A PATRIOT DIRGE: Spies Among Us

Eyes that Linger
Shadows in the Dark
Paranoia Paradox

Rome could not pinpoint the moment he first became aware of unfamiliar faces in familiar places, eyes that linger a moment too long, a soft click on the telephone, an overly eager volunteer, an inquisitive neighbor or an electrical worker with an interest in books and philosophy.

There are spies among us.

Things were going well on the political front though they were operating under the radar, supporting candidates in local elections that generally did not reveal party affiliation. Thanks to the mortgage crisis, they were buying storefronts at cut-rate prices in cities and communities across the nation.

The core policy group had come to a major decision. They would plot their course on a long-term trajectory. The storefronts were operating as community organizers for assisting the victims of a struggling economy. At a time when government services were decimated by budget cuts and administrators that believed in letting the chips fall, they would fill the void by renegotiating mortgages, bartering for goods and labor, setting up cooperatives and pooling transportation.

They were a self-sustaining organization, buying out foreclosed properties and converting them to affordable housing. When times were bad, as they were now, they would support the community. When times were good, the community would support them.

They were building from the ground up and they decided to lend their support to the first African American candidate for president. They did so knowing that the Senator from Illinois, though better than most, would still be confined by the money interests that control both parties. They did so not as a concession to the dominant party system but as a means to an end. They would help Obama become president and he would help the Independent movement reach a growing number of young volunteers.

The decision was not an easy one. Charges and countercharges of corruption and betrayal were hurled across the backroom at the Monastery until Rome, the lines of his face drawn in restrained anger and frustration, rose and made his case.

"We’re in it for the long haul," he explained. "If the past has taught us anything at all, it is that change does come cheaply. We’re trying to break a stranglehold that has held American politics captive for two hundred and eight years. That kind of change won’t happen in one election or two or three. It builds brick by brick, mortar by mortar, and its success ultimately depends on our ability to hand the torch to the next generation and theirs to do the same."

They needed young activists and Obama appealed to the young.

They would not work as Democrats. They would work under their own flag. The Obama campaign invited their engagement and they would take advantage. They would help to win him the presidency and when he failed to deliver what his young followers naively expected, they would offer an alternative.

It was then that Rome began to notice the strays, the shadows, the spies. The power brokers in Washington realized they were a force that could turn an election and that made them a target. He assumed they were under the employ of political operatives not affiliated with any official government agencies but he could not be sure.

It was partly for that reason and partly for circumstances not yet defined that he was meeting with an internet specialist who came highly recommended. Amy had used him to run down some confidential information on a client the government was threatening under the despotic terms of the Patriot Act.

In a back room of the Monastery that Rome often used as a workspace, the sound of jazz sifting through stone halls, soothing his soul and opening passages of imagination in his overworked mind, the young man knocked at an open doorway and shuffled inside. Hardly noticing Rome behind his desk, he looked around for a place to sit and stroked his hair in exasperation. Rome studied him like a master might study a prospective maid or a butler – someone he would trust inside his castle, his home.

Rome retrieved a chair from the hallway and returned to his perch, resuming his examination of the young man as he folded his canvas briefcase on his lap and searched for clues to the meaning of existence on the thick walls of stone where once a monk practiced a life of prayer and piety.

Weary of waiting for some verbal acknowledgment, Rome introduced himself and shook hands across the desk. His name was Freddie Prader though he was known as The Worm and he was looking for employment in internet management. He was clearly bright and just as clearly socially inept. Judging from his constant movement, tapping and fidgeting, he was either naturally high strung or a devoted amphetamine user or both.

Freddie pulled a file from his case and handed it to Rome. In it there was a dossier on every member of the inner circle, including information that Rome himself was unaware of, a list of contacts dating back over a year and most critically a detailed account of who had recently tapped the movement’s database.

He looked up into the face of a smiling young man, fully aware of how impressive the accomplishment was. Rome’s system was protected by state-of-the-art security. Until now, he would not have believed that anyone could break it. Now, he was alarmed and the meeting took on a new dimension. If this young man was not an ally, he was an extremely powerful enemy.

How did you get this?

Hire me and I’ll tell you, Freddie smiled.

Rome suddenly saw the worm inside him and waited until the smile soured and the nervous fidgeting returned. What kind of man was this? He needed to know. Was he a mercenary or an idealist? What had Amy seen in him that he had not yet revealed? He removed his reading glasses and shook the kid down with a stare.

"You’ll tell me now or live the rest of your life looking behind your back."

