Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 19: Naïve

Rue de la Paix, at the home of Maître Dubois.

Inside the modest apartment smelling of butter and herbs, Maître Dubois sat across from Margot LeClerc (The Nightingale) at the dinner table. When his daughter finally stepped through the door, untouched and safe, the old chef let out a breath he felt he had been holding for an eternity.

"Young lady," Dubois said, his voice trembling as he looked at Margot, "we have done exactly as you asked. We delivered the confit to that devil’s house on Avenue Foch. Now, can you please leave us be?"

Margot forced a tired, professional smile. She beckoned the girl over. "Colette, I’m sorry. I had no other way to get a message to him. You were the only one they wouldn't stop at the gate."

The chef expected his daughter to be trembling with fear. Instead, Colette Dubois—a girl of fourteen with short-cropped hair and sharp, intelligent eyes—spread several banknotes out on the table with a dead-serious expression.

"Sister," Colette said, looking Margot in the eye, "are you with the Free French? Are you fighting the Boche?" She pointed to the numbers scribbled on the margins of one of the notes. "I couldn't understand these, but I know a cipher when I see one. You were passing intelligence, weren't you?"

Maître Dubois’s heart nearly stopped. He began winking frantically at his daughter, his face contorting in an effort to get her to shut up. He was the descendant of royal chefs; he had seen enough regimes fall to know that "intelligence" was a word that got people lined up against a wall. He had worked his fingers to the bone to send Colette to the Lycée Henri-IV, hoping she would be a scholar, not a martyr.

Colette ignored her father’s frantic signals. Seeing Margot’s stunned silence, she ran to her bedroom and returned clutching a thin, battered book.

When Margot saw the title, she felt a chill. It wasn't just a book; it was a death warrant. It was a collection of forbidden Gaullist pamphlets and underground revolutionary manifestos.

"Sister," Colette whispered, her dimples showing as she smiled a dangerous, starry-eyed smile. "I know everything. Vive la Liberté!"

Dubois looked like he might faint. He had no idea his obedient daughter was harboring such poison under his roof. In occupied Paris, this was a recipe for the guillotine.

Margot quickly took off her silk scarf and wrapped it around the book, shielding it from view. Her voice was solemn and low. "Colette, listen to me. You are never to show this to anyone again. Do you understand? Not a soul."

"I'm not stupid," Colette countered, her chin tilted high. "I want to join the Resistance. I want to be like you."

Margot looked at the girl—so young, so innocent, and so terrifyingly brave—and felt a pang of guilt. "We’ll talk about that when Paris is free. For now, be a daughter. That is your mission."

SOE Headquarters: Baker Street, London

Across the Channel, the atmosphere in Colonel Masterman’s office was far more explosive. A set of exquisite Yixing teapots—Masterman’s only luxury—lay in shattered ceramic shards against the wall.

Major Higgins and Colonel Sterling stood like statues, barely daring to breathe. They had never seen Masterman this furious. The cold, kalkulatif director of the SOE had finally snapped.

"Sterling! What is the meaning of this?" Masterman roared, slamming his fist onto his leather-topped desk. "You’re telling me our entire signals network in the 16th Arrondissement has gone dark? At the exact moment the 'Ironclad' Squad is moving into position?"

Sterling wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "Director, the situation is... irregular. We received the intelligence from Lancelot via The Nightingale, but since then, the lines have been severed. The Milice has instituted a total blackout at 83 Avenue Foch."

Masterman sat back, his eyes bloodshot. "Higgins, what about the Hurricane mission? The 'Ironclad' boys? They’re asking for confirmation, and you’re telling me we’re flying blind?"

"We can't gamble, sir," Higgins said softly. "If the information was a plant by Arthur de Molay, the Ironclads are walking into a meat grinder."

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. A communications officer entered, clutching a red-folder telegram. Higgins grabbed it, pulling out his personal codebook. As he translated, his face turned a sickly shade of gray.

Masterman stood up, reading over Higgins's shoulder.

CRASH!

Masterman swept an ashtray off the desk. "Damn it! I’ve exposed The Phoenix and Lancelot!"

Higgins nearly choked. "Director, what did you say?"

