After lunch, Catherine walked along the Seine, trying to clear her head.
Paris in spring should have been beautiful. The city she'd fled in 1940 was rebuilding, recovering. But Catherine couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking through a museum of her former life. The Paris she remembered—her Paris—existed only in memory now.
She passed the Sorbonne, where she'd supposedly studied before the war. Marie Chevalier's fabricated backstory, but Catherine had told it so many times it felt like real memory.
She passed Notre-Dame, where she'd actually attended services as a child with her mother. Real memory, but it felt distant, unreal, like something that had happened to someone else.
Which Catherine was real? The one who'd grown up in Lyon, joined French intelligence, fled to America? Or the one who'd spent three years as Marie Chevalier, serving coffee at the Metropolitan Club while gathering evidence against Prometheus Protocol?
Both. Neither. Someone in between who didn't quite fit anywhere anymore.
Catherine found herself at a bookshop she'd frequented before the war. The owner was still there, twenty years older, but alive. So many weren't.
"Mademoiselle Dupré?" He recognized her, despite the years. "My God, you're alive. We heard you'd gone to America."
"I did. I'm back now."
"Welcome home." He said it simply, kindly, not knowing she no longer knew where home was.
Catherine browsed the shelves, looking for something to read. Something to occupy her mind. She pulled out a book on post-war reconstruction, flipped through it.
A section on the Marshall Plan caught her eye. American aid to rebuild Europe. Billions of dollars in loans and grants. Presented as humanitarian effort, as enlightened self-interest.
Catherine wondered how much of it was genuine and how much was Prometheus Protocol positioning American economic dominance. The Marshall Plan could be both, she supposed. Good intentions and strategic manipulation weren't mutually exclusive.
That was the problem with conspiracy thinking. Once you started seeing patterns, you saw them everywhere. Even in genuinely good policies, you looked for hidden motives.
Maybe that's what McCarthy was counting on. Discredit the investigators enough, and people would dismiss all conspiracy theories, even the real ones. Bury the truth under so many false accusations that nobody could tell the difference anymore.
"Are you alright?" the bookshop owner asked. "You look troubled."
"Just tired," Catherine said. "The war was long."
"It was. But it's over now. We're rebuilding. Things will get better."
Catherine wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe the war was truly over, that the worst was behind them.
But she'd read the 1944 recording transcript. Phase 2. Korea. 1950-1952.
If the conspiracy was real—and Catherine knew it was—another war was coming in three years. Engineered, just like Pearl Harbor. Profitable, just like World War II. Inevitable, unless someone stopped it.
And nobody was stopping it. The Congressional hearings had failed. Rick was being investigated instead of Hartley. The truth had been exposed and then buried under "insufficient evidence."
Catherine bought the book on reconstruction, paid with French francs she still wasn't quite used to handling, and walked back to her small apartment in the Marais.
The apartment was modest—one bedroom, small kitchen, a living room barely large enough for a couch and desk. Catherine had lived in worse during the war, but this felt more permanent. More like admitting she was staying.
She made tea and sat at her desk, where files were spread across the surface. Not Prometheus Protocol files—those were hidden, stored in a locked box under her bed. These were innocuous. French government documents about refugee resettlement, employment programs, reconstruction efforts.
Catherine had gotten a job with the French Ministry of Social Affairs. Clerical work, helping resettle displaced persons, processing paperwork. It was honest work. Meaningful work. And it required none of the skills she'd developed during three years of espionage.
She was good at it, though. Good at the careful attention to detail. Good at maintaining professional distance while being kind to people who'd lost everything. Good at being someone who followed rules and didn't ask dangerous questions.
Maybe that's who she was now. Catherine Dupré, civil servant. Former intelligence officer who'd retired from the game. A woman trying to rebuild her life in a city rebuilding itself.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
Catherine's hand moved instinctively toward the drawer where she kept a small pistol—old habits died hard. But she forced herself to relax, to approach the door normally.
Through the peephole, she saw a young woman. Early twenties, nervous, clutching an envelope.
Catherine opened the door cautiously. "Yes?"
"Mademoiselle Dupré? I'm Sarah Brennan. Harold Brennan's daughter. From New York. I... I need to talk to you."
Catherine's pulse quickened. Sarah Brennan. The woman who'd helped in 1944, who'd mailed the backup evidence package after the summit. What was she doing in Paris?
"How did you find me?"
"Your address was in my father's files. He said if I ever needed to contact you—" Sarah stopped, looking around the hallway nervously. "Please. Can I come in? I've traveled a long way."
Catherine let her in, locked the door behind them. "Your father—is he alright?"
"He's in prison." Sarah's voice cracked. "They arrested him six months ago. Fraud charges, embezzlement, conspiracy to commit war profiteering. Twenty years."
Catherine felt something cold settle in her chest. "I thought the investigation concluded no criminal charges—"
"For Hartley and the others, yes. But they needed a scapegoat. Someone to prosecute to show they'd taken the allegations seriously. So they arrested my father and three other bankers who'd provided testimony." Sarah pulled out the envelope. "He wrote you a letter. From prison. He asked me to deliver it personally."
Catherine took the envelope. Harold Brennan's handwriting, shaky with age or stress.
Catherine,
By the time you read this, I'll be in prison. Ironic, isn't it? I testified against Prometheus Protocol, provided evidence of my own crimes, and the reward is incarceration while the architects of the conspiracy walk free.
But I don't write to complain. I write to apologize. My testimony was supposed to help expose them. Instead, it gave them cover. They prosecuted me and a handful of others, claimed that proved they'd investigated thoroughly, and used our convictions to say the matter was settled.
I'm a banker who processed blood money. I deserve prison. But Hartley deserves more. So does his network. And they got nothing.
The evidence we provided—all of it—has been classified. Sealed. The Congressional investigation's full findings won't be released for fifty years. By then, everyone involved will be dead. That was the plan all along, I think. Appear to investigate, actually cover up.
I'm writing because I want you to know: don't blame yourself for the failure. Don't blame Rick or the others. You did everything right. You exposed the truth. But the truth wasn't enough because the people judging it were never going to act on it.
My daughter Sarah is delivering this letter. She knows everything. I've told her about Prometheus Protocol, about your investigation, about what we tried to do. She believes you. More importantly, she wants to help.
I know you're tired. I know you want to walk away. God knows I would if I could. But if there's any fight left in you, Sarah could use guidance. She's young, idealistic, and determined to continue what we started.
Maybe the next generation will succeed where we failed. Or maybe they'll fail too. But at least the fight will continue.
Thank you for everything you risked. History may never acknowledge it, but I will.
Harold Brennan
Catherine looked up at Sarah, who was watching her carefully.
"He told you everything?"
"Everything. Pearl Harbor. Morrison. The three years you spent as Marie Chevalier. The 1944 summit. The recording. All of it." Sarah's eyes were fierce. "My brother died at Guadalcanal. The official story is he died fighting the Japanese. But my father told me the truth—he died because medical supplies were diverted for profit. Someone decided his life was worth less than a contract margin."
"I'm sorry—"
"I'm not here for sympathy. I'm here because I want to help. My father said you have files. Evidence. The complete documentation of Prometheus Protocol." Sarah leaned forward. "I want to continue the investigation. Expose them. Finish what you started."