September 3, 1944
Nine days before the summit, Rick watched Paris celebrate its liberation on the newsreel at a Detroit movie theater.
The footage was grainy, rushed—French citizens throwing flowers at American tanks, kissing soldiers, tearing down Nazi flags. Charles de Gaulle marching down the Champs-Élysées. The war correspondent's voice trembling with emotion: "After four years of occupation, Paris is free. The liberation of Europe has begun."
Around Rick, the audience cheered. Women cried. Men stood and applauded. The war was ending. Finally, truly ending.
Rick sat very still, his hands clenched in his lap.
Because he knew what the newsreel didn't show. What the celebrating crowds didn't understand.
The war ending meant the post-war world beginning. The institutions Prometheus Protocol had designed—UN, World Bank, CIA, all of it—would start becoming real within months. The architecture of permanent warfare would solidify before anyone understood what was being built.
Nine days. They had nine days to stop it.
Rick left the theater before the main feature started. Outside, Detroit was celebrating. Horns honking. Flags waving. The evening shift at Packard would be drunk on victory, productivity would drop, but nobody would care because Germany was collapsing and Japan couldn't last much longer.
He walked back to his boarding house through streets full of joy he couldn't share.
Mrs. Kaminski was waiting in the parlor when he arrived, her face flushed with excitement.
"Mr. Martin! Isn't it wonderful? Paris liberated! My son writes that they'll be in Berlin by Christmas!" She grabbed his hands. "This terrible war is finally ending!"
"It's wonderful news," Rick made himself say. "Your son must be relieved."
"He is! He writes that morale is high, that everyone feels victory coming." She squeezed his hands. "You should celebrate, Mr. Martin! Go out, have a drink, find a nice girl! These are happy times!"
Rick extracted himself gently and climbed to his room. Once inside, he locked the door and pulled out the coded message that had been waiting in the dead drop.
Catherine's handwriting, decoded:
NINE DAYS. POSITIONS CONFIRMED. CATERING COMPANY HIRED US AS TEMPORARY STAFF. YOU'RE DISHWASHER, I'M SERVER, WEBB IS DRIVER. DAVID STAYS OFF-SITE AS COMMUNICATIONS. DONOVAN CONFIRMED FOR ATTENDEE LIST. NO INDICATION THEY SUSPECT. FINAL BRIEFING SEPT 9, LOCATION TBD. BURN THIS.
Rick burned it, scattered the ashes, and sat on his bed staring at nothing.
Nine days until he walked into the most dangerous situation of his life.
Nine days until John Martin disappeared forever.
He pulled out paper and began writing a letter he'd been composing in his head for weeks.
September 5, 1944
Seven days before the summit, Catherine attended her last Relief Fund committee meeting as Marie Chevalier.
The women discussed plans for post-war refugee assistance. The optimism was intoxicating—Paris liberated, Germany crumbling, the possibility of returning home becoming real for the first time in four years.
"Marie, you must be so excited," Mrs. Aldrich said. "You'll be able to return to France! See your family!"
Catherine smiled with Marie's practiced hopefulness. "Perhaps. Though I fear much has changed. My Paris may not exist anymore."
"But you'll rebuild! That's what France does—rises from the ashes, stronger than before." Mrs. Aldrich squeezed her hand. "I hope you'll write to us, tell us how you're doing."
"Of course."
The lie tasted bitter. In seven days, Marie Chevalier would disappear. Either Catherine would succeed and have to vanish to avoid Prometheus Protocol's retaliation, or she'd die and Marie would simply stop existing.
Either way, these women who'd welcomed Marie into their circle would never know the truth.
After the meeting, Sarah Brennan caught Catherine in the hallway.
"You're leaving," Sarah said quietly. "Aren't you?"
Catherine's hand moved instinctively toward her purse, where the small pistol waited. "I don't know what you mean."
"Please. I've been watching you for months. You're saying goodbye to everyone, tying up loose ends. Whatever you're planning, it's happening soon." Sarah's eyes were sharp. "Does it have to do with my father?"
Harold Brennan. Chase Bank chairman. The man who'd provided financial evidence, who'd been drowning in guilt over his complicity.
"Your father chose his own path," Catherine said carefully.
"I know. And I know you're using his testimony to build some kind of case. Against whom, exactly?" Sarah moved closer. "I'm not trying to stop you. I want to help. My brother died at Guadalcanal. If his death was because of the people my father worked with—"
"Sarah." Catherine's voice was sharp. "The less you know, the safer you are. What we're doing—it's dangerous. If it goes wrong, anyone connected to us will be in danger."
"Then tell me how to protect myself. Tell me what to do if you disappear."
Catherine made a decision. She pulled out a sealed envelope from her purse. "If you don't hear from me by September 15th, mail this. The address is inside. Don't open it. Don't read it. Just mail it."
"What is it?"
"Insurance. A backup of our evidence. If we don't make it, someone still needs to know the truth."
Sarah took the envelope with shaking hands. "You're going to die, aren't you? Whatever you're planning, you don't expect to survive."
"I expect to do what's necessary." Catherine turned to leave, then paused. "Your brother—what was his name?"
"Thomas. Thomas Brennan. He was twenty-two."
"Thomas Brennan died at Guadalcanal. We know why. We have proof of who's responsible. And in seven days, we're going to make them answer for it." Catherine met Sarah's eyes. "If we succeed, your brother's death will have meant something. If we fail, make sure that envelope gets mailed."
She left Sarah standing in the hallway, holding insurance Catherine hoped she'd never need to use.