CHAPTER 88: YOU’RE DONE

The rain had stopped by morning, but Madrid’s streets were slick and gleaming, as though the city itself had been scrubbed clean. From the high windows of the Consulado, Edward Harrow watched the trickle of carts and pedestrians with the paranoia of a man who saw enemies in every shadow. His reflection stared back at him in the glass: hollow-eyed, gray at the temples, the pistol glinting faintly in his hand.

Three days ago, he had believed himself master of the board. Now he felt like a pawn awaiting sacrifice.

"Sir," came Wainwright’s voice, cautious from the doorway.

Harrow spun too fast, pistol raised, before realizing who it was. Wainwright froze, his hands lifted in quiet appeal.

"You should rest," the adjutant said gently. "You’ve not slept in days."

"Rest?" Harrow’s laugh was dry, brittle. "And leave them time to creep in and cut my throat? I rest when the King’s agents burn this villa to ash."

"They’ve not moved openly," Wainwright reminded him. "Perhaps the danger is less than you imagine."

But Harrow shook his head violently. "No. They want me alive, Wainwright. Alive long enough to wring me dry. Don’t you see? Every hour I breathe, their net tightens."

The adjutant hesitated. He had stood by Harrow through long campaigns in distant lands, through botched missions and narrow escapes. But now he saw something he had never seen before in his commander’s eyes: not calculation, not anger, but dread.

For a moment, Wainwright wondered if perhaps the Spaniards had already won without firing a shot.

Colonel Valdés’ Patience

Elsewhere in the city, in a modest office tucked behind the walls of the Alcázar, Colonel Valdés unfolded the latest report. The handwriting was crisp, the details exact: couriers replaced, casebook stolen, the subject exhibiting paranoia. All as planned.

Valdés allowed himself a thin smile. Espionage was as much about pressure as blades. Break a man’s nerves and he would betray himself long before the interrogator asked his first question. Harrow was unraveling on schedule.

"Any sign of him attempting flight?" Valdés asked.

A subordinate shook his head. "None. He speaks of it often but has not moved beyond the Consulado. He is... caged by his own mind."

"Good," Valdés replied. "A cornered animal lashes out. A broken one submits."

Madrid thrummed with rumor. In the taverns of La Latina, drinkers spoke of a foreign merchant under suspicion. In the stalls of El Rastro, vendors claimed the Englishman had been seen bribing guards. Even washerwomen by the Manzanares whispered of a spy soon to be dragged before the King’s justice.

None of them named Harrow outright, but everyone knew. And everyone watched.

Harrow felt their stares even when he ventured no further than the Consulado courtyard. He imagined the servants whispering in corners, the guards trading looks when they thought him absent. When the maid crossed herself after setting down his meal, he nearly struck her, convinced she prayed against him.

The isolation was complete.

Desperate, Harrow drafted new messages. He wrote in three ciphers, hiding pleas within trade manifests and shipping invoices. One was meant for Marseille, another for Lisbon, the last for London itself.

Each letter he sealed with trembling hands, each entrusted to a courier he swore he could still rely upon.

But each letter, intercepted by Valdés’ men, was opened before the wax cooled. Copies were made, then altered, then resealed. Harrow’s words were sent forward, but bent to Spanish purposes. Replies, too, were forged—carefully, convincingly—feeding him slivers of hope wrapped in poison.

By the time he realized the deception, it would be too late.

On the fourth night, Harrow could endure the silence no longer. He summoned Wainwright into his study, the pistol on the desk between them.

"There’s still one place," Harrow said. His voice was ragged, yet carried the edge of desperation that brooked no argument. "A house near Atocha. Built into its cellars are old storage rooms, once meant for smugglers. I kept it off the record, even from London. No one knows of it but me."

Wainwright frowned. "If you go, sir, you risk being followed. Better to hold here, wait for word."

"Word?" Harrow snapped. "Word from whom? The silence is the word! Can’t you see? We’ve been cut off, butchered in the dark. If I stay here, they’ll pluck me like a rat from a trap. If I move, at least I choose the ground."

Reluctantly, Wainwright agreed. At dawn they would leave. Quietly, carefully.

But even as Harrow spoke, watchers beyond the Consulado wall were already noting the preparations. The trap did not tighten with noise—it closed with patience.

