Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 17: The Final Screening

Deep in a cellar near the Place de la Concorde, Commander Thayer took a deep breath. He signaled to the men of the Ironclad Squad, who were busy checking the firing pins of their Sten guns and the fuses of their explosive charges.

"Hold your positions," Thayer commanded, his voice echoing against the damp stone. "I just received a call through a secure relay. The source knows that Vivienne (The Artist) has sold us out. The Milice already have shadows on the 'Canvas' undercover team."

He looked at his team, their faces smeared with charcoal and grease. "The caller asked if we were moving to extract the 'Canvas' cell. If so, we are to rescue them immediately. If not, we are to vanish into the night."

In their shadow-language, the "Second Aunt" was the Milice—the traitorous police of the Vichy regime. The "Neighbor's House" was the operational target, and the "Little Sister" referred to the low-level operatives of the 'Canvas' cell who were currently being used as tethered goats.

Major Renault, Thayer’s deputy, frowned. "Captain, this doesn't sit right. This mission came straight from Baker Street. London doesn't share these details with other cells. Who could have known?"

Thayer was equally puzzled. In the world of the SOE, a surprise was usually a death sentence. Was this a genuine warning from a high-level mole, or a Milice trick to flush them out?

"What’s the play, Captain?" asked Miller, the squad’s brawny demolitionist. "Do we run like we were told, or do we finish the job?"

"Miller, you scouted the drop point. What did you see?"

"Everything is quiet, Captain. The drop is proceeding. Vivienne is there, and the decoy we sent to play the 'New Network Chief' is in position. She’s taken the bait. We’ve confirmed she made a signal to an outside watcher."

Thayer fell silent, the seconds ticking away on his brass pocket watch. Finally, he gritted his teeth. "We proceed. We’re going to teach the Milice a lesson they’ll feel in their marrow. But Miller—before we blow the whistle, get a runner to the nearest radio. I want London to confirm if we have a 'Ghost' looking out for us."

The Drive to Avenue Foch

Across the city, Julian Vance had already picked up Elodie from the Lycée. Usually, the drive was a silent affair of Julian nursing a feigned hangover, but today Elodie was a whirlwind of energy.

"So, Julian," she chirped from the passenger seat, "does this mean Maître Dubois is really going to deliver the Confit de Canard every other day? You’re actually useful for something besides drinking Uncle Arthur’s brandy!"

She leaned back, kicking her feet up. "I’ve always said you had potential. If you put half this effort into melting that iceberg of a sister of mine, we might actually be a happy family."

Julian barely heard her. The "Confit" code had been his message to the Ironclads, but he had no way of knowing if they had listened. If they walked into Arthur’s trap, the SOE’s backbone in Paris would be snapped in a single night.

He had done what he could. Now, he was walking back into the lion’s den, and his own life was hanging by a thread.

When they arrived at the De Molay estate, the house felt unnervingly still. Arthur and Adelaide hadn't returned. Julian glanced at the grandfather clock in the foyer; they were late.

In the building directly across the street, Sergeant Bastien lowered his binoculars. A sinister smile twisted his scarred face as he reached for a field telephone.

Ring. Ring.

Inside a phone booth near the Rue de Seine, Vivienne—The Artist—waited. When the phone rang, she picked it up, heard the silence, and immediately dialed a new number.

Julian was sitting on the sofa, feigning interest in a newspaper, when the phone beside Elodie began to jangle. She snatched it up before he could move.

"Hello? Adelaide? Is that you and Uncle?" Elodie’s face soured. "Oh. It’s you. The one from the interrogation block yesterday. Why are you calling here?"

She slammed the receiver down, huffing. "The nerve of that woman! Calling our private home!"

Julian’s pulse spiked. A few seconds later, it rang again. Elodie ignored it with a pout. Madame Claire walked over, offering a sympathetic smile to the girl, and answered the call.

"Yes... no, the Director and the Section Chief are not back yet. One moment." She covered the mouthpiece and looked at Julian. "Monsieur Julian, it is for you."

Julian stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. The final stage of the test.

