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1. At 11 pm Charles Ruskin headed for the exit of Casino Milano, with just enough time to catch the last airship to London, and with a plan to stay in the airship’s bar till he no longer was pissed off by being recalled from an unfinished mission. Reaching the double swing door, he pushed the right door open. The left was pushed open from the outside by a man with the broken 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 an intricate logo. The logo was actually intertwining letters. 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, a lead had been thrown at him. Now what? Follow the lead, risk missing his flight, and in effect disobey a direct order. Or ignore it and accept failure. He turned back, pushed the door open, was hit by a clamour of voices, and 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 jostling to place chips on red and black tables standing around a pool. Ruskin drew closer, as a mechanical mermaid rose from the water and, to a chorus of sighs and cheers, opened a seashell and revealed the number 9 set in red pearls. He reached a spot that would give him a good look at the bag. The boxer shifted it to his right hand and elbowed his way out of the crowd. Ruskin allowed himself an oath. “Lost this one, did you?” A man with a silly grin glared at Ruskin. Ruskin wiped the grin away with a look. The boxer was making his way around a diorama of volcanos erupting with roaring gas flames. Ruskin circled it in the opposite direction. Models of passenger-carrying balloons floated 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. When the boxer walked away from the diorama, Ruskin got a clear view of the bag. The text read, Signorina Elegante. His fleeting impression had been spot on. But where would the man take the bag? Ruskin trailed the boxer to the back of the room, where two clockwork samurai, standing in front of a Japanese temple, shot arrows at a target, while a group of gamblers shouted encouragement. Keeping the group between himself and the boxer, Ruskin closed in on his quarry. The boxer glanced around and slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the room. Ruskin reached the aisle. The boxer wasn’t there. Ten feet down a door in the back wall closed with a heavy metallic clank. He strode to the door and tried the handle. Locked. He pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. If he didn’t leave soon, he would miss his airship. Kneeling, he pressed four times on the crown. An L-shaped metal rod swung out from the side of the watch. He inserted the rod into the lock and manipulated the crown. Should he, as he had promised the diplomats, let the police take over now that he had located the woman? A clunk sounded from the lock. No way in hell a bag from a ladies’ fashion store would make the police raid a casino. Screw the diplomats. He drew his gun from its shoulder holster and pushed the door open. The faint light from the neighbouring skyscrapers revealed the boxer, hunched against the rain, crossing a cobblestone bridge to a docking tower. An oblong shadow hovered above the tower. A blimp moored to the spire. Ruskin sprang up and sprinted after the boxer, counting on the rain to drown the sound of his footsteps long enough for him to take the man by surprise. Behind him, the door closed with its heavy metallic clank.