A Sprinkle of Daily Magic - Short Story 2. Agent Atienza. Operation Janitor

1. Coffee with churros

I entered the Spy Shop like someone entering their private sanctuary. The tinkling of the bell announced my arrival, but Mr. Macías didn't even flinch, focused on adjusting a tiny mechanism under his thick glasses. I moved forward between shelves full of gadgets that would make James Bond drool.

"Good morning, Mr. Macías," I greeted, trying to sound professional.

"Julian, my boy," he replied without looking up. "Just in time to see the new pencil-secret-thermos-telescope."

I smiled. The names Macías gave to his inventions were almost as ridiculous as my chances of becoming a real spy. But someday, when I had important missions and a decent budget, I would fill my apartment with these gadgets.

"And what exactly is it for?" I asked, approaching the counter.

"It writes, keeps coffee hot, and spies on the neighbor on the fifth floor. All at once," he explained, cleaning his glasses methodically. "But you didn't come for this, did you?"

I shook my head while discreetly caressing the bulge in my pocket. The package I had to deliver to the embassy weighed as if it contained state secrets, although it was probably just boring documentation.

"I'm just looking. For when I'm an agent... you know, a real one."

Macías nodded with a knowing smile.

"The micro-radio-underwear-lie detector is on sale," he pointed to a corner. "I recommend it for your... missions."

At that moment, a movement caught my attention. In the farthest corner, a completely tanned and clean-shaven guy, with muscles that seemed sculpted in bronze, was examining the disguise section.

"Do you have more wigs?" he asked in a velvety voice. "I'll take all the ones you have."Macías didn't even blink.

"As always, Mr. Méndez. Last week's and three new models."

The man nodded, satisfied, while adjusting his sunglasses inside the shop. Who the hell wears sunglasses in a poorly lit store?

"Perfect," he replied, sliding a gold credit card across the counter. "And remember, discretion."

"As always, Mr. Catalino," answered Macías.

I left the shop with my head full of fantasies about hidden microphones and button-sized cameras. My hand touched the package in my pocket again. I had to deliver it to the embassy before noon, but first I would stop by my building. I couldn't wait to see Don Evaristo's face when I told him about my first official mission.

I crossed the street with determined steps, mentally reviewing the security protocols I had studied in the manuals. Stay natural. Don't draw attention. Keep the package close to your body. I felt like a real secret agent, although my cheap gray suit and plastic glasses probably made me look more like an office worker than James Bond.

Upon entering my building, the smell of bleach hit me like a punch. Don Evaristo, our concierge, was vigorously rubbing the mailbox panel with a cloth that seemed to have survived several wars.

"Julian!" he exclaimed upon seeing me, without abandoning his task. "Just in time. I have news about the spies on the fifth floor."

I smiled, puffing out my chest with pride. If only he knew...

"Good morning, Don Evaristo. I have news too," I said, lowering my voice and coming closer. "I'm in the middle of a classified mission."

His eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas. He set aside the cloth and approached, adjusting the bunch of keys hanging from his belt.

"What level? Governmental? International?" he whispered, looking at both sides of the empty lobby.

"I can't reveal details," I replied, enjoying the moment. "But let's just say a certain embassy is expecting my visit today."

I absently placed the package on the mailboxes while bending down to tie my shoelace. Don Evaristo came even closer, his gray mustache trembling with excitement.

"I knew it. I always knew you were one of us," he nodded with conviction. "That's why those on the fifth floor are watching you with their satellite dishes disguised as flowerpots."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb with me, boy," he gave me a knowing elbow nudge. "I've been documenting their movements for three weeks. They have Soviet technology from the '70s, but improved. They receive strange signals after midnight."

I was about to explain to him that those on the fifth floor were a couple of retirees with hearing problems when he grabbed my arm with surprising strength.

"Before dangerous missions, you need to eat well," he stated, dragging me toward the door.

"Let's go to the churro bar on the corner. I'll treat you to hot chocolate with churros that will give you strength to face those international spies."

