Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 11: The Leak

After his tense exchange in the bull-pen, Julian Vance’s mind worked with the precision of a Swiss watch. He had successfully redirected the heat toward the slovenly Su Jian, but the game was far from over.

Outside, at the De Molay residence at 83 Avenue Foch, the atmosphere was deceptively domestic. Madame Claire, the family’s longtime housekeeper, brought out a tray with two steaming bowls of Bouillabaisse and a side of crusty baguette. She stood back with a small, satisfied smile, watching Julian and Elodie eat in the sun-drenched breakfast nook.

Madame Claire had noticed the shift. Since the previous evening, the friction between the master’s niece and her "scoundrel" husband seemed to have smoothed into something resembling a truce. At the very least, Elodie no longer looked at Julian as if he were a bug she wanted to squash with her heel.

Julian and Elodie usually shared their midday meal alone. Arthur de Molay and Adelaide were far too entrenched in the "Red Terror" investigations to leave the office, typically grabbing a quick, joyless meal at the Milice Mess Hall.

"Julian," Elodie said, tearing off a piece of bread. "You don't need to pick me up from the Lycée at noon anymore. You have a real job now. You can't just wander off whenever you please."

Julian sipped his wine, his expression unreadable. He had been waiting by the school gates a full twenty minutes early today, having spent the previous hour securing those beef pastries.

Elodie was pemberontak—rebellious—but she wasn't stupid. She knew that even with Arthur’s protection, Julian’s blatant disregard for Milice protocol would eventually draw the wrong kind of attention.

"Understood," Julian replied simply.

Elodie’s lips twitched. "Goodness, you’re direct today! My good mood is officially ruined." She threw down her napkin and stood up, her face flushing a heated red. "Fine! I’m going back to school. Don't bother coming for me later. I’ll walk!"

She stomped toward the door, her heels clattering against the marble, and slammed it behind her with a force that rattled the china.

"Monsieur Julian!" Madame Claire sighed, half-amused and half-exasperated. "I thought we were making progress."

"She’s spirited, Claire," Julian said, putting down his spoon. "Send one of the house security guards to follow her discreetly. Paris isn't a playground for schoolgirls today."

Without another word, Julian retreated to his study, locking the door behind him.

Returning to the Intelligence Division after lunch, Julian found Su Jian waiting for him with a nervous twitch in his eye.

"Vance, where did you disappear to?"

"Lunch at home. The wine at the Mess Hall tastes like battery acid," Julian remarked.

Su Jian blinked, taken aback by Julian’s casual arrogance. "Well, Chief Inspector Gaston wants to see you. Immediately. His office."

Julian offered a thin, ghost of a smile. "Thanks, Su Jian."

Inside the Chief Inspector’s office, the air was thick with the scent of stale tobacco. Gaston was leaning over a series of dossiers.

"Sit down, Vance," Gaston said, his voice surprisingly warm—the kind of warmth a butcher might show a prized calf. "Tell me, where did you go for lunch?"

"I picked up my sister-in-law. Family duties, Inspector."

Gaston nodded, gesturing to a document on the desk. "I want you to look at this intelligence report first."

As Julian read the file, he felt the familiar weight of Edith's analytical mode engaging. He could practically hear Gaston’s internal monologue through the man’s shifty eyes and the way he tapped his signet ring.

(If Vance doesn't trip up after this double-cross by the Director and the 'Artist,' he’s either a saint or the best damn actor in France,) Gaston was thinking. (Screened twelve times by the Gestapo and still standing. Unbelievable.)

Julian realized with a jolt that his "onboarding" was a second-tier screening. The intelligence in the folder was a plant—a false lead about the woman codenamed The Nightingale.

"Finished?" Gaston asked.

"It’s a detailed report, sir," Julian replied cautiously.

"I want you to represent the Intelligence Section on a field mission with the Action Teams," Gaston said, leaning in. "This 'Nightingale' is the SOE agent who escaped the flower shop on Rue de Seine. I hear you and Elodie nearly met your ends at her hands. I’m giving you a chance for a little Gallic revenge. What do you say?"

Julian didn't bite. He tilted his head, playing the role of the confused novice. "Inspector, surely the Action Teams handle arrests? I’m a clerk. I wouldn't want to get in the way of the professionals."

Gaston laughed. "Vance, you have a lot to learn. We provide the brain; they provide the muscle. We share the credit. Unless, of course, you don't think you're up to the task?"

Julian saw the trap clearly now. If he refused, he looked suspicious. If he went, he might be forced to pull a trigger on a fellow agent.

"The Director entrusted you to me, Julian," Gaston added, his voice dropping an octave. "Don't let me down."

