Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 15: Exposure

Across the English Channel in London, Colonel Masterman was suffering from a debilitating headache. The reports filtering back from the 'Arc' Network in Paris were a tangled mess of conflicting signals. He paced his office in Baker Street, wondering if his prize undercover agent—the one he called Lancelot—was a masterful genius or a dead man walking.

If Lancelot was the one who had saved the press office on the Champs-Élysées, Masterman owed him a debt of gratitude. But if it was The Phoenix—the other high-level sleeper he had embedded years ago—then the risk had just doubled.

"Damn it," Masterman hissed, slamming a folder onto his desk. "Whether it’s Lancelot or The Phoenix, they are my aces in the hole. They’ve been planted in the Milice for months. How could they be so reckless as to expose themselves for a minor cell?"

He looked up at Major Higgins. "Higgins, contact The Phoenix immediately. Tell her to shut down. No more interference. We have a broader strategy for the gold transport, and I won't have her jeopardizing it with sentiment. Tell her to stay quiet."

Masterman then turned to Colonel Sterling. "And you—get word to Lancelot. The 'Ghost' needs to go back into the shadows. Now."

83 Avenue Foch: The Director's Office

Julian Vance had barely stepped out of the black Citroën before he was summoned to the top floor. The smell of smoke from the burnt-out newspaper office still clung to his wool coat.

"Intelligence leaked? You arrived to find the Resistance already dug in? The Action Section took heavy losses?"

Arthur de Molay asked the questions with a curious, almost amused smile, watching Julian’s performative outrage.

"That’s right, Uncle," Julian snapped, pacing the rug. "The operation was a total secret. From the moment we secured the lead at the Rue de Seine to the raid on the Champs-Élysées, less than two hours had passed. Even if they had watchers, they couldn't have known our specific target so quickly. There is a traitor in the building, Uncle. A rat in the Milice."

Arthur laughed—a dry, rasping sound. He stood up and patted Julian’s shoulder with a heavy hand. "I’m just glad you’re safe, Julian. The loss of a few Action men is a price I can pay, but I can't afford to lose family. You’ve done enough for today."

He gestured toward the door. "Go and rest. It’s almost time for Elodie to finish her classes at the Lycée. Go and pick her up. It’ll do your nerves some good."

Julian hesitated, then nodded. "Of course, Uncle."

As Julian closed the heavy oak door behind him, he stood in the corridor for a heartbeat, his breath hitching. His dialysis mode was still active, and the thoughts leaking from Arthur’s mind hit him like a physical blow.

(The Phoenix and Lancelot... I never expected there were two ghosts haunting my halls,) Arthur had thought, his mental voice cold and sharp. (If I don't catch them both this time, the rot will spread. I’ll leave the 'Pangolin' in London alone for now—he’s too valuable to risk.)

Julian forced his legs to move, walking toward the exit with a steady pace that masked his internal terror.

He knows my codename. And he knows about 'The Phoenix.'

Panic flared in his chest. How? Then the answer crystallized: The Pangolin. A German spy embedded in the heart of London’s SOE must have intercepted the communiqués. Julian wasn't being hunted by the Milice’s incompetence; he was being hunted by a mole in his own headquarters three hundred miles away.

He climbed into his Delahaye and pulled onto the cobblestones of Avenue Foch, but the hairs on his neck stood up. He glanced at the rearview mirror.

I’m being followed.

Rue de la Paix: The Safehouse

Margot LeClerc—known in the field as The Nightingale—stared at the telegram she had just received. Her face turned pale, and her eyes flashed with a dangerous, cold fire.

"I told him to stay in the shadows," she whispered to the empty room. "Julian, what have you done?"

She knew the risks of his position. She took a deep breath, discarded her tea, and immediately moved to activate the emergency signal. If Julian was compromised, she had to pull him out before the Gestapo moved in.

83 Avenue Foch: The De Molay Estate

Julian didn't drive toward the school. He knew a direct flight would confirm he was running. Instead, he pulled into the driveway of the family estate, hoping to flush his tail or find a gap in the surveillance.

He found nothing. His follower was a professional—likely one of Major Heinrich Adler’s Gestapo shadows.

