Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 18: Surveillance

Arthur de Molay stood in his office at 83 Avenue Foch, his eyes fixed on the rain-slicked courtyard below. What he hadn't told his niece, Adelaide, was that the "Blackout Order" wasn't just to prevent communication—it was a psychological sieve. If the information about Vivienne (The Artist) remained contained within these walls, the "Ghost" and "The Phoenix" would have no choice but to remain silent, or reveal themselves by breaking the vacuum.

Arthur checked his watch. He walked over to the leather sofa where Adelaide sat and lowered his voice.

"Adelaide, I have a special assignment for you. Take Inspector Marchand and a full action team to the Rue de Rivoli. You are to arrest the 'Canvas' undercover team immediately. At the same time, coordinate with the Gestapo and Major Adler’s military police. I want every Resistance sympathizer who comes to their aid wiped off the map."

Adelaide paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. She stood up sharply. "Yes, Director. It will be done."

Arthur nodded, his expression softening with a paternal but chilling satisfaction. "One more thing. Do not reveal the presence of the Gestapo or the SS to Marchand until you are on-site. We need to see how the team reacts when they realize the stakes are higher than they thought."

The De Molay Estate: 83 Avenue Foch

At the residence, Julian Vance stood by the door while Madame Claire followed behind him, carrying two warm boxes of Confit de Canard.

"Keep the change," Julian said, handing a stack of Francs to Colette Dubois, the daughter of the famous chef. "This is for the month. Deliver it every other day, but be earlier next time. Half-past five is the limit."

Elodie stood beside Julian with a playful smirk, looking at Colette. "Yes, Sister Colette, thank you for coming all this way. But my brother-in-law is right—bring it earlier. We were lucky today; the 'iceberg' and the 'Director' haven't returned to spoil the appetite yet."

Colette nodded meekly, her eyes darting nervously toward the Milice guards at the gate. She took the money and hurried away.

Across the street, in a darkened attic window, Sergeant Bastien adjusted the focus on his binoculars. He watched Colette leave, comparing her face to a surveillance photo. He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, and picked up the field telephone.

The Phone Call

Inside the house, Julian was settling back onto the sofa to read a volume of poetry when the telephone jangled again.

Again? This is getting predictable, Julian thought. Under the watchful, maternal eyes of Madame Claire, he answered it.

"I told you, the Director and Section Chief de Molay aren't back yet. You're wasting your breath," Julian said, his voice dripping with the irritation of a lazy "Scoundrel."

"Mr. Vance, listen to me!" Vivienne’s voice came through, frantic and breathless. "Please, find the Director immediately! We were ambushed by the SOE. The Action Team is decimated, my cover is blown, and the 'Canvas' cell is hunting me down!"

Julian’s eyes narrowed. He felt the hum of his dialysis mode tingling at the base of his skull.

"Mr. Vance, if you find them, tell them to meet me at Entrepôt Treize in Saint-Denis. I have intelligence on the reconstruction of the entire London-Paris 'Arc' network. Please! If you bring this to them, the credit will be yours. You'll finally be more than just a leech in that house!"

The line went dead. Julian leaned back, a small, cold smile playing on his lips.

If Vivienne was telling the truth, he would have been a fool not to act. But if it was a trap—which it almost certainly was—then Warehouse 13 was a graveyard. Arthur was dangling a "great achievement" in front of him like a carrot, waiting to see if the "Ghost" would try to warn London or if the "Scoundrel" would try to play hero.

(Edith, thank you,) Julian thought. (Without your analysis of Arthur's earlier thoughts, I might have actually believed she was in trouble.)

(Sir, you are welcome,) the voice of Edith resonated in his mind. (But please, remain vigilant. My analysis indicates your survival probability is dropping. You must adapt to the dialysis mode fully to unlock the next tactical function.)

Julian’s jaw tightened. He grabbed his coat.

"Madame Claire, I’m heading back to Avenue Foch," he said, keeping his voice steady. "That woman sounded hysterical. I should check on Adelaide and my uncle. It’s too late for them to be out without word."

"Brother-in-law, wait for me!" Elodie called out from the kitchen, but Julian was already out the door.

The Tail

As Julian pulled the Delahaye out of the courtyard, that familiar chill raced down his spine. The hairs on his neck stood up.

He’s still there.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. He didn't see a car, which meant the watcher was likely already mobile or positioned further down the boulevard. Julian realized he had underestimated the professionals Arthur employed.

"So, the attic opposite the apartment," Julian muttered to himself. "Bastien, you old dog. You’ve been watching the whole time."

