Free Empire by Orson Scott Card Page A

loved that man. He was the best President—”
    â€œThey
can
say it. They
will
say it. They’re
dying
to say it. If they can paint this whole thing as a vast right-wing conspiracy, you think they’ll hold back because it makes no sense?”
    Phillips got control of himself. Dabbed at his eyes with a Kleenex from a little packet in his pocket. “So what does this mean, if your paranoid fantasies turn out to be true? That this was all a
blue-state
conspiracy? That’s just as ridiculous.”
    â€œI agree,” said Malich. “But these terrorists had to have somebody inside the White House to tell them which window to shoot their missile through. They got my plans that were turned in to the U.S. Army. Don’t tell me that Al Qaeda had moles planted so long ago that now a bunch of dedicated Muslim fanatics somehow made it through security clearances into positions where they could provide all that.”
    â€œI’ll get you what I can,” said Phillips. “I’ll talk to the NSA.”
    â€œAnd when you do,” said Malich, “give the information to Cole here, as well as emailing it to me.”
    Cole tried not to show his surprise. Malich trusted him that much?
    No, it wasn’t that. Malich expected to be arrested. Held where he couldn’t get to his email, where he couldn’t be contacted by anybody. He expected Cole to keep on digging to find out the truth. That wasn’t something you assign to a newly appointed subordinate. That’s something you assign to a friend.
    Cole repeated his cellphone number and email address toPhillips until the man could recite them back cold, because Malich forbade him to write anything down. “You think I want somebody to be able to get the information from your dead body that will allow them to track down Cole?” asked Malich. Which terrified Phillips—perhaps
not
the most tactically sound idea, Cole supposed, since Phillips could decide just to go to ground rather than keep investigating. But he had to assume that Malich knew his man. Sort of, anyway.
    They made their way back through the southwest gate, past the same MPs, past the emergency vehicles and military vehicles and the cordon of soldiers that were now completely surrounding the White House. Cole finally asked, “Even if you’re arrested, you know they can’t convict you of anything.”
    â€œI’m not afraid of being convicted,” said Malich.
    â€œWhat, then?”
    â€œI’m afraid of Jack Ruby.”
    The guy who assassinated Lee Harvey Oswald before he could be tried. The guy who made sure that the tough questions about the Kennedy assassination could never be answered.
    Yeah, Cole understood that. In fact, it seemed the most likely thing to happen. That, or an unexplained “suicide” in a park somewhere. “Boy, I’m sure glad I got this assignment,” said Cole.
    Malich stopped and spoke to him earnestly. “You can get out right now if you want. It’s dangerous and I had no right to assume you’d help me.”
    â€œI wasn’t joking. I’m glad I got this assignment. What if you got some desk jockey? What if you got somebody who didn’t know how to shoot to kill?”
    â€œRight now I need somebody who can help me find out the truth.”
    â€œOh,” said Cole. “You mean you
want
a desk jockey.”
    â€œI want you.”
    Then, because the Metro was shut down at the moment and automobile traffic in the District was at a standstill, they headed for the Roosevelt Bridge to walk over into Virginia. Fortunately, it was a cool day for June in DC. They wouldn’t quite die of the heat.
    Cole thought wistfully of his air-conditioned car in the parking lot near the FDR Memorial—but it was evidence, so even if traffic had been moving, he couldn’t have taken it. And thinking of evidence reminded him of those two borrowed rifles with both their