Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 10: The Rendezvous

After exchanging a few superficial pleasantries with Su Jian, Julian Vance found his interest waning. He had scanned the man’s workstation with a practiced, predatory eye. The documents Su Jian guarded so zealously were mostly administrative chaff—mundane reports from plainclothes Milice agents patrolling the markets, or minor intelligence regarding black-market tobacco smuggling. None of it was the "gold" Julian was hunting for.

"I’ll leave you to the paperwork, Su Jian," Julian said, offering a casual salute. "I think I’ll take a stroll. The air in here smells a bit too much like bureaucratic sweat."

As the morning wore on, Julian found himself ironically impressed by the dysfunction of the Milice. On his very first day at 83 Avenue Foch, he hadn't been given a single assignment. Aside from a fleeting greeting from Chief Inspector Gaston, he was being treated like a piece of furniture—ornate, perhaps, but ultimately useless.

By 10:00 AM, Julian couldn't stand the stillness. He stood up, grabbed his hat, and walked out. If anyone noticed the "Director’s nephew" leaving hours before lunch, they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

Upstairs, in the Director's sprawling office, Chief Inspector Gaston stood by the window with Arthur de Molay. They watched Julian’s sleek Delahaye pull away from the curb.

"Director, your nephew-in-law is making an early exit," Gaston remarked with a dry, knowing smile.

Arthur de Molay let out a short, gravelly laugh. "Su Jian told me Julian sat there for three hours staring at the ceiling. If you didn't give him anything to do, Gaston, did you expect him to count the floor tiles all day?"

Gaston shrugged, his expression turning slightly more serious. "He’s green, Director. I didn't want to throw him into the deep end of the pool before he learned to swim. But... should I have someone tail him? Just for form's sake?"

Arthur checked his gold pocket watch. "No. He’s going to pick up Elodie from her classes. You did well to keep him idle. Let him play the dandy for now while my internal screening of the staff is finalized. If there is a mole in this building, I don't want Julian’s clumsy feet tripping over the trap."

Parc Monceau, 8th Arrondissement.

The winter sun was pale and weak. Margot LeClerc, draped in a heavy black trench coat and dark sunglasses, sat on a green iron bench overlooking the ornamental lake. She checked her watch every few minutes, her eyes scanning the joggers and the nannies pushing prams.

A beggar, clad in a tattered coat and carrying a sack of discarded bottles, had been shuffling in a slow, erratic circle around the pond for nearly twenty minutes.

(What is he doing?) Margot thought, her hand tightening around the grip of the pistol inside her muff. (It’s almost time for the contact. If he doesn't clear off, I’ll have to abort. Did something go wrong at the Avenue Foch?)

Hearing Margot’s internal panic through the subtle cues of her posture, Julian—hidden behind the grime and the false beard of the beggar—felt a flicker of satisfaction. He had circled the pond three times to ensure no Milice shadows were lurking in the shrubbery.

Satisfied that she wasn't being watched, he limped toward the bench. He knew Margot was sharp; after the flower shop raid, she would have avoided the Hotel Ritz like the plague and retreated to the Rue de Seine safe house.

As Julian approached, he saw Margot’s knuckles whiten. He stopped a few feet away, bending down to pick up a discarded wine bottle.

"That bottle there... I left it by the bench," Julian croaked in a rough, street-worn voice. "Did you take it? It’s worth two sous at the depot. You have to pay a man his due."

Margot stiffened, then a small, relieved smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. She recognized the verbal key. "I’ll pay you, old man. Is three francs and sixty-four centimes enough to settle the debt?"

Julian knelt behind the bench, pretending to sort through his sack, while his voice dropped to a low, clear whisper. "Guinevere. It’s good to see you’re still breathing."

"Lancelot," she hissed. "Keep it brief. What did London say?"

"They want a counter-strike. We’re to cripple the Milice’s action teams and eliminate Vivienne," Julian reported. "And I’m to stay silent. London wants me to dig out the 'Scythe' plans from right under De Molay’s nose."

"Are you insane?" Margot whispered harshly. "That's a suicide mission. Vivienne knows your face. If she sees you in that building—"

"I have my ways, Margot. Don't worry about me."

"How can I not?" she countered, her voice trembling with rare emotion. "My orders from Colonel Masterman are simple: keep you alive. Please, Julian. Just stay quiet. When Paris is liberated, I want to be the one who brings you home in one piece."

Later that afternoon, Julian was driving along the Rue de Seine, a warm bag of braised beef pastries resting on the passenger seat. He had spent his lunch hour cultivating the "scoundrel" persona, stopping by a street stall he’d scouted the night before. Buying Elodie the treats she’d been craving was the perfect cover for his detour to the park.

He pulled up in front of the Sorbonne just as the bells rang.

