Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 20: Disbelief

"Director, urgent wire from the field! The Ironclad Squad has been decimated near the Louvre. The Milice Action Section, backed by the Gestapo and the SS, sprang the trap. Our losses are catastrophic. The mission to rebuild the Paris Station has failed."

"Aside from The Nightingale and The Sparrow, the rest of the 'Canvas' cell were either executed on the spot or taken into custody. We walked straight into a slaughterhouse."

The telegram, sent by the rescued agent Celeste, hit Colonel Masterman’s desk like a live grenade. In his London office, the Director of the SOE erupted. The sound of crashing porcelain echoed through the halls of Baker Street as he vented his fury. He slammed his fist onto the oak table, his voice a guttural roar:

"Summon every officer in the Telecommunications wing! The Pangolin... I will peel the skin from his bones for this!"

Masterman was certain now. The leak regarding the purge plan—which had triggered this entire chain of death—could only have come from a mole embedded in the very heart of their signal corps.

After the Signal Chief left the room looking like a ghost, Masterman forced himself to breathe. He looked at Higgins and Sterling. "The priority now is the extraction of The Phoenix and Lancelot."

"Sterling, contact The Nightingale immediately. What remains of the Ironclad Squad must pivot to shield The Ghost (Julian). Have Li Mingzhu assume Margot’s secondary clearance. We cannot lose our eyes inside the Milice, no matter the cost!"

Higgins hesitated. "And The Phoenix (Adelaide), sir? We can't reach her."

Masterman’s eyes were cold. "If The Phoenix is silent, it means the walls are closing in. Order her to go deep. Total radio silence. If she isn't online, she is not to breathe a single byte of intel until the heat dies down."

83 Avenue Foch: The Director’s Office

In Paris, Arthur de Molay was in a rare state of joviality. Seeing Julian Vance sitting before him, safe and seemingly loyal, warmed the old collaborator’s heart.

"Ah Xuan, you've done well," Arthur said, pouring a celebratory brandy. "I’ve sent Adelaide and the Action Section to handle the cleanup. You passing that message from Vivienne was the final piece of the puzzle."

Julian nodded with a practiced, lazy indifference, though his stomach was in knots. "I was just doing my part for the family, Uncle."

(Based on the movements,) Arthur’s inner thoughts drifted into Julian’s mind via the dialysis mode, (either The Phoenix and Lancelot are in the field, or they are still in this very building. I pray they aren't who I suspect.)

Julian felt a shiver. The old man’s suspicion hadn't vanished; it had simply narrowed.

Soon, Chief Inspector Gaston entered the room. He greeted Julian with a respectful nod, a clear sign that Julian had—for now—passed the screening.

"Director," Gaston began, "a report from Section Chief Adelaide. The mission was a tactical success. The Ironclad Squad is broken. While The Nightingale and The Sparrow escaped, the rest of the 'Canvas' cell is neutralized. We have one prisoner: Juliette, code-named The Canary."

"And the man London sent to play the new Station Chief?" Arthur asked.

"Dead in the street, sir. The Gestapo has already issued a commendation."

Julian felt a wave of hollow sorrow. The Ironclads had ignored his warning. They had charged into the trap, and now the dream of a rebuilt Paris Station lay in the gutters of the Rue de Rivoli. Without a network to support him, Julian was truly alone in the lion’s den.

Worse, he knew the "pork ribs and rice cakes" excuse he used for his meeting with Li Mingzhu was a flimsy shield. If Arthur dug deeper into the bakery’s delivery logs, Julian was a dead man. He needed to coordinate with Li Mingzhu to stitch the lies together before the next interrogation.

The Interrogation Block

The lockdown at 83 Avenue Foch was finally lifted, but Julian wasn't allowed to leave. Instead, he was summoned to the grand interrogation chamber—the Iron Seat room.

Arthur was "fishing" again. He had ordered every departmental head to be present for the questioning of the lone survivor, Juliette.

Julian sat next to Adelaide, who had just returned from the field. Her floral tea dress was stained with soot at the hem, her face pale. He reached out and squeezed her hand under the table; it was ice-cold.

In the center of the room, strapped to the bolted iron chair, was Juliette.

