November 4, 1947
Donovan was reviewing intelligence reports when his phone rang.
"Donovan? It's Webb. Thomas Reed. From Philadelphia."
Donovan's pulse quickened. Webb hadn't contacted him since before the Congressional hearings. "Webb. How did you—"
"Get this number? I have friends. Listen, I need to talk to you. About Rick."
"What about him?"
"FBI's building a case. Espionage, fraud, possible sedition charges. They're going to arrest him. Maybe in the next month." Webb's voice was strained. "You're inside now. CIA. You must have access to the file, or know someone who does. Can you help?"
Donovan thought about his position. Three months in, still on probation, still being watched. Stealing FBI files would be insane.
"Webb, I can't—"
"Can't or won't?"
"Both. I'm sorry. If I get caught helping Rick, I lose everything. And I can't help anyone from prison."
"So you're just going to let them destroy him? After everything we did together?"
"I'm going to survive. That's all I can do right now. Rick knew the risks—"
"Rick exposed the truth and is being punished for it. You joined the conspiracy and are being rewarded. See the problem?"
The accusation stung because it was accurate.
"I'm documenting everything," Donovan said quietly. "Building an archive. Someday—"
"Someday? Rick doesn't have someday. He has maybe a month before arrest. David's in the hospital, stress-related heart problems. Catherine gave up and went back to France. And you're building an archive for 'someday.'" Webb laughed bitterly. "Morrison would be so proud."
"Morrison's dead—"
"Yeah, he is. Died believing exposure would matter. We're all dying the same way, just slower. Except you. You get to die comfortable, with a government pension and the knowledge that you documented the crimes you participated in."
The line went dead.
Donovan sat holding the phone, Webb's words echoing.
He was participating in the crimes. Writing intelligence assessments that would help engineer the Korea War. Attending planning meetings where they discussed creating border incidents. Being a professional, competent officer in an agency implementing Prometheus Protocol's plans.
Documenting it didn't absolve him. It just meant there'd be evidence of his complicity.
But what was the alternative? Quit? Face investigation himself? Help Rick and lose everything?
Donovan had made his choice when he accepted Hartley's offer. Survival over resistance. Long-term documentation over immediate action.
He told himself it was strategic. That someone needed to be inside, gathering evidence that could be used later.
But Webb was right. It was also cowardice. Choosing comfort over courage. Betraying his principles one intelligence assessment at a time while telling himself he was playing the long game.
January 15, 1948
Donovan was in his office when he received news that David Coleman had died. Heart failure, age 41. The stress of three years underground, the Congressional hearings, the sense of failure—it had all been too much.
Donovan attended the funeral. Small service, barely anyone there. David's parents, who'd learned their son wasn't really dead in 1944 and had never quite forgiven the deception. A few former colleagues who remembered him from before the war.
No one from the CIA. Donovan attended as a private citizen, not as a government official.
Rick was there, looking hunted. The FBI investigation was ongoing. He stood apart from everyone, probably afraid of being followed.
Webb was there, visibly drunk at 11 AM.
Catherine wasn't there. Still in France, still trying to rebuild a life that made sense.
After the service, Donovan approached Rick briefly.
"I'm sorry about David."
Rick looked at him with hollow eyes. "Are you? Or are you sorry you're not documenting his death for your archive?"
"Rick—"
"Don't. Just don't." Rick turned away. "You made your choice. You're one of them now. David knew it. That's why he didn't want you here."
Donovan watched Rick walk away and felt something break inside him.
That night, he added David's death to his documentation:
January 15, 1948: David Coleman died of heart failure. Age 41. Cause of death listed as natural, but true cause was three years of stress from living under false identity, gathering evidence that was ultimately dismissed, and watching the conspiracy he exposed continue unchanged. His death is a direct result of Prometheus Protocol's actions and the government's failure to pursue justice.
It was accurate. It was documented. It would be part of the archive he'd release someday.
But it didn't bring David back. Didn't help Rick. Didn't change anything.
Donovan closed the notebook and sealed it. Added it to the growing collection in his Baltimore safety deposit box.
Five notebooks in nine months. At this rate, he'd fill hundreds over a career.
An archive of complicity, carefully documented.
June 25, 1950
Donovan was in a planning meeting when news came through: North Korea had invaded South Korea.
Around the table, CIA officers exchanged glances. Some looked surprised. Others—the ones who'd been on the Korea desk, who'd helped create the conditions—looked satisfied.
"Gentlemen," Dulles said, "the scenario we've been preparing for has arrived. Let's make sure our response is effective."
Donovan listened to the planning. Military aid. Intelligence support. Covert operations. All prepared years in advance. All ready to implement.
Phase 2 had begun. Exactly as the 1944 recording had predicted.
That night, Donovan wrote in his current notebook:
June 25, 1950: Korea War begins. North Korean invasion of South Korea was not unpredictable—it was engineered. CIA operations over past three years created conditions that made conflict inevitable. Border incidents, military aid to both sides, intelligence operations designed to increase tensions—all successful.
Current casualty estimates: unknown, but will likely exceed 50,000 American deaths over course of conflict. Korean civilian deaths much higher.
This war is Phase 2 of Prometheus Protocol's plan, as discussed at September 1944 summit. I have participated in its creation. I have written intelligence assessments, attended planning meetings, provided analysis that supported military intervention.
I am complicit.
Documentation continues.
Donovan sealed the notebook and put it in his desk drawer. Tomorrow he'd transfer it to the Baltimore safety deposit box. Add it to the archive that now filled a dozen notebooks.
Evidence of a conspiracy that was no longer conspiracy. Just policy.
He thought about Morrison, who'd believed exposure would matter. About Rick, facing FBI investigation while Donovan stayed safe. About David, dead from the stress of fighting a system that couldn't be beaten.
About Webb, probably drinking himself to death in Philadelphia.
About Catherine, trying to forget in Paris.
And about himself. A man who'd exposed Prometheus Protocol in 1944 and was now implementing their plans in 1950. Who documented his crimes while committing them. Who told himself he was gathering evidence for future justice while watching present injustice unfold.
Donovan poured a drink. First time he'd drunk at home in months. Sat in his apartment listening to radio reports about Korea.
Thousands dying. War spreading. Defense stocks rising.
Everything proceeding exactly as planned.
And Donovan, documenting it all, building an archive he might never release, participating in crimes he carefully recorded.
Maybe this was the real victory of Prometheus Protocol. Not preventing exposure, but making exposure meaningless. Making the people who exposed them into collaborators. Turning truth-tellers into archivists of their own complicity.
Donovan raised his glass in a bitter toast to the empty room.
"To the long game. May it be worth the price."
He drank, and began planning his next intelligence assessment. The one that would help extend the Korea War. The one he'd carefully document while writing.
The one that would go in the archive nobody would see for decades.
If ever.