[b]Aeropuerto Madrid-Bajaras, Spain[/b]

Underneath the masts of a hundred light posts, a motorcade of black sedans cruised across the unending expanse of tarmac. Waving arcs of orange light swirled across the polished contours of the cars as they cruised under the glowing lamps swarming with flying bugs. Baggage buggies and stair cars were parked in rows for the night along lines painted onto the pavement, around which the five cars swerved in wide curves. The procession drove alongside the facades of white-painted cinderblock hangars built on the fringe of the airport grounds. The towering outbuildings were featureless save of course for the retractable overhead doors tall and wide enough to swallow all but the very largest of aircraft. The only means of distinguishing one hangar from another was a pairing of letters and numbers painted great bold letters against the whitewashed walls. Alongside a hangar identifiable as "C2", the line of cars eased to a halt in front of the jointed doorway.

A handful of bored, suit-clad goons who had previously busied themselves kicking at the defiant tufts of weeds growing against the hangar's exterior did their best to seem official as the motorcade bearing Alfonso Sotelo drove before them. One knocked against the window of the first vehicle and gestured for identification from the driver. Satisfied with the brownish-pink card the driver produced, the leader gave the men guarding the hangar a thumbs-up, prompting them to push the gate up. As the gate yawned open, the middlemost car spun its wheels and turned gently inside the hangar.

The interior of the aircraft was nearly as spartan as the the exterior. The squeaking of the smooth concrete underneath the wheels echoed within the cavernous space. Save for some metal shelving near the walls and another gaggle of [i]Inteligencia Militar[/i] agents, the hangar contained only a single aircraft. The plane was a robust cargo aorcraft of civilian make, bearing a propeller pod on each wing. A wheel-bound staircase had been rolled up to the cockpit, from whence another member of the Republic's spy network descended. In unison, the doors of the sedan popped open as he stepped out of the cabin.

"Your Excellency, it's my pleasure to reintroduce you to a long-lost acquaintance." The agent-deputy called across the hangar with a wide smile beaming across his face. 

"Zuraban is on the plane?" Sotelo asked indifferently as he straightened the wrinkles out of his suit upon exiting the car and approached the stairs. The agent nodded approvingly.

"Take me to him."

As promised, Julio Zuraban - the former senator of the Spanish Republic - sat bowed over a metal bench bolted to the plane's interior fuselage. The dim lighting of the hangar radiated in through round glass portholes, providing Prime Minister Sotelo just enough light to see the Zuraban's bruise-mottled face. The last two months had not been kind to him.

"Señor Zuraban." Sotelo greeted with a patronizing maliciousness. The exiled senator's eyes twinkled in the gloom as they followed the approaching Prime Minister. Sotelo's footfalls reverberated through the dark fuselage as metallic clacks against the floor. "I have wondered for the longest time what precisely became of you. The circumstances of your disappearance were quite bizarre. I must say, your criticism of my policy toward communist regimes was in poor taste. But before you could even be questioned on the matter, it was as if you had vanished into thin air." Sotelo stopped a few feet in front of the bench and stooped down onto one knee and coming to eye-level with Zuraban.

"I will admit, you had the [i]Oficina[/i] concerned, Señor Zuraban. You were quite a liability; there was a fear that you had defected to the Chinese and their... Comintern." Sotelo explained venomously, as if it pained him to even mention the international communist association. "But now we are met once again, perhaps now you can recount what it is you have been doing over the past three years."

"I wouldn't be to hopeful about that, Excellency. He's been extremely uncooperative with us, even after we applied persuasive techniques." Sotelo examined the fugitive senator's face once again now that he had acquired better visual acuity in the dim light. Scabby cuts and gashes nicked Zuraban's face, surrounded by deep purple and maroon bruises. His left eye socket had been blackened and had swollen profusely. "But from what the Ottoman magistrate in Port Fuad provided us and what the agency was able to find on him, he has quite the story to tell when we do get him to speak."

"I was told he was found in Egypt prior to the fall of the Sultan." Sotelo returned to his feet and turned to the agent-deputy. "What was he doing there, of all places?"

