Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 13 Breaking the Stalemate

The gray, oppressive clouds of a Parisian winter hung low over 83 Avenue Foch. Inside the sterile, cold interrogation block, the silence following the gunshot was absolute.

Arthur de Molay had calculated every detail. He had told his plant—the thug disguised as an SOE agent—that this was merely a performance. The gun would be empty, the "prisoner" would be a hero, and Julian would be the fool who failed the test.

Ding Moqun—now the feared Director De Molay—had wanted this effect. He believed that if he could deceive his own enforcers like Inspector Girard, he could deceive anyone. But as he watched Julian hold the Browning M1900 with a strange, discerning stillness, he felt a flicker of unease.

"Julian," Arthur said, his voice a low, gravelly warning. "What are you waiting for? He is an enemy of France."

Julian didn't look at the prisoner. Instead, he looked at the weapon. With a fluid, practiced motion that stunned everyone in the room, he dropped the magazine into his palm.

Girard broke out in a cold sweat. When he saw the empty magazine, his mouth fell open.

"To be honest, Uncle," Julian said, his voice devoid of his usual drunken slur, "my sense of touch is far more acute than the average man’s. With a Browning, I can tell if it's loaded just by the weight of the grip and the balance of the slide." He looked Arthur directly in the eye. "Did you forget to reload, or is the Milice running low on lead?"

He handed the pistol back to a stunned Arthur, then turned his gaze toward Girard.

"Girard, old friend," Julian said smoothly. "The Director seems to have had a lapse in memory. May I borrow yours?"

Girard, acting on pure instinct, drew his own sidearm and handed it over. Before Arthur could utter a single word to stop the farce, Julian had already thumbed the safety. He turned, his posture shifting into a classic duelist's stance, and aimed at the "agent" on the Iron Seat.

The man in the chair saw the coldness in Julian’s eyes and realized the script had been burned. This wasn't the "scoundrel" he was supposed to trick.

"Wait! Director! I—"

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots barked in the cramped stone room. One to the forehead, two to the chest. The man slumped forward, dead before his confession could ruin the Director’s reputation.

(Well,) Arthur thought, his mind reeling behind a mask of indifference, (at least I can save those five gold sovereigns I promised him.)

Girard stared in sheer astonishment. Only after Julian handed the gun back did the Inspector find his voice. "My God, Vance... that marksmanship. It’s incredible!"

Arthur’s lips twitched. He knew Julian had training, but this was different. According to the files from the Berlin Military Academy, Julian was an expert, yet a month ago, during a trial execution of a death-row inmate at the Marne Range, Julian had vomited until he was delirious.

Who would have thought that a few weeks later, he could kill so clinically?

Julian stood indifferently, his face a mask. He knew the original "Julian Vance" would have collapsed. But the man inhabiting this body now was a veteran of the grimmest criminal cases. He had seen death in its most naked forms; he had been through the fire and the psychological counseling that followed. In this world, Julian knew a simple truth: if you don't fire, the bullets hit you.

The Operations Office

Inside the Action Section, the gossip was spreading like a wildfire. Inspector Girard was vividly recounting the scene to his superior, Captain Dupont (the man the office knew as Ma Shangcheng).

"Section Chief, you have no idea," Girard said, gesturing wildly. "The 'Scoundrel' we’ve been mocking... he’s a ghost with a gun. Three shots, tight grouping. It’s a waste to have him filing papers in Intelligence."

Dupont, clad in a sharp gray trench coat and a blue silk vest, leaned back in his leather chair. He had a long, horse-like face and small, predatory eyes—a face that looked comical until you realized he was responsible for hundreds of disappearances in the French underground.

"He’s De Molay’s nephew-in-law, Girard. Did you think he was just a pretty face?" Dupont grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "But we’re short-staffed. A man who kills without blinking is a man I want in the Action Section." He shook his head. "No, forget it. I don't need a high-profile troublemaker in my unit yet."

Just then, a knock at the door interrupted them. It was a runner from the Cryptography department.

In the Director's office, Julian sat upright, facing Arthur de Molay across the dark mahogany desk.