"But I..."

"No buts. The best agents always have a full stomach," he insisted, pushing me out the entrance.

I bit into a crunchy churro while Don Evaristo unfolded his particular vision of the world before me. The thick chocolate left a brown mustache on his gray mustache, but he didn't seem to notice, too focused on his theories.

"I'm telling you, the guy from 5B isn't who he claims to be," he whispered, leaning over the sticky table. "Three years living in the building and he's never received a single letter. Not even junk mail, no bills, nothing. How do you explain that?"

I nodded absently while unlocking my phone to check the route to the embassy. Google Maps indicated thirty minutes by public transport. Perfect, I had plenty of time.

"And then there's the guy from 4C, that Borja," continued Don Evaristo, vigorously dipping another churro until chocolate splashed onto the table. "He receives visitors at three in the morning. People in trench coats, Julian. Trench coats in the middle of summer!"

"Maybe they're friends coming from parties," I suggested, not paying much attention.

Don Evaristo snorted indignantly.

"Friends? With metal briefcases and speaking in whispers? Don't make me laugh." He wiped his mustache with a napkin. "And the worst is Mr. X."

"Who?"

"The mysterious guy. Nobody knows exactly which floor he lives on. He appears and disappears like a ghost. Always eating candies, observing everything."

I raised the cup to take a sip of the hot chocolate when a thought hit me like lightning. My hand froze halfway to my mouth. The package. The damn package I had to deliver to the embassy.I had left it on the mailboxes.

The chocolate remained suspended in front of my lips while my brain processed the disaster. I had left it there, in plain sight, while tying my shoelace. And now I was having breakfast so calmly, several streets away.

"Julian?" Don Evaristo's voice sounded distant. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The cup trembled in my hand. My first important mission and I had already messed it up.

I stood up so quickly that the chair almost fell backward. The chocolate splashed on the table and partially on Don Evaristo's pants, who looked at me as if I had gone crazy.

"The package!" I shouted, stuffing the last churro in my mouth. "We have to go back!"

I didn't wait for a response. I shot out of the bar, dodging a lady with a stroller and almost knocking down a delivery man. Behind me, I could hear Don Evaristo's hurried steps and his panting.

"Wait, Julian! My knees aren't made for Olympic races!"

But I couldn't wait. My heart was pounding in my throat as I crossed the street without looking, provoking an angry honk from a taxi. I'm the worst spy in history. I haven't even lasted a full day without screwing up completely.

I arrived at the entrance gasping, with my bangs stuck to my forehead from sweat. My eyes immediately fixed on the mailboxes.

Empty. Completely empty.

The package had disappeared.

"No, no, no..." I muttered, feeling the metal surface as if the object might have turned invisible.

Don Evaristo appeared behind me, leaning on the doorframe to catch his breath.

"What's... what's wrong, boy?" he asked between gulps of air.

"The package... my mission... I left it here and now it's gone," I stammered, feeling like the world was crashing down on me.

Don Evaristo suddenly straightened up as if someone had injected him with adrenaline. His expression changed from exhaustion to determination in a second.

"Code red," he murmured, and then reached into the inner pocket of his porter's jacket.

To my surprise, he pulled out a worn notebook with leather covers, tied with an elastic band that looked about to break. He opened it with the solemnity of someone consulting a sacred text.

"Record of suspicious movements, building 8," he recited, turning pages filled with tiny handwriting. "Today they entered... the guy from 2B at 8:05, Mrs. Felisa at 8:30 with bags for her party, the nervous guy from 4C at 9:10..."

"Borja?" I asked, remembering his comments at the bar.

"The same," he nodded, reviewing his notes with his finger. "He seemed more agitated than usual. He was looking all around as if..."

The noise of plastic bags interrupted us. We turned simultaneously to find Gumersinda, the neighbor from the third floor, loaded with what looked like groceries for a regiment.