She was young, perhaps twenty-four, with a trendy bobbed haircut that mirrored the style of the high-society women at the Ritz. Even with a roughly bandaged gunshot wound on her thigh and her clothes torn, she maintained an eerie composure. She didn't look like a victim; she looked like a judge, observing the collaborators in the room with a terrifyingly calm interest.

Arthur leaned forward, the light from the overhead lamp reflecting off his spectacles.

"My dear Juliette," Arthur said softly. "You are the last of your cell. Your friends are dead. Your 'Station Chief' is a corpse. Tell me... who told the Ironclads to move tonight? Who was the voice on the wind?"

Julian held his breath. If Juliette broke, if she mentioned a "Ghost" or a warning from a "Scoundrel," the floor would fall out from under him.

Juliette looked at Arthur, then her eyes drifted to Julian. A small, knowing smile played on her lips.

"The wind in Paris doesn't talk to traitors, Monsieur de Molay," she whispered. "It only whispers to those who are still brave enough to listen."

Arthur’s face darkened. He gestured to the man standing by the electrical transformer. "Let’s see how long her bravery lasts when the lightning strikes."

The interrogation has begun. As the 'Canary' begins to sing under torture, Julian must find a way to silence her or discredit her before she identifies the Ghost. Meanwhile, Adelaide realizes that her own actions during the raid have left a trail that Major Adler is already following.

The hum of the electrical transformer filled the interrogation room, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to rattle the very bones of everyone present. Julian sat perfectly still, his hand still resting over Adelaide’s cold fingers beneath the table.

(Synchronization: 94%,) Edith’s voice pulsed in his mind. (Target: Juliette. Emotional state: Resolute. Pain threshold: Approaching critical. Neuro-mapping suggests she is looking for a way to protect the 'Ghost' without revealing his face.)

Julian realized with a jolt of terror that Juliette knew who he was. Not because they had met, but because the SOE’s training was based on pattern recognition. She saw the way he sat, the way he watched Arthur—she knew he was the mole who had tried to save them.

"I’ll ask you once more, my dear," Arthur said, his voice as smooth as aged cognac. "The Ironclads moved before our trap was fully sprung. They were warned. By whom?"

Juliette spat a mouthful of blood onto the stone floor. "Maybe they just didn't like the smell of your cologne, Director. It reeks of Vichy cowardice."

Arthur nodded to the guard. The man turned the dial. Juliette’s body convulsed in the iron chair, her fingers clawing at the armrests. A muffled scream escaped her clenched teeth, but she did not break.

Adelaide shifted beside Julian, her breathing becoming shallow. She was the Head of Cryptography; she was supposed to be the one extracting the codes, not watching a girl her own age be dismantled.

"Uncle," Adelaide said, her voice cutting through the hum of the machine. "She’s a field agent. They are trained to withstand pain. If you want the source of the leak, let me examine her cipher pads. Physical torture is a blunt instrument for a sharp problem."

Arthur turned his gaze toward his niece. "Adelaide, your empathy is showing. Or perhaps your guilt?"

The room went deathly silent. Major Heinrich Adler, leaning against the back wall, adjusted his spectacles. "The Section Chief makes a fair point, Director. However, I noticed something interesting during the raid. The signal that alerted the bookstore didn't come from a radio. it was a blue-light pulse. A very localized, very specific signal."

Adler walked toward the center of the room, his boots clicking rhythmically. "A signal that requires a clear line of sight. From the street. Or perhaps... from a car parked nearby."

He stopped right behind Julian’s chair.

"Mr. Vance," Adler said, placing a gloved hand on Julian’s shoulder. "You were out today, weren't you? Picking up some... pork ribs?"

Julian felt the trap snapping shut. He looked up at Adler, projecting the image of a man who was deeply annoyed by the interruption of his evening.

"I was. And if you'd tasted them, Major, you’d understand why I went through the trouble. Though I doubt the Gestapo has much of a palate for anything that isn't boiled cabbage."

Arthur chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. "The pork ribs. Yes. Sergeant Bastien confirmed the delivery. But tell me, Julian... why did the girl who delivered them look so much like a girl we have on file as an SOE courier?"

