“Send someone who doesn’t have a mind to read,” Scott suggested, waving a hand at Breandan.
“Hey!”
I thought about it for a moment. “Is there anyone who can block a telepath’s abilities?”
“Sure,” Foreman said cautiously. “An empath can do it. We can even use our powers to push a little gap in their abilities. Drives telepaths nuts because unless they’re really paying attention, they don’t see us coming. The converse is we can’t use our powers of persuasion on them, either.”
I felt a little surge of glee. “But can you tell when there’s a telepath about?”
He shook his head. “Only by noticing there’s no empathic presence to correspond with the person I’m seeing with my eyes. Obviously,” he said, holding up a hand, “it only works in plain distance. If I can’t see them ...” He let his voice trail off. “Same goes for me with them, I’m told.”
“Well, that is some helpful information,” Scott said acidly. “It might have been even more helpful to know this six months ago, since that’s how long we’ve been trying to figure out how to dog these bastards.”
Foreman shrugged. “There’s a limited application for it, and you’d need to know where the telepaths were going to be. I’ve kept apprised of everything going on, it’s not like I would have held it back from you if something had come up before now wherein that information had to be disclosed.”
“Playing the wise man card in this group is not the smartest strategy,” Reed said, but he was more calm than malicious. “You might consider being more open.”
“About everything else, I am,” Foreman said, tight-lipped. “About my own personal life and abilities, forgive me for being somewhat reticent.” He folded his hands in front of him.
“This is all a distraction,” I said. “The revelation is what’s important, not the circumstances. Now that we know this, I have an idea.” I smiled. “Okay, a couple ideas.”
There was an uncomfortable silence finally broken by Scott. “Please stop smiling.” He looked uneasy. “It makes me nervous in a meeting when you get that look, because what inevitably follows is something that makes our previous plans look sane by comparison.”
“Oh, I think you’ll like this one,” I said, but I’m pretty sure my smile got wider. “Because it involves finally scoring a point on Century.”
Chapter 18
Orlando’s McCoy International Airport had a massive open courtyard outside the terminal arrival area. A fountain in the center spewed water under a glass-paneled ceiling hundreds of feet above, giving the whole place a certain majesty. Concrete planters a couple feet high were arrayed around the fountain with wooden benches stationed in front of them for seating. There was a hotel above, balconies around the edges of the courtyard and extending a few stories up toward the glass ceiling. The whole thing was bright and totally appropriate, I thought, for the Sunshine State.
I was getting very accustomed to sitting there, a mocha in hand while we waited outside the security checkpoints, watching the lines peak and subside throughout the day as new arrivals flooded by as their flights came in. Right after the meeting wherein Foreman had let slip what an empath could do, I got us a flight down to Orlando. It was pretty easy because it turns out that our little Agency was doing so well in the markets that we were able to charter a private Gulfstream. The U.S. senator who sat across from me for the whole flight didn’t seem to like it very much, but Scott, Reed, Breandan, Karthik, my mother and I luxuriated in the travel arrangements as we flew down with only a brief stopover in Nashville to pick up a passenger. That was days ago, though, and sitting around the courtyard in Orlando’s airport at odd hours for the last few days had already caused me to forget what it was like living to live in luxury for once.
Reed was standing next to me, munching on a burrito that he’d gotten from somewhere down the concourse. Ahead of us was the security checkpoint blocking entry to the courtyard. His eyes were fixed, watching a stream of people come out of the customs line. Breandan was completely bored, just zoned out with his head back, resting against the bench he was lounging on. “How much longer?” he asked, his Irish accent affecting a high whine.
“Until we get the word they’ve all cleared customs,” I said, annoyed.
“This is getting repetitive,” Breandan said, splayed out on his seat. I expected more nerves from him, but all he did was occasionally fiddle with the waxed ends of his mustache, like a man with all the time in the world and nothing to fill it with.