I Am the Traitor

by Allen Zadoff

  “What I told you—?”

  “In Brooklyn, when you had me restrained in that room. You said my father might be alive.”

  “No.”

  I watch Mike’s face, trying to detect a lie.

  “You were drugged,” Mike says. “You heard what you wanted to hear. I’m afraid this has become some sort of an obsession for you.”

  I think about the moment in Brooklyn. I was waking up after being injected with a knockout drug. Could I have imagined the conversation with Mike?

  “How do you know he’s dead?” I ask.

  “Do I really need to answer that?” Mike says.

  “You killed him.”

  “It wasn’t personal, it was my mission. You’ve done the same thing yourself, taken kids’ parents away from them. How many times now?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “It’s what we’re trained to do,” he says. “It’s not nice, but it’s necessary.”

  Mike sips at his coffee, peering over the rim of the mug. I imagine grabbing the mug out of his hands and shattering it in his face.

  He can sense the danger. He studies me, watching to see whether I’m going to make a move.

  “Your anger is misplaced,” he says. “It’s your father you should be angry at. He’s the one who did this to you. Not me, not Mother or The Program. We don’t target innocent people.”

  I’ve had the same thought myself numerous times. The Program targets people who are guilty. My father did something to bring Mike and The Program into our lives.

  “You’re probably wondering what he did,” Mike says, “but I’m not privy to that information. Not now, and certainly not then. We never learn why. We do our job and we don’t ask questions. That’s how it’s been from the beginning, even before you were in The Program.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “You’re in danger, Zach. You have been in serious trouble these last two missions, but it’s nothing compared with this. You’re as close to rogue as anyone has ever been. The Program is still a young organization. They haven’t dealt with insubordination, and they don’t know how to handle it. In my opinion, they have a tendency to overreact. I’ve done my best to ameliorate the situation. I’ve championed your cause to Mother and Father. I’ve advocated for you.”

  Advocated. Like he’s an attorney arguing my defense.

  “I appreciate that,” I say.

  “I don’t think you do,” Mike says. “Not nearly enough.”

  I look around the coffee shop. Two students have left. The head count is down to seven plus Mike.

  “Your mother and father are dead,” Mike says. He waits for me to look up at him. “But you still have a family. If you want us.”

  I reach for my coffee. I drink it too fast and the hot liquid scalds my throat. The pain helps me to focus.

  “Do you want us?” Mike asks.

  “I need the truth first,” I say.

  “I’ve told you the truth as I know it.”

  I reach into my pocket and finger the security pass I got from Silberstein’s coat. In all this talk, Mike hasn’t mentioned the professor. Why did he run away from me? What’s going on in the University of Rochester psych department?

  Mike knows more than he’s saying, but I’ll never find out if I attack him now. Better to make him an ally than an enemy.

  I lean in and lower my head, taking a submissive position. “What should I do, Mike?”

  He looks pleased.

  “First of all, this quest of yours has to end. Right now.”

  I nod, conceding the point.

  Mike grins. “Then we move on to the next step,” he says. “Cleanup.”

  “Explain.”

  “Your friend Howard is in a holding house in upstate New York, a couple hours south of here. As I told you, he’s held up through field interrogation,” Mike says. “But soon they will move him someplace and ask him questions in a way that will guarantee answers. He will talk. It’s just a matter of time and technique.”

  Mike is right about that. The Program can make anyone talk. Eventually.

  “So you have an opportunity,” Mike says.

  “An opportunity?”

  “To kill him.”

  I sit back in my chair, the breath suddenly gone from my lungs.

  This is what Mike wants from me?

  “There has to be another way,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I know you care about this kid, but right now you’re only under suspicion with The Program. Once they break him, you’ll be out of options, and I won’t be able to help you.”

  “Why are you helping me now?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  I shake my head.

  “I need you, you idiot.” Mike leans toward me. “You’re all I have.”

  I’ve never seen Mike vulnerable like this. I analyze his breathing and facial expressions, and it seems like he’s telling the truth.

  He says, “You know my family’s dead, just like yours. I had to make a decision back then, much like the one I’m asking you to make now.”

  “You chose to stay with The Program.”

  “I chose life. I mourned my losses and moved on. I thought you had, too.”

  “Maybe it’s not as easy for me.”

  Mike’s face softens. “Sometimes I forget how young you are, Zach. I know you feel old because you’ve seen a lot of death, but you’re still just a kid. Here’s the deal. If you walk away today, you’re committing suicide. If you stay, you give yourself a chance to grow up and gain some perspective on this thing.”

  “Gain perspective? How am I supposed to do that?”

  “You accept reality,” Mike says. “You lost one family, so you have to find another. The Program is my family now, and I’ll do anything to keep us together.”

  “I’m not like you.”

  “Not yet,” Mike says, “but if you stick around, who knows how you’ll feel after a few years?”

  I look down at the cookies on the table. I think about the time Mike and I first met. We were best friends for a little over a month before my life changed forever. I trusted him then, and I was burned.