The Bakery on Rue de la Paix

While the interrogation tightened in the 16th Arrondissement, Li Mingzhu was moving with the speed of a shadow through the back alleys of the Rue de la Paix.

She knew the "pork rib" story was a ticking time bomb. If the Milice investigators went to Maître Dubois’s bakery, the old chef would fold under the first sign of pressure. He was a father, not a soldier.

She reached the back entrance of the bakery. The lights were off, but she could hear the muffled sobbing of the chef inside. She slipped through the door, her suppressed pistol drawn.

"Maître Dubois," she whispered.

The chef jumped, dropping a flour-covered rolling pin. "You! You’re the one who involved my Colette! They’ve been here! The men in the black coats!"

Li Mingzhu’s heart hammered. "Who? The Milice?"

"No," Dubois whimpered. "A man with a scar. He asked about the delivery to Avenue Foch. He took my ledger!"

Li Mingzhu cursed under her breath. Sergeant Bastien. He hadn't just watched the house; he was doing his own independent investigation to prove his worth to Arthur.

"Where is the ledger now?"

"He took it to the local precinct on Rue de Seine," Dubois cried.

Li Mingzhu didn't stay to comfort him. She had twenty minutes before that ledger was delivered to Arthur de Molay’s desk. If the ledger showed no record of a monthly payment for pork ribs—or worse, showed Julian’s name next to a "special delivery"—the Ghost would be executed before dawn.

Tactical Overload

Back in the interrogation room, the pressure was at a breaking point. Arthur had the field telephone in his hand, waiting for Bastien’s confirmation.

"You see, Julian," Arthur said, pacing the length of the iron chair. "Trust is a luxury I cannot afford. If the ledger matches your story, I will apologize and we shall have a grand breakfast. If it doesn't..."

He looked at Juliette, who was barely conscious. "If it doesn't, you will take her place in that chair."

(Synchronization: 100%,) Edith’s voice resonated with absolute clarity. (New Function Active: Tactical Overload. Signal disruption ready. Pulse will disable all telecommunications and electrical systems within 20 meters for 120 seconds.)

Julian looked at Adelaide. He saw the subtle movement of her hand—she was reaching for a small, concealed blade in her sleeve. She was ready to die with him.

"Uncle," Julian said, standing up slowly. "You've always said that in this business, timing is everything."

"Indeed," Arthur replied, the phone in his hand beginning to ring.

Julian didn't wait. He didn't reach for his gun. He reached for the "Ghost" within.

"Now, Edith!"

A silent, invisible wave of electromagnetic energy erupted from Julian. The lightbulbs in the room didn't just flicker; they shattered in a spray of glass. The hum of the transformer rose to a deafening shriek before the machine groaned and died, casting the room into pitch-black darkness. The telephone in Arthur’s hand went dead mid-ring.

In the sudden void of light, Julian moved like a predator.

He didn't go for Arthur. He went for the guard. One swift strike to the throat, then he grabbed the man’s submachine gun.

"Adelaide! The Canary!" Julian shouted over the sudden shouting and confusion.

He felt Adelaide’s hand grab his arm in the dark. She knew the room as well as he did. Together, they lunged for Juliette, cutting her straps with the blade Adelaide had been hiding.

"Who’s there?" Adler’s voice barked from the darkness, followed by the orange flash of a Luger firing blindly.

Julian pulled Adelaide and the half-conscious Juliette toward the maintenance hatch he had scouted earlier.

"The Ghost!" Juliette whispered, her voice a ragged breath. "You... you came back."

"Shut up and move," Julian hissed.

As they slipped into the crawlspace, the emergency lights began to flicker—dim, red, and eerie. Julian looked back. Arthur was standing in the center of the room, his face illuminated by the blood-red glow. He wasn't shouting. He was smiling.

It was the smile of a man who had finally seen the truth, and was delighted by how much he was going to enjoy destroying it.

"Run, Ah Xuan," Arthur’s voice drifted into the vent. "Run as far as you can. But in Paris, every street belongs to me."

The extraction has begun, but they are trapped inside a fortress with the most dangerous men in France. Julian has 120 seconds of electronic silence before the alarms reset. Will they escape to the sewers, or will Major Adler’s 'pattern' catch them at the exit?