Chapter 2: The Arrival

Chapter Two: The Arrival
Tegel Airport, Berlin.

The cold Berlin air bit gently at my cheeks as I stepped onto the tarmac, suitcase in hand, heart thumping with anticipation. It wasn’t just the jet lag or the sharp wind—it was the feeling of stepping into a new life.

A man stood waiting for me, holding a sleek black folder and a polite smile.
"Welcome to Berlin!" he said, extending his hand. "I'm Agent Martínez, your unofficial welcoming committee—and your official ride to the Embassy."

There was something immediately familiar about him—not in face, but in spirit. We were about the same age, held the same diplomatic rank—Third Secretary—and something told me we’d both seen enough bureaucracy to write a satire or two.

He motioned toward a waiting Mercedes van, all gleaming black and silent menace.
"You’ll find Berlin charming," Martínez added as we climbed in. "And maddening, depending on the day. I head Human Rights at the Embassy. You’ll find the office quite... human. And occasionally right."

I laughed. Dry humor. I liked him already.

As the van glided past Berlin’s gray streets, he offered a soft monologue of what to expect.
"Now, about the Ambassador—Serrano." He adjusted his cufflinks with surgical precision. "She’s... elusive. Think of her as Schrödinger’s diplomat: always present, yet nearly impossible to be with. You’ll need an appointment, and even that might take two weeks."

I raised an eyebrow. “So who runs the day-to-day?”
“That would be Deputy Polo. She’s brilliant, warm, and very much alive. You’ll like her. Everyone does.”

The van pulled up to the Embassy. It didn’t look like a government building; it looked like it had been designed by architects with engineering degrees who’d grown up on Bond films. It was majestic, almost surreal in its symmetry.

A three-meter metallic vault of a door slid open as we approached. For a split second, I wondered if it would seal behind us forever.

"The architecture plays tricks on the eyes," Martínez grinned. "An optical illusion. The Embassy’s jewel. Mexico’s best modern facility abroad. Feels more like a Bond villain’s lair than a diplomatic post, doesn’t it?"

Inside, the space opened into a five-story glass atrium surrounded by white concrete with Italian marble chiseled by hand, light cascading from above like liquid silver. A narrow glass bridge connected one wing. Below, the center of the building opened like a mysterious well.

"What is that?" I asked, stepping cautiously towards the drop.
"A cenote," he replied. “Well, a symbolic one. A little slice of Yucatán in Berlin.”

We rode a glass elevator to the second floor, watching the cenote shimmer below through its translucent opening. At the entrance stood a man in traditional Mexican attire, with a hat—stern, but courteous.

"Mr. Arriaga," he said, handing me a white keycard. "Welcome. This grants you access to the secured areas within the Embassy."

He hesitated.
“Actually… there’s been a small logistical hiccup. Your office isn’t ready yet. Your predecessor hasn’t left. She’ll be here for another two months.”

I blinked. “So where am I…?”
“A cubicle,” he said with a wince. “Next to Regina and Barbara. They talk a lot—but they talk well. You’ll love them. Or learn to use earplugs.”

I stifled a laugh. “I am sure they are lovely.”

As we neared the top, the light grew clearer, cleaner. The elevator doors slid open to reveal Deputy Polo, already waiting with a welcoming smile and a clipboard.

"Nicolás," she said warmly, extending a hand. "Welcome. Come into my office."

Her office was not just an office—it was a viewing platform into the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Berlin’s skyline like a curated exhibit. A tastefully understated living room sat to the side. But Polo herself was firmly stationed behind her desk—serious, yet unthreatening.

“We didn’t expect your arrival quite so early,” she admitted, gesturing for me to sit. “Your predecessor will continue leading Political Affairs for now. But don’t worry—she’ll start showing you the ropes. Slowly. Diplomatically.”

I smiled. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” she said, sliding a folder across the desk, “you’ll lead Academic Affairs.”

I opened it. Inside were documents bearing the official seal of the German Foreign Office.

“The German Foreign Ministry—together with SWP, a think tank—has organized a nuclear policy dialogue. Three days of discussions. Ambassadors, UN officials, nuclear experts—even IAEA inspectors will be there.”

She leaned in. “Your job: attend, observe, and brief. The opening session will be led by Ambassador Bauman, who heads the UN Section at the Auswärtiges Amt, the German Foreign Office. You’ll want to be sharp.”

“When does it start?” I asked.
She checked her watch. “In two hours.”

And just like that, the wind bit again—but this time from the inside.

Just as I stood to leave, Deputy Polo pressed a button on her desk. A door opened, and a young assistant appeared with quiet efficiency, notebook in hand. Without breaking her gaze from me, she handed over a folded document.

"Kindly deliver this cable to Ambassador Serrano for signature," she instructed the assistant. "It’s urgent."

The assistant nodded and disappeared as quickly as he’d come. I caught a glimpse of the heading on the document:

Diplomatic Dispatch No. 426 – ‘Cable from Mexican Embassy in Germany’
Originating Location: Berlin, Classified. Ambassador's Office
Date: 2016
Recipient: Foreign Office
Message: Third Secretary Nicolás Arriaga arrived and started tour of duty.

A shiver ran down my spine—my name, already encoded into the official record of a foreign government. The ink wasn’t dry, but history had begun writing me in.

I stood, folder in hand, heart thumping—not with anticipation, but with the weight of what was now unmistakably real. As I headed towards the door. I turned back once more.

"Any last advice?" I asked.

Deputy Polo smiled, wryly.
“Yes. Don’t blink. Berlin diplomacy moves fast—and if you're not careful, it’ll rewrite your story before you’ve had a chance to write your name.
Also…” she added, “watch your step, do not fall into the bottom of our cenote.”