Madrid – Calle de los Desamparados, Two Nights Later
The tavern was half-empty, its patrons hunched over mugs of dark beer, speaking in low voices to avoid the suspicion of the city's nightly patrols. From the back booth, Isandro could see the reflection of the door in the tarnished brass mirror mounted on the wall. He didn't look up when the door opened—he already knew the sound of the boots.
Agent Carvajal slid into the opposite seat, his coat still damp from the drizzle outside. "The watcher who tailed the Glanzreich pair from Plaza Mayor? He didn't lose them by accident. They led him to a warehouse in Lavapiés, then vanished through a floor hatch. Two hours later, they came back out without the satchels they carried in."
"Explosives drop," Isandro murmured. "We'll need to bleed them out—slowly, without spooking the whole network."
Carvajal nodded. "And the courier line to London?"
