Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 12: The Bait?

The triumvirate of the Milice’s inner circle was a nest of vipers: Chief Inspector Gaston, Vivienne (The Artist), and Captain Dupont.

One was the head of intelligence, another a high-profile defector from the SOE, and the third a brutal enforcer. Arthur de Molay paced his office at 83 Avenue Foch, weighing their loyalties. It couldn't be Gaston; the man was too invested in the Vichy status quo. And Dupont? The man had personally overseen the execution of nearly a hundred Resistance fighters. If Dupont were the mole, the SOE was sacrificing an army just to keep one man in place.

That left Vivienne. But why would she defect only to play a double game?

After ten minutes of brooding silence, Arthur picked up the heavy black receiver and dialed the Gestapo headquarters at the Hotel Ritz. He needed a different kind of pressure.

Meanwhile, Julian Vance had arrived at a quiet corner of the Rue de Rivoli. He was shadowed by a team from the Action Section led by Inspector Girard. Girard was a man of average height with a face so remarkably unremarkable he could stand in a bread line for hours and never be remembered.

They sat in a nondescript black Citroën, watching a small storefront across the street: Lumière Photography.

Girard turned to Julian with a greasy smile. "Don’t be nervous, Monsieur Vance. Our watchers confirmed the SOE bird is still inside. Just a few more minutes, and we’ll have him in irons."

(Look at this aristocrat,) Girard’s internal voice sneered, leaking through his smug expression. (The Director's pet gets to sit in the front row and share the glory for a catch he didn't even sniff out. I’ve been chasing this cell for months, and the 'Le Vaurien' gets the credit fed to him on a silver platter. I’m in the wrong business.)

Julian nodded, maintaining his mask of mild, elegant boredom. "Girard, is it? May I call you Girard?"

"Of course, Monsieur."

"Then call me Julian. We’re all brothers in arms today, aren't we?"

Julian’s mind was racing. He knew the SOE’s protocols for the Rue de Rivoli sector. Something felt off. If there was a real agent in that studio, they wouldn't just be sitting there waiting for a Milice motorcade to arrive.

Boom—

Suddenly, a dull explosion rocked the interior of the photo studio, blowing out the front windows in a spray of glass. Girard’s eyes went wide. He drew his Luger and kicked open the car door.

"Vance, stay in the car! It’s too dangerous for a civilian!" Girard barked, waving his men forward.

Julian leaned back against the leather seat, narrowing his eyes. He didn't move. He watched through the windshield as Girard’s team swarmed the smoke-filled shop. A few moments later, they emerged, dragging a man in a sharp wool suit whose face was already a mask of blood.

Girard returned to the car, panting but triumphant. "We got him. The fool tried to use a grenade to take us with him—didn't even kill a cat. Let's get back to the Vaults. I want him on the Iron Seat before the hour is up."

(What an amateur,) Girard thought as they pulled away. (Why throw a grenade and kill no one? If he had time to pull a pin, he had time to burn the ciphers. This 'agent' acts like a schoolboy on his first field trip.)

Julian caught the thought and felt a cold chill. Interesting, he mused. The grenade was loud, but ineffective. The documents weren't destroyed. This isn't an SOE agent—this is a performance.

The Vaults, 83 Avenue Foch.

The interrogation room was a windowless box of damp stone and flickering electric light. Julian sat in the observer’s chair, his legs crossed, watching as Girard’s men began the "dressing down" of the prisoner.

The man in the chair was playing the part of the heroic martyr to perfection. He spat blood, he glared with defiance, and he refused to utter a single syllable. To anyone else, it was a display of iron-willed patriotism.

But Julian had his dialysis mode active. He wasn't just watching the man’s face; he was reading the frantic, sweating pulse of his mind.

(God, those five gold sovereigns the Director promised better be worth it,) the "prisoner" thought frantically as a whip cracked against his ribs. (Did Girard not get the memo? These guys are hitting me for real! If Arthur doesn't show up in ten minutes, I’m going to forget my lines and start screaming the truth.)

