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[b]Home of Alexis Tsipras, Athens, late evening[/b]

Alexis Tsipras lay dozing on his sofa, a cheap adventure novel draped across his chest. His eyes, half closed, flickered gently against his cheeks. The television hummed quietly in the corner, the channel long since closed for the night.

At the back of his house, a small scratching noise broke the silence. A window, left slightly open, began to move outwards slowly, inexorably. A camera, concealed in a darkened upper corner of the back pantry, registered the change and rotated, a light beginning to flash.

SMASH! The camera shattered into a thousand shards. The light died. A shadow slipped in through the window, vanishing into the velvet-black darkness of the room.

In the living room Tsipras was roused by what sounded like a breaking glass. Groggily, he hoisted himself up from the sofa and swung his legs to the floor, his book sliding off his lap to the floor with a [i]thud[/i]. A sigh escaped his lips. What now?

Suddenly, a cord swung around his neck from above, quickly pulling tight. His head was jerked roughly upwards. A muffled face stared down at him, two bright eyes glinting from the eyes holes of a balaclava. The cord dug deep into Tsipras' neck, constricting his airway and stifling his attempted calls for help. His breath came in gasps, each shallower than the last. As he took a last choking wheeze, the darkness closed in around him, the two shining points of light the only feature of the empty plain of night,