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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 gambling salon, lead him past rows of closed doors and point out the one the staff had been forbidden to open. The hushed elegance was shattered by a shout. “Ruskin.” The man swaggering up to him was bald and muscular and began talking ten feet away. “My name’s George Cook.” The codename proved he was sent by the embassy. “A message from your office. 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.” The man gestured toward the door. Ruskin turned away. He would hate to obey the man who was walloping in secondhand authority, but the lead that had brought him here wasn’t solid enough to risk disobeying a direct order. Across the vestibule, a man dressed like an undertaker passed through the swing door to the 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. “What are you waiting for?” Not only did the undertaker seem to corroborate the lead, but he might, unknowingly, serve as a guide. Ruskin needed a closer look at the bag to be sure, but the chance was too juicy to be left un-plucked. “Come on or I’ll report you.” People turned to stare. Ruskin leaned close to the man. “You’re a turd in the punchbowl. A disgrace to errand boys.” He turned away adding, “Report that.” He crossed the room and pushed the door to the salon open, got hit by a clamour of voices, and dived into the smell of pomade and perfume. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the undertaker’s 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 nine set in red pearls. A chorus of sighs and cheers broke out. He reached a spot that would give him a clear view 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. He closed in on the undertaker and read the full 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, glancing through the opening into a narrow passageway. No sign of the undertaker. 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, into the night.