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1. Charles Ruskin scowled at his watch. Eleven pm. Barely time to get from Casino Milano to the airport, board the last airship to London, and find the airship’s bar. There 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 burst open and a man came rushing in, 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. 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 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 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 of blue water. 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 through 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 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. 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 his goods? Ruskin trailed the boxer toward a throng of gamblers standing around a Japanese temple, gazing in at three clockwork samurai archers. The boxer slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the room. Ruskin reached the entrance to the 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 of the watch. An L-shaped rod swung out. He inserted it into the lock and manipulated the crown till he heard a satisfying clunk. 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. Above the tower hovered an oblong shadow. A blimp moored to the spire. No way in hell he could trail the man out here. But he could force him at gunpoint to lead him to the woman. He pushed the door open and sprinted out on the bridge, pulling his gun from its shoulder holster, counting on the splashing rain to drown his footsteps till he could catch the boxer off-guard. 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, signalling his intention was not to kill. “Don’t shoot,” the boxer cried, whipping out a gun.