"You did well today, Ah Xuan," Arthur said, lighting a cigar. "Your decisiveness has silenced the Action Team. Dupont is like a stray dog—if you don't show him the whip, he’ll try to steal your scraps."

Arthur slid a file across the desk. "This was compiled from the 'remains' found at the photo studio. I want you to follow up on this mission. I’ll coordinate with Chief Inspector Gaston."

Julian opened the report. His eyes scanned the names. It was a list of the 'Canvas' Resistance Cell—the very people Vivienne had betrayed.

If Julian hadn't already known the truth, he would have believed the lie on the page. But he saw the trap within the trap. Arthur was ordering an immediate arrest.

Was this another loyalty test? Was Arthur watching to see if the cell would be warned? Or was he truly using Julian to do the dirty work of dismantling the Resistance?

Julian activated his dialysis mode, watching Arthur’s still, cold face. For the first time, the Director’s mind was a vault. No thoughts leaked out. No whispers of the heart.

"I'll start immediately, Uncle," Julian said, his voice as steady as the hand that had fired the three shots.

As he walked out, Julian realized he was no longer just playing a game of shadows. He was the shadow itself.

The heavy oak doors of the Director’s office closed behind Julian with a soft, final thud. The hallway of 83 Avenue Foch was long and dimly lit, the shadows stretched thin by the pale winter sun filtering through high, arched windows. Julian tucked the folder under his arm, his fingers still tingling from the recoil of Girard’s pistol.

He didn't head back to his desk. Instead, he made his way toward the Signals & Cryptography wing. He needed to see Adelaide. If Arthur was moving this quickly on the 'Canvas' cell, it meant the "leak" from the morning had accelerated the Nazi timeline. They weren't just pruning the Resistance anymore; they were clear-cutting the forest.

The Signals Wing

Inside the cryptography hub, the air was thick with the rhythmic clatter of Enigma rotors and the low hum of vacuum tubes. Adelaide de Molay sat at the center of the chaos, a pair of headphones draped around her neck. She looked up as Julian entered, her sharp eyes immediately landing on the folder in his hand.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Julian," she said, her voice loud enough for the nearby clerks to hear. "Or did the paperwork finally get the better of you?"

"The paperwork is fine, my dear," Julian replied, leaning over her desk to bridge the gap of privacy. "But your uncle has decided I’m the new golden boy of the Action Section. I’ve been assigned to the 'Canvas' cleanup."

Adelaide’s breath hitched. She knew what that meant. The 'Canvas' cell was the lifeline for the SOE in the 6th Arrondissement. If it fell, The Nightingale and her couriers would be stranded.

"He sent you?" she whispered, her eyes darting to Lieutenant Morel, who was busy at a nearby station. "Julian, that’s not an assignment. It’s a funeral."

"I know," Julian said, his voice dropping to a barely audible frequency. "I need the transport route for the Sovereign Vaults. He mentioned it in the Vaults just now. He’s using the raid as a smokescreen to move the gold. If the Action Teams are busy arresting 'The Artist’s' old friends, the streets will be clear for the trucks."

Adelaide turned back to her desk, her fingers flying across a series of ledger sheets. "The route isn't on the main boards. It’s being handled by the Abwehr—Colonel Von Stauffer’s people. But if I can intercept the radio check-ins from the escort detail, I can map it."

"Do it," Julian said. "I’ll buy you time with the raid."

The Raid on Rue de Seine

An hour later, Julian found himself back in the rear of a black Citroën, this time leading a squad of six men from the Action Section. They were heading for a small gallery on the Rue de Seine, the alleged heart of the 'Canvas' cell.

In the seat beside him, Inspector Girard was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. "The Director said we take no prisoners this time, Vance. Said the intelligence is more useful when the sources are silenced."

Julian stared out at the passing storefronts. He had to warn them. But how? The car was a cage. Every movement he made was being scrutinized by Girard, who was still riding the high of Julian’s marksmanship display.

(He thinks he’s one of us now,) Girard’s mind buzzed with a dull, sickening pride. (A cold-blooded killer in a silk tie. I’ll make sure he gets the first shot today, too.)