Julian took a slow breath, his hand steady as he reached for a cigarette.

The prisoner looked at Julian, his eyes pleading behind the act of defiance. (And who is this kid? He’s been sitting there for an hour like a statue. Is he the one I’m supposed to impress? Why isn't he reacting?)

The "agent" took another blow from Girard. "You're stubborn," Girard roared, oblivious to the theater. "But we found the half-burnt files in the back! We’ll find your friends, you little rat!"

(Half-burnt?) the prisoner thought with a surge of panic. (The Director told me specifically to leave the 'Scythe' schedules visible. Is Girard really this stupid?)

Julian almost felt sorry for the man. He was a Milice plant, a low-level thug hired by Arthur de Molay to test Julian’s reactions. If Julian showed too much sympathy, he was a mole. If he tried to help the man escape, he was a traitor.

The door to the Vaults groaned open. Arthur de Molay walked in, his heavy coat swirling like a shroud.

Girard hurried to his side, bowing. "Director! The boy is tough, but we have the scraps from the studio. We’ll follow the trail to the rest of the cell."

Arthur ignored Girard. He walked straight to Julian and looked at him with a cold, paternal curiosity. He reached into his holster and pulled out his service pistol, holding it out to Julian by the barrel.

"Ah Xuan," Arthur said, using the familiar term. "This man is a liaison for the very people who tried to kill you and Elodie. I know you had a bit of... trouble at the Marne Range during target practice last year. You said you couldn't find the heart to pull the trigger on a paper target."

(I need to see you kill, Julian,) Arthur’s mind whispered, a dark, jagged thought. (Only then will I know you've truly crossed the line into our world. Pass this, and you are my heir. Fail, and you stay in the Vaults.)

Julian glanced at the gun. His X-ray vision flickered over the weapon. He saw the empty chamber. He saw the empty magazine. It was a dry-fire test. A classic "loyalty check."

Julian stood up slowly, his face devoid of emotion. He took the gun, the cold steel feeling heavy and meaningless in his hand.

"Target practice is different when the target can bleed, Uncle," Julian said, his voice a flat, dead monotone.

Arthur smiled, a thin, predatory expression. "Good. Since he won't talk, and we already have the files, this piece of filth is no longer useful to the State. Vent your anger, Julian. End him."

The prisoner in the chair stared at Julian, his eyes wide, playing his part to the very end—or perhaps realizing that in Arthur de Molay’s world, even a paid actor was expendable.

Julian raised the pistol, leveling it directly between the man’s eyes. He didn't hesitate. He didn't tremble.

Click.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

The room went silent. Julian didn't lower the gun immediately. He held the sight for three long seconds, his finger squeezing the trigger again.

Click.

He finally lowered the weapon and handed it back to Arthur, his expression one of mild annoyance. "It seems your 'justice' is out of ammunition, Uncle."

Arthur de Molay let out a booming laugh, slapping Julian on the shoulder. "A test of nerves, Julian! And you passed. You didn't even flinch."

(He’s cold,) Arthur thought with a mix of pride and lingering doubt. (Cold enough to be one of mine. Or cold enough to be a professional.)

"Get some rest, Ah Xuan," Arthur said. "Tomorrow, the real work begins. We have a 'Sovereign Vault' to protect, and I want you by my side when we move the gold."

Julian walked out of the stone cellar, the smell of burnt hair and sweat clinging to his coat. He had survived the bait. But as he stepped into the cool night air of Paris, he knew the next trap wouldn't be empty.

Julian walked through the heavy iron gates of the courtyard, his silhouette tall against the flickering streetlamps of Avenue Foch. He could feel Arthur’s eyes on his back from the upper window. The "loyalty test" had been crude, but effective. By not flinching at an empty chamber, Julian had successfully convinced the Director that his heart was as hollow as the pistol’s magazine.

But Julian knew the truth. His heart was a drum, beating for the liberation of the city he saw bleeding under the swastika.

