Inside the heavy oak-paneled office at 83 Avenue Foch, the air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and cold ambition. Adelaide de Molay stood rigid by the door, having just escorted Inspector Maurice Vaugirard into the room. She closed the door with a soft click, her pulse visible at the base of her throat.
Arthur de Molay, the Director of the Milice, wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief and set aside his lunchbox. He looked up at the three officers before him, offering a smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes.
"Gentlemen," Arthur began, his voice smooth as aged cognac. "Today’s mission was simple: escort The Canary to the firing squad. However, I have received intelligence that the SOE—the British and their 'Free French' puppets—already have wind of our operati
