by Allen Zadoff
Get close to Moore. Get done.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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 when 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 Friday 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 that question?” 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’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. I note the license plate of the SUV printed with the familiar state motto of New Hampshire:
LIVE FREE OR DIE
When 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 better for you to 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 technically adept, 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 pants and polo shirts wait at the entrance to the driveway, greeting people who are going 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 printout of the acceptance e-mail 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. “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 Father, 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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
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, a phone, 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 the 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’s 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. There’s something strong in her presence, a no-nonsense quality that is unmistakable.
Near her is a tall, thin boy with an intense 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 that exits 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 from the anteroom.
Suddenly Eugene Moore strides onto the stage flanked by two young security men. I recognize him from his pictures. He is tall and well built with the military bearing of an ex-soldier. He places an iPad on a lectern, then 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 carefully.
“People have accused me of being a radical for starting Camp Liberty. Some have even called me a traitor to our country,” he says.
There’s a hush across the room.
“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?”
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 folding chairs, while an equal number 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 now 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 like Secret Ser
vice agents. The boy on the left is in his early twenties with a tight, wiry build, his head on constant swivel, more security theater 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 skeptical requires greater skill.
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?”
“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, so 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?”