"Madame Claire," Julian called out as he entered the foyer, stripping off his gloves. "I’m going to get Elodie."

The housekeeper was in the lounge, dusting a mahogany cabinet. She looked up with a polite, tired smile. "Be careful, Monsieur Julian. The streets are restless today."

Suddenly, the telephone on the side table began to ring.

Ring. Ring.

It stopped. Two seconds later, it started again, the bell insistent and rhythmic.

Julian felt a cold sweat break across his brow. It was the emergency signal from Margot. A code meant only for the direst circumstances.

"Monsieur Julian?" Madame Claire asked, her eyes narrowing as she watched him stare at the phone. "Aren't you going to answer it?"

(How did the Master know a call would come at this exact minute?) Claire’s inner voice drifted into Julian’s mind.

The thought nearly broke Julian’s composure. How did the Master know? He realized with a jolt that the phone call wasn't just a signal from Margot—it was part of a pre-arranged schedule Arthur had set up to monitor the house.

If Julian didn't answer, it looked suspicious. If he answered and spoke in code, he was caught.

He picked up the receiver. "Vance residence. Who is calling?"

He heard Margot’s breathing on the other end, a sharp, rhythmic intake of air.

"Oh, Colette Dubois?" Julian said, his voice light and casual, though his knuckles were white. "Yes, the Confit de Canard I ordered for my wife? Yes, she’s been craving it. Maître Dubois’s daughter, right? Excellent. Have it delivered today. Around the usual time."

He hung up, the dial tone sounding like a death knell in his ear.

Madame Claire walked closer, a bright, artificial smile on her face. "You’re too good to the young mistress, Monsieur. I’ve heard Elodie talk about that duck for weeks."

"She’s a growing girl, Claire," Julian replied, forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Since I can't take her out tonight, I thought I'd bring the bistro to her. I’ll be off to the Lycée now."

As Julian turned and walked out the door, he didn't see Madame Claire stop smiling. He didn't see her hand reach into her apron for the small, silver pistol she kept hidden there.

Rue de la Paix: The Phone Booth

Margot stood in the public booth, the receiver still in her hand as the dial tone droned on. Her face was grim.

Deliver it today. The message was clear. Julian was trapped. The situation was critical, and he was being watched so closely he couldn't even use a veiled code.

She realized now that her panic-driven phone call might have just placed a noose around his neck. The Milice didn't just stumble upon phone calls; they monitored them.

She had to make it right. She had to arrange the "delivery"—the extraction—exactly as he had signaled. She needed to reach Maître Dubois and the Corsican Union. If the Milice wanted to play at shadows, Margot LeClerc was about to show them why she was called The Nightingale.

She stepped out of the booth, her coat flapping in the wind, and disappeared into the gray Parisian fog.

Julian drove the Delahaye through the winding streets toward the Lycée, his hands steady on the steering wheel even as his pulse thrummed like a trapped bird. In the rearview mirror, a black Opel Admiral maintained a disciplined two-car distance. Adler’s men weren't even trying to hide anymore; they were a looming presence, a physical manifestation of the noose tightening around his neck.

The "Confit de Canard" code had been a desperate gamble. By mentioning Maître Dubois’s daughter, he was pointing Margot toward the Le Coq d’Or, a bistro owned by the Dubois family that sat on a strategic corner near the school. If Margot understood, she would know that the Lycée pick-up was the only window left for an extraction.

As he pulled up to the iron gates of the school, the bell rang, and a flood of students in dark uniforms spilled out. Among them was Elodie, her scarf trailing behind her, looking every bit the defiant young woman who spent her nights painting Resistance posters.

"Julian!" she called out, hopping into the passenger seat. She noticed the tension in his jaw immediately. "You look like you’ve just come from a funeral. Did Uncle Arthur finally find out you’ve been 'sampling' his vintage cognac?"

"Worse," Julian murmured, putting the car in gear. "He’s decided I’m his favorite nephew. We’re going for a little drive, Elodie. And I need you to stay very low when I tell you."

The Opel Admiral pulled out behind them.

"Julian, what’s going on?" Elodie’s voice lost its playful edge. She glanced back and saw the men in leather trench coats. "The Gestapo? Why are they following us?"

