“You did great today, champ.” Jack blurted out as he hefted his son’s athletic bag, already trying to catch up with the impatient boy making his way across the emptying soccer fields.                                     

Cameron hated it when his father called him champ. It was alright when he played tee-ball in fourth grade and all the dads called their sons champ, but he was almost in high school now and it was embarrassing.                                                   

Cam felt only a mild amount of guilty for making his Dad carry the Adidas bag which he had begged his father for when he started playing soccer – he had been the only one on the team without one – but maybe he shouldn't have embarrassed me like he just did, Cam thought to himself, trying to justify the tantrum he was throwing.                               

“One goal last week, two this week.” Jack panted after Cam as he climbed the short hill leading up to the parking lot which over looked the athletic fields cordoned off by small orange cones. “A regular Pelé, this guy.”                                                            

Cam only rolled his eyes in response as he reached the car and tugged at the locked door handle. The sound of which alerted Jack to his son’s impatience, prompting him to stop and fumble for his keys. Which was difficult to do as the bulky weight of the bag slid across his back, shifting him off balance. He pressed on the key fob and the doors unlocked with two blinks of the yellow hazard lights.

Jack felt bad as he watched his son open the door, dive into the passenger seat, and pull the door shut behind him. He knew how badly his son had wanted to go see the D.C. United game with his friends and it pained him to say no to Cam.

 On any other day the right thing to do would have been to beat the kid’s ass for acting the way he was, but Jack had lied to the coach and to his son about why he would not – could not - let Cam go.

Telling either of them the truth – that deviating from his usual post-game routine with his son, on that day in particular, would compromise his whole operation – was simply out of the question.

“Pelé is black, Dad.” Cam muttered after a prolonged silence during the drive home.     

Jack turned his head only slightly, eyes hesitating before risking a glance in Cam's direction. The boy had a scowl melting down his face and sat with a sulking posture that made him look as though he was in the stare-down of his life with the windshield.

Jack decided that saying, “You have no idea how much you look like your mother right now.” was probably not the wisest thing to say at that moment.

Instead, he said the next best thing. Staying true to form as any self-proclaimed, “nerd Dad” would, he lifted one hand palm up like a serenading opera singer, tapped into his best Brazilian soccer announcer's impersonation, and belted out a grandiose introduction of the legendary soccer player. 

“Introduciendo, La Pérola Negra – O Rei,” Jack’s gestures dramatic, his accent borderline racist, and Cam trying to resist the smirk already stretching across his sour face, he continued, “O Rei do Futbol – O Rei Péleeeeee!”

Jack shook his open palm in Cam's face as he drew out the last syllable in an over exaggerated drum roll – as was customary among most Latin Futbol announcers.

“Dad, quit it.” Cam chuckled as he swatted his father's arm away and glanced out the window, disappointed for having let his father crack him up as he always managed to do no with both Cam and his mother no matter how upset either of them got at Jack. Cam propped his elbow on the car door, planted his face in his hand, and tried to bury the smile. 

Jack let the car fall silent again as he recomposed himself. Then, suddenly threw his hand up in front of Cam's face again and resumed drum rolling the, “ayyy” from Pelé.

The scent of fresh cut grass rode the tepid Saturday morning breeze as it swirled in through the open car window. Brilliant coronas of sunlight reflected off the windshields and mirrors of other passing vehicles. Some full of passengers steadying picnic baskets on their laps, some with the aspiring Tour de France racers, all too common in the Northern Virginia area, downing their kale infused smoothies. 

Jack allowed the silence to ride along with them as they cruised down the sunny two lane road. Branches of the trees lining either side cast shadows onto the asphalt which reached for the yellow center lines like the fingers of a river delta. Cam was still quiet and Jack knew his attempt at comedic relief had merely softened the boy’s resolve to remain pouty, but he was okay with letting it lie for the moment.

Jack knew full well that the, why do you let mom call all the shots, argument was immanent and he did not want to help tip it off. Mainly because he would have to tell more lies than he already had in order to justify them and Jack knew, from both training and experience, that would only lead to a world of deeper shit.

The truth was, Jack had not even spoken to his wife that day. He had made up the fact that she explicitly told Jack that Cam was to come right home after his soccer game. Jack had had no other choice. If Cam had not come home with Jack, his coverage would have noticed the change in his usual pattern, felt as though something were off, and suspected that he had gone operational.

As they should, Jack thought to himself. If the team was worth a damn. 

