John woke up, got up, had a large cup of tea. As he stepped outside he felt the air warm and damp and dropped his key. “What an idiot”, he said to himself as he picked it up.
Just around the corner, two hooded males took his phone and wallet and kicked him to the ground. He should have seen it coming.
A middle-aged woman and someone who might have been her mother got out of the lift on the ground floor, turned sharply to their left and got into the one next to it. They did it without looking around, or discussing; they seemed to know what they were doing. But they were dressed as tourists, not as people who worked at the airport. A middle-aged woman and someone who might have been her mother. Well-dressed but not expensively.
G touched the screen of his phone and, on the next floor up, his colleague F waited for the two women to push their trolley out of the lift then shot each of them in the head.
It was a wrong call.
F was pushed sideways in the organisation, but G came close to being asked to leave. It took him two years to climb back up to where he had been, to prove himself reliable, two long years and too many low-level jobs.
Then, two years later, the terrorists who had watched him watching the tourists did what they had been planning to do.
They claimed responsibility in the names of Rosa and Margherita, the two tourists F had killed. A middle-aged woman and her mother.