Varela arrived at eleven the next morning.
Mid-seventies, compact, with the careful movements of a man who had spent his career being unobtrusive. He came alone. No bag, no briefcase. Just himself and a sealed envelope held in both hands with the care you give things that cannot be replaced.
Nkechi and Adrián were in the library. Neither spoke when he entered, they both read it the same way I had on the phone: a man who had decided to do something, and you let that arrive in its own time.
Varela looked at Adrián first. Then at me.
"I owe you both an explanation," he said. "I'll give you the document first. Some things need to be seen before they can be believed."
He placed the envelope on the table.
Inside were two documents.
The first was the original threat assessment. Not a copy,
