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across to Marianne Templeton. "Are you scheduled to meet with the president after this?"
    "No. I need to get out of here and get this nightmare rolling. I still think we should wait for further confirmation. You won't be able to buy groceries tonight on your way home after this news hits," Templeton said.
    "Or bottled water. I wouldn't worry about heading home tonight. Nobody's leaving his or her office in the foreseeable future. I'll catch up with you later," he said, moving swiftly toward the door.
    He reached the conference room exit and stepped outside, searching for any signs of the president's entourage. He spotted General Kearney and Admiral DeSantos headed in the direction of the president's private office on the other side of the watch floor. Tracking their progress, he pushed through an endless gaggle of seemingly inconsequential aides and government staffers waiting to rendezvous with someone important in the conference room he just departed. He watched as Secret Service agents stationed outside of the office admitted the two flag-ranked officers and pulled the office door shut.
    Through the two windows, he could see the president seated behind a desk and Director Copley sitting directly across from him. The president motioned with his hand, and the two officers sat down on chairs squeezed into the office next to the CIA director. The president reached behind him, and the windows suddenly fogged, obscuring Shelby's view inside the office.
    He knew this had something to do with Sanderson. The president was taking an extreme risk sanctioning the use of these assets. Less than twenty-eight hours ago, Sanderson's organizations had been classified as a terrorist organization. He couldn't afford a screw-up that would draw the public's attention to that fact. The president was probably spelling out exactly what he expected in terms of Sanderson's continued involvement on foreign soil. Shelby didn't like guessing. Sanderson's operatives had been assigned to Task Force Scorpion, and he still didn't have a good handle on their rules of engagement or the scope of their authority. He was told to wait on this, until a DIA liaison was assigned to the NCTC.
    As director of the FBI, in charge of the nation's premiere law enforcement and domestic surveillance apparatus, the term "need to know basis" didn't apply to him. He needed to know everything. His only consolation in this case was the fact that he had a man on the inside, talking with the president while he was jostled around by this endless tide of servants waiting eagerly to serve their masters.
     

Chapter 3
    9:25 AM
    Acassuso Barrio
    Buenos Aires, Argentina
     
    Jessica leaned into the vanity mirror and gently applied the concealer stick to the remaining dark purple areas under her left eye. She held the stick between her index finger and thumb, patting the application lightly with her pinky finger to blend it into the foundation. She had spent the better half of an hour applying makeup to her bruised and battered face. The process was taking her twice as long without the use of her left hand, which sat uselessly in a tight gauze wrap on the brown-speckled granite countertop.
    Concealing signs of physical abuse surfaced deep, distant emotions that Jessica had spent the last ten years pushing further and further into her subconscious. She was no stranger to "making herself look pretty again" after silently enduring repeated beatings at the hand of Srecko Hadzic's associates in Serbia.
    The physical abuse hadn't been the worst part. In fact, it had barely bothered her at all. She had a built-in tolerance for physical pain. One of the many "gifts" she had acquired living under the constant threat of her father's wildly unpredictable, alcohol-fueled rampages. Taking a closed fist high on the cheekbone or a backhand to the mouth was something she had learned to live with.
    She had thought all of that would change when she reported to Langley. Ironically, she couldn't have been