"He had been incarcerated by local law enforcement in Port Fuad, Egypt, when the agency discovered his whereabouts. It seems our Zuraban had been living under the pseudonym "Florian Anoeta" as some sort of war correspondent, photographing conflicts for a French publication. We've found he's been to Armenia, Istanbul, Ethiopia, the Congo, and more. But what's more interesting is how he came into Ottoman custody. They had implicated our very own Julio Zuraban in assisting a number of fugitives in escaping by closing a drawbridge into an Ottoman warship during the Ethiopian Invasion in addition to a count of grand theft auto."

"This man - Julio Zuraban?" Sotelo asked incredulously. The agent nodded.

"The plot gets thicker yet. The [i]Oficina[/i] did some digging of its own during the implosion of the Ottoman Empire. We found that the Ottoman Empire had taken custody of one Taytu Yohannes prior to their invasion of Ethiopia. She had been liberated by what we perceive to be Walinzi operators - members of Ethiopia's military police of sorts. Now, here's where it gets very interesting: Julio here was arrested not half a kilometer from the very building from which the Señora Yohannes had been been freed."

"You believe, then, that he acted in concert as part of some covert foray by the Ethiopian military?"

"That is a distinct possibility." The agent confirmed. "As bizarre as it may sound, we cannot come up with a more plausible scenario given the circumstances. Until we can get him to speak - and trust me when I say we will - this is what-"

"You want to hear what I know?" Julio croaked. Abruptly, Sotelo and the [i]Oficina[/i] agent turned to hear him. "I have nothing to do with the Walinzi or the Chinese or anyone else. I'm not some spy or agent provocateur. All that I have done for the past three years of my life is avoid you and your insane regime."

"What I do know is this: I've traveled all over this world - particularly over these recent years. The world is a diverse place of different peoples but I can speak for all of them when I say this. The people of the world - Spaniards included - despise you, Alfonso. The world is tiring of your aggression and they will not stand for it much longer. But it won't be you that feels the brunt of their cathartic rage. It is the people of this country, the vast majority of them innocents caught up in the deluded nightmare that is your rule, that will die by the millions when China, Africa, and Europe find they have been provoked one time too many. You will be the death of Spain, Alfonso. That much I know."

"Well now," The agent smirked. "I believe that's the most anyone's heard out of him since we took custody of him." Beside him, Sotelo quivered with escalating rage. His arms shook until he could stand it no longer. A trembling arm reached for the agent's holster and tore the pistol out by the handle, eliciting a worried shout from the agent. Sotelo approached Julio and pressed the muzzle of the pistol into his forehead, producing little in the way of fear from the former senator. Even as a twitching thumb found the safety and disengaged it with a soft click, Julio offered no response.

"Please, your Excellency. Please just give me the gun back." The agent pleaded.

"Why should I not kill him now?" Alfonso growled. "Why should I not spare your agency the effort of interrogation? Let me put this bullet in his head!"

"Please, just listen to me. Calm down, take a deep breath..." The agent inhaled loudly, trying to persuade Sotelo to do the same but also trying to calm himself down. "If you kill him, we'll never know if he's actually colluded with the communists. We have ways of making him tell the truth. Please just put the gun down."

"He knows nothing!" Repined Sotelo, pressing the barrel down between Julio's eyes. "You heard it from him!"

"The means we have of forcing the truth from a man are tortuous to say the least. When we finish with with him, he will wish you had killed him now. I think he realizes this, I think he may want for you to kill him. Don't give him what he wants, Excellency."

With a grimace, Alfonso turned the gun in his hand and held it by the muzzle. With a deft swing he clubbed the handle of the pistol against Julio's temple, eliciting a pained yelp as he tumbled down to the floor groaning in agony and massaging the side of his head. Satisfied with the throbbing pain he had inflicted, Sotelo placed the handle of the gun into the agent's palm, who eagerly safetied it and returned it to his holster.

"Thank you, Excellency." The agent sighed. "You made the smart decision. Once he's at Arratzu, he's going to [i]beg[/i] for someone to kill him."

"See that he does."