"Are you looking for the package that was on the mailboxes?" she asked, blinking nervously. "I saw someone take it..."

My heart skipped a beat. Finally a concrete lead.

"Who took it, Mrs. Gumersinda?" I asked, getting so close that the woman took a step back, blinking as if she had something in her eye.

"Well, you see..." she began, setting the bags on the floor with exasperating slowness. "I didn't see clearly because I was collecting my mail, but I think it was the guy from 4C, that Borja who always looks like he's seen a ghost."

Don Evaristo nodded vigorously while scribbling in his notebook.

"I knew it! Suspicious behavior documented for weeks."

"Although..." Gumersinda put a finger to her chin. "It could also have been the mysterious man, the one nobody knows where he lives. He passed by right after, eating candies as always."

"Mr. X?" exclaimed Don Evaristo, his mustache trembling with excitement. "Write it down, Julian! Two main suspects."

Gumersinda continued, gaining confidence with our attention:

"But this morning I also saw Felisa very upset by the mailboxes. She was saying something about an Amazon package she couldn't find. And you know how she gets when she loses something..."

"Wait, wait," I interrupted, trying to bring order. "So who do you think took my package?"

The old woman looked at me as if the question were absurd.

"Well, it could be anyone, son. The plumber also passed by, who by the way, never fixed my bathroom faucet. And the lady from the fifth floor who always goes down with that dog that looks like a rat..."

Don Evaristo kept writing frantically while I felt like I was sinking into a well of confusion.

"The good thing," continued Gumersinda, picking up her bags, "is that you'll have them all together today. Felisa's party starts in..." she consulted her wristwatch, "well, it's already started. In the community lobby. They'll all be there, including the thief."

As if to confirm her words, from below came the first chords of Latin music and the unmistakable tinkling of glasses and laughter.

"The party!" exclaimed Don Evaristo, snapping his notebook shut. "The perfect setting for our investigation, Julian. We can interrogate all the suspects without raising suspicions."

I swallowed hard. A party full of neighbors, my secret package in unknown hands, and me with my credibility as a spy at rock bottom.

Don Evaristo adjusted his belt loaded with keys and adopted an expression that tried to look professional, though it only succeeded in making his mustache tremble more.

"I have a plan," he announced, looking at both sides of the lobby as if fearing being overheard. "You infiltrate the party and I'll review the security camera footage."

"We have security cameras?" I asked, surprised.

Don Evaristo winked at me and pointed to some black plastic boxes placed in the corners of the ceiling.

"Of course. I installed them myself years ago. The building president thinks they're fake," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "but I know the truth."

I decided not to comment that those "cameras" had all the appearance of being empty boxes from a Chinese bazaar. It wasn't the moment to destroy his illusions.

"You interrogate the main suspects," he continued, rummaging in the pockets of his uniform. "Borja from 4C, Felisa, and keep an eye on Mr. X if he appears. I'll analyze the... uh... recordings."

He pulled out a walkie-talkie that looked like a relic from the Cold War and handed it to me solemnly.

"Secure communication," he explained, adjusting a twisted antenna. "Channel three. Emergency code: 'Colder than a witch.'"

The device weighed like a brick and had more scratches than a stray cat. I seriously doubted it worked, but I put it in my pocket with a serious nod.

"See you in twenty minutes," he concluded, giving me a pat on the shoulder. "And remember: absolute discretion."

I headed toward the stairs while Don Evaristo disappeared into his cubicle with a mysterious air. I climbed the first steps two at a time, mentally reviewing the questions I would ask. I had to be subtle, intelligent, like a true professional.

As I turned at the first landing, I almost collided with someone coming down. Borja Monteagudo, from 4C, froze upon seeing me, like a rabbit dazzled by car headlights. He was carrying a strangely bulky black garbage bag that he hugged against his chest.

"Julian!" he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. "What a... what a surprise."

His eyes jumped nervously from my face to the staircase, as if looking for an escape route. A fine sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool air in the hallway.

