Paris in autumn carried with it a strange tension. The streets seemed quieter than before, cafés dimmer, the people speaking in lower tones. Yet beneath the surface Christian could sense the resistance pulsing stronger than ever. Herr Müller's messages grew increasingly sharp:
"Your failures embolden them. Find Sébastien. Break him."
Christian devised a plan. A courier had been identified carrying blueprints of a German munitions depot. Christian let the man run, his agents trailing discreetly, pushing him like bait on a hook. The trail led to the catacombs, those endless passages of Paris, tunnels deep beneath the city, where men vanished and were never seen again.
Perfect, Christian thought. Down there, no one could hear gunfire. No one would find a body.
Christian entered the catacombs with four men, each handpicked from Abwehr operatives in Paris. Lanterns bobbed through the black corridors, casting shadows on skulls and femurs stacked like walls. The air was thick, damp, stinking of old stone and rot.
They reached a wider chamber. In the center lay the courier, bound and gagged. His eyes were wild, darting from Christian to the shadows beyond the lantern light.
Christian moved forward. "Where is he?" he hissed.
The courier shook his head violently.
And then Christian heard it; a soft, deliberate clap echoing through the chamber.
From the darkness stepped a figure in a dark coat, face half-hidden. Sébastien.
"You came," he said coolly in French. "Ah, the man from Berlin, or should I say the shadow? I wondered how long it would take."
Christian raised his pistol, motioning his men to spread out. But Sébastien only chuckled. "Careful. The dead here don't stay quiet for long." "Why don't you come into the light and talk, hmm?" Christian asked. But there was no reply from Sébastien. "You and I are the same, you know. Men with a special skillset, a talent."
"We are not the same." The voice came from multiple sources, making it difficult for them to pin-point where he was. "How long do you think your people can hide from us?" Another chuckle. "You think the British will come to your aid?" The search continued. "After Dunkirk, you really think they will be stupid enough to come back here?"
"We the French have been through a lot in history, but we survived and we will survive this too." One of the Abwehr men turned around to investigate a sound. "This is different, there is no escaping this." Came Christian's reply. The search had taken them deep into the tunnels. "How long do you think you can keep this up?"
"No, man from Berlin… the question is, how long will you last in the dark?"
The lanterns flickered. Somewhere behind the walls, a faint metallic scrape sounded. Christian spun but, it was too late. Explosions cracked from hidden charges. The chamber filled with dust and fire as two of his men fell screaming, their blood mingling with centuries-old bones.
Gunfire erupted in the dark. Sébastien moved like a phantom, using the labyrinth to his advantage. A shot rang out and another of Christian's men dropped, skull split open against the stone.
Christian fired blindly into the smoke, the echoes deafening in the tight space. He caught a glimpse of Sébastien's silhouette, closing in with a knife. At the last instant, Christian blocked the strike with his pistol barrel. The blade carved a shallow line across his cheek, hot blood running down his face.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked; hunter to hunter, inches apart. Then Sébastien vanished back into the maze, his laughter low, taunting.
When the dust cleared, Christian was alone save for one surviving agent, bleeding heavily. The courier was gone. So was Sébastien. Christian staggered out of the catacombs hours later, his clothes caked with blood and dust, the Paris dawn breaking pale over the city. He had failed. Worse, Sébastien had humiliated him.
At headquarters, Herr Müller's fury came through the telephone line like a whip:
"Three dead. Nothing gained. This Sébastien makes a fool of us. Do you understand what that means, Christian?" Christian nodded in silence. "Remember," Herr Muller began. "Berlin is watching."
Christian did not answer. He only touched the cut on his face, a reminder that Sébastien had come close enough to kill and had chosen not to. That was the message.
This was no war of soldiers. This was personal. In the days that followed, Christian prowled Paris like a wounded predator. Every street corner, every café, every whisper of the underground carried Sébastien's shadow.
He stopped sleeping. Every sound in the night pulled him to his pistol. The city, once beautiful in its decay, now felt like a cage, the walls closing in.
And through it all, Sébastien's words echoed in his head: "No, man from Berlin… the question is, how long will you last in the dark?"
Christian swore to himself:
The next time they met, there would be no hesitation. No mercy. The duel had only begun.