PROMETHEUS PROTOCOL COORDINATION SUMMITSeptember 12, 1944AGENDA - EYES ONLY
0900-1000: Phase 1 Final Assessment
Equipment sabotage outcomesFinancial transfers completedPersonnel positioning verified
1000-1200: Post-War Institutional Framework
United Nations structure finalizationWorld Bank/IMF operational protocolsNATO preliminary planningCIA organizational charter
1300-1500: Phase 2 Planning
Korea timeline confirmation (1950-1952)Regional instability mechanismsMilitary equipment pre-positioning
1500-1700: Long-term Strategic Architecture
Permanent defense spending requirementsPolitical influence maintenanceMedia coordination protocols
Rick read it twice, making sure he wasn't hallucinating. They were going to discuss everything. Openly. In one meeting.
"This is it," Catherine said quietly. "This is what we need. If we can record this meeting, if we can get them on tape admitting to the sabotage, planning future wars, corrupting the post-war institutions—"
"We'd have undeniable proof," David finished."How do we record it?" Webb asked. "We can't just walk in with a microphone."
Donovan pulled out another item—a small device, about the size of a cigarette pack. "This is a German wire recorder. Captured from Wehrmacht intelligence. Magnetic wire instead of tape—more compact, better quality. It can record for two hours continuously."
"Where do we plant it?"
"We don't plant it. Someone carries it in." Donovan looked around the room. "Someone who has a reason to be at the summit. Someone they won't suspect."
"You," Rick said. "You're going as OSS representative?"
"I wasn't supposed to be. But I got myself assigned. Told my superiors I'd been tracking corruption in war production contracts, needed to brief senior leadership. They approved it." Donovan's voice was tight. "I'll be in the room. I can record everything."
"And if they search you?" Catherine asked.
"Then I die, and hopefully you all escape with the evidence we've already gathered." Donovan said it matter-of-factly, like he'd already accepted the outcome. "But I've thought about this. The recorder fits inside a hollowed-out book. Standard OSS briefing binder. I bring it as my notes, set it on the table, activate it discreetly. If anyone looks, it's just my reference materials."
Rick studied him. Two months ago, Donovan had been nervous, uncertain, still clinging to idealism. Now he was proposing to walk into the lion's den with a wire recorder and no backup plan.
"There's another option," Rick said. "We don't rely on just the recording. We get multiple people inside, multiple angles. Redundancy in case Donovan's compromised."
"How?" Webb asked. "We're not exactly on the guest list."
"No. But the estate will need staff. Catering, security, maintenance. People who blend into the background." Rick pulled out his production knowledge, thinking like an intelligence officer again. "We infiltrate as staff. Get positioned near the meeting room. If Donovan's recorder fails, we have ears in place. If he's caught, we're positioned to extract him. And if everything goes to hell, at least some of us might survive."
Catherine nodded slowly. "I can get us staff positions. There's a catering company that services these kinds of events—they're always looking for temporary help. And I've learned that Marie Chevalier is very good at securing jobs for refugees who need work."
"So the plan is: Donovan records from inside, we infiltrate as staff as backup, and if we get the recording, we release it simultaneously to multiple outlets?" David was taking notes despite his shaking hands. "We'll need journalists ready to publish, congressmen ready to investigate, military officers ready to testify."
"I've been building that network," Catherine said. "Eleanor Walsh—she's an investigative journalist, got pushed out for digging into war profiteering. She's agreed to publish if we can give her ironclad proof. I've also been cultivating relationships with two congressmen who've been asking uncomfortable questions about procurement. And there's a general—David, you know about this—who's provided documents on military planning."
David nodded. "General Crawford. He's been suspicious for months. Can't act officially, but he's willing to testify if we can provide cover."
"So the network exists," Rick said. "We just need the recording that makes it undeniable."
They spent the next six hours planning every detail. Donovan's cover story. The infiltration routes for the rest of them. Communication protocols. Extraction plans if things went wrong. Dead man's switches if they were all captured or killed.
By late afternoon, they had a framework. Insane, dangerous, with a dozen points where everything could fail. But a framework nonetheless.
"One more thing," Donovan said as they were finishing. "I found out why the summit was moved up. Germany's collapsing faster than expected. Paris will be liberated in the next few days. Hartley and his network want to finalize their post-war architecture before the current war actually ends. Before there's political pressure for transparency and accountability."
"How long before Paris falls?" Catherine asked.
