Empire by Orson Scott Card Page B

followers could take care of themselves. It was the men he wanted to meet with whose response he wanted to see. They hadn’t foreseen anything like what was happening, or even that he would try to assemble them. But he
had
once told them, jokingly, that if they ever had to save the world, he’d give them a call and meet them at the Delta ticket counter at Reagan National. Just a joke.
    But guys in Special Ops didn’t forget things—they were trained to memorize things so they could debrief accurately later. They would remember.
    Remember, but . . . do what? Would he really find a miniconvention of extraordinarily fit men in civilian clothes standing around waiting for him?
    No. They would have recognized him on the TV news. They would know that his call to them had something to do with the assassination, and the cryptic nature of his message, along with the context of the old joke—saving the world—would prompt them to call each other. Maybe one of them would meet him there. Maybe none.
    He didn’t even get to the Delta ticket counter before they made contact. Lloyd Arnsbrach stepped onto the escalator just in front of him. “South of the border restaurant in town center,” he said—in Farsi. If he had said “Rio Grande Café in Reston Town Center, the words “Rio Grande” and “Reston” would have been easy enough to understand for any English speaker.
    And since there was nobody within earshot, that must mean that Lloyd—“Load,” they had always called him—believed that they were being overheard—either a big-ear listening device or a bug planted on Reuben’s clothes.
    â€œYou’re being followed,” continued Load in Farsi. “Get on the toll road on the hill of spring”—which meant Spring Hill. “We’ll make sure you have a clear mile, so get off the toll road immediately.”
    When they got to the top of the escalator, Load headed off in another direction from the Delta ticket counter.
    So all that was left for Reuben to do was go and buy a ticket on the DC-New York shuttle for tomorrow. If asked—and he would certainly be asked—it was his intention to fly up to join his family tomorrow on their spur-of-the-moment visit to Aunt Margaret.
    It was late enough in the evening that there weren’t many ticket buyers, which would make it harder for his followers to remain unobtrusive. But they were apparently pretty good at what they did—he didn’t see anybody with that agentish look of studied nondescriptness. It would be surprising if they didn’t have somebody near enough to hear what he said. But then, they could count on being able to ask the ticket agent what he had said—those federal badges were so helpful.
    Or . . . and this is something he should have thought of before . . . they might very well have planted a bug in his clothing. So they were just sitting in a van somewhere, listening. Or everything was getting piped into somebody’s iPod earphone.
    And it wouldn’t have made any difference if he had stopped in his office and changed clothes. They would have bugged the uniforms he kept there. Or if they didn’t they were idiots and he preferred to think the assassination of the President was not being investigated by idiots.
    He got back to his car and practically had to force himself not to glance around to see if he could spot any of the tails. Of course they knew he was Special Ops and had been doing clandestine work for the NSA, so of course he’d guess that someone was following him. But looking around would make him seem, not curious, but furtive, as if he had something to hide. And since he did have something to hide, and was about to make it obvious that he did, the last thing he wanted to do was signal them that he was watching out for watchers.
    What twisted thinking. Will they guess that I guessed that they’d know I’d assume they were