  Do I trust him again now?

  There are two possibilities that I can see.

  One, Mike is being straight with me, and he’s giving me a chance to set things right before The Program finds out what I’ve done.

  Two, Mike is lying about my father. By killing Howard, I will destroy my best chance to find out the truth.

  I say, “Did Mother send you to make this offer?”

  “It’s coming from me directly,” he says. “Mother knows nothing about it.”

  Mike crosses his arms, waiting.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “It would be stupid to commit suicide. I need to give this some time.”

  I glance up to see Mike smiling.

  “You made the right choice,” he says.

  I PRESS DOWN ON THE GAS, AND THE ACCORD RESPONDS WITH A ROAR.

  I’m on I-490, heading southeast out of Rochester. Mike’s relaxing in the passenger seat, one leg propped up on the dash.

  “You and I on a mission together,” he says. “It’s sort of like the old days.”

  “In the old days, I didn’t have a license,” I say.

  “It’s hard to believe you were only twelve when I met you.”

  “Is this why you wanted us to meet in Rochester?” I say. “So we could reminisce?”

  Mike nods. “I wanted to remind you of where we began. And how far we’ve come.”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  Mike laughs. Then he sits up straight in his seat, and his voice grows serious.

  “Do you remember your first week in the training house?” Mike asks.

  My thoughts drift back to that time. The memories are painful, clouded in darkness.

  “I don’t think much about it,” I say.

  “I don’t believe you,” Mike says.

  I WAS LOCKE
D IN A SMALL ROOM.

  That’s where they put me when I arrived at the training house, drugged and confused. I was overcome with anger and grief, a twelve-year-old boy who had been kidnapped after seeing his father tied to a chair and covered in blood. I was locked up for days while Mother and Father attempted to indoctrinate me into The Program.

  But their approach wasn’t working.

  I shut down. I wouldn’t speak or eat.

  I knew only one thing.

  Mike.

  He was the one who hurt my father. He was the reason I was a prisoner.

  And I hated him.

  One day the door to the room opened, and Mike stepped inside.

  “You busy?” he said as if he were interrupting me playing video games.

  I looked up at him, seized by two thoughts at the same time.

  One: My best friend is here.

  Two: A monster is here.

  “I brought you something,” he said.

  He was holding an item wrapped in brown paper.

  “Turkey on wheat with avocado and tomato,” he said. “And an oatmeal raisin cookie. Your favorite.”

  “You remember.”

  “I’m the same guy I was last week.”

  “Last week you hadn’t killed my parents.”

  He looked at the ground. Was he ashamed? Confused?

  Knowing what I know now, it was neither. He was acting.

  “You have to eat,” he said softly.

  He stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind him. He placed the food on a table. He knelt in front of me.

  “In war there are casualties,” he said.

  “War?”

  “You have no idea what’s going on here.”

  I shook my head.

  “We have to talk, Zach. I need to explain some things to you.”

  That’s when he told me about The Program. Not the story Mother had been telling me, the commander explaining the purpose of the army.

  Mike told me the soldier’s tale. The story of war from his perspective. What it felt like to be a soldier for The Program. The sense of honor and purpose.

  He explained the concept of loyalty—not the kind you have for your school or your favorite sports team, but something deeper, a loyalty born out of hardship and forged in blood.

  Loyalty. The essence of The Program.

  Mike talked for a long time while I listened. At first, I was confused, but as time went on, I began to understand.

  Before he was done, I had eaten the sandwich and the cookie.

  And everything was different.

  “YOU REMEMBER THAT DAY, DON’T YOU?” MIKE SAYS.

  Mike wants me to remember the lesson about loyalty, the reason behind The Program’s existence.

  I glance at him next to me. His breathing is steady.

  “I know the day you’re referring to.”

  “We are soldiers,” Mike says. “Never forget what that means.”

  It’s late afternoon now and the sun is high as we turn and wind our way down 96A toward Cayuga Heights. I catch sight of a familiar billboard by the side of the road—a picture of a smiling family sitting at a kitchen table eating dinner. Beneath the family it says:

  Home is where the ♥ is.

  Steam wafts up from the heart. I used to think this billboard had some greater meaning, but it’s just a stupid ad for soup.

  Mike says, “I’m going to close my eyes and rest a bit, little brother.”

  Little brother.

  I don’t know if Mike saw me looking at the billboard or not, but I wouldn’t put it past him. It’s a classic salesman’s technique. Create the impression of a relationship whether or not it really exists. This is why car dealers call a potential buyer “my friend.” If you create a relationship with words, you create a bond with the person in real life.

  Mike and I are brothers.

  The Program is our family.

  I glance over to see Mike reclining his seat, his eyes shut.

  Closing your eyes next to an assassin. It’s an act of absolute faith. Or stupidity.

  Mike is not stupid. He’s sending me a message.

  You are my brother, and I trust you with my life.

