I Am the Mission Read online

  I won’t need more than that.

  When I’m done eating, I meet Father in the living room. I note a slight color deviation in the light coming through the windows. I suspect it’s caused by a security laminate, a nearly invisible film that covers the inside of the window, allowing us to see out but preventing people from seeing in, as well as blocking laser microphones and other surveillance devices.

  It’s also renders the glass bullet proof, at least up the level of .50-caliber rounds.

  “This is a safe house,” I say.

  “A temporary one,” he says.

  “The Program owns this house?”

  He shakes his head. “The family is out of town for a few days. We’re here for now, and we’ll be gone before anyone knows the difference.

  “In the unlikely event we cannot rendezvous immediately after the event tonight, you will make your way back here and await instructions.”

  Father takes out a manila envelope and passes it to me.

  I open it and a new iPhone slides out.

  I swipe with a finger gesture. I check SETTINGS:GENERAL:ABOUT and find the phone set as:

  Daniel Martin’s iPhone

  Father says, “You’ll find your background profile on Facebook. You’ll have time to study it, and then it will be erased. We’ll also go over plans for the community center and our protocols for ingress and egress. But now I want you to spend some time with this.”

  He reaches into his pocket and removes a small eyeglass case.

  “Did Dr. Acosta say I had vision problems?”

  Father takes out the glasses and looks through the lenses. “Your vision’s fine. There’s a very minor correction for reading in your nondominant eye. Enough to pass as an actual prescription if anyone examines them, but not enough to inhibit your vision in any significant way.”

  “Why do you want me to wear glasses?”

  “The right temple arm. It’s detachable.”

  He hands the glasses to me.

  They’re light gray, an average brand but a nice design. They’re the kind of glasses a stylish kid might buy from a mall in the Northeast. I play with the right temple arm, the part that goes above the ear. I twist counterclockwise, and it detaches from the hinge.

  “Careful,” Father says.

  I note a spring action down one end. I press it once and watch a weaponized injector needle slide out from the opposite end.

  This needle is filled with nerve toxin, a poison I have used many times before. Tap a victim and they are three to seven breaths away from a quiet death.

  The toxin is familiar, but the tool is new to me. I must master it.

  “Can you visualize the scenario?” Father says.

  I’ve been taught to visualize, to project myself forward in time and space and see the successful conclusion of my mission.

  I do that now, even without knowing the agenda for tonight or the layout, without knowing much of anything except the tool I will use and the target I will attain.

  I imagine myself at the event meeting Eugene Moore. Maybe it happens in a private room where he interviews candidates. We will be sitting across the table from one another, and I will reach across and tap his arm with the needle.

  Or maybe it will happen in public, and I will use the confusion of bodies and handshakes to remove my glasses, touch Moore with the needle, and step away. He will fall a few seconds later as if from a stroke or heart attack. I imagine myself slipping through the crush of panicked people to safety.

  It’s a high-risk gambit, but it is achievable.

  I look up to find Father watching me.

  “You can see it,” he says.

  “In general terms. Yes.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “No. But that doesn’t worry me.”

  He reaches toward me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes gently. It’s a gesture a father might make.

  A concerned father.

  I step away from his touch. “I’ve got a lot of work to do to prepare,” I say.

  “Of course you do,” he says. “I want to show you one more thing, and then I’ll leave you alone to study.”

  He guides me to the back door and I follow him outside to a backyard surrounded by high fencing. There is a small metal toolshed set back from the house. We walk to it, and I see a padlock on the door. Father presses the center of the lock, and the top of the padlock opens up to reveal a digital thumbprint reader below.

  “Your thumb only,” Father says.

  He indicates that I should put my thumb on the digi-reader in the lock.

  I press my thumb inside, and the lock opens with a hiss of hydraulics.

  Father swings open the door. The shed is empty except for two things:

  The first is a glossy black rectangle about the size of a shoe box.

  The second is an S-59 high-tech recoilless rifle mounted on the wall.

  Father says, “The black rectangle is a secure digital communications pack. It’s here if you need to call home.”

  “What’s the rifle for?” I say.

  “Emergencies,” Father says.

  “I don’t use guns.”

  “You don’t, but they do. If you need it, you know where it is.”

  “I won’t need it. I won’t need a comms uplink, either. I have my iPhone.”

  “I understand that we’ve never been in the field together before,” Father says. “Not in this way at least. But a safe house like this always exists for you.”

  “I know, but I’ve never needed one before.”

  “And I don’t anticipate you needing one now. But this is an accelerated mission setup, and we haven’t had time to put our normal protocols in place. We should be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “What about a weapon for you?” I say. “You said only my thumb opens the shed.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Father says. “I’ve got resources at my disposal.”

  I think about the soldiers storming the camp early this morning. I have no doubt about Father’s capabilities.

  Father closes the shed door, and the lock seals shut.

