide,” he says.

  “Why don’t you have both?” I say.

  “I shouldn’t be having any.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father says sugar is bad for the body and soul.”

  “What do you say?”

  He doesn’t respond, just stays focused on the desserts. Eventually he selects a chocolate brownie with great care, then turns his back to the anteroom doorway before starting to eat it.