0900 Hours - Kitchen
Rick was washing dishes when he heard the kitchen's intercom crackle.
"All staff, the meeting has begun. Minimize noise in the service areas. Lunch service begins at eleven hundred. Be ready."
The meeting had started. Somewhere directly above Rick's head, Prometheus Protocol's leadership was discussing the conspiracy. And if Donovan's recorder was working, every word was being captured.
Rick returned to washing dishes, the mindless work keeping his hands busy while his mind raced through contingencies.
Two hours until the lunch break. Two hours of recording. Then Donovan would extract himself, and they'd all leave separately, and by tonight the evidence would be in Eleanor Walsh's hands.
That was the plan.
Rick had been in intelligence long enough to know plans rarely survived contact with reality.
But for now, the plan was working. That was something.
He washed dishes and waited.
0930 Hours - Second Floor Library
Inside the meeting, Hartley was speaking.
"Phase 1 assessment. Pearl Harbor achieved its strategic objective—bringing America into the war at the optimal moment. Our network profited substantially from wartime production, while positioning assets for post-war control. Equipment sabotage extended key battles, maximizing contract duration without raising sufficient suspicion."
Brennan's face was grey as Hartley continued.
"Kasserine Pass, Dieppe, Guadalcanal supply failures—all according to plan. Casualty rates were higher than projected, but acceptable given the financial returns. Current estimate: $2.3 billion captured through the equipment substitution program alone."
Donovan kept his face carefully neutral while horror coursed through him. They were discussing it openly. Admitting the sabotage. Quantifying the profit from American deaths.
The recorder was getting everything.
"Post-war institutional framework," Hartley moved to the next agenda item. "United Nations structure will be formalized at the San Francisco conference next year. Our people are positioned in key delegations. The Security Council veto system ensures no meaningful action can be taken against American interests."
A British representative spoke: "And the economic institutions? Bretton Woods established the framework, but implementation—"
"The World Bank and IMF will become operational in 1945," another voice—someone Donovan didn't recognize. "Control mechanisms are in place. Loan conditionality will ensure dependent relationships with reconstructed nations. We maintain economic leverage indefinitely."
"The CIA proposal?" someone asked.
"Legislation drafted," Hartley responded. "Will be introduced in 1947, after sufficient preparation of Congressional support. OSS will be disbanded, but key personnel will transfer to the new agency. Director position is already allocated."
To Hartley himself, Donovan knew. Morrison's files had shown that.
"Phase 2 timeline?" Another voice.
Hartley pulled out a document. "Korea. Current planning targets 1950-1952 for initial engagement. We're positioning assets now—military equipment specifications, logistical infrastructure, political destabilization mechanisms. The narrative will be communist aggression requiring American intervention."
"And if the North Koreans don't cooperate with our timeline?"
"We'll ensure they cooperate. Soviet influence can be manipulated through appropriate channels. Our intelligence assets in Moscow are already laying groundwork."
Donovan's hands clenched under the table. They were planning a war. Engineering it. Creating the conditions that would make it inevitable.
All being recorded on magnetic wire in a hollowed-out book.
1030 Hours - Communications Point
David's radio crackled to life.
"Shepherd to Flock. Visual confirmation: all targets present. No unusual activity. Repeat, no unusual activity."
Reeves. Using the code they'd established. Shepherd was his call sign. Targets meant the Prometheus Protocol leadership. No unusual activity meant the meeting was proceeding normally.
Which meant Donovan was inside, presumably recording.
David keyed the microphone. "Flock acknowledges. Standing by."
He sat back, forcing himself to breathe. Everything was working. Donovan was recording. Rick, Catherine, and Webb were positioned. The extraction vehicles were ready.
Maybe they'd actually pull this off.
David let himself believe that for exactly thirty seconds.
Then his training reasserted itself, and he went back to watching the radio, waiting for the signal that would mean everything had gone to hell.
1050 Hours - Kitchen
Catherine was refilling coffee urns when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
She glanced up. A man in a dark suit, moving with the precision of security, descended to the first floor and spoke quietly to the head chef.
Chef Patricia turned pale, then nodded and gestured to her staff.
"Listen up. Security check. Everyone stays at their stations. If you're questioned, answer truthfully. This is just protocol."
Catherine's pulse spiked. Security check. Unplanned. Not on the schedule.
She returned to the coffee urns, keeping her hands steady, her face calm. Just another server. Nothing suspicious.
The man in the dark suit walked through the kitchen, studying each person with professional assessment. His eyes lingered on Catherine for a moment, then moved on.
He spoke briefly with Chef Patricia, then left.
Catherine exhaled slowly.
"What was that about?" Maria asked.
"Just security being paranoid," Patricia said, though her voice was tight. "Back to work, everyone. Lunch service in ten minutes."
Catherine glanced at the clock. Ten fifty. The meeting would break at eleven. Donovan would extract himself during the lunch service.
Ten more minutes.
She could manage ten more minutes.
1100 Hours - Second Floor Library
Hartley concluded the morning session. "We'll break for lunch. Reconvene at one PM for Phase 3 planning and long-term projections."
Around the table, attendees stood and stretched. Two hours of intense discussion, of planning the architecture of permanent American hegemony, of engineering decades of warfare disguised as peacekeeping.
All captured on Donovan's recorder.
He gathered his materials with deliberate casualness, including the book. The recorder had functioned perfectly—two hours of magnetic wire now holding evidence that could bring down the entire network.
Donovan stood. "Excuse me, I need to make a call to OSS headquarters. Urgent matter came up."
Hartley looked at him. "Can it wait until after lunch?"
"Unfortunately not, sir. Intelligence matter, time-sensitive."
"Very well. Use the phone in the study down the hall."
Donovan nodded and walked out, briefcase in hand, moving at a careful pace. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a junior officer with work to do.
He descended the main stairs, passed through the entrance hall where lunch was being set up, and headed for the study.
The front door was twenty feet away. His car was parked outside. If he could just reach it—
"Lieutenant Donovan?"
He turned. The security officer from earlier, the one who'd done the kitchen check.
"Yes?"
"Sir, I need to verify something about your briefcase. Just a formality."
Donovan's blood ran cold. "I was searched when I arrived."
"I understand, sir. But there's been a security concern. I need to do a secondary check. Won't take a moment."
There was no refusing without arousing immediate suspicion.
Donovan set the briefcase on a side table and opened it. The security officer looked through the papers, then picked up the book.
Statistical Analysis of Wartime Production, 1941-1944.
The officer hefted it, feeling the weight. Which was slightly wrong—lighter than a real book of that size should be.
"May I?" The officer opened the book.
Donovan's hand moved toward his jacket pocket, where he had a small knife. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. He could try to run. Try to signal Rick and Catherine somehow. Try—
The officer flipped through pages. Real pages, in the front third of the book. Then reached the hollowed section.
And saw the wire recorder.
"Sir, I need you to come with me. Right now."
Donovan's mind raced. He could run. Could try to signal the team. Could—
He coughed. Twice. Sharp, deliberate.
The signal. Abort. Everything's compromised.
Then he said, very calmly, "I want to speak with whoever's in charge of security. There's been a misunderstanding."
"You can explain it upstairs, sir." The officer's hand was on his weapon now.
Donovan had one chance. He lunged, grabbed the book, and ran for the door.
He made it three steps before security tackled him.
As he descended, he heard alarms begin to sound throughout the estate.
The mission had just gone catastrophically wrong.