The shadow of the Handley Page bomber drifted over the Seine River.
Paris was burning. Not with fire, but with joy.
It was November 11, 1918. The Armistice.
Jason looked out the small porthole of the converted bomber. Below, the streets were choked with people. Flags waved. Fireworks—actual ones, not artillery—exploded over the Eiffel Tower.
"We're landing, Mr. Prentice!" the pilot yelled. "Le Bourget is clear!"
The plane touched down with a heavy thud, bouncing on the muddy grass.
Jason didn't wait for the stairs. He jumped out of the cargo bay.
He ignored the French officials waiting to greet the "Savior of the Flu." He ignored the car sent by the American Embassy.
"Take me to the hospital," Jason ordered his driver. "Field Hospital Four."
The hospital was a tent city in a park near the Champs-Élysées.
It smelled of mud, ether, and the lingering scent of sickness. But the mood was different today. Nurses were drinking wine. Soldiers were hobbling on crutches, singing "La Marseillaise."
Jason ran past them.
He found the isolation ward. The canvas flaps were tied open now. The air was fresh.
He walked down the rows of cots. Most were empty. The dying was over.
At the end of the row, sitting in a wooden chair in the weak autumn sun, was a woman.
She was thin. Her uniform hung off her shoulders like a shroud. Her skin was pale, almost translucent.
But she was breathing.
"Sarah," Jason whispered.
She turned. Her eyes were dark, shadowed by exhaustion, but the spark was there.
She didn't stand up. She didn't have the strength. She just looked at him.
"You made it," Jason said.
He walked to her. He knelt in the mud beside her chair. He took her hand. His own hand, usually so steady, was trembling.
"You look terrible," Sarah rasped. Her voice was weak, but it had a jagged edge.
"I look rich," Jason said, trying to smile. "You look... alive."
"Your pilot," she said. "He crashed the landing. Broke his leg. But the plasma... it worked. The doctors say it reversed the cyanosis in twelve hours."
She pulled her hand away.
"Your blood money bought me a second chance, Jason."
"It bought us a second chance," Jason said.
"Us?" Sarah laughed softly. It sounded like dry leaves rustling. "There is no 'us', Jason. There is you, in your tower. And me, in the mud."
She pointed toward the city, where the bells were ringing wildly.
"Listen to them. They think it's over. They think the war to end all wars is finished."
"It is finished," Jason said. "The Kaiser abdicated. The guns are silent."
"For now," Sarah whispered.
She leaned forward. Her eyes burned with the knowledge of a timeline that hadn't happened yet.
"You know what comes next, Jason. You studied the history. The Treaty of Versailles. The Hall of Mirrors."
Jason nodded. "They're going to carve up Europe. Punish Germany."
"They're going to starve Germany," Sarah corrected. "Clemenceau wants revenge. He wants to crush them so hard they never rise again. He wants reparations that will bankrupt them for a century."
She grabbed his lapel. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"And you know what happens when you starve a proud nation, Jason. You create a monster."
Jason looked away. He knew.
1923: Hyperinflation. Wheelbarrows of cash to buy bread.
1933: The burning of the Reichstag.
1939: Poland.
"The man with the mustache," Sarah whispered. "The corporal in Munich. He rises from the ashes of this treaty. If you let them humiliate Germany... you are signing the death warrant for sixty million people twenty years from now."
She looked deep into his eyes.
"You changed the flu. You saved Philadelphia. Can you save the future?"
Jason stood up. He looked at the celebrating city. He looked at the horizon, where the borders of Europe were about to be redrawn in ink and bitterness.
He had come to Paris to check his investments. To ensure the loans were repaid.
But Sarah was right. If WWII happened, it was bad for business. It was chaos. It was nuclear risk.
"I have a seat at the table," Jason said. "Wilson promised me."
"Then use it," Sarah commanded. "Don't just end this war. Kill the next one. Save the German children so they don't become Nazis."
Jason adjusted his coat. The cold, calculating look returned to his face.
"Get some rest, Sarah. I have a meeting at a palace."
The Palace of Versailles was designed to make men feel small.
Gold leaf covered every surface. Mirrors stretched to infinity, reflecting the vanity of kings who were long dead.
The "Big Four" sat at a U-shaped table in the Hall of Mirrors.
Woodrow Wilson, looking sick and idealistic.
