The corridors of the White House had never felt so long.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt sat alone in the Cabinet Room, the soft ticking of the mantel clock drowning beneath the murmur of rain on the windows.
A silver coffee cup sat untouched beside a spread of dispatches and field reports, each one marked Top Secret and redacted so heavily they looked more like confessionals than documents.
General George S. Patton was dead. Ambushed outside Algiers.
No survivors from his convoy. No enemy bodies were recovered either.
Just a smoking crater, black sand, and a rumor.
Roosevelt adjusted his glasses and reread the communiqué from North Africa.
"Attack believed to be local retaliation, unknown irregular forces, possibly Arab or Berber nationalists. Further investigation ongoing."
He had read it ten times already, and each time the words felt thinner.
Across the table, Director Donovan of the OSS leaned forward, his voice low but steady.
