CHAPTER 89: THE BROKEN SPIDER

The first thing Edward Harrow felt was the stone. Cold, damp, unyielding beneath his boots and against the back of the chair where they had lashed him. The hood had been ripped away at last, leaving him blinking in the dim lamplight of a chamber that smelled of mildew and oil. The air was heavy, close, as though the walls themselves leaned inward to suffocate him.

His hands were bound tight behind the chair. Iron bit into his wrists, the skin already raw where he had strained against them. He had been given water but nothing else. The taste of the cloth they had pressed over his face during the capture lingered bitter on his tongue.

And there before him, calm as a priest, stood Colonel Valdés.

The Spaniard was not tall, but carried himself with the assurance of a man who never doubted his authority. His uniform was plain, the blue of the Bureau rather than the gilded excess of the palace guard. His dark hair was neatly combed back, his expression unreadable save for the eyes—steady, cold, watching every twitch of Harrow’s face as though cataloguing them one by one.

On the table beside Valdés lay Harrow’s stolen casebook. Its cracked leather cover seemed to mock him, the pages that had once been his weapon now turned against him.

"Mr. Harrow," Valdés said at last, his voice smooth and unhurried. "We meet as I knew we would."

Harrow straightened as much as the bindings allowed. "Do what you will," he spat. "You’ll get nothing from me."

Valdés smiled faintly, as though amused at the predictability of the words. "Do you think this is about what you will or will not give? You have already given, señor. Your silence, your flight, your paranoia—each has spoken louder than any confession."

He tapped the casebook gently. "This here is not the prize. It is a map. And you, Mr. Harrow, are the compass. We will follow where you point, whether you wish it or not."

The interrogation did not begin with blows. That would have been too crude, too quick. Valdés was a patient man. He understood that fear alone could yield confessions, but despair was what truly broke spies.

Harrow was kept in the cellar for days without a clock or candle to mark time. Guards came and went silently, sometimes bringing water, sometimes not. At irregular intervals, the iron door would open, and Valdés would step in—never hurried, never angry. He would ask questions in a conversational tone: names, codes, contacts.

When Harrow refused, Valdés did not strike him. He only smiled, made a note, and left.

It was the silence that gnawed at Harrow’s mind. The silence between footsteps, the silence between questions, the silence when he shouted curses into the darkness and no one answered.

He began to talk to himself. At first mutters, then long rambling speeches, reliving old missions, berating himself for mistakes, reciting names of men who had died under his command. Sometimes he prayed, though he could not tell if it was for deliverance or for courage to end his own life.

Each time Valdés returned, Harrow was a little thinner, a little wearier.

On the fifth—or tenth, or twentieth, Harrow no longer knew—Valdés placed a folded letter on the table.

Harrow’s eyes locked on it instantly. He recognized the wax seal, the ciphered script. It was from London.

"I believe you know this hand," Valdés said mildly. "Your superiors are concerned. They ask why Madrid has gone silent. Why their man has failed to send word. Why so many of their couriers have disappeared."

Harrow’s throat tightened. "You intercepted it."

"Of course," Valdés said. He slid the letter closer. "But read it. See for yourself. They are already doubting you."

Harrow leaned forward, straining against his bonds. The words blurred in his vision but the meaning struck like a blade: suspicion, frustration, hints that perhaps Harrow’s usefulness had ended.

Valdés waited for the silence to settle. Then he said softly, "You are alone, Mr. Harrow. To them, you are expendable. To us, however..." His hand rested on the casebook. "...you are indispensable."

Harrow looked away, jaw clenched. But Valdés had seen the flicker of despair in his eyes. The first fracture.

Harrow’s adjutant had been taken as well. Wainwright, bound in another chamber, endured his own interrogations. Unlike Harrow, he was no master of shadows. He was loyal, yes, but loyalty wavers when faced with promises of survival.

Valdés played him differently. He spoke of wasted lives, of service to a foreign crown that would abandon him without a second thought. He hinted at safe passage, perhaps even a life beyond Madrid, if Wainwright cooperated.

Wainwright resisted at first. But when he was shown Harrow’s casebook, already half-deciphered, and heard muffled cries from the adjoining cell, doubt burrowed deep.

One evening, Wainwright broke. He gave a name—not many, not all, just one. A contact in Valencia.

Valdés thanked him, had the name written down, and left. The seed was planted.

