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At 11 pm Charles Ruskin headed for the exit of Casino Milano. A well-cut tailcoat, cocky swagger, and complacent smirk disguised the pissed-off spy as a happy gambler. Reaching the double swing door he pushed the right door open, just as the left was pushed open from the outside. A bull-necked man entered. He had the crooked nose and shrewd eyes of a boxer who knew all the dirty tricks. When Ruskin hurried past the man, something brushed against his leg. A paper bag in the boxer’s left hand. Violet, and imprinted with ornately decorated letters, barely readable. Ruskin deciphered part of the text, s-i-g-n, and then the door swung shut behind him. In the vestibule, he slowed down. After a frustrating evening of futile prying, he had stumbled onto a lead. Now what? Follow the lead, and risk missing the last airship to London, thereby disobeying a direct order. Or ignore it and accept failure. 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 zig-zagged 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, just as the boxer shifted it to his right hand and elbowed his way out of the crowd. A hand touched Ruskin’s arm. “Did you lose?” A woman looked up at him with wide eyes and an inviting smile. “Sorry my dear. Bad timing.” He padded her hand and turned away. Had he let his annoyance show? That wouldn’t do. The boxer was walking 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, he had won a fair amount by betting on which balloons would land safely and which would perish in a volcano. He got a clear view of the bag when the boxer walked on. The text read, Signorina Elegante. His fleeting impression had been spot on. Now, where would the man take the bag? The risk of being spotted would be too high if he continued to keep close to his quarry. Instead, he made a detour to a group of brass sculptures of nymphs lounging around a pond. When the boxer stopped and looked around, Ruskin turned away and tossed a coin into the water. A nymph lifted an amphora and poured wine into a goblet. The boxer was heading to the back of the room. In front of a Japanese temple, two clockwork samurai shot arrows at a target, surrounded by a group of gamblers shouting encouragements. Keeping the group between himself and the boxer, Ruskin strolled towards the man. The boxer glanced around and slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the casino. Ruskin reached the entrance to the aisle. The narrow space was dark and empty, but five feet down a door in the back wall closed with a metallic clank. He strode to the door and tried the handle. Locked. He drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket. If he didn’t leave soon, he would miss his airship. He pressed three times on the crown. An L-shaped metal rod swung out from the side of the watch. He knelt, inserted the rod into the lock, and delicately turned the crown. Should he leave the case to the police? No way in hell a bag from a ladies’ fashion store would make them raid a casino. A clunk sounded from the lock. Screw them all. He pushed the door open, just enough to look out. Dim light from the neighbouring skyscrapers revealed the boxer, hunched against the driving rain, crossing a cobblestone bridge leading to a docking tower. A shadow hovered above the tower. A blimp.