They split up, circulating separately to avoid attracting more attention. Rick moved through the crowd with patient stalking rhythm. Listen more than speak. Observe gestures, not words.
He positioned himself near a marble pillar twenty feet from Cross's conversation cluster. The hidden camera captured everything—handshakes that lasted too long, documents passed in folded programs.
A waiter offered champagne. Rick took it, using the moment to photograph Reed and Cross in close conversation. Reed's body language radiated tension—shoulders tight, eyes darting.
Rick drifted closer, catching fragments.
"—Pittsburgh confirmed for the fourth. Chicago follows immediately. Cleveland and Detroit within forty-eight hours—"
Cross nodded. "The weapons?"
"Already distributed. Seven caches remain operational after Fort Monroe—"
They moved away, toward a quieter corner. Rick couldn't follow without drawing attention.
He circled through the crowd, approaching from a different angle. This time he heard Cross clearly:
"Morrison wants confirmation on the Magic intercepts. Has Naval Intelligence shared the decrypts?"
Reed shook his head. "Washington's sitting on them. Kimmel doesn't know the Japanese task force left port November twenty-sixth."
Rick's hands tightened on his champagne glass. They knew. The government knew Pearl Harbor was coming and wasn't warning the fleet.
Cross pulled a document from his pocket, showed it to Reed briefly before tucking it away. "Then everything proceeds as planned. Four days until the main event."
Rick's camera clicked softly, capturing their faces, their proximity, the moment of conspiracy.
Catherine found him near the dessert table, face pale. "Second floor. Private room. I saw Cross escort someone up there—older man, military bearing, distinguished. Has to be Morrison."
"Guards?"
"Two. At the stairwell entrance. They're checking invitations again." She glanced at her watch, voice dropping. "Rick, we have four days. Four days until Pearl Harbor. If what Morrison's planning happens before then—"
"Then thousands die and we get blamed for it," Rick finished quietly.
He studied the room's architecture, sight lines, guard positions. "We need a reason to be up there."
Catherine's eyes gleamed. "Or an escort."
She approached Treasury official Reed directly, her voice pitched to carry just enough. "Mr. Reed? Catherine Dupré. We have a mutual friend in the textile trade—Samuel Kline? He suggested I speak with you about the Berlin contracts."
Reed's face showed polite confusion. Catherine leaned closer, voice dropping.
"Samuel also mentioned you might have information about certain... Virginia complications. I represent parties interested in ensuring those complications remain contained."
Rick saw understanding flicker across Reed's face. He thought Catherine was part of Prometheus Protocol. A fixer. Someone cleaning up the Fort Monroe mess.
"Perhaps somewhere more private?" Catherine suggested.
Reed hesitated only a moment. "Second floor. This way."
Rick followed at a distance, part of the general crowd drift toward the restrooms and coat check. The guards at the stairwell barely glanced at him when he presented his forged card, positioned as though returning from the facilities.
The second floor was quieter. Carpeted hallways muffled the party below. Reed led Catherine to a small study. Rick slipped past, moving toward voices from a larger room at the hall's end.
The door was ajar. Through the gap, Rick saw Senator Morrison.
Older than photographs suggested—seventy at least, but commanding. Sharp eyes that missed nothing. He sat at a mahogany table with Cross and two others Rick didn't recognize. A wall map behind them showed the United States with three red pins: Chicago, San Francisco, Pittsburgh.
Rick positioned himself in a doorway alcove opposite, camera ready.
Morrison was speaking: "December sixth. Optimal timing. Four days from now."
Cross leaned forward. "And the Pacific Fleet?"
"Remains at Pearl Harbor." Morrison's voice carried no emotion. "Our intelligence intercepts confirm Japanese task force departed November twenty-sixth. Destination: Hawaiian waters. Admiral Kimmel hasn't been informed—Washington is sitting on the Magic decrypts."
Rick's blood ran cold. They knew. The government knew Pearl Harbor was coming.