"Borja," I replied, trying to sound casual while observing the bag. "Taking out the trash?"

"Yes!" he answered too quickly. "Just regular trash. Old stuff. Nothing important."

The bag moved slightly in his arms and he squeezed it harder, causing a suspicious crunch.

"Well, I'm going to Felisa's party," he added, trying to dodge around me. "Don't want to be late."

I blocked the stairway with my body, preventing Borja from escaping. The bag in his arms crunched again and, for a second, I thought I saw something rectangular through the black plastic.

"Borja, are you sure it's just trash?" I asked, gesturing to the bag in a way that was meant to look casual but probably made me look like a cop from a cheap TV show.

"Totally!" his voice went up an octave. "You know, old papers, yogurt containers, some medicine... boxes."

He bit his thumbnail so hard I was surprised it didn't bleed. His eyes avoided mine as if looking at me directly might turn him to stone.

"It's funny," I continued, leaning on the railing with feigned calmness. "A while ago I left a package in the mailboxes. Very important. And now it's disappeared."

Borja turned pale. Literally, I saw how the color left his face, leaving it as white as curdled milk.

"A package? No, no, no, I haven't seen any package," he stammered, hugging the bag more tightly. "I've barely been out this morning. Well, I went out to buy bread, but I came back immediately. Though before that I stopped by the newsstand. And then I remembered I had to send an email, so I went back home. But I realized I needed stamps, so I went down again..."

His explanation became more convoluted with each word. He was sweating so much that small drops were running down his forehead.

"Borja," I interrupted him, "I just want to know if you've seen..."

The walkie-talkie in my pocket came to life with a high-pitched screech that startled us both. Borja gave such a violent jump that he almost dropped the bag.

"Code red!" Don Evaristo's distorted voice echoed in the narrow stairwell. "All suspects are gathering at the party. It's our opportunity. Over and out."

Borja looked at me with eyes wide as saucers.

"Suspects? What suspects?" he asked with a trembling voice.

I inwardly cursed Don Evaristo and his lack of discretion while trying to turn off the device. Borja took advantage of my distraction to slip down the stairs, moving with surprising agility for someone so nervous.

"I have to go!" he shouted over his shoulder. "The party! They're waiting for me!"

I ran down after Borja, but the guy moved like a frightened hare. By the time I reached the community lobby, he had already disappeared into the crowd.

2. Satisfaction

The party was in full swing. The normally soulless space had been transformed with colorful garlands and a long table covered with appetizers. A banner hung crookedly on the wall: "Felisa, 49 and divine."

Felisa Campillo moved among the guests like a general inspecting her troops. Her curly blonde hair seemed to vibrate with every order she gave.

"Be careful with that glass near the new sofa! The napkins are there for a reason!" she shouted, pointing at a neighbor who cringed as if she'd been shot.

I scanned the room looking for Borja. I found him in a corner, by the drinks table, downing a glass of wine as if it contained the antidote to some poison. His eyes kept nervously jumping from one side to the other.

But what really caught my attention was a pile of gifts on a side table. And there, among boxes wrapped in shiny paper, stood out an unopened Amazon box.

Rectangular. The exact size of my package.

I was heading there when I felt a tug on my sleeve.

"The main suspect is nervous," whispered Don Evaristo in my ear, his breath of churros and chocolate invading my personal space. "Notice how he sweats. And he hasn't put down his phone the whole time, probably waiting for instructions from his superiors."

"You mean Borja?"

"Shh!" he silenced me. "Code names, please. Let's call him 'Nerves.' And look, Mr. X is also here."

I followed his gaze to a nondescript man who observed the scene from the other end of the room. He was eating candies from a small bag with methodical precision, without talking to anyone.

"But the most suspicious thing is that," continued Don Evaristo, discreetly pointing to the Amazon box. "It appeared barely ten minutes ago. Nobody knows who put it there."

Felisa clapped three times, which sounded like whip cracks, and all the guests jumped.

