Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 16: Living

The moment Julian Vance’s Delahaye roared away from 83 Avenue Foch, the atmosphere in the courtyard shifted. The shadows seemed to lengthen as Sergeant Bastien, the heavy-set, scarred gatekeeper of the Milice, stepped out of the guardhouse. Bastien was Arthur de Molay’s "third eye," a man who saw everything and forgot nothing.

Bastien entered the main house and found Madame Claire in the hallway.

"The Monsieur left in a hurry," Bastien noted, his voice like grinding gravel. "Did he receive any callers?"

Claire, clutching a duster, felt a cold knot of anxiety in her stomach. "He went to pick up Mademoiselle Elodie from the Lycée. He seemed... preoccupied."

Bastien didn't linger for pleasantries. He strode to the telephone in the foyer and signaled the exchange. "Headquarters? Trace the last incoming call to the De Molay residence. I want the origin and the duration. Now."

Claire stood in the shadow of the staircase, her heart aching. She saw so much of her own lost son in Julian—the quiet intelligence, the social awkwardness that masked a kind heart. In this house of vipers, Julian was the only thing that felt human to her. She began to pray silently, a desperate plea to a God she feared had long since abandoned Paris, that the boy wouldn't be caught in whatever net Arthur was casting.

The Streets Near the Sorbonne

Julian drove toward the Rue de Seine, his eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirror. He felt the phantom weight of a tail, even if he couldn't spot the car.

His mind was a storm of deduction. The call from Margot (The Nightingale) had been a risk, but it confirmed the worst: the raid on the Champs-Élysées had been a "controlled failure."

He pulled the car over near the gates of The Sorbonne and forced himself to breathe. He needed to map the board before the next move.

First: Arthur set a trap to test my loyalty.

Second: Arthur’s thoughts revealed a "game of chess" and a mole whose choices would determine the outcome.

Third: The leak at the newspaper office was too clean. It wasn't an accident.

Fourth: Arthur knows the code names. He knows about Lancelot and The Phoenix.

"The Pangolin," Julian whispered to the empty car. "The Mole of Whitehall."

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. If there was a German spy in London's SOE headquarters, then every coded message Julian had ever sent—every report of his "Scoundrel" cover, every piece of intelligence passed to Margot—was sitting on Arthur de Molay’s desk.

The Military Intelligence Bureau hadn't outplayed the Milice; the Milice had let them win to identify the players.

"That bastard Arthur," Julian hissed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. "He didn't just abandon the purge; he turned it into a lure. He’s fishing for me and The Phoenix."

He felt a chill run down his spine. In the world of espionage, you were never truly safe. You were a ghost among machines, and today, the machines had learned his name.

(Rest assured, sir,) the voice of his internal logic—his mental assistant, Edith—whispered in his mind. (We must be cautious. No more arrogance. No more overconfidence.)

"You're right, Edith," Julian muttered. "I’ve been too bold."

He looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes until Elodie got out of the Lycée. He had one card left to play. If Arthur was hunting for moles, Julian needed to give him a predator. He needed to contact The 'Ironclad' Squad.

The Phone Booth on Rue de la Paix

Julian stepped out of the car, keeping his dialysis mode on a high-sensitivity sweep. He walked a hundred-meter radius around a public phone booth, scanning the heat signatures and the stray thoughts of passersby.

...hope the bread isn't stale...

...is that officer looking at me?...

...need to fix my shoes...

No tails. No watchers. He stepped into the booth.

"Hello? Is this Commander Thayer?" Julian spoke rapidly, pitching his voice low. "Listen closely. Your 'Aunt' from London came to visit, but the house is on fire. She’s currently talking to the neighbors next door."

"What?" the voice on the other end—a deep, gravelly baritone—replied. "I'm out shopping with the family. What are you talking about?"

"Stop shopping," Julian snapped. "Go home now. Deal with the 'Aunt' before she burns the whole street down. And if the little sister is with you, bring her back fast. The Milice is coming for the 'Canvas' cell next."

Click.

Julian hung up and stepped out, adjusting his silk tie. He looked every bit the dandy, but beneath the tailored suit, he was a man preparing for a m******e.

Nanjing Road: The Basement

In the reinforced basement of a nondescript Western-style building, the members of the 'Ironclad' Squad stopped what they were doing. The clatter of Sten gun magazines and the oiling of bolts ceased as Commander Thayer hung up the wall-mounted phone. His face was a mask of grim stone.