London, Baker Street. SOE Headquarters.

"Another report signed 'Guinevere,'" Colonel Masterman muttered, looking at the decrypted text. "This woman is either a saint or a ghost."

"Sir," Colonel Sterling interrupted. "We’ve arranged for the identification officer, The Blacksmith, to head to Paris immediately. The 'Canvas' cell is compromised, so we’re pulling The Nightingale out. It’s too dangerous for her to remain."

Masterman sighed, tapping a rhythm on his desk. "Agreed. Once this 'rat-trap' operation to eliminate the traitor is done, pull her back across the Channel." He paused, looking at the second page of the report. "This intelligence about the Nazi 'Scythe' sweep in the countryside... should we pass it to the Leftists?"

Sterling looked uneasy. "The Communists? Sir, the Generalissimo’s Office in the Free French camp would have our heads if we shared intel with the FTP."

Masterman gritted his teeth. "Tell them anyway. We need the FTP to harass the German flanks if we’re going to survive the winter. Think of it as a tactical favor. We don't need De Gaulle’s permission to win a war."

Paris, Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Café de la Paix.

Two figures sat back-to-back in the plush velvet booths, the clinking of porcelain hiding their conversation.

"The Courier," a woman whispered, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. "This is the 'Scythe' plan. The Nazis are moving on the Maquis du Vercors by rail. Get this to the Independent Regiment immediately."

"Where did this come from, L'Absinthe?"

"It doesn't matter. If the Maquis don't move, they’re dead. Go."

The man rose and vanished into the Parisian fog. The woman, codenamed Bitter Wine, took a slow sip of her espresso, her heart finally slowing its frantic beat.

In the car heading back toward Avenue Foch, Elodie took a massive, unladylike bite of a beef pastry, letting out a moan of pure joy.

"Mmm! Julian, you’re a genius!" she chirped. "I thought you were a total bore, but you actually remembered my favorite stall. You’re quite the charmer when you aren't trying to be a miserable husband."

She looked at him sideways, her eyes sparkling. "If you put this much effort into my sister Adelaide, she’d stop looking at you like you’re a stain on the rug. But wait... you aren't actually in love with me, are you, brother-in-law?"

Julian, focused on the road, didn't even blink. "Don't flatter yourself, Elodie. I only bought those so you’d stop using your uncle to blackmail me into taking you out every night. I have a job to do, even if it looks like I’m doing nothing."

"A job?" Elodie laughed. "Drinking tea and reading the poems of Verlaine? You’re a regular hero of the state, Julian."

Julian smiled thinly, his eyes reflecting the gray, occupied streets of Paris. They had no idea that the "pampered fool" had just signed the death warrant for a traitor and saved a thousand men in the French countryside.

The Delahaye purred as it turned onto Avenue Foch, the skeletal branches of the chestnut trees clawing at a sky the color of wet slate. Elodie had polished off the last of the pastries, licking a smudge of gravy from her thumb with a look of pure mischief.

"You know," she said, smoothing out her school skirt, "if Adelaide saw you picking up beggars’ habits and street food, she’d have a fit. She thinks you’re a 'Vaurien'—a scoundrel through and through. But I see the way you look at the Milice checkpoints, Julian. You don't look bored. You look like you're measuring the height of the gallows."

Julian gripped the steering wheel a fraction tighter. "I’m measuring the traffic, Elodie. Nothing more. Now, out you go. I have a report to finish, even if it’s just a report on how much stationery the department wasted today."

He watched her vanish into the grand foyer of the De Molay estate before turning the car back toward the Milice headquarters. The "scoundrel" mask was heavy, but the "beggar" rags he had stashed in the trunk were heavier still. He had to be perfect. One slip, one moment of genuine emotion, and the guillotine wouldn't just be a metaphor.

Inside 83 Avenue Foch, the atmosphere had shifted from bureaucratic lethargy to a frantic, electric tension. Telephones were ringing incessantly, and the heavy boots of the Gestapo echoed through the marble halls.

Julian entered the intelligence bull-pen to find Chief Inspector Gaston hovering over Su Jian’s desk. Su Jian looked as though he were about to faint, his thick glasses fogging up as he frantically sorted through a mountain of telegrams.

"What's the stir, Gaston?" Julian asked, leaning against a doorframe and lighting a Gauloise. "Did someone lose the key to the wine cellar?"

Gaston turned, his face pale. "A leak, Vance. A catastrophic one. Someone warned the Maquis in the north. The rail line at Compiègne was sabotaged an hour ago. A troop transport was derailed. The Gestapo is screaming for blood."

Julian feigned a look of mild shock. "Sabotage? In this security climate? That’s remarkably bold. Or remarkably well-informed."

