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1. Charles Ruskin entered the vestibule of Casino Milano and looked around for a staff member to bribe, threaten, or seduce. He needed someone to guide him beyond the glittering salon, down the dim corridors, past the storage- and utility rooms, and onto the door, the staff had been forbidden to go near. “Mr Ruskin.” The man hurrying up to him looked too young to be allowed in a casino. “My name’s George Cook.” The codename proved he was sent by the embassy. “I have a message from your office. I quote, return without any delay.” The keyword was any. Without delay would’ve given him leeway. Any meant get going, no matter how bloody close you are to finishing a job. “Sir, I’ve been told to escort you to the airport. There’s a Hansom cab waiting, and just enough time to catch the last airship to London.” Ruskin looked away from the eager face before it provoked him to unleash his anger on the messenger. Across the vestibule, a man dressed like an undertaker passed through the swing door to the gambling salon. He carried a purple paper bag imprinted with a logo made up of frilly letters. Ruskin made out s-i-g-n, and then the door swung shut. Ruskin might just have found his guide. He needed a closer look at that bag to be sure. But he had already ignored requests to return home twice, and now he’d been given a direct order, and direct orders should be obeyed. In principle. But this chance was too juicy not to be plucked. He started for the salon. “Mr Ruskin?” “Stay here.” He crossed the room and pushed the door open, got hit by a clamour of voices, and dived into the smell of pomade and perfume. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the undertaker’s plain suit navigated a sea of tailcoats and evening gowns. He got slowed down by gamblers jostling to place chips on a roulette table, big enough to encircle a pool. Ruskin drew closer as a mechanical mermaid rose from the pool’s water. She opened a seashell and revealed the number 9 set in red pearls. A chorus of sighs and cheers broke out. He reached a spot that would give him a good look at the bag, but the undertaker shifted it to his left hand and elbowed his way through the crowd. Ruskin mumbled an oath. “Lost this one, did you?” A man with a silly grin glared at him. Ruskin wiped the grin away with a look. He made his way toward the undertaker, who was walking along a diorama where volcanos erupted with roaring gas flames. Ruskin followed, pretending to be fascinated by the model of a passenger balloon floating above the landscape. Gamblers called out bets on whether it would land safely or perish in a volcano. Ruskin closed in on the undertaker and read the text on the bag—Signorina Elegante. Perfect. If he could trail the man, he could complete the mission. He followed the undertaker past two samurais standing in front of a Japanese temple. The back of one of the warriors stood open. Two technicians stared at a bewildering mass of springs and cogwheels. The undertaker slipped into an opening between the temple and the back wall of the room. Ruskin strolled leisurely along, glancing into the space. Ten feet down a passageway, a door closed with the clank of an automatic lock. He turned into the opening and strode to the door, pulling his watch from his waistcoat pocket and pressing four times on the crown. A metal rod with teeth swung out from the side of the watch. He dropped to one knee, inserted the rod into the lock and manipulated the crown till there came a satisfying clunk. He cracked the door open and heard rain splashing on stone. Far below, trams snaked through the gaslit streets of Milan. A cobblestone bridge stretched out in front of him. Dim light from the neighbouring skyscrapers outlined the undertaker, as he hunched against the rain, and crossed the bridge to the top of a tower. Above the tower hovered an oblong shadow—a blimp moored to the spire. Out here, there was no chance to trail the man unseen.