"Captain?" Major Renault, the squad’s best marksman, asked. "What’s the word?"

"The word is fire," Thayer said, grabbing his trench coat. "Lancelot just called. The Milice knows about the 'Canvas' cell. They’re moving on the secondary strongholds. We’re not waiting for London’s orders anymore. We’re going in hot."

The Trap is Set

Julian returned to the Delahaye, his mind slightly clearer. He had signaled the heavies. If Arthur wanted to play at moles, the Ironclad Squad would provide the distraction needed to shield The Phoenix.

But who was The Phoenix?

Julian’s mind raced over the roster of the Milice. It had to be someone with access to high-level targets. Someone who had been there as long as he had.

The 'Canvas' cell... the Artist... Vivienne...

No, Vivienne was the traitor. The Phoenix had to be someone else. Someone who had provided the intelligence that led to the "leak" at the newspaper office.

As he pulled up to the Lycée to pick up Elodie, Julian saw a black Opel Admiral idling across the street. The men inside weren't hiding their faces. One of them tapped his watch as Julian passed.

Arthur wasn't just watching him anymore. He was counting down the minutes until Julian made a mistake.

"Pick up the girl, go home, eat dinner," Julian whispered to himself. "Be the Scoundrel. Be the Leech. Just for one more night."

But as Elodie climbed into the car, her face bright with the excitement of a student protest she had just attended, Julian felt the ice beneath his feet finally begin to crack.

The streetlights of the 6th Arrondissement began to flicker to life, casting long, skeletal shadows across the hood of the Delahaye. Elodie chattered incessantly about a sociology lecture at the Sorbonne, unaware that the black Opel Admiral was still glued to their bumper, a silent predator in the twilight.

Julian barely heard her. His mind was a battlefield of shifting variables. He had alerted the 'Ironclad' Squad, but in doing so, he had accelerated the timeline. If Commander Thayer moved too early, the streets of Paris would become a slaughterhouse before Julian could secure Adelaide.

"Julian, you're doing that thing again," Elodie said, crossing her arms. "The thing where you stare at the road like you're trying to see through the pavement. Are you okay? You haven't made a single joke about my 'radical' friends all afternoon."

Julian forced a thin smile, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. "Just thinking about dinner, Elodie. Your uncle has a way of making every meal feel like a court-martial. I'm just bracing myself for the wine selection."

"It's not just the wine," she whispered, her voice dropping as she glanced at the black car behind them. "I saw Sergeant Bastien at the school gates earlier. He didn't see me, but he was talking to the headmaster. Julian... why is Uncle Arthur watching my school?"

Julian’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. "He’s just being a protective paman, Elodie. Or at least, that’s the lie we’re going to live with for the next hour."

The Dinner at Avenue Foch

The dining room of the De Molay estate was a masterpiece of opulence and dread. Crystal chandeliers dripped with light, reflecting off the polished silver and the cold, blue eyes of Arthur de Molay.

Adelaide sat across from Julian, her posture perfect, her face an unreadable mask of porcelain. To any outsider, they were the picture of the collaborationist elite. But Julian could feel the electricity in the air, a high-frequency hum of impending violence.

"The duck is excellent, Claire," Arthur said, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. He looked at Julian. "I hear you had a craving for Confit de Canard today, Ah Xuan. So much so that you had to call a bistro in the middle of a security sweep."

The table went silent. Elodie looked between her uncle and Julian, her fork hovering in mid-air.

"A man has to have his priorities, Uncle," Julian replied smoothly, taking a sip of the Bordeaux. "And Adelaide has been mentioning Maître Dubois’s kitchen for a week. I thought a little domestic peace was worth a phone call."

(Liar,) Arthur’s mind hissed, a sharp, jagged thought that Julian caught with his dialysis mode. (The call went to a dead-drop line. You’re Lancelot. I just need to know if Adelaide is the Phoenix.)

Arthur turned his gaze toward his niece. "Adelaide, the Signals wing reported a curious anomaly this afternoon. A secondary frequency was used to broadcast a 'Lancelot' signal right before the raid on the Champs-Élysées. It came from a localized transmitter."

Adelaide didn't flinch. She cut a small piece of duck, her movements precise. "Paris is full of rogue signals, Uncle. The students at the Lycée are building transmitters out of scrap metal and bravado. It’s a nuisance, but hardly a threat to the Milice."