"I said we've been played!" Masterman snarled, pointing a trembling finger at the telegram. "We fell for De Molay’s lure. We scrambled to protect a cell that was already burnt, and in doing so, we let him trace the communications back to our two highest-level assets."

Higgins looked at the decoded text. It was a disaster.

"Director," Higgins stammered, "The Nightingale obtained intelligence from The Ghost (Julian) that the purge was a trap. But De Molay used that very leak to identify the existence of 'Lancelot' and 'The Phoenix.' The information was channeled to the Milice by an Abwehr spy in our own department—codenamed The Pangolin."

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of failure. Sterling had spent years grooming The Phoenix for her role inside the Milice’s cryptography wing. Now, the code names were known. And in the world of the Gestapo, once they had a name, the face was only a matter of time and torture.

"Who is he?" Masterman whispered, his voice dangerously calm. "Who is the Pangolin? Who is the rat in my house?"

Before they could answer, the door opened again. Major Thorne, the Head of Telecommunications, stepped in, his expression grim.

"Director, we have a second relay coming in from the Corsican Union in Paris. It seems Lancelot has made a final move. He’s not waiting for us. He’s gone back into the wolf's den to shield The Phoenix."

Masterman looked out the window toward the foggy London skyline. "He's either the bravest man I've ever employed, or the biggest fool. May God help them, because I certainly can't reach them now."

83 Avenue Foch: The Lion's Den

In Paris, Julian Vance sat on the floral sofa of the De Molay estate. He could hear the faint sound of Elodie humming in the kitchen, and the rhythmic thump-thump of Madame Claire chopping vegetables.

But his mind was with Adelaide. He knew the blackout at the Milice headquarters meant one of two things: either she was being interrogated, or she was being used as bait.

When the phone rang, Julian didn't hesitate. He picked it up before the first ring had even finished.

"It's you again," Julian said, his voice a perfect blend of irritation and boredom for the benefit of the listening Sergeant Bastien across the street. "The Director isn't here."

"Mr. Vance, please!" It was Vivienne (The Artist). Her voice was a jagged edge of panic. "The Resistance... they found me! The 'Canvas' cell knows I talked. They’re coming for me at Entrepôt Treize! If you find the Director, tell him I have the names of the London handlers. I can give him the 'Pangolin’s' contact! Please, Julian... save me!"

Julian hung up, his heart racing. He knew it was a trap. The mention of the "Pangolin"—a name he had only just deduced himself—was the giveaway. Arthur was testing to see if Julian would try to "rescue" the traitor or warn his SOE friends.

(Edith,) Julian thought, his eyes tracking the movement of a shadow across the window. (How much longer until the next function is ready?)

(Sir,) the voice in his head replied, (you are currently at 88% synchronization. The 'Neuro-Mapping' feature requires a high-stress stimulus to activate. I suggest you confront the primary threat.)

Julian stood up, grabbing his coat. "Madame Claire! I’m going back to the office. It seems the 'Scoundrel' has to play messenger boy again."

"Brother-in-law, wait!" Elodie ran out, her mouth full of rice cake. "I'm coming too!"

"No, Elodie," Julian said, his voice unusually sharp. "Stay here. Lock the doors. Do not answer the phone again."

He walked out into the rain, feeling the eyes of Sergeant Bastien on his back. He didn't care. The game of surveillance was over. It was time for the "Ghost" to walk through walls.

The pieces are set. The identities are compromised. Will Julian's gamble to protect Adelaide lead them to the Sovereign Vaults, or to the Iron Seat?

The drive to 83 Avenue Foch was a blur of gray stone and neon light reflecting off wet asphalt. Julian maintained a steady speed, but his mind was a high-speed processor, discarding a thousand failed scenarios a second.

He pulled the Delahaye to the curb, not at the main gate, but a block away near a small café frequented by low-level informants. He needed to verify the temperature of the building before he stepped into the furnace.

(Synchronization: 92%,) Edith’s voice chimed. (Thermal imaging suggests an unusual concentration of heat signatures in the West Wing. The Cryptography Department is being purged, sir.)

Julian’s blood turned to ice. "Adelaide," he whispered.