As the car rounded the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Germain, Julian spotted a familiar figure near a flower stall—a woman in a Floral Tea Dress and a wide-brimmed hat.

Margot.

She was walking directly toward the gallery. She was walking into the mouth of the shark.

Julian’s mind shifted into overdrive. He couldn't signal her. He couldn't stop the car. He looked at the driver’s dashboard—a heavy, bakelite radio unit.

"Girard," Julian said, feigning a sudden coughing fit. "That cigar of yours is atrocious. Give me a light, at least, if you’re going to poison the air."

As Girard reached for his lighter, Julian leaned forward, his elbow "accidentally" striking the radio's frequency dial, sending a burst of high-pitched static through the car’s speakers. At the same time, he slammed his foot down on an imaginary brake, his heel catching the edge of the driver's seat.

"Watch it!" the driver yelled as the car lurched.

The sudden screech of tires and the blast of radio static were enough. Margot stopped ten yards from the gallery. She didn't look at the car. She didn't look at Julian. She simply turned into an alleyway and vanished.

"Clumsy fool," Girard grumbled, tucking his lighter away. "Keep your feet to yourself, Vance."

"My apologies," Julian said, his heart slowing. "Nerves, I suppose."

The raid was a hollow victory. They smashed the doors of the gallery, but it was empty. The 'Canvas' members had fled minutes before, leaving behind nothing but empty frames and the smell of turpentine.

Girard was furious, kicking over an easel. "Leaked! It was leaked! Someone tipped them off!"

Julian stood in the center of the room, looking at a half-finished painting of the Seine. "Perhaps they just have better instincts than we give them credit for, Inspector. Or perhaps the grenade at the photo studio was a louder warning than you thought."

The Night of the Sovereigns

Julian returned to the De Molay estate late that evening. The house was quiet, but the air was electric. He found Adelaide in the kitchen, staring into a cup of cold tea. Madame Claire was upstairs, presumably tending to Elodie.

"I have it," Adelaide said without looking up.

She slid a piece of paper across the wooden table. It was a hand-drawn map of the Place de la Concorde.

"The gold leaves the Banque de France at midnight. Three armored trucks, disguised as Red Cross transports. They aren't taking the main roads to the station. They’re cutting through the Tuileries Garden to avoid the barricades."

Julian studied the map. "And the escort?"

"A full platoon of the Waffen-SS. Major Heinrich Adler is personally commanding the rear guard."

Julian looked at her, his eyes dark. "Adelaide, if we do this—if we give this to the Corsican Union and the Free French—there is no coming back. Arthur will know. He’ll know the leak came from inside."

Adelaide stood up, her face a mask of cold fury. "He already knows there’s a mole, Julian. He’s just waiting for a reason to point the finger at you. I’d rather give him a reason that costs him the Third Reich’s fortune."

Suddenly, the front door groaned open. The heavy, rhythmic thud of jackboots echoed in the foyer.

Major Heinrich Adler stepped into the kitchen, his silver SS runes gleaming in the low light. Behind him stood Arthur de Molay, his face as pale as parchment.

"A family meeting?" Adler said, his voice a silky, terrifying purr. "How charming. I hope I’m not interrupting the planning of a... surprise."

Arthur looked at Julian, his eyes filled with a profound, jagged sadness. "Ah Xuan. The Gestapo has intercepted a shortwave broadcast from this neighborhood. A signal they call 'Lancelot.'"

Arthur walked to the table and picked up the map Adelaide had drawn. He looked at it for a long time, then slowly tore it into four pieces.

"My own blood," Arthur whispered. "I gave you everything. I gave you my niece. I gave you a place at my side."

Julian didn't move. He felt the weight of the concealed pistol at his small of his back. He looked at Adelaide, then at Adler. The game was over. The stalemate was broken.

"The thing about blood, Uncle," Julian said, his voice dropping into the cold, lethal tone of The Ghost, "is that it eventually spills. The only question is whose hits the floor first."

Adler smiled, reaching for his holster. "An excellent question, Herr Vance. Let’s find out."