He felt a surge of grim triumph. The warning he’d passed to Bitter Wine had reached its mark. The "Scythe" was being blunted before it could even swing.

"Get to your desk, Vance," Gaston snapped. "The Director wants every scrap of intelligence from the last forty-eight hours re-vetted. If there’s a rat in this cellar, I’ll be the one to snap its neck."

While the Milice scrambled, Margot LeClerc was moving through the shadows of the Arondissement 6. She had shed her trench coat for a more practical, dark wool jacket. In her pocket was a small, lead-weighted silencer and a photograph of a woman with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes.

Vivienne. The Artist.

The SOE had a protocol for traitors: Delete and Discard. Vivienne hadn't just sold out the 'Canvas' cell; she had given the Milice the names of three couriers who were currently being "interrogated" in The Vaults beneath Avenue Foch.

Margot found the location—a small, nondescript apartment above a bakery on Rue de Seine. It was a safe house Vivienne had kept secret from the rest of the cell.

Margot climbed the fire escape, her movements as fluid and silent as a cat’s. She reached the third floor and peered through the grime-streaked glass. Vivienne was there, sitting at a small table, counting a stack of Occupation Marks. A half-empty bottle of Bordeaux sat next to a German-issued travel permit.

The traitor was planning to run.

Margot didn't hesitate. She shattered the window with her elbow and rolled into the room. Vivienne shrieked, reaching for a small pistol on the table, but Margot was faster. She delivered a brutal Pistol Whip to the side of Vivienne’s head, sending the woman sprawling across the floor.

"Going somewhere, Vivienne?" Margot asked, her voice like ice. "The Artist usually stays for the final curtain call."

Vivienne looked up, blood trickling from her temple. "Margot... wait. You don't understand. The Milice... they were going to kill my brother. I had no choice!"

"We always have a choice," Margot said, raising her suppressed pistol. "You chose the Marks. I choose the Resistance."

Thwip.

The sound was no louder than a dry branch breaking. Margot didn't look back as she vanished into the night, leaving the "Canvas" cell's betrayer to be found by the bakery staff in the morning.

Back at the Milice headquarters, Julian was summoned to the inner sanctum.

Arthur de Molay was not alone. Sitting across from him was Colonel Klaus Von Stauffer of the Abwehr, and standing by the window was Adelaide.

The room smelled of expensive cigars and cold fury.

"Julian," Arthur said, his voice dangerously low. "My niece tells me you have a remarkable memory for details. An 'analytical mind,' she calls it."

Julian looked at Adelaide. She was staring at a map on the wall, her face a mask of professional indifference, but he saw the slight tremor in her hands. She was trying to protect him, or perhaps she was testing him.

"I remember things that interest me, Uncle," Julian said, his voice steady. "The vintage of a wine, the odds at the Longchamp races... why?"

Von Stauffer turned, his monocular gleaming under the electric light. "Then perhaps you can explain, Herr Vance, why the only person who spent three hours 'spacing out' in the intelligence room this morning—directly across from the desk where the Compiègne transport schedules were processed—was you."

The air in the room vanished. This was the moment. The "leech" was being hauled into the light.

"I was reading poetry, Colonel," Julian said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the battered book he’d been carrying. "Verlaine. Would you like me to recite a few stanzas? Or perhaps you'd prefer I explain why the schedules on Su Jian’s desk were so poorly encrypted that a schoolboy could have read them?"

Arthur de Molay leaned forward. "What did you say?"

"Su Jian is slovenly," Julian said, leaning into the role of the arrogant aristocrat. "He leaves his ledgers open. He smokes over classified manifests. If you’re looking for a leak, don't look at the man reading poetry. Look at the man who treats the Third Reich’s secrets like grocery lists."

Julian pointed to the map. "And if I were a spy—which sounds exhausting—I wouldn't have sabotaged Compiègne. It’s too obvious. I would have hit the junction at Amiens. It’s the true bottleneck."

Von Stauffer and De Molay exchanged a long, piercing look. Julian had just done the unthinkable: he had redirected the suspicion by being too smart, yet framed it through the lens of a bored, superior intellectual.

"Amiens..." Von Stauffer mused. "He has a point, Arthur. The boy has a tactical eye, even if it’s buried under a layer of silk and sloth."

"Go home, Julian," Adelaide said, her voice sharp with relief. "You've said enough."

As Julian walked out of the office, his heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had survived the first interrogation, but he had also revealed a glimpse of the "Ghost" beneath the "Scoundrel."

He knew that tonight, the Milice would be watching him closer than ever. And he knew that tomorrow, he would have to find a way to contact Colonel Masterman in London. The "Sovereign Vaults"—the Nazi gold project—was the next target, and Julian Vance was the only man with a key to the door.