He felt a pang of humility. Coming from a modern world of digital surveillance, he had forgotten the raw, gut-level cunning of these 1940s man-hunters. They didn't need satellites; they had patience and binoculars.

Julian headed straight for the Milice Headquarters. He had no intention of going to Saint-Denis. By following Vivienne’s "instruction" to find Arthur, he was playing the role of the dutiful, slightly panicked family member. As long as he didn't try to transmit the "Arc Network" intel to the Resistance, the trap couldn't spring.

As he drove, his mind raced through the implications. The "Pangolin" in London, the "Phoenix" in the Milice, and himself—the "Ghost." The board was crowded, and the room was getting smaller.

"I need that next function, Edith," Julian whispered as he steered the car through the rainy Paris streets. "Because if I don't get smarter, I'm not going to live to see the liberation."

He pulled up to the iron gates of 83 Avenue Foch, ready to walk back into the heart of the machine.

The iron gates of 83 Avenue Foch creaked open like the jaws of a behemoth. Julian parked the Delahaye in the center of the courtyard, the headlights cutting through the silver sheets of rain. He didn't rush; a panicked man was a guilty man. He adjusted his silk tie in the mirror, checked the lay of his coat, and stepped out into the cold.

The headquarters was buzzing. Armed Milice guards were double-timing it across the wet cobblestones, and the smell of ozone and wet wool was thick in the air. Julian made his way to the elevator, his dialysis mode humming at a low frequency, catching the frantic, jagged thoughts of the passing officers.

...Ambush on Rivoli...

...Adler is furious...

...The Director is looking for blood...

Julian reached the top floor. The door to the Director’s office was guarded by two men with submachine guns. They stepped aside only when they recognized him, though their eyes remained suspicious.

Inside, the room was thick with cigarette smoke. Arthur de Molay was hunched over a map, a magnifying glass in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. He didn't look up when Julian entered.

"Vivienne called the house, Uncle," Julian said, his voice breathless enough to suggest he had driven in a hurry. "She sounded terrified. She said the SOE hit the action team and she’s cornered at Entrepôt Treize. She told me she has the key to the entire London network."

Arthur finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, the mask of the sophisticated diplomat peeling away to reveal the predator beneath. He studied Julian’s face for a long, agonizing minute.

"And why did you come here, Julian?" Arthur asked softly. "Why not go to Saint-Denis yourself? You could have been the hero of the day. You could have saved the girl and brought me the prize."

"And get myself killed?" Julian scoffed, leaning against the doorframe with a shudder. "I’m a man of books and wine, Uncle, not a commando. Vivienne sounded like she was in a butcher shop. I came here because I wanted to make sure Adelaide was safe."

Arthur’s expression shifted—a flicker of something that might have been amusement or perhaps grudging respect for Julian’s cowardice. He turned back to the map.

"Adelaide is on the Rue de Rivoli," Arthur said. "She’s leading the purge. If Vivienne is at the warehouse, then she’s already a dead woman walking. I’ve sent no one to Saint-Denis."

Julian froze. "You’ve sent no one? But she said—"

"I know what she said," Arthur interrupted, his voice turning to ice. "I told her to say it. It was a test, Julian. A test to see if you would try to intercept her or warn your 'friends' in the shadows."

(Scanning... pulse rate 110... skin conductivity rising...) Edith’s voice whispered in Julian’s mind. (He is watching your reaction. Remain stagnant. Deflect.)

Julian let out a loud, shaky breath and sat heavily in a guest chair. "A test? My God, Uncle, I nearly ran over a gendarme getting here! I thought the world was ending, and you’re playing games with phone calls?"

Arthur laughed—a dry, rasping sound. "In this city, Julian, games are the only thing that keep us alive. But you passed. You came to me. You didn't run to the Resistance, and you didn't try to play the hero."

He walked over and patted Julian on the shoulder. The touch felt like a threat. "Go to the canteen. Get some coffee. Once Adelaide returns from the Rivoli raid, we will all go home and forget this night ever happened."

Rue de Rivoli: The Kill Zone

While Julian navigated the minefield of Arthur’s office, Adelaide de Molay was standing in the shadows of a stone archway on the Rue de Rivoli.

The street was eerily silent. Rainwater rushed through the gutters, and the grand department stores looked like hollowed-out monuments. Beside her, Inspector Marchand gripped his Sten gun, his eyes darting toward the derelict bookstore across the street.

