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
