The convoy rolled slowly through Madrid's early-evening streets, its black sedans gliding in quiet procession. From his window seat, Stefan pressed his forehead lightly to the glass, the city unfolding before his eyes like the pages of a history book come to life. Balconies of wrought iron clung to the facades of ochre and pale stone buildings, their railings decorated with potted geraniums, drying laundry, and the occasional small flag that stirred lazily in the spring breeze. The golden light of late afternoon painted everything in a warm hue, making even the cracked plaster glow.
The hum of Madrid was different from what he remembered. The rhythm of traffic was slower, softer, punctuated by the occasional honk of a small Seat 600 struggling up the incline or the rattle of a tram carrying weary workers home. Passersby looked up at the convoy with curiosity, pausing mid-step as the cars slid past, their faces reflecting a mixture of respect, suspicion, and fascination. Stefan caught their gazes, young and old alike, sensing how unusual this sight must have been: foreign officials, escorted, watched, observed.
Inside the car, the mood was taut. Jean sat beside Fabio, carefully reviewing a small folder of documents, lips moving silently as though rehearsing key phrases. Fabio and Lena exchanged hushed glances, choosing their words with caution, aware that even in the confines of a car, too much candor might be overheard. Behind them, the bodyguards kept their postures rigid, eyes fixed outward, yet Stefan sensed their muscles held a constant readiness, like bowstrings pulled taut.
The boy blinked slowly, letting memories bleed into the present.I came here as a tourist decades later. Barajas had been a gleaming marvel by then—walls of glass that shimmered beneath the sun, endless walkways buzzing with travelers, and announcements flowing in multiple languages like a chorus of globalization. Efficient. Sterile. Modern. But here… everything feels raw. The steel beams are naked, the paint chipped, voices crackle from speakers as if broadcast from an old radio. Warm air smells of tobacco, gasoline, and dust. There is no sterile bubble here. It breathes history—messy, imperfect, human. Maybe too much history.
Jean's posture shifted, betraying the faintest hint of unease as the convoy neared its destination. From the window, he spotted a small group already waiting. Two men in pressed suits, standing with the poise of functionaries, flanked by two grey-uniformed officers of the Policía Armada. Their polished belts gleamed beneath the fading sun, sidearms snug against their hips, black leather holsters reflecting light. Their peaked caps bore bright insignia, the eagle glinting beneath the streetlamps that were just beginning to flicker on.
Jean leaned closer to Fabio and Lena, his voice dropping low."They are our official hosts—protocol and security. Courtesy and calm," he murmured, his tone steady but edged with warning. "Remember: everything here is a gesture. Appear confident, but never careless."
Fabio's heartbeat quickened, his chest rising with shallow breaths. Spain remained firmly under Franco's rule, and while the pretext of their visit was cultural and economic, everyone knew that eyes watched closely. Lena, sensing her husband's unease, pressed his hand tighter. Even the bodyguards, ever composed, betrayed their tension in the faint flexing of jaws and the deliberate stillness of their hands.
Stefan, however, was enthralled.In my old world, Spain's police carried little authority. Years of internal conflict, corruption, and bureaucracy had eroded public trust until the uniform was just cloth. Across much of Europe, the same cynicism reigned—authority met with skepticism, sometimes open mockery. But here… these men walk differently. Their boots strike like a drum, their eyes sweep with discipline. They don't shout, they don't bluster. They don't need to. Respect is woven into their presence. Values shift with time. What once commanded reverence will, in another age, provoke scorn. Strange… to stand at the crossroads of those tides.
The suited men halted before them as the convoy drew to a stop. The elder, with slicked-back dark hair and a careful expression, stepped forward with deliberate composure.
"Bienvenidos a España. Welcome," he declared, his voice resonant yet restrained. "I am Don Ignacio Herrera, from the Ministry of Information and Tourism."
Beside him, a younger man nodded with a courteous smile."Antonio Villalba, protocol officer. We trust your journey was smooth."
Jean translated swiftly, his words polished, his demeanor a subtle balm over the inherent tension. Fabio steadied himself, extending his hand with practiced composure.
"The flight was excellent, thank you. Allow me to introduce my wife, Lena, and my son, Stefan."
Lena inclined her head gracefully, her smile restrained but warm. Stefan peeked out from behind her skirt, eyes wide, curiosity unmasked.
