One of the good things about being in the West Wing at a quarter to four in the morning was that no one was around to interrupt you.
One of the bad things was—it was a quarter to four in the morning.
Corrine waited as the coffee dripped through the coffeemaker, the aroma filling the small room. Her body cried out for the caffeine, but she knew from experience that the first quarter of the pot the machine made would be cold and taste like metal shavings; for some reason the pot had to be half full before the liquid was fit for human consumption.
She leaned back against the cupboard, waiting. And thinking of her conversation with Ferguson.
Clearly he didn’t trust Seoul, and he didn’t trust Slott. Whatever his suspicions were, they must be pretty strong. Ferguson didn’t like her at all, though obviously he trusted her to some degree.
Or he was using her.
Had she even done the right thing? Getting an outsider involved, even one who’d worked for the government in the past?
Slott’s reluctance to tell her that he was involving Seoul—even if Parnelles took the blame for the actual decision—told her that something was going on. Maybe it only amounted to Agency politics, but there was no way for her to figure it out without considerably more information from the principles, Ferguson especially.
Had she done the right thing?
If Ferguson was up to something illegal, he surely wouldn’t have involved her.
On the other hand, was it really in the president’s interest to be subverting the chain of command at the CIA?
Then again, some might say that her very presence on Special Demands subverted it.
Slott would certainly say that.
The coffee machine gurgled at her. Corrine grabbed the pot and poured herself a cup, then went down the hall to get a jump on the day’s work.