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1. Charles Ruskin snapped his watch shut and headed for the exit of Casino Milano, with barely enough time to catch the last flight to London. Once onboard the airship, he planned to stay in the bar, till it no longer pissed him off that he’d been recalled before he could finish his mission. When he hurried out through the double swing door, a man looking like a boxer who knew all the dirty tricks, came bursting in. Something brushed against Ruskin’s leg. A paper bag in the boxer’s left hand. Violet, and imprinted with a fancy logo made up of frilly letters. The door swung shut and left Ruskin standing in the vestibule. After a frustrating evening of futile prying, a lead had been thrown at him. Perhaps it would only lead to him missing his flight, in effect disobeying a direct order, but there was no way in hell he’d leave without getting a closer look at that bag. He turned and pushed the door 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, shaped to resemble a rocky beach. 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 in the logo read, Signorina Elegante. His first impression had been spot on. If he could trail the man to his target, he could after all complete his mission. He followed the boxer to a Japanese temple. In front of the temple, three clockwork samurai bent their bows and let arrows fly at a target. A group of gamblers applauded. 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. Kneeling, he pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and pressed four times on the crown. An L-shaped rod swung out from the side of the watch. 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. He could not trail the man out here, but he could force him to lead the way. 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. “Please, no,” the boxer cried, raising his left hand in a gesture of surrender, and with his right hand whipping out a gun.