"Is it?" Arthur leaned forward. "Because Major Adler believes the 'Ghost' who hit our transport wasn't a student. He believes it was a professional. Someone who knew our patrol routes. Someone who knew exactly when to strike."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, charred piece of paper—the remains of the "Canvas" cell map Julian had seen earlier.

"I found this in the garden incinerator," Arthur said quietly. "It seems someone in this house was trying to burn their tracks. But they were sloppy."

Julian felt the sweat prickling at his hairline. He looked at Adelaide, and for a split second, their eyes met. In that moment, the "Scoundrel" and the "Cryptographer" disappeared. There were only two soldiers, surrounded by enemies.

The Night of the Ironclads

While the tension in the dining room reached a breaking point, the 'Ironclad' Squad was moving through the sewers beneath the Place de la Concorde.

Commander Thayer checked his watch. 9:45 PM. According to Lancelot’s coded warning, the Milice was moving on the secondary strongholds. But Thayer knew Arthur de Molay better than that. Arthur wouldn't just defend; he would bait.

"Renault," Thayer whispered into the darkness of the tunnel. "Set the charges on the Rue de Rivoli exit. If the Milice convoys come through, we don't just stop them—we bury them."

"And if Lancelot is in one of those cars?" Renault asked, his thumb tracing the safety of his Sten gun.

"Then God help him," Thayer replied. "Because we’re not leaving Paris until the 'Sovereign Vaults' are empty."

The Breaking Point

Back at the estate, Arthur stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"I grow tired of this charade," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register. "Adelaide, go to your room. Elodie, with her."

"Uncle, what—" Elodie began, but Adelaide grabbed her arm, her grip iron-tight.

"Do as he says, Elodie," Adelaide said, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with suppressed rage.

As the women left the room, Major Heinrich Adler stepped out from behind the velvet curtains, a Luger in his hand. He didn't point it at Julian; he pointed it at the door where Adelaide had just exited.

"Sit down, Herr Vance," Adler said. "We have a lot to discuss about your 'Aunt' from London."

Julian sat. He felt the weight of his own pistol at the small of his back, but he knew the room was rigged. He could hear the heavy breathing of Bastien in the hallway.

"You think you’re so clever," Arthur said, pacing the room. "The Ghost. The Scoundrel. You played the fool so well I almost believed it. But you made one mistake, Julian. You fell in love with my niece. And in this business, love is a tracer."

Arthur leaned over the table, his face inches from Julian’s. "I know about the 'Ironclad' Squad. I know they’re waiting for the gold at the Tuileries. And I’m going to let them have it."

Julian frowned. "What?"

"The gold in the trucks tonight isn't gold, Julian," Arthur smiled, a cold, shark-like expression. "It’s ten tons of high-grade industrial explosives. When your friends open those doors, they won't find wealth. They’ll find an early grave. And you... you are going to be the one to lead them there."

Julian’s heart hammered. A decoy. A massive, mobile booby trap designed to wipe out the elite of the Paris Resistance in a single stroke.

(I have to warn them,) Julian thought frantically. (But how? Adler is watching every breath.)

Suddenly, the muffled sound of a piano drifted down from the upstairs floor. It was a slow, melancholic melody—the violin concerto Adelaide had been "composing." But the rhythm was wrong. It was staccato, pulsing in a way that made Julian’s blood run cold.

It wasn't music. It was Morse code.

S-O-S. AMBUSH. TUILERIES. SOS.

Adelaide was broadcasting through the floorboards, using the house’s internal wiring as an antenna.

Arthur’s head snapped toward the ceiling. "What is that noise?"

"It’s just my wife, Uncle," Julian said, his hand slowly sliding toward the edge of the table. "She always plays when she’s stressed. Didn't you know? Music is the only thing that keeps this family from falling apart."

Adler’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the pattern. "She’s signaling! Bastien! Get up there!"

The front door of the estate suddenly shattered inward as a Mills Bomb detonated in the foyer. The shockwave blew out the dining room windows, showering the table in glass.

The 'Ironclad' Squad hadn't waited for the gold. They had come for the head of the snake.

"Go!" Julian screamed, flipping the heavy mahogany table to create a barricade.

In the chaos of smoke and screams, Julian Vance realized the game was no longer about moles or chess. It was about survival. And as he drew his pistol to face the man who had been his paman and his executioner, he knew that by dawn, either the Milice would burn, or Paris would.