As he drove the Delahaye toward the Rue de Seine, he realized the stakes had shifted. The mention of the Sovereign Vaults wasn't just a casual remark; it was the endgame. The Nazis were preparing to strip the French national reserves—ton after ton of gold bullion—and ship it back to Berlin before the Resistance could coordinate a strike.

Back at the De Molay estate, the air was thick with a different kind of tension. Adelaide sat in Julian’s private study, the door locked from the inside. She wasn't looking for love letters or secret ciphers. She was looking for a ghost.

She pulled a loose floorboard beneath the rug—a trick she had learned as a child playing hide-and-seek in this very house. Inside, she found a small, leather-bound notebook. It wasn't written in the Milice’s standard code, nor was it the "Nesting Doll" cipher her uncle favored.

It was music.

Sheet music for a violin concerto, scribbled by hand. To any inspector, it was the hobby of a frustrated artist. But Adelaide was the head of Signals & Cryptography. She began to hum the melody, her fingers tapping the rhythm on the desk.

F-sharp... B-flat... A-minor...

Her eyes widened. The notes weren't a melody; they were a frequency map. A blueprint for a shortwave radio transmitter. Julian wasn't just a spy; he was a technician, a man capable of broadcasting from the very heart of the occupation.

"Lancelot," she whispered, the name echoing in the quiet room.

A soft click sounded at the door. Adelaide instinctively shoved the notebook back into the floor and stood up just as the door swung open.

It wasn't Julian. It was Madame Claire.

The housekeeper stood there with a tray of herbal tea, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, the two women stared at each other—the niece of the most feared man in Paris and the woman who had served him for twenty years.

"The Monsieur is home, Madame," Claire said, her voice steady. "He looks... tired. Perhaps you should speak with him before the Director calls again."

Adelaide stepped forward, her voice a low hiss. "I heard you on the telephone, Claire. I know about the Lancelot signal."

Claire didn't flinch. She set the tray down on the desk, her movements precise. "Then you know that Paris is a very small cage, and the lions are getting hungry. If you love him, Adelaide, you will stop looking for secrets and start looking for a way out."

Julian entered the house and found them in the study. The atmosphere was brittle. He looked from his wife to the housekeeper, his analytical mode picking up the micro-tremors in their hands.

"I see the welcoming committee is in full force," Julian said, tossing his hat onto the chair.

"Julian," Adelaide said, her voice trembling. "Uncle Arthur is moving the gold tomorrow. The Sovereign Vaults. He wants you there."

Julian nodded, his face hardening. "I know. It’s a funeral procession for the wealth of France."

"It's a trap," Claire interrupted, her voice losing its domestic softness. "London has received intelligence that the Gestapo knows there is a 'Ghost' in the Milice. They are using the gold transport to flush you out. If you go to the Vaults, Julian, you won't come back."

Julian looked at the housekeeper. "And if I don't go, the gold leaves, and the Resistance loses the funding it needs to finish this war. I have to be there."

Adelaide grabbed his arm. "No. There’s another way. The Signals department... we’ve been tracking a secondary frequency. The Corsican Union is planning their own strike on the transport. If we can leak the route to the mob and the Free French at the same time, the chaos will be enough for you to disappear."

Julian looked at his wife—truly looked at her. She was no longer just a Milice officer. She was a conspirator.

"You'd betray your uncle?" Julian asked.

"He betrayed France the day he signed that armistice," she replied.

Julian turned to Madame Claire. "Can you get a message to The Nightingale? I need the SOE to provide a distraction at the Amiens junction. If we can divert the Gestapo’s attention, we can hit the transport at the Place de la Concorde."

Claire nodded. "The message will be sent within the hour."

As the three of them stood in the dim light of the study, the lines of the war were finally drawn. The Scoundrel, the Cryptographer, and the Housekeeper—an unlikely trio of shadows preparing to strike at the heart of the Third Reich’s greed.

"Tomorrow," Julian said, looking at the map of Paris. "We liberate the gold. Or we die trying."