“Yuk, yuk,” said Corrine. “I understand the oil tanker was a bust.”
Ferg raised his hand. “Uh, Madam Lawyer? Actually, it was ethylene. And it was being outfitted as a covert minelayer. That information has been passed along and is of great value to the agencies responsible.”
“The information could have been gathered through DRO.” The initials stood for the Defense Reconnaissance Office, which was responsible for satellite tasking.
“Sure,” said Ferg. “And the Sisters of Charity might have stumbled across it during a fund-raising drive. But they didn’t. Now, if we could get timely data from DRO, that would be nice.”
“You don’t get timely data?” asked Corrine.
“We have trouble getting timely train schedules.”
“I thought the entire idea was to do away with the bureaucracy fettering you.”
Ferg snorted, and not just because of her somewhat naive notion about bureaucratic prerogatives. He’d never heard the word “fetter” used over a secure com net before.
“The bureaucracy you’re referring to,” said Slott, rallying to the defense, “is a set of different departments and agencies working together to provide timely support.”
“Or not,” said Ferg.
“Improvements will be made,” said Corrine.
“Hear, hear,” said Ferguson.
“In the meantime,” said Corrine, “we have a new program.”
“I like that. What the fuck is it supposed to mean?”
She frowned slightly at the curse word, which was his intention. She could pretend to be one of the guys, but underneath it she was just another one of those Beltway girls, let into the game because of abstract principles that had nothing to do with reality.
He sipped his drink as she continued, outlining a plan to follow a shipment of waste from Buzuluk in Russia.
“Excuse me, didn’t you just suggest we use DRO? The satellites and monitors already keep tabs, and, besides, the Russians guard the trains.”
“Maybe they don’t guard them very well.”
“OK,” said Ferguson. “But you’re about a week and a half behind the times. Why fool around with the train anymore when we know the waste is going to Chechnya?”
“You don’t know that at all.”
“Excuse me. Strongly suspect. What’s Kiro say?”
Somebody behind Corrine whispered something to her, bowing his head as if he were speaking to the queen. Ferg couldn’t believe they were all deferring to her already, waiting for her to speak. Slap the White House label on anything, and all of a sudden it rose to the top of the heap.
“Corrigan,” he said, growing impatient. “What’s new with Kiro? We’re interrogating him,
“Nothing new, Ferg.”
“Did you guys apply the screws?”
“We’re not going to use drags,” said Corrine. “We want to bring him to trial.”
“So?” said Ferguson.
“Mr. Ferguson, there are certain legal constraints—”
“Uh-huh.” Ferg got up and went over to the bar. His refill wasn’t going to be watered down.
“We’ll launch our project from Moscow tomorrow evening,” said Corrine. “I’ll need three members of your team, Mr. Ferguson. I’d like at least one who’s already familiar with the operation.”
Since he only had two people with him, Ferguson would have been stupid indeed not to realize she was trying to clip his wings. Dealing with her was going to be a serious pain in the ass.
“Not a problem,” he said, turning and giving his best smile to the camera. “Give Corrigan the details. I’ll work it out.”
“Will you be there?”
“No, I’m due some R&R time.”
“That’s fine,” she said sharply. Then her feed went blank.
2
Slott’s reaction to being supplanted was so professionally cold that Corrine couldn’t decide whether it hid anger or relief. She saw no sign that he was in on the president’s game, though she was starting to realize that was no guarantee he wasn’t.
Slott claimed to have no free CIA personnel to assign to the Team; in fact, he told her, the Agency was desperately undermanned in all areas — a hint that perhaps she might use her influence to free up personnel lines. She did so, but all her phone calls succeeded in doing was shaking loose a previously approved but budgetarily frozen slot for a high-level analyst to help the Team. Corrine finally decided that the SF people could undertake the surveillance mission themselves without Ferguson or another Agency minder. The mission was relatively straightforward, with the Team members expected to stay out of harm’s way and simply gather intelligence.
Back at her White House office, she tried sorting through some of the other work that was piling up for her. She hadn’t gotten very far when the president summoned her by phone; he had left a few hours before for Chicago.
“How is Russia?” he asked when she picked up.
“Russia?”
“Well now, isn’t that where you are?”
“Mr. President, you know very well where I am. You called me.”
“Generally when I ask to speak to someone, the call is put through without bothering me with minor details such as the location of my callee,” he said. “But now that I reflect upon it, the line does not seem to have the usual Russia twang. There’s more a kind of static in the background, the sort of electronic fog I associate with Washington, D.C.”
“Why do you want me in Russia?”
“I want you running Special Demands. You outlined a project for the Team, and I expected you to see it through. In person.”
“But I’m not qualified—”
“I do wish you’d stop putting yourself down, young lady.”
“Yes, sir.”
McCarthy dropped his playful tone. “They have to respect you, Corrine. Make them see you’re a tough ol’ gal. As tough as me. I know you are.”
“Tough
“Get.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hanging up.
3
“I’ll give the nuns one thing,” said Conners, slapping the beer mug down on the polished blond wood bar. “They taught you how to do arithmetic, and grammar. They were hell on you, but you learned.”
“Yeah?” Rankin reached for the bowl of pretzel nuggets, selecting one and holding it up for examination. He turned it over and over, as if he were looking at a diamond. Both men had had a few shots to go with their two beers. The Foreign Club was an American-style bar, insulated from the Islamic masses by a squadron of security
