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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. Someone to guide him through the corridors behind the salon, lead him past storage rooms and workshops and point out the door the staff had been forbidden to open. Someone shouted, “Ruskin.” The man hurrying up to him looked like a bouncer, but why would a bouncer know his name? “George Cook.,” the man bawled. The codename proved he was sent by the embassy. “I have a message from your office. They order you to 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. “I’m to take you to the airport. There’s just enough time to put you on the last airship to London.” Ruskin looked away before he was provoked 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 green paper bag imprinted with a logo made up of frilly letters. Ruskin made out s-i-g-n, and then the door swung shut. “Come along Ruskin.” People turned to look at the big loud man. Could the undertaker be used as an involuntary guide? Ruskin needed a closer look at the bag to be sure, but it seemed to be a chance too juicy not to be plucked. “If you don’t come now I’ll report you.” Ruskin leaned close to the man. “You shout my name, and you attract attention. You’re a disgrace to errand boys. Run on home and report that.” He strode away, 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 black suit navigated a sea of tailcoats and evening gowns. He got slowed down by gamblers jostling to place chips on a roulette table, large 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 and made his way toward the undertaker. He was hurrying along a diorama where volcanos erupted with roaring gas flames. Ruskin followed, pretending to concentrate on a 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 past and glanced down a passageway. The undertaker was not there. Ten feet down, a door closed with the annoying 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 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 led away from the door. Faint light from the neighbouring skyscrapers showed the undertaker, hunched against the driving drain as he crossed the bridge to the top of a tower. Above it hovered an oblong shadow—a blimp moored to the spire.