From the window of the Signals & Cryptography wing, Adelaide watched through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains. She saw the black Milice Citroëns roar out of the courtyard, Julian sitting in the back of the lead car. Her brow furrowed, a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach.

She turned back to her desk as Lieutenant Morel entered, holding a red-striped telegram.

"Report, Section Chief," Morel said. "This coded dispatch came through the high-frequency line from our contact in London. It’s eyes-only for the Director."

Adelaide took the paper. She looked at the blocks of encrypted text. She couldn't read a word of it. This was part of a private code—a "Nesting Doll" cipher—shared only between her uncle and his deep-cover mole in the British War Office.

She brought it to Arthur de Molay’s office. He took it without a word, his face hardening as he retrieved a small, leather-bound codebook from his floor safe.

As he translated the characters, his face flushed a dark, angry crimson.

"OPERATION SCYTHE LEAKED stop LONDON PREPARED stop MISSION COMPROMISED stop"

Bang!

Arthur slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, the inkwell jumping. His eyes were wide with a mix of fury and paranoia.

"The Scythe was leaked?" he hissed to the empty room. "The operation only started three hours ago! How could London already have the counter-movements ready?"

He thought back to the intelligence bull-pen. Only a handful of men had access to those rail schedules. If one of them was an SOE rat, the entire Milice was sitting on a powder keg.

"Julian," he whispered, the name tasting like poison. "Or is it Su Jian? Or perhaps... my own niece?"

Arthur de Molay looked at the map of Paris. The game had shifted. It was no longer about catching the Resistance; it was about finding the traitor who was breathing his air.

He picked up the phone. "Gaston? Change the parameters of the Nightingale arrest. I want to see how our new recruit reacts when the bullets start flying."

The black Citroëns sped through the cobblestone streets of the 16th Arrondissement, their sirens silent but their presence screaming authority. Julian sat in the rear of the lead vehicle, flanked by two burly Action Team operatives who smelled of garlic and gun oil. Across from him sat Captain Dupont, Adelaide’s rival and a man who treated cruelty as a refined art.

Dupont toyed with a pair of leather gloves, his eyes fixed on Julian. "You look a bit pale, Vance. I hope you aren't the type to get sick at the sight of a little 'interrogation' work."

Julian forced a bored, slightly condescending yawn. "I’m just wondering if we’ll be back in time for dinner, Captain. My cook is making Coq au Vin, and it would be a tragedy to let it go cold for the sake of a rogue bird like the Nightingale."

Inside, however, Julian’s mind was screaming. Gaston and Arthur de Molay were testing him. This "mission" was a live-fire screening. If Margot—the Nightingale—really was at the location they were hitting, Julian would be forced to choose between his cover and her life.

The motorcade screeched to a halt near a derelict warehouse on the banks of the Seine. This was the Interrogation Block, a secondary site used when The Vaults at Avenue Foch were too crowded with "politicals."

"We have intel that the Nightingale is meeting a courier here to hand over the stolen Scythe documents," Dupont whispered, drawing his Luger. "Vance, you’re with the breach team. I want you to see the face of the woman who nearly killed your sister-in-law."

Julian stepped out of the car, his heart hammering against his ribs. As they approached the heavy iron doors, he activated his analytical mode. His eyes scanned the perimeter—ten meters, fifteen...

(Scanning thermal signatures... three guards at the rear... one figure in the upper loft...)

Wait. The figure in the loft wasn't Margot. Even from this distance, the posture was wrong. It was a man, large and stationary.

A trap, Julian realized. This isn't an arrest. It’s a stage play.

As the breach team kicked in the door, Julian intentionally stumbled, falling behind a stack of rusted oil drums. "Go! Go!" Dupont roared, his men swarming into the dark interior of the warehouse.

A split second later, the loft exploded in a flash of muzzle fire. But it wasn't the rhythmic staccato of a Sten gun; it was the heavy, controlled thud of an MG-34—a German machine gun.

Julian crouched low, his eyes darting to the shadows. He saw Gaston standing by a black sedan fifty yards away, calmly watching the chaos through binoculars. Gaston wasn't looking at the warehouse. He was looking at Julian.

The "Nightingale" wasn't here. This was a simulated ambush to see if Julian would try to warn the "Resistance" or if he would cower like the dandy he pretended to be.

Julian didn't cower. He didn't warn anyone. Instead, he did something far more characteristic of a "Scoundrel." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his flask, and took a long, shaky swig of brandy while leaning against the oil drum, looking absolutely terrified and utterly useless.