Morrison continued: "Three synchronized events before the attack. December fourth, Chicago—labor riot at the steel mills, Japanese weapons found at the scene. December fifth, San Francisco—sabotage at Mare Island Naval Yard, explosives traced to Japanese manufacturers. December sixth, Pittsburgh—factory explosion, Type 89 machine guns in the debris."
He stood, moving to the wall map, touching each red pin in sequence. "Each incident establishes pattern. Each one points to coordinated Japanese fifth column activity on American soil. By the time Pearl Harbor happens on the seventh, the narrative is complete. Not a surprise attack—a coordinated assault. Domestic and foreign. Simultaneous."
"Why the domestic component?" one of the unknown men asked. "Pearl Harbor alone would be sufficient—"
"Americans don't go to war over foreign incidents," Morrison cut him off. His tone suggested he was explaining basic arithmetic to a slow student. "They need to feel threatened at home. They need fire on their doorstep, not just ships burning in Hawaii. The riots give them that fear. The weapons give them proof. The anger—the demand for government action—that comes naturally."
Cross nodded. "And today's Pittsburgh incident?"
"Test run," Morrison said dismissively. "Smaller scale. Measuring police response time, media reaction, public sentiment. The real three-phase Thunderbird launches December fourth. Today's chaos is just... calibration."
Rick's camera captured everything. Morrison's face. The map. The cold calculation of mass murder disguised as strategy.
"What about the Fort Monroe complications?" one of the unknown men asked.
Morrison's expression didn't flicker. "Forsyth and Dupré complicate things, but they also provide opportunity." He opened the wall safe, removing files. "We have documentation placing them near each attack site. Radical elements with foreign connections—the evidence writes itself. When we apprehend them, it validates the entire narrative. Domestic terrorists working with foreign agents."
"Where are they now?" Cross asked.
"Unknown. But they'll surface." Morrison's smile was thin. "They always do. Desperate people make predictable choices."
Rick pulled back from the doorway. He'd heard enough. They needed to leave. Now.
He moved quickly toward the study where Catherine had taken Reed.
The door was locked.
Rick tried the handle—nothing. Then heard the crash from inside.
He didn't hesitate. Boot met wood beside the lock. The frame splintered. Rick burst through.
Catherine was against the wall, Reed's hands around her throat. Her injured arm hung useless. Her good hand clawed at his face.
Rick grabbed Reed's collar, yanked him backward. The Treasury official spun faster than his bureaucrat appearance suggested, fist connecting with Rick's jaw.
Stars exploded. Rick blocked the next punch, drove his shoulder into Reed's sternum. They crashed into the desk. Reed's elbow caught Rick's temple.
Catherine grabbed a brass paperweight. Swung hard. The crack echoed. Reed stumbled sideways.
Rick slammed him against the wall, forearm across his throat.
"Stop," Catherine gasped, still holding the paperweight. "We need him."
Reed's hands trembled, reaching for something on his belt. Rick grabbed his wrist, twisted. A small pistol clattered to the floor.
"Don't." Reed's voice cracked. His eyes were wide, white showing all around. Sweat poured down his face despite the room's chill. "Please. I can help."
"You were killing her," Rick said flatly.
"I panicked." Reed's breath came in short gasps. His hands shook violently. "I thought—Morrison sent you—I thought you were here to—" His eyes darted to the door, to the window, anywhere but Rick's face. He couldn't keep his gaze steady for more than a second. "Jesus Christ, you don't understand. He's insane. I thought this was about preparedness. Strategic positioning. But he's talking about killing thousands of Americans. Staging attacks. I didn't—I didn't sign up for that."
Rick pressed harder. "You're part of it."
"I was." Reed's voice broke. His whole body trembled now. "But Pearl Harbor is one thing. Letting Japan make the first move—that's strategy. But staging attacks on our own cities? Framing innocent people? Murdering Americans to manufacture consent?" He looked genuinely sick. "I can't—I won't—"
"Then why attack Catherine?"
