The basement of the Institute smelled of ozone and chalk dust.
It was a primitive lab. Glass tubes bubbled with strange liquids. A massive chalkboard covered one wall, filled with equations that made Jason's head hurt.
Einstein stood before the board. He was erasing a line of math furiously.
"The theory is sound," Einstein muttered, chalk dust settling on his suit. "Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared. A beautiful symmetry."
He turned to Jason.
"But theory does not explode, Herr Prentice. To make the fire, we need fuel."
Jason leaned against a workbench. "What kind of fuel?"
"Uranium," Einstein said. "Specifically, the isotope U-235. It is rare. Unstable. And heavy."
Jason nodded. He knew this from his future knowledge. But he had to play the part.
"Where do we get it?"
"Pitchblende ore," Einstein said. "The richest deposits are in the Belgian Congo. The Shinkolobwe Mine."
Jason froze.
Shinkolobwe.
In his previous life—the 2024 hedge fund manager life—he knew that mine was the source of the Hiroshima bomb. It was a secret kept for years.
"I owned shares in that mine," Jason whispered.
"Owned?" Sarah asked, stepping out of the shadows.
"I sold them," Jason said, feeling a pit open in his stomach. "During the crash last week. To stay liquid. To pay off the margin calls."
"Who bought them?" Sarah asked.
"King Leopold," Jason said. "The Belgian Crown took them back."
"That's fine, isn't it?" Sarah asked. "Leopold is an ally."
"Leopold is a businessman," Jason corrected. "And right now, the only country buying raw materials with gold is the Soviet Union."
He looked at the newspaper on the table. WARSAW FALLS.
"If the Soviets get the Shinkolobwe ore," Jason said, "Stalin gets the bomb in 1925. Not 1949."
He paced the room.
"We need to secure that ore. We need to buy it, steal it, or bury it."
"We don't have an army anymore, Jason," Sarah reminded him. "We don't have Ford's men. We don't have O'Malley. We're alone."
"I don't need an army," Jason said. "I need a ghost. Someone who understands the physics but can move in the dark."
He looked at the roster of students posted on the wall. A list of bright young minds Einstein had recruited.
One name stood out.
J. Robert Oppenheimer.
"Where is he?" Jason asked, pointing to the name.
" sleeping," Einstein said. "In the dormitory. He is... difficult. Brilliant, but fragile."
"Perfect," Jason said.
The dormitory was quiet.
Room 3B was unlocked. It smelled of stale tobacco and old books.
A thin young man lay on the bed, fully dressed in a suit. He was asleep, a book of French poetry open on his chest.
He looked impossibly young. In 1919, Oppenheimer was only fifteen. A prodigy. A boy genius with a haunted soul.
Jason closed the door.
"Robert," Jason said sharply.
The boy woke up instantly. He didn't gasp. He just opened his eyes—piercing, icy blue eyes.
He sat up, closing the poetry book.
"You're the money man," Oppenheimer said. His voice was calm, arrogant. "Prentice."
"I was the money man," Jason said. "Now I'm the survival man."
Jason pulled a chair over and sat backwards on it.
"Einstein tells me you're the smartest student in the program. He also says you're mentally unstable."
Oppenheimer smiled. It was a thin, razor-like smile. "Sanity is a handicap in theoretical physics. The universe is not a sane place."
"I have a job for you, Robert."
"I don't want to tutor your children."
"I want you to go to Africa," Jason said.
Oppenheimer blinked. The arrogance slipped for a second.
"The Congo," Jason continued. "There is a mine. Shinkolobwe. It holds rocks that can burn cities."
Jason leaned in.
"Do you want to study rocks in a classroom, Robert? Or do you want to become Death?"
Oppenheimer stared at him. The poetry of the line—a line he would famously quote decades later in real history—seemed to resonate with him.
"What do I have to do?" Oppenheimer whispered.
"You have to buy the stockpile," Jason said. "Before the Russians do. You take the bearer bonds I gave Sarah. You go to Leopold. You outbid everyone. And you ship that ore to a warehouse in New Mexico."
"Why New Mexico?"
"Because that's where we're going," Jason said. "To the desert. Where nobody can watch us."
CRASH.
Glass shattered upstairs.
Jason jumped up. He ran to the window.
A rock lay on the floor of the library. Wrapped around it was a piece of red cloth.
Sarah ran into the room.
"Are you okay?"
Jason picked up the rock. He unwrapped the cloth.
There was a note scribbled in charcoal.
WE SEE YOU.
Jason looked out the window.
The campus was dark. But at the edge of the treeline, barely visible in the snow, a black car sat idling.
It wasn't Ford. Ford drove Fords. This was a Lincoln.
"Adolf?" Sarah asked, terrified.
"No," Jason said. "Adolf uses mobs. This is surveillance."
He squinted. He saw the silhouette of a man in the passenger seat. A fedora. A thick, bulldog neck.
J. Edgar Hoover.
The Bureau of Investigation.
The government wasn't dead. It was just changing shape. Wilson was paralyzed, but the intelligence apparatus was waking up. They knew Jason had the German scientists. They knew he was dangerous.
"We can't stay here," Jason said. "The divorce didn't make us invisible. It made us a target."
He turned to Einstein and Oppenheimer, who were standing in the doorway.
"Pack the lab," Jason ordered. "Everything. The notes. The equipment. The chalk."
"Where are we going?" Einstein asked, clutching his violin case.
"West," Jason said. "To the middle of nowhere."
"Los Alamos?" Oppenheimer asked. He knew the area. He had a ranch there in the real timeline.
"Yes," Jason said. "The desert."
He looked at the red flag on the floor. Then at the black car in the distance.
"The race is on," Jason muttered. "We are stealing fire from the gods, and the gods are Russian."
He grabbed his coat.
"Let's move. Before the 20th Century catches up with us."