Back at 83 Avenue Foch, the atmosphere was suffocating. Adelaide paced the floor of the Signals room, her fingers tracing the edge of the red-striped telegram she had delivered to her uncle earlier.

"Morel," she called out, her voice sharp. "The London frequency. Has there been any secondary chatter? Any follow-up on the leak report?"

Lieutenant Morel shook his head. "Silence, Section Chief. It’s as if the London office went dark the moment that message was sent."

Adelaide’s mind raced. If the "Scythe" plans were leaked, and Julian had been the only one "spacing out" near the manifests, her uncle would kill him. Nephew-in-law or not, Arthur de Molay did not forgive failures, and he executed traitors.

She slipped out of the room and made her way to the archives. She needed to know what was in that "Nesting Doll" code. If she could prove the leak came from elsewhere, she might save Julian’s neck.

As she reached the heavy steel door of the Archive Wing, she saw a shadow move. It was Madame Claire, the housekeeper, carrying a tray of tea toward Arthur’s office. But something was wrong. Claire wasn't taking the main stairs; she was slipping into the service corridor that led to the private telephone exchange.

Adelaide followed, her breath held. She watched through a crack in the door as the "loyal housekeeper" sat down at the switchboard, expertly plugged in a series of patches, and spoke into the receiver.

"The Lancelot signal has been received," Claire whispered in flawless, unaccented English. "The Ghost is in the lion's den. Proceed with the extraction of the Nightingale. Tell Masterman the Sovereign Vaults are the next move."

Adelaide nearly gasped. The housekeeper? The woman who had raised her, the woman who had served the De Molay family for twenty years, was an SOE sleeper agent?

And more importantly... who was Lancelot?

The warehouse "mission" ended in a farce. Dupont’s men "cleared" the building, finding nothing but a straw-stuffed dummy and a few empty crates.

Dupont walked back to Julian, who was still sitting behind the oil drums, looking slightly tipsy and very pale.

"Nothing but ghosts, Vance," Dupont spat, holstering his weapon. "Your 'Nightingale' gave us the slip."

"Dreadful," Julian muttered, wiping his brow. "Simply dreadful. All that noise and not even a glimpse of a floral dress. Can we go home now? I think I’ve had enough excitement for one career."

Gaston approached, his eyes lingering on Julian’s shaking hands. "You handled yourself... as expected, Julian. Go home. The Director will want a full debrief in the morning."

As the cars pulled away, Julian leaned his head against the cold glass of the window. He had survived the second screening. But he knew the pressure was mounting. If Claire was communicating with London, it meant Colonel Masterman was moving the pieces on the board faster than Julian could track.

That evening, the De Molay estate was silent. Dinner was a muted affair. Arthur sat at the head of the table, his eyes dark and sunken. Adelaide sat opposite Julian, her gaze piercing, as if she were trying to see through his skull.

"I heard the arrest was a failure," Arthur said, cutting into a piece of rare steak.

"A wild goose chase, Uncle," Julian said lazily. "Or a wild nightingale chase, I suppose."

"Indeed," Arthur replied. He looked at Adelaide. "My dear, I need the decryption of the London intercept by tomorrow. If our mole in Whitehall is telling the truth, the Resistance has a high-level source inside this city. Someone who knows our every move."

"I'll have it, Uncle," Adelaide said, her eyes never leaving Julian’s.

After dinner, Julian retreated to the balcony. The lights of Paris were dimmed by the blackout curtains, the Eiffel Tower a dark skeleton against the stars.

A shadow joined him.

"The beef pastries were a nice touch, Julian," Adelaide said, her voice a low murmur. "But I think you’re more interested in 'Amiens' than you are in street food."

Julian didn't turn. "I told the Colonel, it’s a better bottleneck. Purely academic."

"Madame Claire is a spy," Adelaide whispered.

Julian froze. The air between them turned to ice.

"And I think," she continued, stepping closer until she could smell the brandy and the Gauloise tobacco on his breath, "that you know exactly who Lancelot is. Tell me the truth, Julian. Before my uncle finds it first."

Julian turned, his mask finally slipping. For the first time, the "Scoundrel" was gone, replaced by the hard, cold eyes of a man who had seen too much war. He looked at his wife—the woman who broke codes for the enemy—and saw the flickering hope in her eyes.

"If I tell you," Julian said, his voice a ghost of a whisper, "there is no going back, Adelaide. You won't just be my wife. You’ll be an enemy of the State."

"I’ve been an enemy of the State since the day the boots hit the pavement in June," she replied.

In the shadows of the hallway, Madame Claire watched them, a small, silver pistol tucked into her apron. The game in Paris was no longer a secret war. It was a family affair.