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?
