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the message was clear. A bullet from Linden’s gun would push Hollis over the railing. Within his mind, Hollis saw his body falling, a flurry of arms and legs and then stillness. After the police photographed his body, he would be scooped off the pavement, tagged and discarded like a piece of trash. The vision didn’t frighten him, but it didn’t soothe his anger. If he died, then his memory of Vicki would die with him. She would perish a second time.
    “And what is your response?” Linden asked.
    “I’ll—I’ll go away.”
    Linden turned his back and disappeared through the open skylight. And Hollis was alone again, still clutching the useless weapon.

4
    T he next morning, Hollis woke up in his rented room on Camden High Street. He felt like the last man alive as he started his daily routine: two hundred push-ups and an equal number of sit-ups on the stained rug, followed by a series of martial arts exercises. When his T-shirt was soaked with sweat, he took a shower and cooked a pot of oatmeal on the hot plate near the bathroom sink. After cleaning up and leaving no visible sign of his presence, he went downstairs.
    Only a few people were out, mostly shopkeepers receiving morning deliveries and sweeping their little patches of sidewalk. Hollis strolled up the High Street, crossed Regent’s Canal and entered the maze of shops and food stands that occupied the area around Camden Lock. It was Saturday—which meant the market would start to get crowded around ten or eleven o’clock. People would come to the market to get tribal tattoos while their friends bought black leather pants and Tibetan prayer bowls.
    The “catacombs” were a system of tunnels built beneath the elevated railway tracks that ran through the market. In the nineteenthcentury, the tunnels had been used as stables for canal horses, but now this underground area was occupied by stores and artists’ studios. Halfway down one of the tunnels, Hollis found Winston Abosa’s drum shop. The West African was standing at a back table in the main room, pouring some evaporated milk into a large cup of coffee.
    When Winston saw Hollis, he retreated behind a sculpture of a pregnant woman with ivory teeth. “Good morning, Mr. Hollis. I hope all is well.”
    “I’m leaving the country, Winston. But I wanted to say goodbye to Gabriel.”
    “Yes, of course. He’s in the falafel shop meeting people.”
    Because the Tabula was searching for him, Gabriel had to spend most of his time in the hidden apartment attached to the drum shop. If members of the Resistance wanted to meet, he would talk to them at a second location. A Lebanese family ran a falafel shop in a market building that overlooked the canal. For a modest payment, they let Gabriel use their upstairs storage room.
    In the falafel shop, Hollis stepped around a sullen girl chopping parsley and passed through a doorway concealed behind a beaded curtain. When he climbed the stairs to the storage room, he was surprised to see how many people were waiting. Gabriel was over by the window, talking to a nun wearing the black robes of the Poor Claires. Linden stood guard near the door with his massive arms folded over his chest. The moment he saw Hollis, his hands returned to his overcoat pockets.
    “I thought we had an agreement,” Linden said.
    “We do. But I wanted to say goodbye to my friend.”
    Linden considered the request and then motioned to one of the chairs. “Wait your turn.”
    Hollis sat in the back of the room and checked out the rest of the crowd. People were speaking Polish, German and Spanish. The onlypeople he recognized were a pair of British Free Runners—a pudgy young man named Jugger and his quiet friend, Roland. It was clear that people all over the world had heard about the Traveler.
    Back in Los Angeles, Gabriel had long brown hair and wore a stained leather jacket. He had been quick to smile or show anger, a combination of home-schooled innocence and cowboy swagger. During their