Description:
The hunt for Julien Mercier takes Morel and Sophie beyond Paris, through rain-soaked roads and coastal winds. As they close in on Le Havre, secrets unravel, and the line between duty and betrayal blurs.
Chapter 13: Cold Tracks in Normandy
The road to Le Havre was slick with coastal rain, a steady curtain of water that blurred the horizon and drummed against the roof of Morel’s Citroën. Trees bowed under the wind, and the fields stretched endless and gray.
Sophie sat in the passenger seat, silent, watching the landscape shift.
“Are you sure it’s him?” she finally asked.
Morel nodded, hands tight on the wheel. “The seal, the handwriting, the map… It’s not just a trail. It’s a pattern. He’s led us to the last act.”
“And he has the real file?”
“Yes. Or worse — a copy with just enough truth to be useful, and just enough lies to start a war.”
The car bounced slightly as they crossed a rural railway line. In the distance, cranes pierced the fog — the port of Le Havre, steel and shadow, waiting at the edge of the Channel like an unfinished thought.
Morel spoke into the radio. “Unit 4, do you have the eastern docks covered?”
A crackle, then: “Affirmative. No movement yet.”
They reached the outskirts by noon. The safe house contact, arranged through Clémence’s old network, was a fishing warehouse painted blue, with a rusted sign: “Mouettes & Fils.”
Inside, the air smelled of salt and diesel. An old man nodded to Morel and handed him a folded page.
Arrival notice.
Julien Mercier. Passenger. Ferry to Portsmouth. 14h30.
Morel checked his watch. 13h12.
“Where’s the terminal?”
The old man pointed west. “Fifteen minutes. If you don’t hit a cow.”
They left the car a block from the terminal and continued on foot. Sophie kept her coat tight, head low. Morel had the revolver under his jacket, the sea wind cutting across his face like razors.
The ferry terminal was nearly empty. A few travelers stood in line, their suitcases damp from the rain. A customs officer smoked under an awning.
Then Morel saw him.
Julien. Standing at the edge of the boarding area, coat collar high, carrying a briefcase.
Sophie’s breath caught. “Lucien—”
“I see him.”
Morel stepped forward. Slowly.
Julien turned, as if sensing him. Their eyes met across twenty meters of concrete and drizzle.
Julien smiled. A sad, knowing smile.
Then he ran.
Morel gave chase.
The wind howled as boots hit wet stone. Julien cut through the cargo lanes, ducking behind crates and empty trolleys. Sophie stayed behind, breathless, near the customs post.
Morel closed the distance as Julien slipped on a slick patch and stumbled.
“Stop!” Morel shouted.
Julien turned, pulled a small pistol — and fired.
The shot missed. Morel returned fire.
Julien fell, shoulder hit, briefcase tumbling onto the ground and splitting open.
Papers scattered. Photographs. Lists. Names. Codes.
Julien coughed, blood on his lips. “I didn’t want… war, Lucien. Just… balance.”
Morel knelt beside him, weapon still drawn. “You sold out your country.”
Julien smiled again. “No. I sold out… the lie. The file was real… mostly. Enough to scare them.”
Sophie arrived, rain soaking through her coat.
She looked down at Julien.
“You had a choice,” she said.
He met her eyes. “I chose survival.”
He exhaled. Once. Then never again.
Morel looked at the scattered documents. Some were soaked. Others still intact.
It was over.
Or maybe just delayed.