  “Let me know when we get close,” he says.

  I turn up the air-conditioning to cool off the car. A moment later Mike’s breathing deepens and he falls asleep.

  IT TAKES A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR TO GET TO CAYUGA HEIGHTS.

  I roll down my window when I pass the city limits, taking in the sights and sounds of this new place. I am trained to be adaptable, my energy adjusting to locales without any thought on my part. By the time I turn onto Triphammer Road, I am driving like a local.

  I follow Triphammer until it turns into Route 34 in the town of Lansing. The houses are more isolated here. When I get to the address Mike gave me, I find a long, narrow driveway that disappears into a bank of trees.

  I continue past for a mile and a half until I find a recessed area in the woods where I can wait out of sight from the main road.

  I reach over to wake Mike, but his eyes are already open.

  I say, “We passed the house a while back. Not much to see from the road.”

  “Do you want to wait for nightfall or go in now?”

  “It’s a toss-up.”

  “Every minute he’s in there is a minute they might break him.”

  It’s a good point. On one hand, there is safety in darkness. On the other hand, time is our enemy.

  “Let’s go in now,” I say.

  Mike looks pleased with my choice.

  “Do you have anything on the house?” I ask. “Maps, diagrams?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “You have to go in blind.”

  It’s not ideal, but it doesn’t trouble me. You might even say it’s become my specialty.

  A phone buzzes in the car, the double vibration that indicates a secure text message coming in from The Program.

  “Is that you or me?” Mike says.

  I take out my phone and find a secure text from Mother, indicating she wants a callback.

  I lean over and show it to Mike.

  “You ran a leapfrog app?” he asks.

  I nod, check the stats on my GPS. “The phone has me outside a Chinese restaurant near the Ohio State campus.” Four hundred and fifty-seven miles from here.

  “That’s good. She still thinks you’re in Columbus.”

  “I can put her off for a while, send a text to let her know I’ll call her back.”

  “You’re supposed to be waiting for your next assignment,” Mike says. “How would you react to her call under normal circumstances?”

  “I’d grab it fast because I’d be bored to shit, waiting for her or Father to give me mission orders.”

  He laughs. “I used to be the same way.”

  Used to.

  I wonder what changed for him.

  “I’ll call her back,” I say. “Do you want to be here?”

  “It depends. How good are you?”

  Humans behave differently with people around than they do alone. Mike’s asking if his being here will change the way I interact with Mother.

  “You can stay or go,” I say. “It makes no difference to me.”

  Mike grins. “Initiate the call.”

  I open the word puzzle app and arrange the letters.

  Before I press Play, I frame the phone carefully in front of me. Mother will likely do a video call, and if she sees something that doesn’t look like Columbus, Ohio, on-screen, it will give away my location. So I make sure there are no landmarks or signs behind me, and I start the call.

  The word puzzle app disappears. A moment later Mother is on the screen, watching me.

  “How’s my favorite son?” she says.

  I note Mike’s eyebrows rise slightly beside me.

  Favorite son is nonstandard phrasing. Mother is admitting she has other children, comparing us with one another. She does not do this.

  Mother watches me ca
refully on-screen, gauging my reaction.

  I smile into the camera. “Your favorite son is great,” I say.

  I don’t know what Mother is up to, but my guess is that it won’t take long to find out.

  “How’s your summer vacation going?” she says.

  Vacation. One of the ways we describe the waiting period between assignments.

  “To be honest with you, it’s a little boring,” I say.

  “You’re anxious to get back to school,” Mother says.

  “You know me, I prefer to be busy.”

  Mother brushes the bangs from her forehead. I notice she’s wearing glasses with designer frames. I’ve never seen her in glasses before.

  “Are those new?” I say.

  Mother grins and adjusts the glasses. “Nice of you to notice,” she says.

  “We may not get to see each other in person very often, but that doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.”

  “You’re always paying attention.”

  “Like mother, like son,” I say.

  Mother looks pleased.

  She says, “I’m calling to tell you I can’t bring you back from vacation just yet. Things have been—busy—at home. You know how it was when you left.”

  Mother is talking about the terror attack in Boston. Most of the Northeast Corridor is still on edge after the bombing by homegrown teen terrorists.

  Mother says, “If you can stand it, we’d like you to stay there, relax, and enjoy yourself for a while.”

  “I’ll do whatever you think is best.”

  “That’s my boy. Your father and I may even have a surprise for you.”

  I feel my muscles tense.

  “A good surprise, I hope.”

  “Is there any other kind?” Mother says. “Stay put and I promise we’ll be in touch soon.”

  I can tell she’s not going to give me any more information right now, so I move back to the standard script.

  “Will do, Mom. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  The call ends. I put the phone down.

  “What do you think?” I say to Mike.

  “Strange.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Let’s put it in context,” Mike says. “She knows about Howard, but not what he was doing exactly.”

  “She knows he hacked into The Program server and she probably suspects it has something to do with me.”