"Days. Maybe a week." Donovan checked his watch. "Which means we have eleven days until the summit, but the window is closing faster than we thought. Once Paris is liberated, once Germany starts surrendering, the political landscape shifts. People will demand answers about how the war was conducted. Our evidence becomes more valuable, but also more dangerous to the people we're investigating."
"Which means they'll be more desperate to eliminate threats," Webb said.
"We're already threats," Rick said. "We have been since December 1941. The question is whether we can expose them before they realize how close we've gotten."
Catherine stood and walked to the window, looking out at Baltimore's afternoon streets. "So this is it. Eleven days. Then we either succeed in exposing the biggest conspiracy in American history, or we die trying."
"Those were always the options," David said quietly.
"I know. But it was abstract before. Now it's real. September 12th. Virginia estate. We walk in knowing we probably won't walk out."
Rick thought about his father. About the warning before Pearl Harbor that nobody heeded. About Morrison, who'd died trying to expose Prometheus Protocol through official channels.
"Morrison tried to do this the right way," Rick said. "Following procedures, reporting through proper channels. It got him killed and changed nothing. We're doing it the wrong way—breaking laws, committing treason, risking everything. But maybe the wrong way is the only way that works."
"Doesn't mean we'll survive," Webb said.
"No. But at least the truth will." Catherine turned from the window. "That's what the dead man's switches are for. If we don't make it out, the evidence still gets released. Eleanor publishes, the congressmen investigate, Crawford testifies. Maybe we don't get to see justice done, but it gets done anyway."
They worked through the evening, refining plans, memorizing details, preparing for the operation that would either vindicate Morrison's sacrifice or make them five more casualties in Prometheus Protocol's long list of silenced investigators.
As night fell, they prepared to separate again. Eleven days until the summit. Eleven days to finalize positions, verify sources, steel themselves for what was coming.
Rick walked Donovan out to his car. The young OSS officer moved carefully, checking sight lines, watching for surveillance.
"You don't have to do this," Rick said. "You could still walk away. Go back to OSS, pretend you never found Morrison's files. Survive."
"And live with myself how?" Donovan unlocked his car. "I joined because I believed in something. If I walk away now, what did I believe in? Just the comfortable parts? Just the ideology when it doesn't cost me anything?"
"Belief costs less than death."
"Maybe. But cowardice costs more." Donovan got in the car, then looked up at Rick. "Your father tried to stop Pearl Harbor. Morrison tried to stop Prometheus Protocol. Now we're trying to stop the next fifty years of engineered warfare. If we fail, at least we fail in good company."
He drove away into the Baltimore night, and Rick watched him go, wondering if that was the last time he'd see James Donovan alive.
Catherine appeared beside him. "He's going to get himself killed."
"Probably. But he'll get the recording first." Rick looked at her. "You think we can actually do this? Five people against the entire post-war power structure?"
"We've been doing it for three years. Why stop now?" But her voice carried doubt she'd never shown before. "Rick, if this goes wrong—"
"It will go wrong. The question is whether we adapt fast enough."
"And if we don't? If September 12th is the day we die?"
Rick thought about his father's photograph, still in his jacket pocket. About John Martin, the identity he'd lived for three years. About Danny Patterson and all the other young men who believed they were serving something noble.
"Then we make sure the evidence survives us. Make sure someone continues the investigation. Make sure Morrison's death, and your father's death, and all the soldiers who died from sabotaged equipment—make sure it meant something."
Catherine nodded. They stood together in the Baltimore darkness, two of the four dead people who'd been fighting Prometheus Protocol since December 1941.
Eleven days until the summit.
Eleven days until they either changed history or became part of it.
"Get some sleep," Catherine said. "We have a lot of work to do before September 12th."
Rick didn't sleep that night. He lay in the safe house's upstairs bedroom, staring at the ceiling, running through plans and contingencies and all the ways this could fail.
But he also thought about what success would look like. The recording released. Multiple newspapers publishing simultaneously. Congressional investigations launched. Hartley and his network exposed. The post-war institutions reformed before they could be corrupted.
Morrison's death vindicated. His father's warning finally heeded.
Maybe it was possible.
Or maybe Rick would die in eleven days and none of it would matter.
Either way, he'd made his choice three years ago. There was no backing out now.
The Baltimore night was quiet except for distant trains and the sound of a city sleeping. Tomorrow they'd disperse again, return to their fake lives, spend eleven days preparing for the most important operation any of them had ever attempted.
Rick closed his eyes and tried to rest.
In eleven days, he'd need to be sharp.
In eleven days, everything ended.
One way or another.