"Mr. Vance," Vivienne’s voice came through, cold and sharp. "My apologies for earlier. I cannot reach the Director. When he returns, please tell your wife to call this number immediately. I will be waiting."

Julian hung up. Elodie rolled her eyes. "I don't know how you can be so polite to a snake like that, Julian. I’d have told her where to shove her report."

Julian returned to the sofa, but he wasn't reading. He was listening to the house.

The Trap Shuts

At the Milice Headquarters on 83 Avenue Foch, the atmosphere was suffocating. Following Julian’s departure, Arthur de Molay had issued a "Blackout Order." No one was allowed to leave. No phone calls were permitted. The radio room was locked under armed guard.

Adelaide sat on the leather sofa in Arthur’s office, sipping cold coffee. She watched her uncle annotate a file with chilling calmness.

"The time is here," Adelaide said, checking her watch. "Vivienne should be making the final contact. Uncle, why the lockdown? I thought the screening for Julian was already conclusive."

Arthur closed his fountain pen with a soft click. He looked at his niece with a grandfatherly smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"This is the final screening, Adelaide. I have to ensure there are no more leaks. If the Ironclad Squad is tipped off now, after I’ve cut all the lines..." He paused, his eyes gleaming. "Then we know exactly who the Ghost is. Because only one person left this building knowing the target."

Adelaide let out a soft, melodic laugh. "I see. If the intelligence is leaked again, then Julian—the only one who had the information and the freedom to move—is the culprit."

Arthur nodded, his smile widening. He reached for a second file on his desk—one marked with a red stripe.

"You’ve done well, Adelaide. But tell me... as his wife, would you be disappointed to find out your 'Scoundrel' was actually a Knight of the Round Table?"

Adelaide set her cup down. "I would be disappointed if he were anything less than the man I chose to marry, Uncle. But in Paris, knights usually end up in the morgue."

Arthur laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "Let us hope for his sake he is just a very lucky fool."

The Precipice

Back at the estate, Julian sat in the growing darkness. Through his dialysis mode, he could feel the presence of Bastien’s men surrounding the perimeter of the house. He could hear the faint, frantic thoughts of Madame Claire in the kitchen—thoughts of worry, of maternal protection, and of a secret she was hiding.

He realized now that the phone call from Vivienne wasn't just a test of his loyalty; it was a timed fuse. If the Ironclad Squad hit the 'Canvas' cell now, Arthur would know Julian had signaled them. If they didn't, Julian was safe—but his comrades would be slaughtered.

He looked at Elodie, who was happily eating a piece of fruit, oblivious to the fact that they were sitting in the center of a kill zone.

"Edith," Julian whispered in the silence of his mind.

(I am here, sir. The odds of survival are currently thirty percent.)

"Better than yesterday," Julian thought. He adjusted his tie and picked up the newspaper again. He would wait. He would play the Scoundrel until the first shot was fired.

The game was no longer about who was the mole. It was about who would be left standing when the sun rose over a liberated Paris.

The grandfather clock in the foyer struck eight, the heavy chimes echoing through the house like a tolling bell. Julian sat perfectly still, the newspaper forgotten in his lap. Outside, the Parisian night had turned a bruised purple, and the rain began to patter against the windows—a soft, rhythmic drumming that masked the sound of boots on the gravel driveway.

The front door opened.

Arthur de Molay entered first, his heavy wool overcoat beaded with moisture. Behind him was Adelaide, looking pale but composed, her eyes darting briefly to Julian before she looked away. Sergeant Bastien followed them, his hand resting conspicuously on the holster of his Luger.

"A quiet evening, I hope?" Arthur said, handing his hat to Madame Claire without looking at her.

"Quiet enough, Uncle," Elodie said, jumping up from the sofa. "Except for that woman from the Milice calling every ten minutes. Julian had to deal with her."

Arthur’s gaze snapped to Julian. The room felt as though the oxygen had been sucked out of it. "Did he now? And what did Vivienne have to say, Ah Xuan?"

Julian stood up, smoothing his suit jacket. He felt the cold weight of the room’s collective attention. "She wanted Adelaide to call her back. Something about a secondary report. I told her you were both out."

