Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 4: The Vault of Lies

83 Avenue Foch, Underground Interrogation Wing.

The shadows in the corridor seemed to swallow the flickering light of the overhead lamps. Adelaide de Molay stood by the heavy iron door of the interrogation vault, observing the woman inside through the reinforced glass. Adelaide was a vision of severe elegance—slender, standing roughly five-foot-four, her hair pinned into a sharp, fashionable French twist that spoke of high society and even higher authority. She stood with her arms crossed over her charcoal-grey Milice uniform, her expression unreadable.

"Their testimonies are identical," Adelaide murmured to the officer beside her. "How very curious."

Without another word, she pushed open the heavy door and led her retinue into the observation parlor. The room hummed with the sound of reel-to-reel eavesdropping devices. A technician, startled by Adelaide’s sudden entrance, tore off his headphones and stood at attention.

"Section Chief," the technician stammered. "Both statements have been transcribed. They are ready for your review."

Adelaide nodded curtly, her gaze drifting to a middle-aged woman slumped in a chair at the edge of the room. This was Vivienne, known to the underground as "The Artist." She wore the marks of a "rough" night—bruises on her cheek and a split lip that had begun to scab. Despite her pain, Vivienne managed a grotesque, servile smile when she saw Adelaide.

Vivienne was the one who had betrayed The Nightingale.

In the labyrinthine world of the SOE, Julian Vance had been written off as a failure. Colonel Masterman, the cold-blooded head of the London office, had decided Julian was a "pedantic scholar" unfit for the field. Consequently, Julian’s superior—the highly capable Margot LeClerc, codenamed Guinevere—was reassigned. Masterman transferred her to Vivienne’s 'Canvas' cell, where her talents wouldn't be wasted.

It was then that her codename was retired, and Margot became The Nightingale.

Masterman had intended to use The Nightingale to rebuild the fractured Paris network. He hadn't expected Vivienne to be arrested due to a clumsy courier. Unlike the rare few who could withstand the iron tongs of the Milice, Vivienne had cracked. She had sold out her new recruit, Margot, revealing that the girl was set for one final rendezvous at a small flower shop on Rue de Seine.

Arthur de Molay had insisted on a "long tail" operation. They hadn't arrested Margot immediately, hoping she would lead them to a bigger prize. But then, the explosion happened.

Adelaide sat sideways on the edge of the table, looking down at Vivienne with unmistakable disdain. "The rendezvous time you provided was a waste of our resources. No contact appeared in the tea room, and it seems The Nightingale concluded her business and vanished before my men even breached the door."

Adelaide leaned in, her voice like a razor. "The first piece of intel you gave us, Vivienne, was completely worthless."

Vivienne tried to chuckle, but the movement tore her split lip, making her hiss in pain. After a few seconds, she gasped out, "The intel was perfect. The Nightingale’s identity is confirmed—she is Margot LeClerc. She escaped right under your noses."

Vivienne’s eyes flashed with a desperate, defensive fire. "It’s not my fault. She used those two—your husband and your sister—as human shields. She timed her exit perfectly, using their presence to delay your team. If you hadn't played for 'credit' and simply arrested her when I told you to, she wouldn't be in the wind right now."

Adelaide’s face remained a mask of stone, though Vivienne felt a chill crawl down her spine. Finally, Adelaide smiled—a terrifying, thin-lipped expression. "Are you suggesting that my husband and my sister assisted a British spy in her escape?"

Vivienne frowned, her mind racing. "It must be. Why else did she flee the moment they arrived? Why take them into the back parlor, the very meeting spot I identified? It’s too many coincidences, Section Chief."

Adelaide pondered this, her eyes darkening. "You previously claimed that The Nightingale’s subordinate was a high-ranking mole embedded within our own headquarters. Neither Julian nor Elodie fits that description. Why should I believe a word you say?"

Vivienne froze. Truthfully, she was guessing. She knew Margot had a high-level contact—someone with a security clearance that made the 'Canvas' cell look like amateurs. In Vivienne’s mind, only a mole inside 83 Avenue Foch could command that level of secrecy. But looking at the pedantic Julian Vance, she was no longer certain.

Adelaide observed the micro-tremors in Vivienne's hands. She stood up, her polished riding boots clicking as she strode toward the traitor. Vivienne felt as though she had fallen into a cellar of ice.

"I... I can't be sure," Vivienne whispered. "It was an inference. But I am certain that the man who meets The Nightingale is one of your own!"

Adelaide looked down at her with pure, aristocratic loathing. After a long, cold silence, she smiled smugly and turned to walk toward the door. "In that case, perhaps you should go and meet them yourself. Or perhaps you should spend the next hour considering if you have any different information for me."

Vivienne breathed a sigh of relief as Adelaide left. She refused to believe Julian Vance was innocent. The "Gigolo" husband was too convenient a cover.

Vault Room Alpha.

The room was vast, cold, and empty, save for a heavy interrogation chair in the center. Sitting in it was Elodie. The girl was unchained, her legs swinging casually. When Adelaide entered, Elodie raised an eyebrow, ready to snap, but caught the subtle wink her sister gave her.

Elodie immediately slumped into a pout, looking like a bored student.

Vivienne, following behind Adelaide, stopped dead in her tracks. If she hadn't seen the sign 'Interrogation Wing' on the heavy oak door, she would have thought she’d walked into a waiting room. The girl sat there, unbruised, unrestrained, and looking positively arrogant.

"Chief de Molay..." Vivienne stammered. "Are you quite sure this is an interrogation?"

Adelaide nodded, her smile fixed and chilly.

Vivienne was utterly bewildered. Avenue Foch was meant to be a den of iniquity, a place where screams echoed through the vents. Yet here was this girl, looking at Vivienne as if she were a piece of dirt on her shoe. Vivienne wasn't stupid—if the Milice hadn't used the "standard" methods on this girl, her identity was far more dangerous than that of any spy.

Helpless and terrified of offending the De Molay bloodline, Vivienne could only lower her head and ask a few trembling, simple questions.