  “All right, then,” Father says. “I’m going to leave you alone for ninety minutes, then you and I will run mission scenarios.”

  “Will do.”

  Ninety minutes to learn about Daniel Martin, memorize the details of his life, formulate his world view, and reorganize my thinking to reflect that boy’s experience rather than my own.

  Father heads into the house, and I sit on the back patio. I take out my new iPhone and open the Facebook app.

  I need to know enough about Daniel Martin to transform myself into him for at least an hour tonight. Then I can do what I’ve been sent to do.

  Get close to Moore. Get done.

  IT’S A CLEAR SHOT NORTH ON 93 TO THE PENACOOK COMMUNITY CENTER.

  We drive in silence for a while, Father effortlessly maneuvering the Ford through light evening traffic.

  “Are you happy?” Father says out of the blue.

  “With your driving?”

  He smiles. “In general. With your life.”

  “That’s a strange question.”

  “It’s been a strange day,” Father says.

  “Sometimes I’m happy,” I say with a shrug.

  “What’s keeping you from being happy?”

  He says it as if I’m supposed to be happy, as if happiness were a normal state of being for someone like me.

  Am I happy? I know there are times that I feel good. When I’m in motion, when I’m on assignment, when I finish a mission and I’m heading away, sending a ping to Father to let him know my work is done.

  Is that happiness?

  “Maybe I am,” I say. “I’m not sure what happiness is.”

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he says. “If you have to think about it that long, it’s not happiness.”

  I’m confused by the conversation, but I sense Father is assessing me in some way and I need to be cautious.

>   “I’m happy when I’m working,” I tell him.

  “That’s good,” he says. “Any other times?”

  “I’m happy now.”

  He looks at me, his face softer than I remember it. For a moment I imagine what it would be like if he were my actual father. Where would a real father take his son on a Sunday evening?

  Maybe to dinner. Maybe home from a baseball game.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about this now. I have a real father, and he’s gone. It’s as simple as that.

  “Why did you ask me?” I say.

  “Maybe when this is over, we’ll try to get you some time off.”

  “Like a vacation?” I say.

  “Would you like that?”

  I think about free time and the things that could happen during it.

  “No,” I say.

  He seems satisfied with that answer, so I drop it.

  We drive for several miles in silence, and I use the time to get into character, clearing my mind so I can relate to Father in a way that will support the story in front of Moore’s people and get me inside.

  We’re about half a mile away from the community center when I see a roadblock up ahead. Several dozen protesters line the road ahead of the police stop. They are angry, peering into cars and shouting at the drivers to turn back. Moore’s anti-authoritarian philosophy is a lightning rod for controversy, even in the live-and-let-live atmosphere of New Hampshire.

  State troopers stand in front of the protesters, keeping them restricted to the side of the road. I see that the troopers are on friendly terms with the protesters, speaking with them, politely urging them to step back.

  We wait in a short line of vehicles for our turn at the roadblock. Up ahead, two troopers are helping an SUV make a U-turn instead of opening the roadblock. I note the license plate of the SUV printed with the familiar state motto of New Hampshire:

  LIVE FREE OR DIE

  Our turn comes. Father eases forward, and the trooper motions for him to roll his window down.

  “Where are you folks headed?”

  “I’m taking my son to the Camp Liberty event.”

  “Liberty,” the trooper says derisively.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Officer?” Father says.

  His voice rises on the last syllable of officer, turning the word into a question about the trooper’s authority rather than a question about our destination.

  “I have a problem with children running around these hills with weapons,” the trooper says.

  “You may have a problem,” Father says, “but the Constitution does not. It’s called the Second Amendment.”

  The trooper’s eyes register the insult, and I can see him briefly contemplate making this stop difficult for us. But Father’s demeanor has completely shifted. He appears taller in his seat, a wealthy man of status, not used to being questioned by anyone.

  “I’m all for the Second Amendment,” the trooper says. “It’s kids with guns that worries me.”

  “I’m not a kid,” I say, like I’m insulted.

  The trooper sighs.

  “I can’t tell you how to spend your free time,” he says, looking from Father to me. “That’s your own business. But I want to warn you to think carefully about your choices.”

  “This is just an informational event,” I say. “I haven’t made a choice yet.”

  The trooper steps back slightly. I can see he wants to get into this further, but he stops himself.

  “All right, then, folks. We’ve got free speech, or so the big court tells us. It’s up to you who you want to get involved with and why. I’m only suggesting you exercise caution.”

  “Thank you for sharing your concerns, Trooper,” Father says, letting him know he’s been heard and understood.

  A flash of light reflects in the rearview mirror. A second trooper is behind the Ford, photographing our license plate with a flash camera.

  “Very good, then. We’ll get you on your way,” the trooper says.

  He walks in front of the truck and says something to his partner. They pull the roadblock out of the way, and the trooper waves us forward, watching closely as we drive by and head out on the empty road ahead.

  “Are you ready?” Father says.