Arthur walked toward the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. He didn't offer one to Julian. "Bastien tells me you took a detour on your way to the Lycée today. A phone booth on the Rue de la Paix. A bit out of the way for a man in a hurry, wasn't it?"

Julian’s heart skipped, but his face remained a mask of bored indifference. "I needed to check on a delivery. A man who relies on his wife’s family for his lifestyle has to make sure the dinners are spectacular, Uncle. It’s the only currency I have."

(He’s lying,) Arthur’s mind snarled, the thought hitting Julian’s dialysis mode with the force of a physical blow. (The Ironclad Squad has moved. They’ve hit the transport on the Rue de Rivoli. The Ghost has spoken.)

"A spectacular dinner," Arthur repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Well, it’s a pity. Because while you were worrying about duck confit, a squad of terrorists ambushed a Milice convoy near the Louvre. Three of my men are dead. The 'Canvas' cell has vanished into the sewers."

Adelaide gasped, a sound of perfect, practiced shock. "Uncle! How could that happen? The blackout was absolute."

Arthur turned to her, his eyes narrowing. "That is the question of the hour, my dear. The blackout was absolute. No one left the building. No calls were made. Except..." He turned back to Julian. "Except for the man who left to pick up his sister-in-law."

Bastien stepped forward, his hand unfastening the leather strap of his holster.

"Uncle, surely you don't think Julian—" Elodie began, her voice rising in panic.

"Quiet, Elodie!" Arthur barked. He looked at Julian, his face twisted into a mask of betrayed paternalism. "I gave you my name, Julian. I gave you my protection. And you used it to signal the butchers of the SOE."

Julian didn't move. He could hear the rain intensifying outside. He could also hear something else—a faint, metallic tink-tink coming from the kitchen. It was Madame Claire, tapping a rhythm on the copper pipes.

G-O. N-O-W.

"I didn't signal anyone, Uncle," Julian said, his voice dropping into the cold, precise tone of Lancelot. "If your men were hit, it’s because you’re fighting a war against the soul of this city, and the city is starting to fight back."

"Kill him," Arthur said, turning his back.

Bastien drew his pistol, but he never cleared the holster.

A window in the dining room shattered as a heavy object crashed through the glass. A Mills Bomb. It didn't detonate with fire; it exploded with a blinding flash of magnesium and a cloud of thick, acrid smoke.

"Down!" Julian screamed, lunging for Adelaide and Elodie, dragging them toward the floor just as the room erupted into chaos.

Through the smoke, the front door was kicked off its hinges. The 'Ironclad' Squad didn't come in with a whisper; they came in with the roar of Sten guns.

"Renault! Cover the stairs!" Commander Thayer’s voice boomed through the foyer.

Julian rolled behind the heavy mahogany dining table, pulling his hidden pistol. He saw Bastien through the haze, the Sergeant rubbing his eyes, firing blindly into the smoke. Julian fired once. The bullet caught Bastien in the shoulder, spinning him around.

"Adelaide! Take Elodie to the basement!" Julian hissed, grabbing her hand.

"Not without you!" she countered, her eyes wide with the adrenaline of the moment.

"I have to settle the bill with Arthur," Julian said.

He looked through the thinning smoke. Arthur de Molay was standing by the fireplace, a small, silver-plated revolver in his hand. He wasn't looking at the Ironclads. He was looking at Julian.

"You were the son I never had," Arthur said, his voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet rage.

"And you were the man I had to become to survive you," Julian replied.

Before either could pull the trigger, a secondary explosion rocked the back of the house. Madame Claire had blown the fuel line in the kitchen. The De Molay estate—the symbol of collaboration and secret sins—began to burn.

"Lancelot! We have to move!" Thayer shouted from the doorway, his silhouette framed by the orange glow of the growing fire. "The SS is three minutes away!"

Julian looked at Arthur, then at Adelaide. The choice was instantaneous. He grabbed his wife and her sister, pushing them toward the back exit as the 'Ironclad' Squad provided a wall of leaden cover.

As they fled into the rainy Parisian night, leaving the burning mansion behind, Julian Vance knew the "Scoundrel" was dead. The "Ghost" was no longer a secret.

The war for Paris had officially come home.