He didn't enter through the front. Instead, he used a service key he had "borrowed" from Madame Claire’s collection weeks ago, slipping into the coal delivery entrance. He moved through the bowels of the building, the scent of damp earth and old stone replaced by the sterile, metallic tang of the ventilation system.

He emerged in a maintenance corridor just outside the Signals & Cryptography wing. Through the reinforced glass of a heavy oak door, he saw the chaos.

Milice officers were ripping cables from the walls. Cabinets were being emptied, files tossed into bins for incineration. In the center of the storm stood Adelaide. She wasn't being shackled—not yet—but she was flanked by two Gestapo agents in leather coats. Major Heinrich Adler was standing in front of her, holding a transcript of a decoded message.

"A blue-light pulse on the Rue de Rivoli," Adler said, his voice carrying through the door’s vent. "A very specific, very British signal. And yet, the only person with the authorization to access that frequency today was you, Section Chief de Molay."

Adelaide remained motionless, her face a mask of aristocratic defiance. "Frequencies bleed, Major. The SOE has been pigging-backing on our short-wave bands for months. If you want to blame someone for the failure of your ambush, look at the incompetence of your own signals sweepers."

Adler smiled, a thin, cruel line. "The Director is a sentimental man, Adelaide. He wants to believe his niece is a loyal servant of the New Order. But I am a scientist. I believe in patterns. And the pattern says you are the Phoenix."

Julian felt his hand move toward the pistol at the small of his back.

(Wait, sir,) Edith cautioned. (Neuro-mapping indicates Adler is not looking for a confession. He is looking for a reaction. If you interfere now, both of you are confirmed.)

Julian forced his hand away from the weapon. He turned and slipped back into the shadows of the maintenance hall, circling around toward Arthur de Molay’s private office. If he couldn't fight his way in, he had to lie his way out.

The Director’s Sanctuary

Julian burst into Arthur’s office without knocking. He looked disheveled, his breathing labored, the perfect picture of a man who had seen a ghost.

"Uncle! Thank God you're still here!" Julian gasped, leaning against the doorframe.

Arthur, who had been staring out at the rainy street, turned slowly. His expression was unreadable. "You’re back quickly, Julian. Did you find Vivienne in Saint-Denis?"

"I didn't go," Julian said, stumbling toward the desk. "I was halfway there when I saw a Milice patrol being chased by a black van. Not an SOE van, Uncle. Gestapo. They weren't arresting them—they were executing them in the street."

Arthur’s eyes sharpened. "What are you talking about?"

"The 'Pangolin,'" Julian hissed, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves were listening. "The message Vivienne gave me... it was a setup, but not for the Resistance. It was for you. Adler is moving to seize the department. He’s using the 'leak' at the bookstore as a pretext to claim you’ve lost control of the Milice. He’s down there now, interrogating Adelaide!"

This was the gamble. Julian was betting on Arthur’s paranoia being stronger than his suspicion. In the hierarchy of occupied Paris, the only thing a collaborator feared more than the Resistance was being replaced by their German masters.

Arthur’s hand tightened around his brandy glass. (Neuro-mapping: Panic detected. Defensive instinct rising.)

"Adler is in the Cryptography wing?" Arthur asked, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

"He’s dismantling your legacy, Uncle," Julian said, the 'Scoundrel' mask slipping back on with practiced ease. "If he breaks Adelaide, he breaks you. You’ll be in a cell at The Vaults by morning while he takes your seat at the Ritz."

Arthur didn't wait for another word. He grabbed his cane and strode toward the door, his face a thundercloud. "Bastien! Get the personal guard! We’re going to show Major Adler who owns Avenue Foch!"

As Arthur swept out of the room, Julian let out a long, jagged breath. He looked at his hands; they were shaking.

(Synchronization: 100%,) Edith announced. (New Function Active: Tactical Overload. You can now temporarily disrupt local electronic signals within a twenty-meter radius.)

"Good," Julian whispered, drawing his suppressed pistol. "Because the family dinner is officially canceled."

The internal war of the Milice has begun. While Arthur and Adler clash, Julian has a three-minute window to extract Adelaide. But will they make it out of the building before the Gestapo locks down the entire 16th Arrondissement?