CHAPTER 87: THE PREY IN THE CONSULADO

And in the Consulado, Edward Harrow paced like a trapped wolf, brandy untouched, pistol close at hand. For the first time since arriving in Spain, he felt not the hunter, but the prey.

The villa, once a sanctuary, now seemed a cage. Its heavy curtains, drawn tight, muffled the outside world, but to Harrow’s mind they were thin as paper, inviting eyes to press against the glass. Every creak of the wooden floorboards became an alarm. Every shift in the wind sounded like boots on gravel. He had survived years of clandestine work in the Americas, London, and Tangier, yet here in Madrid—here of all places—his instincts screamed betrayal.

He replayed the last three days again and again, searching for where the noose had slipped around his neck. The arrest of his contact in Toledo? The courier who had not returned from Zaragoza? Or had it been the servant he dismissed too brusquely last week, who might have whispered his name into the wrong ear?

On the desk lay his open casebook. Columns of coded numbers, names scrawled in shorthand, cross-references to bribes and meetings. To him, it was a ledger of control. To the Spanish counterintelligence, it would be enough to hang him.

And he knew—he knew—that they were close.

At first it was little things. The paperboy no longer looked him in the eye when dropping off the morning edition. A carriage that always seemed to linger on the corner, horses steaming in the night air, its driver never lighting a cigar. Once, from his upper balcony, Harrow spotted the same beggar in three different quarters of the city within a span of hours, leaning against walls with his hat in the same angle.

Coincidence was a fool’s excuse. Harrow was no fool.

He tried to reach his handlers through the Consulado’s back channels, sending coded letters hidden in shipments of wool and citrus bound for Marseille. None returned. Worse, the merchant house that served as his cover began receiving unexpected inspections. Ledgers pored over, stamps double-checked. It was subtle, careful—yet unmistakable.

They were not coming with torches and soldiers. They were closing in like hunters in a forest, letting the prey exhaust itself in fear before the hounds moved.

Harrow forced himself into a chair, the leather creaking under his tense frame. He poured another glass of brandy, lifted it halfway, then set it down. His hand trembled—not from the liquor but from anticipation. He imagined Spanish agents lurking in every shadow, the secret police rifling his desk the moment he stepped out.

Trust no one. That had always been the first rule. Yet the walls themselves seemed to betray him.

Even the servants had changed. María, the maid, once cheerful, now avoided conversation, answering questions in clipped phrases. The cook lingered less in the kitchen and more near the courtyard, as if watching for someone.

He caught himself reaching for the pistol again and again, assuring himself of its weight, its promise of an escape no one could deny him.

What Harrow did not know was that the Spanish had already decided his fate. The Royal Bureau of Security, newly strengthened under the King’s reforms, had launched a coordinated counterespionage net. Colonel Valdés, its director, believed Harrow to be the key to unraveling the entire British spy network in Iberia.

They did not want him dead. Not yet. They wanted him watched, contained, and—at the perfect moment—broken.

Valdés had ordered a quiet tightening. Letters were intercepted. Trusted couriers replaced with agents. Harrow’s every movement mapped by men who melted into the crowd. They had even infiltrated his merchant company, placing a clerk whose task was not to spy but to sow mistakes—ledgers misbalanced, shipments misrouted—eroding Harrow’s cover with his own employers.

Soon, he would find himself alone, cut off, a man clutching shadows.

But Harrow was not yet defeated. He drafted contingency plans, maps leading to safehouses in Seville, caches of coin buried near Valladolid. He considered fleeing north to France, but knew the border crossings were closely monitored.

One night, he summoned the last courier he trusted, a young Asturian named Jaime. Harrow handed him a letter sealed in wax, its contents an urgent appeal for extraction.

"Take this to the Marseille contact," Harrow said, voice low. "Speak to no one. If you fail, do not return."

Jaime nodded, but Harrow caught a flicker in his eyes. Was it fear—or deception? He nearly drew the pistol then and there, but restrained himself.

Hours later, Harrow would wake in sweat, convinced he had sealed his own betrayal into that envelope.

Meanwhile, in the cafés and plazas, whispers stirred. Harrow’s presence had never gone unnoticed—an Englishman in fine coats, speaking fluent Castilian but with a clipped edge, always aloof. Now rumors swirled faster. That he paid beggars for news. That he was seen at odd hours along the railway depots. That his coin came not from trade but from darker purses.