A shaded sign stood within the sparse tree line separating the mobbed parking lot from the road. Two wooden posts rose up through an ever-present carpet of dead pine needles and held up several horizontal two by fours bearing the name of the park. Written in yellow lettering, which was inlaid on the brown painted wooden planks, the sign read:

            

Fairfax County Park Authority

Jack turned in and spent a few minutes sharking the lot for a parking spot. He was careful to avoid the children darting out from behind parked cars. Most of which were being pursued by absent-minded parents keeping better tabs on their smart phones than on their own children.

“Hitting the parents is less points than hitting their little ones.” Jack informed Cameron. “Those idiots are way too easy.”

Cam scoffed as his eyes tracked his father's potential targets meandering across their bow.

As Jack had hoped, expected, and planned for, the main lot to the park had no open spaces forcing him to drive around to the less crowded, more secluded lot. 

Jack pulled into a spot, opened his door, and hefted his not inconsiderable weight from the driver seat. Which prompted the voice in his head to repeat the unfortunate reminder regarding his errand in the park:

You're getting Samantha the usual ice cream sandwich and whatever Cam wants, nothing else. You don't need to get anything. Don’t let Sergei talk you into another ChocoTaco.

Jack stepped out of the car and then turned back around, cocking his head to the side as he stopped down through the open door to ask Cam for his order.

“The usual?” he said, pointing inquisitively at his unresponsive son, “Mickey Mouse shaped ice cream? Or you thinking Minnie Mouse this week?”

Cam craned his neck, further turning his grin from his father and saying nothing.

“Both, you say?” Jack exclaimed with wide eyes and a look of surprise on his face, then continued with a sigh of resignation. “Alright, champ, they’re your thighs.”

With that, Jack swung the door shut and began walking away from the car. Once the door closed, leaving Cameron in the air-conditioned silence, he instantly felt terrible for having blatantly ignored his father. 

The man was kind, selfless, and always putting Cameron and his mom ahead of himself, always ready to drop everything for either of them. He did not deserve the kind of disrespect Cam had been showing him and Cam felt a sudden childish urge to cry. Cry for whom, he wondered. He could not tell but all he wanted to do was lunge from the car, and call out to his father saying, “I’m sorry.”

But, at that moment, Jack turned back around and began marching back toward the car, looking as though he had forgotten something. Cam glanced instantly to the center console, assuming his father had forgotten his wallet as he did more often than not. There was no wallet to be seen and so Cam tracked his father's approach expectantly, eager to have the chance to apologize.

Jack yanked open the door and thrust his arm into the car, once again recalling his announcers persona and resumed drum rolling the final syllable in Pelé as he shook his open palm in Cam’s face.

“Ayyyyyyy!”   

Walking now in the direction of the asphalt path, which lay crumbling and hidden among the trees, Jack allowed his eyes to glide about smooth and casual – never darting around or appearing panicked – as he scanned the parking lot and nearby picnic area. The man was artfully trained to be aware of his surroundings without giving the impression of making the effort to be.

By the green barrel trash can: Male – approx. 30 years old – six foot – square shoulders – fleshy nose      

     

“Look for the things that a surveillant cannot change.” the raspy voices of veteran case officers would croak as they paced back and forth in front of the classroom. 

“His posture, his gait, physical features – never mind the attention grabbing red hat that he’ll just throw away – or the backpack he may simply stuff into another bag.” Jack had to hand it to the instructors who had taught him the tradecraft of espionage back at the Central Intelligence Agency’s training complex, also known as The Farm, a hundred years ago. Even after a thirty year career he could still hear them just as clear now as he could back then.       

Continuing through the leafy tunnel, Jack reached the first switchback and rounded it. He let the well-cased route work for him and not the other way around. The turn afforded him the opportunity to throw a casual glance back in the direction from which he had come without it appearing suspicious or contrived. 

There was no one in sight which meant that anyone who may be following him would be out of visual contact for at least fifteen seconds – precisely the intended gap in coverage.

His response at that realization was as though some movie director had called out to him in a silent whisper from off camera, “Action!” 

Two-toned rock on the West side of the path instead of the East side – The Signal: dead drop was loaded.

Take sharp right off path – four paces East, one North – rotted branch laying in SExNW direction.

Cache located.

Dry leaves crumbled and brittle twigs snapped as Jack took a few deliberate strides and lifted the short branch out of the mud. It came apart in two plastic pieces, one in each hand, with an easy snap – which may have reminded Jack of the Snap-on style of model airplanes that Cam used to love assembling with him, but the man who may have recognized and cherished the nostalgic memory was no longer there.