"Because the play is over," Julian said, his eyes scanning the intersection of Rue de Grenelle. "Hold on."

Le Coq d’Or: The Extraction

The bistro was a classic Parisian establishment with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and the scent of garlic wafting into the street. Margot was already there, positioned in the window, her hand resting on a Mills Bomb concealed in her handbag.

She saw the Delahaye approach, followed by the black Opel.

"Lancelot is bringing a tail," she whispered to the two men sitting at the bar—rugged types from the Corsican Union. "When the car stops, you take the Opel. I’ll get the girl."

Julian didn't slow down as he approached the bistro; he drifted the heavy Delahaye into a sharp turn, tires shrieking, and slammed the brakes directly in front of the entrance.

"Now, Elodie! Out!"

As Elodie scrambled toward the bistro door, the Opel screeched to a halt behind them. Two Gestapo agents lunged out, their Lugers raised.

Crack-crack!

The Corsican gunmen opened fire from the bistro’s doorway, the heavy thud of their 1911 pistols echoing off the stone buildings. One Gestapo agent crumpled instantly; the other dove behind the Opel’s open door, returning fire.

Margot grabbed Elodie by the arm, pulling her behind the zinc bar. "Stay down, kid! Your brother-in-law is a bit busier than usual today."

Julian wasn't hiding. He used the engine block of the Delahaye as cover, his own pistol barking as he suppressed the remaining agent. He looked at the bistro—at the chaos he had brought to this quiet corner of the city.

"Margot!" Julian shouted over the gunfire. "Take her to the Rue de Seine safehouse! I have to go back!"

"Are you insane?" Margot screamed back. "Arthur knows! If you go back to Avenue Foch, you’re walking into a cage!"

"If I don't go back, Adelaide is dead," Julian replied, his voice chillingly calm. "The phone call today... it wasn't just a signal. It was a tracer. Arthur is waiting for me to run so he can justify executing her as an accomplice. I have to finish this where it started."

83 Avenue Foch: The Lion’s Den

Julian arrived back at the estate thirty minutes later. The Opel was gone, but the front door was wide open. The house was silent, but it wasn't empty.

He walked into the dining room. Arthur de Molay was sitting at the head of the table, a bottle of Burgundy open before him. Major Heinrich Adler stood by the window, his hands behind his back.

And in the chair to Arthur’s right sat Adelaide, her hands bound behind her with a silk sash. Her face was bruised, but her eyes were burning with a cold, terrifying pride.

"The prodigal nephew returns," Arthur said, pouring a glass of wine. "I must admit, Julian, I expected you to be halfway to the coast by now. But I suppose I underestimated your... affection for my niece."

Julian stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the darkening sky. He didn't pull his gun. He knew there were snipers in the garden.

"The gold isn't in the trucks, Uncle," Julian said. "And the 'Pangolin' in London? He’s been feeding you false names for weeks. You think you’ve caught Lancelot? You’ve only caught a shadow."

Adler turned, a thin smile on his lips. "A shadow that bleeds. We found the radio in your study, Herr Vance. And the ledger Adelaide was so kindly hiding. It seems treason is a family tradition."

"Leave her out of this, Arthur," Julian said, stepping into the room. "She didn't know anything until today. I used her. I used this whole family."

"Oh, Julian," Adelaide spoke for the first time, her voice steady. "Don't lie to him. It’s insulting. Uncle Arthur knows I broke the 'Nesting Doll' code months ago. I didn't tell him because I wanted to see how long it would take for the SOE to realize you were a romantic fool."

Arthur slammed his glass onto the table. "Enough! The 'Sovereign Vaults' move tonight. For real this time. And Julian, you are going to drive the lead truck. If a single shot is fired from the shadows, if a single 'Ghost' appears in the Tuileries, Adelaide’s head will be the first thing to hit the pavement."

Julian looked at Adelaide. In the silence of the room, his dialysis mode caught a single, flickering thought from her mind.

(The basement exchange... the secondary line is still open... Claire is listening...)

Julian bowed his head slightly. "Then let's get to work, Uncle. I’d hate to be late for the end of the world."