Description:
As night falls on the Opéra Garnier, Morel and his allies put their plan into motion. Beneath the chandeliers and velvet seats, a deadly performance begins — where every player wears a mask, and the wrong note could cost a life.
Chapter 11: Curtain Call
The chandelier above the Grand Foyer shimmered like a crown of ice. Outside, the night was warm and slow, but inside the Opéra Garnier, everything breathed tension.
The building was closed to the public. No show tonight — at least, not one on the program.
Morel stood in the upper gallery, watching the stage below through a slit in the velvet curtain. A pair of stagehands, loyal to Clémence, moved like ghosts in the wings. Two plainclothes officers from his old Resistance days guarded the east and west entrances.
Sophie sat at the center of the stage, alone, dressed in black. In her hands: the false ledger, sealed again with red wax.
The trap was set.
He touched his earpiece — a modern gift from Clémence’s post-war contacts — and whispered, “Positions?”
From the other end: “East ready.” “West ready.” “No movement yet.”
He scanned the velvet boxes above the stage. One of them — Box 5, always left unsold by tradition — had been reserved. A name no one recognized. Paid in cash.
He turned to Clémence, who stood beside him with binoculars. “He’ll come. Or send someone.”
She nodded. “The enemy doesn’t pass up an invitation to a performance where they believe they hold the final note.”
The lights dimmed slightly. A signal.
Below, Sophie opened the ledger slowly. Pretending to read. Waiting.
Then — the creak of a door.
From the rear, a man in a grey suit walked calmly down the central aisle, hands in his pockets, movements precise. He stopped at the edge of the orchestra pit and looked up.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Lemoine,” he said.
His voice echoed in the vast room.
Sophie nodded, calm. “Do you have the boy?”
He smiled. “Safe. For now. You have the file?”
She held it up slightly. “Here.”
He climbed the stairs, unhurried, as if entering a ballroom. “We don’t have to make this difficult.”
Morel whispered, “Hold fire. Let him get closer.”
Clémence narrowed her eyes. “That’s not Metzger.”
Morel frowned. “Who is it, then?”
She adjusted focus. “That’s Anton Kessler. Swiss passport. Freelance cleaner for hire.”
At that moment, a second man appeared in Box 5, holding a silenced pistol.
Morel shouted, “Now!”
Spotlights blazed to life. A gunshot cracked from the balcony — but missed.
The stage exploded into movement. Morel leapt from the gallery to the stairs, two steps at a time. One of his men tackled Kessler from the side. The fake ledger slid across the stage, pages fluttering like broken wings.
Sophie crouched low, grabbing the file as Morel reached her.
Behind them, Kessler was screaming in German, pinned to the floor.
Clémence joined them moments later. “We’ve got the shooter. Two more trying to flee backstage. Taken.”
Morel exhaled. “No casualties?”
“One broken nose and bruised ego. We’ll manage.”
Sophie stood, shaken but intact. “It’s done, then.”
Morel looked at her.
“No,” he said. “This was just the overture.”