"They’re in there, Section Chief," Marchand whispered. "The 'Canvas' cell. Vivienne confirmed it. Should we move?"

Adelaide looked at the bookstore. Her mind was racing. She knew Julian had made a call. She knew the 'Ironclad' Squad was likely in the area. If she ordered the attack now, it would be a m******e.

"Wait," Adelaide commanded. "The Gestapo hasn't signaled their position. We don't move until the SS has the perimeter secured. We don't want any rats slipping through the sewers."

Marchand looked annoyed but nodded. "The Director said—"

"The Director said I am in command," Adelaide snapped.

She reached into her pocket and felt the small, cold dial of a portable transmitter. She had ten seconds. She turned her back to Marchand, shielding the device with her body, and clicked the frequency three times.

Click. Click. Click.

It was the signal for 'Imminent Ambush.'

Across the street, in the darkened upper floor of the bookstore, Commander Thayer saw the faint reflection of a blue light in a shop window.

"Renault! Out the back!" Thayer hissed. "The blue light! It's an SOE signal. The Milice is already on top of us!"

"But the gold—"

"Forget the gold! It’s a setup!"

The Ambush Erupts

The silence of the Rue de Rivoli was shattered not by a whistle, but by the roar of a grenade. Thayer had tossed a Mills Bomb into the street to create a curtain of smoke.

"Go! Go! Go!" Marchand screamed, ignoring Adelaide’s orders and charging forward with the action team.

The street erupted into a chaotic symphony of tracers and screams. The Ironclad Squad poured fire from the windows, their Sten guns spitting 9mm lead into the advancing Milice. Adelaide dove behind a stone pillar, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She saw the black vans of the Gestapo screeching around the corner. Arthur had lied to her. He hadn't just sent the Milice; he had deployed Major Adler’s shock troops as a second wave.

"It’s a slaughter," Adelaide whispered, watching as the Gestapo opened fire with heavy machine guns, shredding the front of the bookstore.

Through the smoke, she saw a figure break from the back of the building. It was Margot LeClerc (The Nightingale), carrying a satchel of documents. She was pinned down by a Milice sniper on a rooftop.

Adelaide didn't think. She drew her service pistol, aimed at the rooftop, and fired three shots. The sniper tumbled from the ledge, his rifle clattering onto the pavement.

Margot looked toward the archway, her eyes meeting Adelaide’s for a split second. A nod. A ghost of an understanding. Then Margot vanished into the dark mouth of an alleyway.

Fallout at Avenue Foch

The news of the Rivoli disaster reached Arthur’s office an hour later.

"The Ironclads escaped?" Arthur roared, sweeping the brandy glass off his desk. It shattered against the wall. "How? I had the street boxed in!"

Major Adler stepped into the room, his uniform impeccable despite the c*****e he had just witnessed. "They had a watcher, Director. Someone signaled them with a blue-light pulse just seconds before we moved. And my sniper on the roof was taken out by a precision shot from street level."

Arthur’s gaze turned slowly toward the door where Adelaide was being led in, her coat stained with soot and rain.

"Adelaide," Arthur said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "You were at the center of the line. Tell me... how did a squad of British saboteurs slip through a Gestapo net?"

Adelaide stood straight, her chin tilted up. "They didn't just slip through, Uncle. They were prepared. Either Vivienne is a double agent, or we have a leak higher up than the Action Section."

Julian, sitting in the corner, felt the tension reach a snapping point. He could hear Arthur’s heart pounding—a rhythmic, heavy thud.

(New Function Unlocked: Neuro-Mapping,) Edith’s voice announced. (You can now see the emotional intent of the subject in real-time. subject: Arthur de Molay. Intent: Execution.)

Julian stood up, walking toward Adelaide. He put a protective arm around her. "Uncle, she’s exhausted. The SOE are ghosts; you know this. Let’s go home. The Gestapo can hunt the rats in the morning."

Arthur looked at Julian, then at Adelaide. He was silent for a long time.

"Yes," Arthur finally said, a cold, empty smile returning to his face. "Let’s go home. We’ll have the 'Pork Ribs' that Julian was so insistent on. It’s important to have a family meal... before the family is torn apart."

As they walked out of the headquarters, Julian felt the cold rain on his face. He had survived the night, but the game had changed. He wasn't just a mole anymore. He and Adelaide were a team, and the Director was no longer their protector—he was their target.

The night was far from over. Beneath the surface of Paris, the Ironclads were regrouping, and in the heart of the Milice, the 'Ghost' and 'The Phoenix' were finally ready to strike back.