The Baltimore safe house smelled the same as it had in April—dust, old wood, the faint mustiness of a place that existed between uses. But this time, when Rick arrived in the pre-dawn darkness of August 15th, 1944, he felt the weight of everything that had changed in the four months since their last meeting.
The war was ending. Everyone could feel it. Paris would be liberated within weeks. Germany was collapsing. Japan was next.
Which meant the post-war world—the one Prometheus Protocol had been designing—was about to become real.
Catherine was already there, setting up documents on the dining room table. She looked thinner than Rick remembered, the strain of two and a half years as Marie Chevalier showing in the lines around her eyes.
"You're early," she said.
"Couldn't sleep." Rick set down his briefcase—John Martin's briefcase, filled with production schedules and shipping manifests and evidence of a conspiracy to engineer permanent warfare. "Figured I might as well get here."
"David's train arrives at seven. Webb's driving from Philadelphia, should be here by eight. And Donovan—" She paused. "He's coming separately. Different route. He thinks he might have been followed last week."
Rick's hand moved instinctively toward the pistol under his jacket. "Followed by who?"
"He doesn't know. Maybe OSS counterintelligence. Maybe Hartley's people. Maybe he's being paranoid." Catherine's voice was flat with exhaustion. "We're all paranoid now. Hard to tell when it's justified."
They worked in silence for a while, organizing documents. Rick's production data, Catherine's financial records, the web of connections they'd been building for nearly three years.
"I found something," Rick said finally. "In the Packard files. Contract for aircraft engines, delivery date March 1950. Specifications marked 'Korea theater, expeditionary force requirements.'"
"1950. Five years from now."
"Five years after the war ends. And the specifications—they're not for defense. They're for offensive operations. Tactical support for ground invasion." Rick pulled out the document. "Someone's planning a war in Korea in 1950. Planning it now, in detail, five years in advance."
Catherine studied the contract. "Phase 2. David found references to it in the War Department files. Korea, 1950-1952 timeline. 'Necessary regional conflict to justify Pacific military presence.'"
"Necessary conflict. Like it's infrastructure, not war."
"To them, it is infrastructure. Permanent warfare as the foundation of permanent power." She added the document to the growing pile. "We need to stop them before Phase 2 becomes inevitable. Before they lock in the structures that make the next war unavoidable."
The door opened. David appeared, looking worse than Rick had ever seen him. The tremor in his hands was constant now, not just occasional. His face was grey, aged a decade in four months.
"Christ, David," Catherine said. "Have you seen a doctor?"
"And tell them what? That I'm having a nervous breakdown from living a fake life while documenting treason?" David set down his briefcase with shaking hands. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"You're not fine."
"None of us are fine. But we're functional. That's what matters." David pulled out his files—War Department documents, procurement records, the evidence he'd been gathering at enormous personal cost. "I found the summit location. Donovan was right—it's been moved up. September 12th. Eleven days from now."
Rick felt his pulse quicken. "Where?"
"Estate in rural Virginia. Belongs to a shell corporation owned by Meridian Holdings. Secluded, secure, perfect for a meeting that officially doesn't exist." David spread out maps and photographs. "Hartley will be there. Brennan. Several Cabinet officials. Foreign representatives from Britain and France—they're coordinating post-war planning with our people."
"Security?"
"Extreme. Private security forces. Electronic surveillance. Multiple checkpoints. They're treating it like a military operation." David's hands shook harder as he pointed to the photographs. "Getting in will be nearly impossible. Getting out might be worse."
Webb arrived while they were studying the maps. He moved with the careful steadiness of someone who'd been drinking but was fighting to stay sober. His eyes were bloodshot, his suit rumpled, but his mind was still sharp.
"Hartford gave me the final piece," Webb said, pulling out a folder. "Complete financial records for the post-war planning. How much money has been allocated, where it's going, who's being paid. The World Bank and IMF structures—they're not just about reconstruction. They're designed as control mechanisms. Economic leverage over countries that will be desperate after the war."
He spread the financial documents across the table. "Here's how it works. Countries need money to rebuild. World Bank loans them money, with conditions. Conditions that require them to open their markets, restructure their economies, accept American military presence. It's economic colonialism dressed up as humanitarian aid."
"And the same people who profited from the war," Catherine said, "will profit from the reconstruction."
"While ensuring the reconstruction creates dependency relationships that last for decades." Webb pulled out another document. "Hartford also gave me this. It's a memo about 'strategic resource management.' Basically a plan to control access to oil, minerals, food production in vulnerable countries. Make them dependent, then leverage that dependency for political concessions."
Rick stared at the documents. The conspiracy was bigger than he'd imagined. Not just engineering wars but engineering the entire post-war economic order.
"We need all of this on record," he said. "At the summit. We need them discussing it explicitly. Admitting what they're doing."
"Which brings us to the infiltration plan." Catherine pulled out a blueprint of the Virginia estate. "I've been working on this for two months. It's dangerous. Probably suicidal. But it might work."
Before she could explain, they heard footsteps on the stairs. Everyone's hands moved toward weapons, then relaxed as Donovan appeared in the doorway.
He looked different than when Rick had met him in July. Thinner, more worn, eyes constantly moving. The idealism had been burned away, leaving something harder.
"Sorry I'm late. Had to triple-check for tails." Donovan set down his briefcase and looked around at the group. "So this is the team. Four dead people and one suicidal OSS officer. We're really going to take down the most powerful conspiracy in America?"
"That's the plan," Rick said.
"Good. Because I brought proof that might finally make people believe us." Donovan pulled out a document marked with multiple classification stamps. "This is from Hartley's office. I shouldn't have been able to access it, but he got sloppy, left it in a file I was authorized to review. It's the summit agenda."
He spread it across the table. Everyone leaned in.