"Attention everyone!" she announced in a powerful voice. "It's time to open the gifts. I want to thank you for your presence and your details, although some," she stared at a lady with a tight bun, "brought the leftover Russian salad from last week's barbecue."

It was my chance. If that box contained my package, I had to act before Felisa opened it in front of everyone.

I didn't have time for an elegant plan. Felisa was advancing toward the gift table with the determination of a tank, while the guests followed her like an obedient procession. My package—if it really was my package—was about to be opened in front of the entire neighborhood.

I jumped ahead, interposing myself between Felisa and the table. The woman stopped abruptly, her eyebrows arching so high they almost touched her dyed hair.

"Just a moment!" I exclaimed, raising my hands as if stopping traffic.

All conversations ceased. Dozens of eyes fixed on me. I felt a cold sweat running down my back while my brain worked at full speed.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" I continued, channeling my inner Poirot. "Someone here has committed an unforgivable act!"

The silence became denser. I saw Don Evaristo nodding vigorously from a corner, his eyes shining with pride. Felisa, meanwhile, was glaring at me with a look that could have melted the North Pole.

"Yes, my little gray cells tell me so," I continued, running a hand through my hair with dramatic flair. "Among us, there is someone who has taken something that doesn't belong to them. And I, like the great Belgian detective, have gathered all the clues."

I heard a collective gasp. My gaze swept the room until it stopped on Borja, who had shrunk so much in his corner that he seemed to want to merge with the wall. His hands visibly trembled around his glass, and his eyes, moist and bright, seemed about to overflow.

"The criminal always makes a mistake, no matter how small," I declared, remembering another line from my favorite detective. "And walls have ears, my friends, they have ears!"

Felisa took a step toward me, her face contorted in a barely contained fury.

"What the hell are you doing, Julian?" she hissed. "You're ruining my party with this absurd little show."

"It's not absurd, madam!" intervened Don Evaristo, approaching with his notebook held high. "It's an official investigation!"

I stood petrified as all the neighbors watched us. Felisa was about to explode, her reddened face contrasting with her blonde curls. Don Evaristo waved his notebook as if it were a weapon, and I... I was brazenly improvising, mixing phrases from Agatha Christie with pure desperation.

"Confess!" I exclaimed, pointing dramatically at Borja, who seemed to have shrunk even more. "The package!"

Borja dropped his fake glass Duralex cup, which bounced on the carpet without breaking. His lips trembled and, to everyone's surprise, including my own, he burst into tears. Not a discreet cry, but one of those heartbreaking sobs that make your nose run and your whole body shake.

"I'm sorry!" he sobbed, covering his face with his hands. "I took it! But it was a mistake, I swear."A murmur ran through the room. Don Evaristo scribbled frantically in his notebook while I tried to maintain my detective pose, although inside I was as surprised as everyone else.

"I was expecting an Amazon package," continued Borja between hiccups. "I saw the box by the mailboxes and thought it was mine... When I opened it at home and saw... saw..."

He stopped, unable to continue. His face had acquired the tone of a ripe tomato.

"What did you see?" asked Felisa, approaching dangerously.

Borja began to sweat more than in the sauna, that is, his own penthouse apartment, and looked at the floor.

"A Satisfyer," he murmured so low it was barely audible. "With your name on it, Mrs. Felisa."

The silence that followed was so dense it could have been cut with a knife... a dull one. Then, like a pressure cooker that finally bursts, Felisa exploded:

"You opened MY private package?!" she shrieked, her voice so high I feared for the crystal glasses. "And you've been rummaging through MY personal things?!"

Borja shrank even more, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I didn't know how to return it without everyone thinking I was a... a pervert," he stammered. "I tried to wrap it again, but it looked terrible. Then I thought about leaving it anonymously, but it had your name..."

Felisa advanced like a storm toward the gift table and grabbed the Amazon box. She opened it with fingers trembling with rage and, indeed, inside was my package, poorly wrapped with adhesive tape and newspaper.