  I press my glasses up on the bridge of my nose. I’ve been wearing them for hours now, getting used to the feel of them on my face, practicing taking them on and off with each of my hands until the gesture is ambidextrous and automatic.

  “More than ready,” I say.

  “I’ll drop you in front and then I’ll be waiting half a mile north on the utility road as we discussed. There will be a few parents there, but we’ve deemed it’s better for you go in alone. Let them believe I want you there, but there is some rift between us that Moore might take advantage of.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “Don’t use your phone in secure mode. These guys are high-tech-equipped, and they’re sure to be monitoring all signals in the area. If you need me, use the public number I gave you.”

  We head down the road for another half mile until the community center comes into view. Orange cones are set up to form a single lane. Young men and women in slacks and polo shirts wait at the entrance to the driveway, greeting people who are coming in. There’s even a guy with a mirror on a pole checking beneath cars.

  Looking at the young men, I think of the dead soldier who was sent in before me. I wonder if he began his assignment driving into an event like this.

  A young man in a blue polo gestures for Father to lower his window.

  “How are you tonight?” he says, overly friendly.

  “Very well,” Father says.

  “Me, too,” I say, letting excitement cause my voice to rise.

  “Invitation?” Polo says.

  I take the acceptance letter from my pocket, the one Father received after sending in an application in my name.

  “Daniel?” Polo says.

  “That’s me,” I say.

  “Welcome,” Polo says. “And just so you know, there won’t be any cell reception until after the event is over.”

  “Is that right?” Father says.

  “There’s a jammer set up in the parking lot. What’s said in the room stays in the room,” Polo says with a smile. “This way there’s no incentive for it to be any other way. We turn off the jamming after the event,.”

  “That’s fine,” Father says. “He can call us when it’s all over, and my wife or I will pick him up.”

  “You won’t be joining us, sir?” Polo says.

  His tone is friendly, but the judgment is obvious on his face.

  “I’m afraid not,” Father says.

  “Are you sure?” Polo says, pushing a bit. “You’re welcome to stay if you choose. Parents are always welcome. You might find it interesting.”

  “Are you questioning my patriotism?” Father says, suddenly turning on him.

  Polo stiffens. “Of course not, sir. I was just—”

  “I’ve done more for this country in the last six months than you’ve done your entire life,” Father says angrily.

  Polo stammers: “I—I have no doubt.”

  “You’re damn right,” Father says. “My son will fill me in on the details later.”

  “There will be a thorough debriefing,” I say, rolling my eyes like I’m a little embarrassed by my angry father.

  Polo nods, obviously nervous. He points to an area set off to the side of the building.

  “There’s a drop-off zone over there if you don’t mind pulling forward, sir,” he says. “And I’m sorry again. I didn’t mean—”

  “Thank you,” Father says, rolling up his window and putting the truck in gear before Polo can speak again.

  I look at him, impressed by what I’ve just seen.

  “You’re pretty good in the field,” I say.

  “Pretty good?” he says with a grin.

  We pass a van parked in the front with several antennas and a satellite dish on top.
Father notes me looking at it.

  “Signal-jamming tech,” he says. “Just like the kid said.”

  I slip out my iPhone, and I see there’s no cellular service available. No connection of any kind.

  “I won’t be able to call you,” I say.

  “If everything goes right, you won’t need to call me. I’ll see you in an hour at our rendezvous point.”

  He looks at me for a long moment.

  I slow my breathing, forcing my heart rate down into a zone that will allow my muscles to maintain optimal oxygenation.

  “You’re not to go into Camp Liberty. You understand that.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You’re ready, then,” Father says. “Do it fast, do it right.”

  “See you soon,” I say.

  And I get out of the truck.

  I’M SEARCHED AT THE DOOR BY A YOUNG SECURITY GUARD.

  She is efficient and well trained like the rest of the young people I’ve seen here so far.

  I make it easy on her because I’m carrying nothing except a wallet and my eyeglass case. She quickly clears me and gives me a ticket for an assigned seat.

  When I step inside it’s standing room only, seventy or so young people sitting in folding chairs, some of them with parents next to them. It’s obvious that they’re the candidates, while along the back wall stands a group of young men and women like the ones I saw at security outside, all dressed similarly in khakis and short-sleeved polo shirts. The boys have close-cropped hair or crew cuts, while the women’s hair is pulled back in tight buns. If I didn’t know what this was, I’d think I was at a Friday evening dance at the local military academy.

  I find my assigned chair located toward the side of the room where I have a good view of both the front and back. I search the room for faces from my briefing. I note a pretty girl with red hair standing in the front of the room laughing at something someone has said to her.

  Miranda Moore. The daughter.

  She has a gorgeous face with big, intense eyes surrounded by freckles and framed in wisps of red hair. Unlike the other girls, her hair is down and flowing around her shoulders. Still, there’s something strong in her presence, a no-nonsense quality that is unmistakable.