CHAPTER 84: THREADS TIGHTEN IN THE FOG

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?"

Isandro’s eyes flickered toward the door again. "Intercepted. Twice. Harrow’s people have grown bolder; they’re probing outside the false map. We can’t let them bump into the real lattice before the east spur is sealed."

He slid a folded sheet across the table. "This is the revised counter-order from His Highness: let the Britannians believe they’ve picked up a scent, but make it stale. Every ’find’ they make over the next ten days must be either abandoned or irrelevant. They need to think we’ve shifted work elsewhere."

Carvajal tucked the paper into his inner pocket without reading it. "And Vargas?"

"He’s ready for the next step," Isandro replied. "But it’ll be delicate. Marguerite’s starting to suspect she’s being handled."

Britannian Intelligence Analysis Bureau – London, Harrow’s Office

The lamplight gleamed on the edge of the brandy glass Harrow had left untouched since the last report. Darrington stood by the map wall, where red pins marked the decoy chambers and blue pins indicated anomalies reported by the second team.

"They’ve abandoned two sites we had marked," Darrington said. "Almost like they knew we were watching."

Harrow leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Or they wanted us to see them abandon them."

Darrington frowned. "Then the question is—why?"

Harrow rose and paced to the map. "Because the Prince of Aragon knows the danger of attention. If he can convince us we’ve stumbled on something he doesn’t want seen, we’ll overcommit. Then he can keep us dancing around hollow shells while he builds in the dark."

He tapped the blue pin southeast of Retiro Park. "This is where we change the tempo. Authorize the Madrid station to double their shadow coverage. I want the second team overlapping the first—but without them knowing it. And send word to Ellenshire: she’s to press Vargas with pointed questions about works east of the city. We’ll measure his evasions."

Royal Palace – War Cabinet Room

The chamber smelled faintly of ink and damp wool, the air heavy with the day’s rain. Lancelot stood at the far end of the table as Isandro laid out the evening’s developments.

"They’ve begun overlapping surveillance," Isandro said. "Two separate shadow lines on our saboteurs, likely to see if we’ve planted a false trail."

"Let them," Lancelot replied without hesitation. "We’ll give them two more ’discoveries’—enough to keep their confidence alive. After that, we feed them nothing but air."

"And Marguerite?"

"She stays in play," Lancelot said. "Vargas will give her the eastern spur story, but with enough plausible deniability that Harrow won’t know whether to commit or hold back. That hesitation is worth more than any sabotage we could do."

Isandro inclined his head. "And Glanzreich?"

"Still committed to hitting the decoys?"

"Yes. Their timetable is locked to the opening of hostilities."

Lancelot’s smile was faint but cold. "Then we’ll let them walk into their own irrelevance—and make sure they’re seen doing it. Britannia’s suspicion will shift to them, not us."

Lavapiés Warehouse – The Sting is Set

The floor hatch groaned as it swung open. The Glanzreich saboteurs descended into the dim cellar, unaware that above, two of Lancelot’s watchers were already in position. One crouched by the skylight, the other by the alley door, both with mirrored signal lenses ready.

Inside, the saboteurs worked quickly—moving the olive-oil casks into a false wall cavity. They never saw the hairline hole drilled in the beam above them, through which a sliver of light pulsed twice, then once—the signal for cargo stored, surveillance complete.

The watchers melted away into the mist before the saboteurs re-emerged. Within the hour, Isandro would have the precise layout, the quantity of charges, and the trigger mechanisms—all without spooking the prey.

Britannian Embassy – Marguerite’s Quarters, The Conversation

Vargas arrived later than usual, his gloves still wet from the rain. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who believed he was in control.

"I hear you’ve taken an interest in the eastern districts," he said, settling into the chair opposite her.

Marguerite kept her tone light. "A few odd worksites caught my eye. Lots of stone being carted in, but no obvious structures going up."

Vargas tilted his head. "Perhaps repairs to the aqueduct system. Madrid’s old bones need tending."

She met his gaze evenly. "Repairs that require military engineers?"

For the briefest moment, his eyes flicked away—then returned with a polite smile. "Some of the old channels run under sensitive areas. Best to keep the work... secure."

Marguerite let the silence stretch, then nodded as if satisfied. Inside, she filed away the reaction, the cadence, the slight tension in his voice. Harrow would have it in her next cable.

Glanzreich Naval War Council – The Premature Push

Von Strahl’s voice cut through the council chamber like a cleaver. "Sleeper cells in Madrid report no changes in Guardia patterns. The Aragonese have grown complacent. This is the moment to accelerate."

Dietrich’s jaw tightened. "Complacent or confident. If we move too soon, we may be walking into a kill box."

Von Strahl slammed his hand on the table. "Every week we delay is a week Britannia tightens its grip on the southern ports. Authorize partial strikes—hit one target first. Measure the reaction."

Around the table, officers exchanged uneasy glances. A partial strike meant revealing assets early—but Von Strahl’s influence carried weight. The vote tipped in his favor. The first cask would be detonated in four nights.

Royal Palace – The Counterstroke

Isandro’s report was short and to the point: Glanzreich planned to light one of their decoys early.

Lancelot absorbed the news in silence, then spoke. "We’ll let them. But when the chamber blows, I want half the city to see it and half of Britannia’s agents to be standing nearby. Let the blast confirm every false suspicion they’ve been fed."

"And the saboteurs?" Isandro asked.

"Followed discreetly. When they return to their handlers, we take them alive. Quietly. No public trials—they’ll be more useful as invisible mouths feeding us their own network."

London – Harrow’s Dilemma

The cable from Ellenshire was maddening in its precision: Vargas had evaded, but not denied, the existence of eastern works. The tone, Harrow knew, was as telling as the words—but interpreting it was the hard part.

"Either we’ve found the real project," Darrington said, "or he’s skilled enough to fake the slip."

Harrow rubbed his temple. "And in four nights, Glanzreich will make their first move in Madrid. If we misread this, we’ll be reacting to shadows while the real threat takes shape."

He turned to the window, where the fog pressed thick against the glass. "Keep both teams in motion. And tell Ellenshire... to keep pressing. Sometimes the straightest road leads to the deepest pit—and sometimes it leads straight through."

The fog of Madrid’s alleys and the fog of London’s Thames were different in scent but alike in purpose—each cloaked the movements of men and women whose words and silences could change the course of a continent. The countergame had passed its opening moves. Now, every false step could be the last.

Calle de los Desamparados – The Final Turn of the Knife

Two hours before dawn, Isandro’s runners came back with the confirmation: the Glanzreich cell had left the Lavapiés district entirely, thinking the Guardia sniffed too close. In reality, the only uniforms anywhere near them had been part of his own shell game.

He passed the note to Lancelot without comment. The Prince read it once, then folded it and slid it into the firebox.

"Good," Lancelot said. "That’s the last move before the detonation. When it comes, Harrow will believe he’s watching our ’real’ work unravel."

"And then?" Isandro asked.

Lancelot’s gaze fixed on the rain-streaked windows. "Then they will stop looking where they should have looked from the beginning."

Across the city, the Britannian watchers huddled under awnings and narrow balconies, following their overlapping trails. None of them knew half the faces shadowing them. Every step they took was mirrored, logged, and filed in the war cabinet’s black archive.

By the time the first cask went up in a harmless warehouse, the true eastern works would already be sealed behind stone and silence.

The countergame had moved beyond mere misdirection; it was now a hunt in which the hunters were the quarry—though they would only realize it once the noose had already drawn tight.