A week earlier, Long Island / New York
Laughter and people filled the fancy ballroom, glasses clinked and a lively tune carried through the air. A small jazz band played a colourful song.
There was one man in particular, nodding his head toward the rhythm, seemingly enjoying the performance a lot.
James POV
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, letting the golden reflections dance along the crystal walls. The air smelled of perfume, tobacco, and wealth. Around him, men in tuxedos laughed too loudly, women in silken gowns leaned in, whispering gossip and promises.
To them, the world was distant thunder, war, revolts, Spain, things to read about in the morning papers before turning the page. To James, however, it was far closer than people could imagine. He smiled faintly, masking the weight of what he had done.
A waiter passed, and James slipped a folded note beneath an untouched glass of champagne. A subtle exchange, quick, invisible to those around him. The contact would know where to look.
Inside that note were numbers and letters, nothing to anyone else. But to the right eyes, it was a map through the sky, the exact path of a German transport plane bound for Spain.
He raised his glass, as if to toast the room, the laughter, the music. Yet his eyes were sharp, calculating, giving the waiter from earlier a subtle glance. Paul would be somewhere on that plane.
And James had just signed his death warrant.
Am I supposed to feel bad now? James looked into his wine glass, swirling it again. Because I don't. He signed it himself, the moment he chose to stand on the wrong side of history.
He let the thought linger while his eyes drifted to the woman across from him, her laughter soft as the violins, her pearls glimmering against pale skin. War felt like a million miles away here, wrapped in silk and champagne.
Yet James didn't linger, he could have that kind of woman anytime. Right now he had other priorities.
James excused himself from the laughter and perfume, retreating into a quieter lounge adjoining the ballroom. A leather briefcase waited for him on a polished mahogany table.
And an elderly man waited beside the briefcase. It was his butler.
"Sir William," he greeted with a respectful nod.
"Lionel," James said, settling onto the couch with practiced ease. "Good to see you."
"I trust you received the intel?" Lionel asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.
"Of course, Lionel. Your work and dedication never disappoint. Or should I give the credit to that little bird you planted near him?" James said.
Lionel allowed himself the faintest of a smile. "Still far enough to remain unseen, yet close enough to hear."
"Whom will you tell the intel?" James asked, curiosity laced with an almost pleasant calm.
"I have already made contact with one of the loyalist leaders," Lionel replied, voice low and steady. "I think they will be very grateful for the opportunity to eliminate the heads of their opposition."
James's smile did not reach his eyes. "Good," he said simply. "Make sure it reaches the right hands, and make certain there are no traces leading back to us."
Lionel bowed his head. "It will be arranged, sir. Discretion, as always."
"Now that we have eliminated a nuisance, we ought to come to the fun part," James said, leaning forward.
He opened the briefcase. Inside lay neatly stacked papers, stock listings, telegrams, coded notes. His eyes flicked across them with satisfaction.
"Oil, steel, aviation…" he murmured, running a finger along the pages as though caressing treasure. "While others drown in blood, we shall swim in gold."
Lionel pulled out a pen from his inner pocket and offered it with a bow of the head. "The contracts are prepared, sir. A portion of your inheritance has already been liquidated for immediate use."
James took the pen, signed the paper with ease, then leaned back, raising his cigar. Paul fights his war with mud on his boots and fear in his lungs. I fight mine here. And my war is far more profitable, he thought.
Lionel inclined his head, admiration and caution mingling in his expression. He was impressed by James transformation, yet a shadow of mistrust lingered in his eyes.
The faint notes of jazz drifted in from the ballroom, oblivious to the silent calculations in the dimly lit lounge.
James leaned against the windowsill, eyes fixed on the illuminated landscape outside. "The moon looks majestic tonight, Lionel," he said, his voice calm.
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