Antonio's expression softened, breaking through the formal mask."A bright young fellow," he remarked in Spanish, his tone light with genuine warmth. Jean translated with the faintest twinkle in his eyes, and Fabio's shoulders eased as he nodded gratefully.
The Policía Armada officers lingered just behind, silent, unmoving, watchful as statues. Their mere presence radiated weight. No threats were spoken, none needed.
To ease the taut mood, Jean steered the conversation into softer waters, speaking in French of cultural ties, exhibitions, and the growing role of Spain as a potential partner in European economic networks. Ignacio responded in measured tones, his language carefully chosen, painting Spain as both stable and eager to modernize, a nation worthy of investment and trust.
The convoy moved again, gliding out of the airport grounds into the heart of Madrid. As the cars threaded through narrow streets, Fabio exhaled at last, some of the iron band around his chest loosening. Jean translated questions about accommodations, tomorrow's schedule, and cultural activities, while Ignacio assured them of a carefully curated itinerary. Piece by piece, the stiffness of the meeting eased into something resembling polite curiosity.
Stefan's thoughts drifted as he watched the city unfold.This Madrid is so different. Fewer cars, no highways yet—just small black taxis with red stripes, clunky Seat 600s crowding the streets. There are no towers of glass here, only tiled rooftops and sun-washed walls. But beneath the simplicity hums an energy—a hunger to grow. The rules are strict, the control suffocating, yet the city still pulses with ambition. Watching it is like stepping into the pages of a living chronicle.
They arrived at the hotel, a grand building adorned with a row of flags waving gently in the fading light. Its facade exuded elegance, yet as they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Security was everywhere. Uniformed guards stood at discreet intervals. Plainclothes men scanned the lobby with sharp eyes. At the entrance to the registration desk, a line had formed for inspection: luggage opened, passports scrutinized, handbags checked by gloved hands. Small handheld detectors swept over bags and coats.
The veneer of hospitality carried undertones of surveillance.
Lena frowned as her handbag was inspected with unnecessary thoroughness."This feels… excessive," she whispered, her voice low enough only Fabio heard. "Even for a dictatorship."
Fabio swallowed uneasily, his eyes darting to the guards. Jean, overhearing, leaned closer with a strained smile."They are cautious with European representatives… though I admit, this exceeds normal protocol."
Stefan's stomach tightened.Institutional caution, yes. But this… this is too much. Something simmers beneath the surface. Maybe a threat, a rumor. Or something darker, hidden.
Once they were finally checked in, Ignacio and Antonio outlined the itinerary with professional smiles: cultural briefings, a museum visit, and a formal dinner with key figures. Every detail gleamed with polish, but the persistent shadow of security never left.
Later, behind the closed doors of their suite, Jean allowed his mask to slip. His voice was low, but earnest."This is not standard. The level of scrutiny at the hotel… they've gone overboard. There may be internal tensions. I don't want to alarm you, but please, remain vigilant."
Lena looked at him, her gaze distant, worry etched in her features."Should we be afraid?"
Jean shook his head slightly."Not afraid. But cautious. Better safe than sorry. Keep a low profile. Do nothing that could draw the wrong kind of attention."
Stefan sat silently, absorbing every word. His instincts whispered confirmation. Danger was near—not visible, not declared, but lurking beneath the polite veneers of diplomacy.
Twilight deepened into night. From his window, Stefan watched the horizon bleed from orange to violet, then into a star-pricked darkness. Streetlamps flickered alive, casting golden halos on the cobbled streets. Cars with discreet insignia idled outside. Even from above, he felt the city's watchful gaze, as if Madrid itself monitored their every move.
Something's hidden here, beneath the surface, he thought, resting his forehead against the glass. And soon, it will rise to the light.
Dinner that evening was subdued. Fabio and Lena carried on polite conversation about art, architecture, and the grandeur of Spain's cultural heritage. Yet beneath their words flowed an undercurrent of unease, punctuated by the rotation of guards outside the dining hall and the ever-present silhouettes of the Policía Armada in the lobby.
When Stefan finally drifted into sleep, the golden strands of his hair catching the moonlight, his final sensation was not rest, but premonition. This trip to Spain would not be calm. Beneath the polished courtesies, history was stirring, and the quiet would not last.