Georges Clemenceau of France, looking like a walrus ready to bite.
David Lloyd George of Britain, looking crafty.
Vittorio Orlando of Italy, looking ignored.
They were arguing. Shouting.
"Germany must pay!" Clemenceau roared, slamming his fist. "They burned our villages! They flooded our mines! I want 132 billion gold marks! I want the Rhineland!"
"That will destroy their economy, Georges," Wilson argued weakly. "We need a League of Nations. We need peace without victory."
"Peace without victory is a fantasy!" Clemenceau spat. "I want their teeth!"
The heavy doors at the end of the hall swung open.
The room went silent.
Jason Underwood walked in.
He wasn't wearing a diplomatic uniform. He wore a black American suit. He carried a simple leather portfolio.
He didn't wait to be announced. He walked straight down the center of the hall, his footsteps echoing on the parquet floor.
He stopped at the open end of the U-shaped table.
"Who is this?" Clemenceau demanded. "This is a closed session!"
"I invited him," Wilson said quietly. "Mr. Prentice represents... the American economic interest."
"A grocer?" Clemenceau scoffed. "Get him out."
Jason pulled a chair from the wall. He dragged it to the table. The screech of wood on wood was excruciatingly loud.
He sat down.
He placed his portfolio on the table.
"I'm not a grocer, Monsieur Clemenceau," Jason said. His French was perfect. "I am your banker."
Clemenceau bristled. "France bows to no bank!"
"France owes me four billion dollars," Jason said calmly.
He opened the portfolio. He pulled out a stack of bonds.
"War loans. Issued by the French Republic. Purchased by Standard Oil and its subsidiaries. They are due in January."
He pulled out another stack.
"British Treasury Notes. Three billion."
He looked at Orlando.
"Italian debt. Two billion."
Jason looked around the table.
"You gentlemen fought a very expensive war. And you paid for it with my money."
"We will pay you back!" Lloyd George said indignantly. "When Germany pays us the reparations!"
"Germany is bankrupt," Jason said. "They are printing money on newspaper. If you demand 132 billion marks, their government will collapse by Tuesday. The communists will take over Berlin. Or the fascists."
"I don't care who runs Berlin as long as they pay!" Clemenceau shouted.
"If they collapse," Jason said, leaning forward, "they can't pay you a franc. And if they can't pay you..."
Jason tapped the stack of French bonds.
"...then you can't pay me. And if you default, Monsieur Clemenceau, I will downgrade France's credit rating to 'junk.' I will seize your colonial assets in Indochina. I will foreclose on the Eiffel Tower if I have to."
The room was dead silent. Even the clerks stopped writing.
This wasn't diplomacy. This was foreclosure.
Clemenceau turned purple. "You threaten France?"
"I am stating the physics of money," Jason said. "You cannot squeeze blood from a stone. But you can buy the quarry."
Jason stood up.
"I have a counter-proposal. A way for France to get paid. A way for Britain to rebuild. And a way for Germany to survive."
"And what is that?" Wilson asked, looking intrigued.
"Debt restructuring," Jason said. "I will assume the German debt."
"You?" Lloyd George laughed. "All of it?"
"All of it," Jason said. "I will write you a check today. France gets her money. Britain gets her money. You go home heroes. You balanced the budget."
"And in exchange?" Clemenceau asked suspiciously. "What do you get from Germany?"
Jason smiled. It was the smile of the shark Sarah had warned him about.
"I don't want their cash," Jason said. "I want their equity."
He pulled a map of Germany from his portfolio.
"I want 51% of IG Farben. The chemical cartel. I want 51% of Krupp Steel. I want the coal rights in the Ruhr Valley. I want the patents. I want the railroads."
Jason looked at the leaders of the free world.
"I'm not here to negotiate borders, gentlemen. I'm here to execute a hostile takeover. Germany doesn't need a punishment. It needs new management."
Clemenceau looked at the check Jason had placed on the table. It was enough to rebuild Paris ten times over.
He looked at Wilson. Wilson shrugged.
Clemenceau picked up the check.
"It seems," the Frenchman whispered, "that the war is truly over. The accountants have won."
Jason sat back down.
"Not accountants," Jason said. "Architects."
He looked at the mirror on the wall. He saw himself.
He wasn't just saving Germany from Hitler. He was turning it into a subsidiary of Standard Oil.
He wondered if Sarah would think that was better.