The Spanish press, guided quietly by the Bureau, began planting suggestive articles. Columns about "foreign influence undermining the nation." Pieces hinting at merchants who served powers across the seas. Harrow read them with cold fury, recognizing himself between the lines.

The city was being primed for his downfall.

The breaking point came not with soldiers at the door, but with silence. His courier Jaime never returned. Days passed. No word, no sign. Then, one morning, Harrow discovered his coded casebook missing from its drawer.

He tore through the Consulado, overturning papers, demanding answers from terrified servants. No one had seen it.

The pistol was in his hand now, heavy and accusing. Someone in this house had betrayed him. But which? He stalked the halls like a beast, eyes wild, until the cook wept and swore innocence, and the maid crossed herself, pleading for mercy.

Then the letter arrived. Slipped under the door. No seal, no signature. Only four words, neatly written:

"We are watching you."

That night, Harrow did not sleep. He sat in the study with the pistol across his knees, listening to every groan of timber, every howl of distant dogs. His mind spun, calculating possibilities, planning escapes, rehearsing interrogations he might face.

But in truth, he was already defeated.

For espionage is not only a battle of information, but of nerves. And Edward Harrow, once the spider, had become tangled in his own web.

By dawn, the Bureau of Security was ready. They would not storm his villa; instead, they would bleed him of allies, strangle his operations, and then step in quietly when he was already broken.

And Edward Harrow—alone, paranoid, armed, and drunk on fear—was exactly where they wanted him.

By midday, the Consulado felt like a tomb. The once-bustling corridors were eerily silent, servants moving about with the hesitance of mice in a cat’s den. Harrow sat at his desk, the pistol never out of reach, eyes darting to the door at the faintest sound. The city outside was alive, yes—he could hear cart wheels, distant bells, the laughter of children—but for him, Madrid had shrunk to this single suffocating villa.

He tried to think logically. If the casebook was gone, then someone had breached his private rooms. That meant either a servant or an intruder who had slipped past guards unseen. He replayed the possibilities again and again until the thoughts became knots in his skull. Each time he untangled one thread, three more emerged.

At one point he slammed the ledger shut and stood abruptly, as though sheer force of will might frighten away his unseen adversaries. He paced the length of the study, cloak thrown over his shoulders like a shield, muttering names under his breath—agents long vanished, contacts now silent, couriers overdue. Each name was a ghost, and each ghost weighed heavier than the last.

Meanwhile, the Bureau’s work rippled through the city. Pamphlets circulated anonymously, warning of "foreign meddlers" undermining Spain. Tavern keepers whispered to patrons that an Englishman’s money was cursed. Shopkeepers who had once smiled at Harrow now looked through him as if he were already condemned. Even children, seeing him in the street, would sometimes call after him in jest—"El extranjero! El espía!"—before being hushed by anxious parents.

This was not coincidence. It was orchestrated erosion, a campaign designed to isolate him not only physically but socially. By making him a pariah in the eyes of Madrid, the Bureau ensured that if he sought refuge, no door would open.

On the third night without word from Jaime, Harrow gave in to despair. He sat hunched at the window, pistol across his lap, brandy glass untouched. Outside, lamps guttered in the rain, shadows flitting across the cobbles. He thought he saw faces in the darkness—watchers, hunters—but when he blinked, they were gone.

Sleep teased him but never came. Every time his eyes shut, the same visions returned: a cell deep beneath the Alcázar, torches flaring, voices demanding confessions. He would wake with a start, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a drum.

By dawn he was hollow-eyed, muttering to himself. Even Wainwright, loyal and patient, began to avoid him. The adjutant’s silence was another knife in his ribs. Did he doubt me too? Has he already betrayed me?

The paranoia was no longer a shadow at the edge of thought. It was all-consuming, gnawing at his reason until every sound, every silence, seemed proof of conspiracy.

When the church bells tolled again, marking another day’s rise over Madrid, Edward Harrow remained by his desk, pistol cradled like a talisman. He no longer thought of striking back. He no longer dreamed of escape routes or caches of gold. Those belonged to another man—the hunter he had once been.

Now he was only waiting. Waiting for the knock on the door. Waiting for the moment when shadows would step into the light.

He whispered to himself, as if confessing:

"They’ve already won. I just don’t know how they’ll show it."

The fire in the hearth had burned to embers. The brandy glass remained full. And Edward Harrow, once Britannia’s sharpest blade in Madrid, sat like a man already buried, listening for footsteps that would surely come.