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At 11 pm Charles Ruskin headed for the exit of Casino Milano, with just enough time to catch the last flight to London, and with a plan to hit the airship’s bar, and stay there till he no longer felt pissed off by being recalled before he could finish his mission. Reaching the double swing door, he pushed the right door open. The left was pushed open from the outside by a man looking like 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 a fancy logo made up of frilly 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. Most likely it would only lead to him missing his flight, in effect disobeying a direct order. So should he ignore it? Before his mind could stage a debate, Ruskin was back at the door. He pushed it open, got hit by a clamour of voices, and dived back into the scent of pomade and perfume. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the boxer’s plain suit navigated a sea of tailored coats, flattering gowns, 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. To a chorus of sighs and cheers, she 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, but 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 him. 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 on from the diorama, Ruskin got a clear view of the bag. The text read, Signorina Elegante. Promising, 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. A group of gamblers shouted encouragement and advice. Keeping the group between himself and the boxer, Ruskin closed in on his quarry, who disappeared into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the room. Ruskin reached the aisle. Twenty feet down, a door in the back wall closed with a sharp metallic clank. He strode to the door and grabbed the handle. Locked. From his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a watch. Time was running out. Kneeling, he pressed four times on the crown. An L-shaped metal rod swung out of the watch. He inserted it into the lock and manipulated the crown. No sounds came from the other side of the door. No voices. No such luck. A clunk sounded from the lock. He cracked the door open. The faint light from the neighbouring skyscrapers revealed the boxer, hunched against the driving rain, crossing a cobblestone bridge to a docking tower. An oblong shadow hovered above the tower. A blimp moored to the spire. Ruskin pushed the door and sprinted out on the bridge, counting on the rain to drown his footsteps, just long enough for him to take the boxer by surprise. He was for his gun when the noise from the splashing rain was penetrated by a sharp metallic clank. The boxer spun around, dropping to one knee, whipping a gun out from under his jacket. Ruskin dived for the ground, twisting his body, and reaching for his shoulder holster.