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1. Charles Ruskin scowled at his watch. Eleven pm, and hardly enough time to get from Casino Milano to the airport, catch the last airship to London, and hit the bar, where he planned to stay till it no longer pissed him off that he had been recalled before he could finish his mission. He strode to the double swing door of the casino and pushed the exit door open. The entry door was pushed open 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 and get going? Before his reason could voice an objection, Ruskin was back at the door. He pushed it open, got hit by a clamour of voices, and dived back into the smell of pomade and perfume. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the boxer’s plain suit navigated a sea of elegant tailcoats, flattering gowns, flowing saris, and diamond-studded turbans. He got slowed down by gamblers jostling to place chips on roulette 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. A dozen 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, 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 a Japanese temple where three clockwork samurai shoot arrows at a target, while gamblers outside cheered and booed. The boxer slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the room. Ruskin reached the entrance to the dimly lit aisle. Ten feet down, a door in the back wall closed with a metallic clank. He strode to the door and grabbed the handle. Locked. From his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out his watch. By now he ought to be racing to the airport in a hansom cab. Kneeling, he pressed four times on the crown. An L-shaped rod swung out of the watch. He inserted it into the lock and manipulated the crown. The sound from whatever might be happening on the other side did not make it through the heavy door. A clunk escaped 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 the top of a docking tower with a blimp moored to the spire. Ruskin pushed the door open and sprinted out on the bridge, pulling his gun from its shoulder holster, counting on the splashing rain to drown out his footsteps till he could overpower the only person able to lead him to the woman. Behind him, the door slammed shut. The boxer spun around, reaching inside his jacket. Taking a chance that potentially could reduce his remaining lifetime to three seconds, Ruskin held up his gun, hoping the boxer realised that had Ruskin wanted to eliminate him, he would already be dead.