While Harrow rotted in his cell, the Bureau used the gleaned information to strike. Quiet arrests in Zaragoza, Valencia, Cádiz. Each capture fed new threads into the web. Some contacts turned under pressure, others vanished into dungeons.

Madrid itself became hostile ground for any Britannian agent still lurking. Taverns once safe turned watchful. Apartments that had served as drop points now crawled with watchers.

Word spread through the underground like smoke: the English net was torn, its spider caught.

Lancelot, too, heard the whispers. From his safehouse he listened as his men reported the arrests, the sudden silence of once-dangerous watchers. He allowed himself a rare moment of grim satisfaction. Harrow had been the blade poised above their throats. Now he was blunted.

But Lancelot was no fool. He knew a wounded enemy could still lash out. The Bureau might take Harrow, but Britannia would not simply abandon its prize.

Deprived of sleep, his body weakened, Harrow began to hallucinate. In the flicker of the lamp he saw faces—agents long dead, comrades from other wars. He argued with them, pleaded with them, cursed them for leaving him.

Valdés would listen in silence, occasionally asking a gentle question. "Who is Clarke?" "Why do you speak of Meyer?" Harrow would snap, "No one!" but the slips were recorded, cross-referenced, pieced together.

One night, when the weight of silence was too much, Harrow blurted, "You think you’ve won? London will not forgive this. They will come for me."

Valdés leaned forward, voice almost kind. "London already doubts you. Why would they risk men for a commander who has failed? No, Mr. Harrow. You are already forgotten. But you could be remembered—if you chose."

Harrow’s voice cracked. "Chose what?"

"To survive."

The word echoed in the damp chamber, more tempting than any threat.

It was not sudden. It was not dramatic. Breaking a man like Edward Harrow was a slow erosion, a river carving stone. Bit by bit, he yielded. A name given reluctantly. A route confirmed with a nod. A cipher clarified when Valdés pretended confusion.

Each piece was small, seemingly meaningless on its own. But together they unraveled the fabric of Britannia’s presence in Spain.

Valdés never gloated. He never shouted. He offered water when Harrow’s throat was hoarse, permitted him a blanket against the chill. Kindness, applied with precision, broke more barriers than cruelty ever could.

By the second week, Harrow was speaking freely, though he told himself it was only to buy time, only to keep himself alive until rescue came. Deep inside, however, he knew no rescue was coming.

Above the hidden cellars, Madrid carried on. The markets bustled, carriages clattered, children played in the plazas. Yet beneath the surface, a shadow war was being decided. The capture of Edward Harrow sent ripples through every alley and tavern.

Merchants who had once profited from Britannian coin now sought Spanish favor. Priests whispered warnings in confessionals. Even the common folk, who knew nothing of codes or ciphers, felt a shift in the air: the foreigners were no longer untouchable.

And through it all, Lancelot watched. He knew the Bureau’s methods were effective, but he also knew that a broken Harrow might still be dangerous. Information extracted under duress could feed the Spanish, yes, but it might also be twisted into traps.

The war was not yet won.

At last, Valdés declared the work complete. He had no need to parade Harrow through the streets. A public trial would only give Britannia a martyr. Instead, Harrow would vanish, as his men had vanished—swallowed by Madrid’s stones.

But before the final curtain, Valdés allowed himself a private moment with the captive.

"You were formidable," he said quietly. "Truly. Few men have challenged us as you did. But every spider has its end. And every web, no matter how intricate, can be swept away."

Harrow, gaunt and broken, lifted his eyes. "You think you’ve destroyed Britannia here? You’ve only bought yourself time. The Empire does not forget."

Valdés smiled thinly. "Nor do we."

He closed the casebook, now fully deciphered, and handed it to an aide. "Take him away."

Echoes

When Harrow was finally led from the chamber, hooded once more, Madrid did not stir. No bells rang, no soldiers marched. The Englishman’s end was as silent as his downfall had been.

But in the cafés and taverns, whispers grew: The spy is gone. The city is ours again.

For Lancelot, the news was both relief and warning. Harrow was gone, yes, but Britannia’s shadow remained. Another man would come, another net would be spun. The war was not over—it had merely shifted to its next phase.

And deep beneath the Alcázar, in a cell no map recorded, Edward Harrow sat alone with his ghosts, no longer hunter nor even prey, but a lesson in what happens when the shadows turn against their master.