Colonel Valdés received the update with satisfaction. "He moves at last," he said, tapping the report with one finger.

"Do we take him on the road?" asked an aide.

"No. Let him run. Let him believe in his safehouse." Valdés leaned back, eyes cold. "A man who thinks he has escaped will open himself completely. We will catch him not as a fugitive, but as a fool."

Orders were dispatched. Agents in plain clothes seeded the streets, beggars marked corners, tavern keepers signaled with lanterns. The city became a silent net, every alley a line, every plaza a knot. Harrow’s route would not go unwatched.

The next morning, Madrid awoke to clear skies, a brittle brightness after days of rain. Harrow, cloaked and hooded, slipped from the Consulado with Wainwright at his side and two satchels heavy with coin. The pistol rode always at his hip.

They kept to back streets, avoiding the plazas, moving swiftly but without obvious haste. To Harrow’s fevered mind, every face was suspect. A boy selling oranges lingered too long. A beggar’s cough followed them across a corner. Twice he nearly drew his weapon, and twice Wainwright restrained him with a hand on the arm.

They reached Atocha by noon. The safehouse stood as Harrow remembered: plain, unremarkable, its shutters warped with age. He unlocked the door with a hidden key and ushered Wainwright inside.

For the first time in weeks, relief softened his shoulders. Here, in the dim cellar with its thick walls and hidden passages, he felt some semblance of control return.

But the relief was short-lived.

The Letter in the Cellar

That night, as Harrow rummaged through old crates, he found an envelope resting atop a barrel—an envelope that had not been there before.

His blood turned to ice.

He tore it open. Inside, a single line in sharp handwriting:

"You were never alone."

The pistol fell from his hand.

Wainwright rushed in at the sound of his curse, but Harrow only stared at the letter, face drained of all color. "They know," he whispered. "They’ve always known."

Colonel Valdés Prepares the Net

In his office, Valdés placed the report aside with satisfaction. The letter had been planted days earlier, long before Harrow chose to flee. Every path the Englishman thought his own had been written for him by another’s hand.

Now the stage was set. Tomorrow, Valdés decided, the Bureau would move. Quietly, surgically. No public spectacle yet. The capture must be clean. Harrow must vanish as his men had vanished, leaving Madrid to whisper and fear.

In the cellar, Harrow raged like a madman. He smashed bottles, overturned crates, cursed Wainwright for imagined betrayals. Then the fury drained, leaving only exhaustion.

He slumped against the stone wall, muttering half-formed plans—escape routes through Aragón, bribes to French guards, disguises of monks and merchants. Each scheme collapsed under its own weight.

At last he drew the pistol again and held it under his chin, finger trembling on the trigger. But even here, fear held him. Death was escape, yes—but it was also defeat. He could not bring himself to surrender the last illusion of control.

Instead, he whispered the names of agents long gone, as though their ghosts might come to save him.

Before dawn, the Bureau moved. Four men only, in plain coats, guided by lantern signals. They slipped through Atocha’s alleys, entered the house without a sound.

Wainwright was seized first, a cloth pressed to his face before he could cry out. Harrow heard the scuffle, snatched up his pistol, and fired blindly into the darkness. The shot cracked stone, nothing more.

Hands closed on him from every side. He kicked, bit, screamed—but he was no soldier now, only a desperate man undone. The pistol was wrenched away, his arms bound tight.

As a hood came down over his head, he gave one final, broken cry:

"I am not beaten!"

But his captors knew better.

By sunrise, the safehouse was empty. Neighbors would later whisper of strange noises in the night, of shadows moving silently through the streets. But there was no proof, no bodies, no soldiers.

The Englishman had vanished, as though Madrid itself had swallowed him whole.

In the Bureau’s hidden chambers, Colonel Valdés stood over the hooded figure now chained to a chair. Harrow’s breathing was ragged, his defiance already cracking.

Valdés placed a hand on the casebook lying on the table—the one stolen from the Consulado. Its pages held names, codes, contacts across Iberia.

"Mr. Harrow," he said softly, almost kindly. "Welcome to the end of your hunt."

Harrow shuddered, the sound of his breath filling the silence.

And Madrid, bathed in morning light, carried on unaware, its people strolling markets and plazas, never knowing that in a cellar deep beneath their feet, the shadow war had reached its turning point.