"Because I'm dead either way." Tears leaked from Reed's eyes. His breathing was ragged, panicked. "If Morrison knows I talked to you—if he even suspects—I'm a loose end. You understand? I'm already dead. He'll have me killed. He'll make it look like an accident. I've seen him do it to others."
Catherine lowered the paperweight slightly. "Then help us."
"Scott had files," Reed said quickly, words tumbling out. "Complete documentation. Bank ledgers, communications, operational plans. Names. Everything. He kept them as insurance—copies hidden in case Prometheus Protocol turned on him."
"Where?" Rick demanded.
"Safe deposit box. First National Bank, Baltimore. Box 447." Reed's eyes kept darting to the door. He flinched at every distant sound from the hallway. "Scott gave me a key before he died. Backup plan. I can get you in—I have authorization—my name's on the access list—" His breath came faster. "But we need to go. Now. If they find us here—if Cross realizes—"
Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Multiple boots. Military cadence.
"Fire escape," Reed gasped, pointing to the window with a shaking hand. "Servant's exit. Move. Please, we have to move—"
Rick grabbed Catherine's good arm. Reed fumbled with the window latch, fingers shaking so badly he could barely grip it. Twice he lost his hold. Finally the window opened onto a narrow metal platform.
Behind them, doors crashed open down the hall. Cross's voice commanded: "Search every room. They're on this floor."
They climbed through. Rick helped Catherine onto the fire escape despite her injured arm. Reed followed, pulling the window shut just as light spilled from under the study door.
They descended quickly, boots ringing on metal. Three stories down to an alley that stank of kitchen waste and old grease.
Reed led them to his car—a black Packard parked in the service lot. Government money on wheels.
"Baltimore," Rick said, sliding behind the wheel. "First National Bank. Now."
Reed collapsed in the backseat, hands still trembling. He kept looking back at the hotel, expecting pursuit. Catherine pressed her shawl against her throat where bruises were already forming dark and ugly.
The radio was playing swing music as they pulled onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Then the program interrupted.
"—breaking news from Pittsburgh. Reports of violence breaking out at the Homestead Steel Works. Police say they've found military weapons at the scene—Thompson submachine guns and what appear to be foreign-manufactured grenades. Similar reports coming in from Cleveland and Detroit. Authorities are calling this coordinated labor unrest, but the discovery of military-grade ordnance suggests something more sinister—"
Rick and Catherine locked eyes.
"It's starting," she whispered.
"Thunderbird." Rick's jaw tightened. "They're not waiting for Pearl Harbor. They're building the narrative now."
The radio continued: "—authorities are investigating possible connections to radical groups. The weapons appear to match ordnance stolen from a Virginia military facility earlier this week. Treasury officials say tonight's violence appears to be a test of larger coordinated actions. The War Department has issued a statement saying they're monitoring the situation closely and urging citizens to remain calm—"
Catherine's voice was barely audible. "December seventh. Four days away."
Rick switched off the radio. In the rearview mirror, the Willard's lights receded. Washington spread before them like a glittering lie.
They were racing against a calendar. Against men who'd decided that hundreds of American deaths were acceptable payment for national unity. Against a conspiracy that had already put the pieces in motion.
Pearl Harbor was four days away. Thunderbird's three-phase attack would begin in less than twenty-four hours. And somewhere in Morrison's files was documentation that would frame Rick and Catherine as the architects of it all.
Morrison's voice echoed in his memory: You can't stop what's already in motion.
But Rick was going to try.
Four days. That's all they had.
Four days to stop Thunderbird before Pearl Harbor turned Morrison's manufactured crisis into historical inevitability.
In the backseat, Reed was crying softly. A man who'd helped build a conspiracy and now realized he'd sold his soul for mass murder.
Catherine touched Rick's hand on the steering wheel. Her eyes asked the question: Can we actually stop this?
Rick didn't answer. Because he didn't know.
All he knew was that they had to try.
The Ford ate up the miles toward Baltimore. Toward Scott's hidden files. Toward whatever truth had been worth dying for.
Behind them, Washington blazed with light and lies.
Ahead, the darkness waited.