The neighbors, who until that moment had maintained a respectful silence, began to murmur. I saw poorly disguised smiles, elbowing, and the occasional stifled laugh.

In the midst of the chaos, I found myself observing a scene I never thought I'd witness. Felisa was holding my package—now her package—with a mixture of fury and indignation, while the neighbors tried to contain their laughter without much success. Borja continued sobbing in his corner, Don Evaristo took notes frantically, and I... well, I didn't know whether to feel relieved or mortified.

My great espionage case had turned out to be an Amazon sex toy. My "ultra-secret" package was Felisa's Satisfyer. And my suspect, a poor neighbor with too much shame and very bad luck.

While everyone was distracted with the main spectacle, I felt a presence beside me. Mr. X, that nondescript neighbor whom no one seemed to really know, had silently approached. He was eating a piece of cake with meticulous precision, without dropping a crumb.

"Interesting situation," he commented in a monotonous voice, without stopping chewing. "Makes you think about how easy it is to open something that isn't yours by mistake."

I tensed. There was something in his tone that put me on alert.

"It happened to me recently," he continued, sticking his fork into another piece of cake. "I opened an envelope that wasn't mine. A very interesting letter."

My heart skipped a beat. Last week I had received confidential correspondence with details of my next mission. Was it possible that...?

"What kind of letter?" I asked, trying to make my voice sound casual.

Mr. X looked directly at me for the first time. His eyes, of an indefinable color, seemed to read my thoughts.

"One with an official letterhead. Very detailed about certain... procedures."

I held my breath. If he had read that letter, he knew perfectly well who I was and what I did for a living.

"But don't worry," he added, taking the last bite of his cake. "I'll forget everything I read."

I looked at him with distrust. Who was this guy really?

"Do you promise?" I insisted, feeling ridiculously childish asking such a thing.

Mr. X sketched something resembling a smile as he meticulously cleaned the corners of his lips with a napkin.

"Cross my heart," he replied in a neutral tone, making a small cross over his chest.

For some inexplicable reason, that absurd response reassured me. I nodded, grateful, as he walked away with the same discretion with which he had arrived.

The party resumed as if nothing had happened, although I noticed the sidelong glances and poorly disguised smiles of the neighbors. Borja was still in his corner, drinking compulsively to forget his shame, while Felisa had momentarily disappeared, probably to hide her "gift" away from prying eyes.

Mr. X had mixed with the people, eating pastries with that unsettling meticulousness that characterized him. His words about the letter still echoed in my head. Did he really know who I was? Or was he just bluffing?

I was immersed in these thoughts when a high-pitched scream startled me.

"Who the hell left this on top of the mailboxes?!" Felisa's voice resounded throughout the room. "This is no way to leave a gift."

My heart skipped a beat. There she was, holding up my package, the real one, already prepared to open it. The rectangular box with the official seal that I had to deliver to the embassy. How had it gotten there?

I ran toward her like a madman, tripping over an old lady who cursed me in what sounded like a Galician dialect.

"It's mine!" I exclaimed, trying to grab the package. "I left it there by mistake."

Felisa moved it out of my reach with surprising agility for someone her age.

"Another package, Julian?" she asked suspiciously. "You don't have some kind of delivery fetish, do you?"

"No, no, I swear," I pleaded, trying to reach the box. "It's important. It's... work."

"Work?" her eyebrows arched with disbelief. "What kind of job involves mysterious packages and little detective shows?"

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of pleas and incoherent explanations, Felisa returned the package to me with an exasperated sigh.

"Young people today..." she muttered, walking away toward a group of female neighbors who were anxiously waiting for details of the drama.

Don Evaristo appeared at my side, giving me a pat on the back that almost made me drop the precious package.

"Mission accomplished, Agent Atienza!" he exclaimed proudly. "Operation Janitor has been a complete success. Infiltration, interrogation, and recovery of the object. Just like in the manuals!"

"Thank you, Don Evaristo," I replied, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "It has been... instructive."

