I was in trouble. It was one of those deep underground stations with a passenger lift, the kind that used to have a booth inside for the guard. I flashed my pass to the man, and he frowned. “Show me that picture again,” he said. I did. He frowned harder. “They’re looking for that guy. They’re looking for you.” He pointed, glared, and then broke into a huge smile. But the fear had taken hold, a new, plunging, suffocating feeling I was becoming familiar with. The lift bumped to a stop at street level, and I threw myself out into the daylight. London was killing me.