I‘ve never liked doing a job in a new place. You don’t know how to get in and out undetected, you don’t know what tools you’ll need to access the target, you don’t know where you’ll stick out and where you’ll be able to fade into the background or disappear in a crowd.
To compensate, I start by studying the area from afar, move in only when I’ve learned as much as possible, and always arrive early enough to become familiar with the local terrain before it’s time to act. Tactics like these have kept me alive, and even reasonably prosperous, during more than a quarter century of doing the thing I’ve always been best at.
But this time the preparation was reflex, not necessity. I wasn’t on a job, for one thing; I was done with the life. Or almost done. There was one last thing, a big one, but I didn’t want to face that just yet. Barcelona was supposed to be an interlude: pleasure, not business, and it was disturbing that some part of my mind seemed not to understand the difference.
Still, in alien circumstances, we tend to cling to habit, and so I found myself defaulting to my usual approach. I should have known better. Barcelona was unfamiliar, but the real territory I was trying to navigate isn’t marked on any map.
