Catherine woke in a farmhouse that smelled of mildew and old tobacco. Her arm was bandaged—crude work, but functional. Rick sat by the window, watching the road with his father's Colt in his lap.
"How long was I out?" she asked.
"Eighteen hours." Rick didn't turn from the window. "Doctor came. Guy who patches up bootleggers, no questions asked. Said you were lucky—missed the artery by half an inch."
Catherine tried to sit up, winced. "The dogs?"
"Lost them in a creek two miles north. Circled back here." Rick finally looked at her. "We can't stay. They'll widen the search."
"The gala," Catherine said. "Morrison. When is it?"
Rick checked his watch. "Tonight. Six hours from now."
She laughed—a bitter sound. "Perfect. I can barely stand and you look like you went through a meat grinder. We'll fit right in with Washington society."
"We don't have a choice." Rick pulled Scott's blood-stained paper from his pocket, now protected in a waterproof pouch. "This is our only lead. Morrison knows the full scope of Prometheus Protocol. Webb said it himself—someone higher up runs the operation. Someone with 'M' as an initial."
"Morrison," Catherine said.
"Or someone close to him." Rick stood, pacing. "The winter gala is invitation-only. Political elite, defense contractors, diplomats. If Prometheus Protocol is finalizing plans before Pearl Harbor, they'll do it there. In plain sight, where everyone assumes they're just networking."
Catherine forced herself upright despite the pain. "We need identities. Clothes. We look like refugees."
"Already handled." Rick gestured to garments laid across a chair—an evening gown for her, a tuxedo for him. "Courtesy of our host. He's connected. Knows people who can forge invitation cards on short notice."
"How much did it cost?"
"Everything we had left." Rick's smile was grim. "We're all-in now."
The Willard Hotel blazed with light against Washington's winter darkness. December 3rd, 1941. Limousines queued along Pennsylvania Avenue, disgorging senators, generals, and industrialists in evening wear that cost more than most Americans earned in a year.
Rick adjusted his bow tie, feeling the hidden camera tucked inside his jacket—a German model, compact, silent. Catherine walked beside him, her injured arm concealed beneath an elegant shawl, face powdered to hide the cut above her eye.
Their forged invitations passed the first checkpoint without incident. Rick Forsyth and Catherine Dupré, listed as representatives of Consolidated Textiles—a shell corporation that existed only on paper, created by their bootlegger doctor's mysterious connections.
The guard at the entrance studied Rick's invitation a beat too long. Rick felt his pulse spike.
"Consolidated Textiles," the guard said slowly. "Boston office?"
Rick's mind raced. He hadn't memorized enough detail about the fake company. "New York, actually. We—"
"My mistake." The guard handed back the card with a tight smile. "Enjoy the evening."
Catherine's hand found Rick's elbow as they entered, her fingers pressing a warning. Too close.
"Steady," she whispered.
The grand ballroom opened before them. Crystal chandeliers cast diamond light across marble floors. A string orchestra played Strauss. Waiters circulated with champagne and caviar. The room hummed with the particular frequency of power—voices kept low, laughter measured, every gesture calculated.
Rick's combat instincts adapted instantly. This was just another battlefield. Different weapons, same war.
He catalogued faces, matching them to names from Petrov's decoded sheets. Senator Harlan Cross stood near the orchestra—tall, silver-haired, commanding presence. The nominal host. But Rick's eyes tracked patterns beneath the surface choreography.
There—Treasury official Samuel Reed, touching his tie pin when approaching Cross. A signal.
There—General Patterson, positioning himself with clear sightlines to three separate exits. Military habit.
There—Marcus Webb's business partner, Victoria Chen, arriving late but immediately drawing Cross's attention. Priority guest.
"They're compartmentalized," Catherine murmured, accepting champagne she wouldn't drink. "Each one knows their piece, but not the whole picture."
"Except Morrison," Rick said. "He's the center."
A woman's voice cut through the ambient noise. "Catherine Ashford? My God, is that you?"
Catherine's face went rigid. A blonde woman in her forties approached, genuine delight in her expression.
"Margaret Chen," the woman said. "We met at the embassy party in Paris, '36. You were with—oh, what was his name—the French attaché?"
Rick watched Catherine's expression shift—calculation racing behind her eyes. The fake identity said "Dupré," but this woman knew her as Ashford. One wrong word and their cover was blown.
"Margaret." Catherine's smile was flawless. "Of course. Though I go by my married name now—Dupré. This is my husband, Richard."
Rick extended his hand, playing along. Margaret Chen grasped it warmly, already talking about Paris, about mutual acquaintances, about the "small world" of diplomatic circles.
Catherine navigated the conversation with surgical precision, but Rick saw the tremor in her good hand. They'd been seconds from exposure.
Margaret finally drifted away. Catherine exhaled slowly.
"We need to move fast," she said. "Before someone else recognizes me from the real world."