Description:
With the false file secured and the attackers captured, Morel begins to believe the worst is over. But a single line of handwriting — one he knows too well — reveals the truth: someone close has been playing both sides from the start.
Chapter 12: The Second Signature
Dawn crept over Paris like a breath held too long.
Back in the safe house, the mood was quiet but tense. Sophie and Julien slept in the corner room, barricaded behind bookshelves and bolted doors. Clémence sorted through confiscated weapons and broken radios. Morel stood at the kitchen table, staring at the fake ledger they’d used in the sting.
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
Clémence looked up. “You’re expecting thank-you notes?”
He didn’t smile. “No. I’m expecting consistency.”
He opened the ledger to the last page.
There, scribbled in the margin, was a line of handwriting that hadn’t been there before. One word.
“Adagio.”
A musical term — slow and calm.
But the handwriting… it was unmistakable. A tight, precise cursive. Controlled.
Julien Mercier’s.
Morel’s chest tightened.
“He handled the copy,” he murmured.
Clémence approached slowly. “He transcribed the coded version, yes. Why?”
Morel turned the page. Under the red wax seal, barely visible under the surface, was another mark. A tiny signature, embedded in the wax itself.
J.M.
Morel sat down hard.
“He didn’t give us a clean copy,” he said. “He marked it. Subtly. Like a tracker.”
Clémence was already pacing. “He wouldn’t.”
“He did. And he sent it with her — knowing it would lead them straight to her if they got it back.”
She stared at the ledger, suddenly pale.
“You think Julien… turned?”
“No,” Morel said. “He never turned. He was never with us to begin with.”
Outside, a car engine roared to life.
They ran to the window. Too late. The grey Peugeot with diplomatic plates sped down the alley.
Morel’s radio crackled. “Intercept failed. Vehicle lost at Pont Mirabeau.”
Clémence swore.
Morel turned back to the file, then to the candle burning low on the desk.
“He gave us just enough truth to keep us busy. Bought himself time.”
Clémence whispered, “Then where is he now?”
Morel looked at the map pinned to the wall. One location circled. Not by him. By Julien.
A ferry terminal. Le Havre.
“He’s not trying to destroy the file,” Morel said. “He’s trying to sell it.”
He grabbed his coat.
“The pianist was never the real performance. The double agent is the encore.”