The man who now stood in the middle of the forest extracting a brick of black shrink wrapped hundred dollar bills from a fabricated compartment, and was exchanging it for a similarly wrapped thumb drive, was vacant of any such emotion or feeling.

None of family, or of consequence – of morals, or of treason.

Jack snapped the fake branch shut, pocketed the cash, replaced the branch, and leapt back onto the path. He resisted the obscene desire to whistle. Appearing that relaxed so suddenly would draw unwanted suspicion from – well, there was no one to see him do so, but he was a professional and there were reasons why he had been able to avoid capture for all these years. 

Further along the way, Jack strode out from the forest that harbored his treacherous secrets and into the cleansing sunlight in the clearing of the main park.

People milled about the recreational wonderland of playgrounds and athletic fields oblivious to the traitor in their midst. Housewives absently rocked strollers back and forth while perched on wooden benches as they chatted, fathers stood poised in their well-ironed khaki pants armed with BlackBerrys holstered at their hips. The pendulum-like rhythm of a nearby swing set lulled Jack’s racing mind. 

A devious smirk slithered across his face as he made his way toward the ice cream truck parked on the far side of the field. Jack looked around the park, basking in the purity of ignorance emanating from the mundane citizenry of the country he had once loved.

The delectable menu of ice cream and patriotic red, white, and blue popsicles was plastered across both sides of the sweating ice cream truck. Jack strolled up to the open service window, that voice chiming in again to remind him he was not to get anything for himself. He sneered as he noticed a bumper sticker placed just below the narrow counter set atop the window ledge. It read:

Jack emerged from the trail head where it opened onto the gravel parking lot and he stopped to stand there for a moment. He was glaring at Cam through the windshield speckled with shadows from branches above the car. Cam’s hair was flattened against the passenger side window pane until he noticed his father and lifted his head to regard the man standing motionless across the lot with both hands full of ice cream.

Once the two made sure contact, Jack widened his eye’s maniacally and let them drop slowly to the Minnie Mouse ears now melting chocolate down his fingers. He opened his mouth impossibly wide and brought it down in slow motion as he chomped off half the side of Minnie's face, then came back up to look at his son as he chewed like an animatronic dinosaur. Jack could see his son erupt in silent laughter from within the car.

Devouring the calories he promised himself he would avoid, Jack stepped towards the gravel parking lot and accidently kicked something over. He drew his foot back and looked down to see a tiny American flag stapled to a wooden stake laying on it's side.

There were dozens, in fact, stuck into the short cut grass in an evenly spaced line bordering the stony lot. Jack looked around and noticed a Boy Scout Troop working diligently nearby to set the miniature flags in place for the upcoming Fourth of July celebration that weekend.

Each of them stopped what they were doing and looked over at Jack when he trampled over their handiwork. Several remained sat back on their haunches, khaki shorts creased down the front, yellow bandanas tied neatly around their necks. Their eyes glistened with the knowledge of how to properly dispose of an American flag that has touched the ground. 

Jack gave them a thin smile, bent over, and lifted the flag. He righted it and stabbed it back into the soil. with a soft crunch as it impaled a blade of grass. Then, Jack paused.

He wanted to enjoy the moment – to relish in the violation of a misplaced and naïve patriotism the young boys now staring at him held so dear – he wanted to savor the untouchable feeling he had grown to love, knowing that he would never be caught. He was too good; his tradecraft too finely tuned. No one suspected him. Not Langley, not his family – no one.

Jack’s smile widened, his eyes intensified, and his ego bloomed as he continued to push the wooden stake even deeper still into the dirt. He did so until the stake was completely inserted, leaving only curtails of the red, white, and blue flag protruding from the dirt like a discarded tissue.

 

Satisfied, he straightened, and looked over at the wide-eyed, slack-jawed troop. One of which stood as if to say something, his thin legs disappearing into the bulk of his hiking boots, the brown and red hat bearing his troop number perched a little too high on his undersized head.

The boy opened his tiny mouth, but his voice failed him as he was confronted with the icy confidence in this stranger’s eyes.

You have no idea who I am or what I am capable of. Jack said without speaking.

Jack gave the child a chance to be brave, a chance to stand up for his country against the “the bad guy”, but still he said nothing. Jack let a sly, almost serpentine grin split his cold, stoic face before winking at the young troop and walking off.