After the party disaster, I needed a break before continuing with my mission. The package, finally recovered, rested safely under my arm as Don Evaristo and I headed to the corner bar.

"It was a brilliant operation," commented Don Evaristo, adjusting the bunch of keys on his belt with a proud gesture. "We should celebrate properly."

"I don't know if there's much to celebrate," I muttered, still mortified by the whole spectacle. "I almost lost my job over a Satisfyer."

The bar was almost empty at that hour. The smell of freshly made churros and coffee mixed with the aroma of recently mopped floor. We sat at a table by the window, from where Don Evaristo could watch the entrance of the building "just in case," according to his words.

"Two brandies," he ordered the waiter with authority, before I could say anything. "And a serving of churros. The best you have."

"Don Evaristo, I have to go to the embassy..."

"Nonsense," he interrupted me, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. "A good secret agent always celebrates his victories. I read it in a John Le Carré novel. Or maybe it was in an Asterix and Obelix comic, I don't remember."

The brandies arrived, golden and bright in their balloon glasses. Don Evaristo raised his solemnly.

"To us, to the most unlikely team of spies since the world began."

I couldn't help but smile as we clinked our glasses. The brandy burned my throat pleasantly, spreading like a comforting warmth through my chest.

The churros arrived soon after, crispy and golden, accompanied by thick chocolate. Don Evaristo dipped one with delight, as if it were a sacred ritual.

"You know, Julian?" he said after taking a bite. "In my fifty years as a janitor, I've seen things you wouldn't believe. Infidelities, smuggling, even an attempted murder with a flowerpot. But today..." he chuckled. "Today was special."

I dipped a churro in the chocolate, thoughtful. The package was still under my arm, weighing like a constant reminder of my duty.

"Do you think Mr. X knows something?" I asked in a low voice. "He said something about a letter..."

Epilogue

Alone at last!

After such a day, the bathroom was my sanctuary. My small and messy sanctuary. The accumulated tension of that delirious day unraveled like a poorly tied knot. The yellowish light, the chipped tiles, and the door that didn't close completely didn't matter to me. It was my moment of peace.

I sat down with a sigh of relief. I opened the drawer under the sink and took out my best-kept treasure: the latest issue of "Drill Exercises." The cover showed a model in a bikini holding what appeared to be a confidential dossier, under the headline "The Best Kept Secrets of Summer."

"Livin' la vida loca..." I began to hum as I turned the pages. "Upside, inside out..."

I stopped at a particularly impressive centerfold, where a photo report showed several people in suggestive poses holding what appeared to be toy espionage artifacts. "Spies of Love," read the title. I let out a laugh.

"She'll make you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain..."

A blonde and a brunette in a position that defied the laws of physics drew a smile of admiration from me.

"She'll make you live her crazy life, but she'll take away your pain..." I sang, raising my volume without realizing it.

The magazine in my hands, the catchy rhythm on my lips, and the tranquility of my bathroom. Finally, after that crazy day, I could simply be Julian.

Mr. X adjusted the focus of his binoculars with millimetric precision. The window of Julian Atienza's bathroom offered a perfect view from his strategic position in the building across the street. He methodically took notes in a notebook covered with symbols that no conventional cryptographer could decipher.

"Subject J.A. consumes graphic material of sexual content while humming Latin pop music (R. Martin, 'Livin' la Vida Loca,' 1999). Behavior incongruent with previous psychological profile."

He took a bite of his piece of cake, the third he had rescued from Felisa's party. He chewed slowly, savoring every sweet nuance while continuing his surveillance. The combination of sugar and espionage had always been his weakness.

The binoculars captured how Julian turned the page with an expression of amazement. Mr. X noted the exact time and the change in the subject's facial expression.

"Notable physiological reaction to page 47. Possible coded information in images."

Another bite of cake. The cream melted in his mouth as he observed with clinical attention every movement of that rookie spy, destined for greater feats, without a doubt.