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little squeak in the back of her throat.
    “That’s stolen property! She stole those from me,” says Ruiz, pointing to the jewelry.
    Hol y blinks at him, shocked, tel ing herself not to lose control.
    “Is there a problem?” asks the jeweler.
    “Yes, there’s a problem,” says Ruiz. “This girl is a thief.”
    Hol y clutches her bag to her chest. “Stay away from me, you pervert!” She turns to the jeweler. “This man has been fol owing me. He’s a stalker. There’s a court order out against him. He’s not supposed to come within a hundred yards of me.”
    The old jeweler looks alarmed. “Should I cal the police?”
    “Good idea,” says Ruiz. “Let’s do that.”
    Hol y doesn’t flinch. She scoops the hair-comb into her hand and jabs her finger at him. “Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!” The door opens. A security guard enters. Short and muscular, he’s carrying a baton and every pie he’s ever eaten around his waist. Hol y takes one look at him and col apses in a dead faint, scythed down like a stalk of wheat.
    Ruiz catches her before she hits her head on a display case. Her eyes are shut. She’s unconscious. Out cold. Her arms flung wide.
    “This man has been stalking her,” says the jeweler.
    “That’s not true.”
    “Step back, sir,” says the guard. “Did you hit her?”
    “No, you moron, I caught her as she fel .”
    Hol y’s eyes open and she blinks at him.
    “Did I do it again?” she asks.
    “Just lie stil ,” says Ruiz. “Someone cal an ambulance.”
    She shakes her head. “I just fainted.”
    “You were out cold.”
    “It happens sometimes.” She sits up. Pushes hair from her eyes. “Something about my blood sugar level.”
    “You’re diabetic.”
    “No. I just sort of fal down. It’s no big deal.”
    Someone has brought her a glass of water. She needs some fresh air. The security guard walks her out on to the pavement. Hol y asks for more water. The guard takes the glass from her and turns his back. In that moment, she’s gone, sprinting down the street, dodging pedestrians and shoppers.
    The guard has no chance of catching her.

    9

    LONDON

    Holy doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t look back. When she reaches an intersection with a red “don’t walk” sign, she turns left and heads down the road, trying to lose herself in the crowds of shoppers, tourists and commuters. Further along the street, she makes the crossing, skipping between cars and buses.
    The Underground is just ahead. No, not the tube, she could be too easily cornered. She walks past the station entrance and heads south towards the Thames.
    On Waterloo Bridge a jaundiced sun is setting through the haze. Final y she pauses, sweating under her clothes, cold on her face. For twenty minutes she studies the pedestrians and cars. How did he find her—the man from last night? The ex-copper. He said his name was Vincent. He looked harmless. Old. Crippled.
    She cal s Zac. He’s not answering. He was the person who taught her about counter-surveil ance: how to blend in with a crowd and lose a pursuer. For the next thirty minutes she continues south, occasional y doubling back and ducking into shop doorways where she can watch the street behind her. Her feet are hurting. She’s thirsty.
    The streets become shabbier as she gets closer to the Hogarth Estate. Shops give way to factories, railway yards and seventies tower blocks that rise above the rooftops like tree stumps in a nuclear winter.
    It’s almost dark on the estate. Children have been summoned indoors and TV sets drown out the arguments. Pushing through the entrance, Hol y steps past old food containers and discarded Styrofoam cups.
    Why isn’t Zac answering his phone?
    She doesn’t trust the lift. Takes the stairs. A smel she can’t place in the stairwel mingles with other odors that she doesn’t want to name.
    The door is open. The frame splintered. At first she thinks Zac has locked himself out and broken into the flat. She looks into