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1. At 11 pm a pissed-off spy headed for the exit of Casino Milano. He wore a well-cut tailcoat and a cocky smirk and walked with a swagger worthy of a winner. The night’s gambling had indeed been successful, but he had come to the casino in a last attempt to finish a job, and at that, Charles Ruskin had failed. Ruskin reached the double swing door and pushed the right door open, just as the left was pushed open from the outside. A bull-necked man entered. His crooked nose and shrewd eyes made him look like a boxer who knew all the dirty tricks. When Ruskin hurried by the man, something brushed against his leg. A paper bag in the boxer’s hand. Violet, and imprinted with frilly letters obscured by curly flowers. Ruskin deciphered part of the text, s-i-g-n, and then the door swung shut behind him. In the vestibule, he slowed down. Now what? Follow the lead that had just been thrown at him, miss his flight, and disobey a direct order. Or catch his flight, leave the job undone, and accept failure. But maybe there was a third option. Quickly validate the lead, hand it over to the police, reach the airport in time, and celebrate in the airship’s bar. He strode back and pushed the door open. A clamour of voices hit him. He dived back into cigar smoke and perfume fragrances. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the boxer weaved his way through the crowd of guests parading flattering gowns, tailored coats, flowing saris, and diamond-studded turbans. He got slowed down by a throng of gamblers watching a mechanical mermaid rise from the water of a roulette pool. Ruskin drew closer as the mermaid, to a chorus of sighs and cheers, opened a seashell and revealed the number 9 set in red pearls. He manoeuvred to a spot that would give him a good look at the bag. The boxer shifted it to his other hand and elbowed his way out of the crowd. He continued around a diorama of volcanos erupting with gas flames. Ruskin circled it in the opposite direction. Intricate models of passenger-carrying balloons drifted down from the ceiling. Earlier, Ruskin had won a fair amount by betting on which balloons would land safely and which would perish in a volcano. He timed himself so he got a clear view of the text on the bag. Signorina Elegante. His fleeting impression had been spot on. Now it was a question of what the man did with the bag. If Ruskin kept following directly behind his quarry the risk of being spotted would be too high. Instead, he made a detour to a group of brass sculptures of half-naked nymphs lounging around a pond. When the boxer stopped and looked back, Ruskin turned his back to him and tossed a coin into the water. A nymph lifted an amphora and poured wine into a golden goblet. The boxer seemed to be heading for a Japanese temple in the back of the room. In front of a temple two clockwork samurai shot arrows at a target. Ruskin joined the gamblers gathered round the samurais. The boxer glanced around and slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the casino. Ruskin strode past the entrance of the aisle, glancing out from the corner of his eye. Fifteen feet down, a door in the back wall swung shut. Job done. He turned back towards the exit. In the hansom to the airport, he would write a note to the police, saying—what? That he’d seen a man with a bag from a ladies’ fashion store? No way in hell that would make them raid a casino. Screw them all. He walked back, stepped into the aisle and rushed to the door.