Allen Zadoff - The Lost Mission

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:

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.”