“I have always heard that the mice will play while the cat is away, but I did not believe that would apply to the president of the United States and his staff.”
McCarthy’s rich southern voice jolted Corrine from the paper she was reading; she nearly fell out of her chair.
“Now, relax, dear,” said the president, closing the door to her office. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“I’m sorry, Jonathon. I didn’t realize you’d come back.”
“An hour ago. I’ve been busy.” McCarthy sat down in a chair across from her. “And so, I understand, have you.”
“Tom Parnelles wants to talk to you,” she said, “before the NSC meeting later.”
“Mr. Parnelles has already spoken to me,” said McCarthy. “About your operative.”
“Bob Ferguson.”
The president put up his hand. He didn’t want to hear any more about the mission than absolutely necessary, and he particularly didn’t want to know the name of the man stranded in North Korea.
“We have a plan to get him,” said Corrine. “They’re going to take off in a few hours, as soon as it’s dark.”
McCarthy pressed his lips together. Corrine felt a hole open in her stomach.
“I am afraid, dear, that we cannot do that. The life of a single CIA officer, no matter how skilled he may be, cannot justify provoking a war between North and South Korea.”
“But—”
“There are no buts. It is, unfortunately, my duty to make the decision.” McCarthy rose. “I am sorry. It is the way it must be.”
Corrine stared at her computer screen.
“You will attend the National Security session, will you not, dear?”
“Now that you’re back, I don’t—”
“Now that I’m back, I find myself very much in need of the services of my legal counsel.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Whatever you want.”