He carried a small aluminum briefcase in his left hand.

“Is he in the Madrid office?” Lucía asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” I said. “Alvaro’s private suite on the top floor.”

The camera angle was high, looking down at the heavy oak doors of the inner office.

Matthew set the briefcase on the glass reception desk.

He tapped a few keys on his phone, and the double doors swung open with a soft hiss of pneumatic locks.

He walked inside, leaving the door open behind him.

The camera switched automatically to the interior feed.

This room was larger, lined with dark leather panels and overlooking the Paseo de la Castellana.

Alvaro was already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window.

He had his back to the door, the phone still pressed to his ear, though the line between us had gone dead.

Alvaro turned around slowly, his face pale under the sharp LED lights.

He did not look surprised to see Matthew, only tired.

“You took the files,” Alvaro said, his voice coming through the laptop speakers with a slight delay.

Matthew did not deny it.