Freddie was visibly stunned. It was all he could do to hold himself steady, to restrain from bolting like a bullied child. He had neither experienced nor anticipated this kind of showdown. To his way of thinking, it was all just a game.

As soon as he could gather his bearings, he explained exactly how he had gathered the information in question. He had the usual hacker codes and something more: He had a tap that could sense other taps and trace them to their source.

Rome realized the threat was not with Freddie but the knowledge he possessed. He could not only trace a tap but he could tap the source. Hapless Freddie had no idea how dangerous that kind of knowledge was and it fell to Rome to seize it to make sure it did not end up in the wrong hands.

Rome hired him on the spot as the head of a new technology unit with a generous salary. He did not ask if anyone else knew of his accomplishment. It was a part of the hacker’s creed to demonstrate innovations and he was certain Freddie was not immune to the glory that his achievement would bring. He gave instructions to hire everyone he knew and trusted. He explained in matter-of-fact terms that some would kill for what he knew and others would kill to keep it from falling into the hands of adversaries.

The gravity of circumstance was beginning to register on Freddie’s face. He felt compelled to explain his political views and commitment to the cause they represented. Amy had recruited him based as much on his activism as on his technical genius.

They sat down to dinner at restaurant down the street and talked philosophy, politics, dreams and visions. Freddie was the grandson of Czech immigrants. He had studied history and the age of revolution, including the Velvet Revolution and the Prague Spring that his grandparents so often remembered. They had fled their country with a dream of democracy, freedom and justice. They believed in America and they handed that faith down to their children and grandchildren. They were distraught with what was happening to America now.

Freddie related the story his grandparents had told him about the day the Russian tanks rolled into Prague. Until then, hope was in the air. Until then, they believed that democracy would come to Czechoslovakia without bloodshed. Until then, they believed in the power of ideas that rose up from the people and spread from universities to cafes to hospitals to common laborers. They wondered what would happen if they refused to work, refused to pay taxes, refused conscription and refused to be governed?

Then the tanks rolled in, blood was spilled and the great repression began. They crushed the people in the streets, men, women and children, beat them down like rabid dogs and along with them they crushed their dreams.

Rome related the story of the French Communard, a democratic-socialist uprising that seized control of Paris for a brief period in 1871. They granted women the right to vote and workers the right to organize. They stood first against a Prussian imperialist army and then against their own oppressive government. Against the Army of Versailles they held their ground until a traitor opened the gates and let the enemy inside. They fought courageously against impossible odds until late May when one hundred and seventy four holdouts at Pere-Lachaise Cemetery were line up against a wall and executed.

In the end 30,000 were killed and thousands more exiled but on the ninth anniversary of that massacre, 25,000 brave souls marched to the wall in protest. Two months later an amnesty was declared.

They shared the silence of knowing and the strength of believing even when the weight of history bears down on you. Tears welled in the young man’s eyes as Rome recalled the youthful volunteers, the café radicals, the artists and dissidents who went to Spain and joined the International Brigades to fight against the fascists. They were a ragtag group, said Rome as if he were there, as if he was one of them, fighting a well-trained army of professional soldiers with popguns and the spirit of solidarity. Orwell and Hemmingway were among them. Did they know it was a losing cause? How could they not? But it made them who they were. It shaped their vision of the world.

Freddie sat a long time, studying the man before him, trying to understand what pushed him forward and what gave him hope. An evening fog was rolling in from the Strait of Juan de Fuca, winding through the Sound, comforting all souls with a cooling breeze. He emptied his glass of beer and leaned in to capture Rome’s attention.

"Is that what you want?"

It was a familiar challenge and one that Rome had often invoked with his colleagues. Do you want to be a hero? In your heart, do you want to be the martyr shot down in the streets so that some future idealist will tell stories about you?

"No," Rome answered. "I want to win."

They shed tears for the International Brigades and the Communard of Paris and for the centuries of struggle throughout history. They did not care whose ears were listening or whose eyes were hiding in the shadows. Rome was assured that Freddie could be trusted. He was a true believer and Rome was relieved. Had he not been trustworthy, Rome would have confronted a familiar dilemma: Doing wrong to do right was an inevitable confrontation in any cause or movement but it was not one to be relished.

He would not have to face that particular demon today.

They drank on a balcony overlooking the Sound until a yellow moon wavered and fell from the sky, raising toasts to Jefferson, Paine, Danton, Dubcek, Havel, Bolivar, Voltaire and Rousseau, and then they parted as brothers – or rather father and son – united in the cause of humankind.

Long Live the Revolution!