[h1]China[/h1]
[h2]Nanjing[/h2]

“The honorable congressman is this way.” mumbled the mortuary technician as he lead Sun Chu and another man across the frosty floor of the morgue, his briefcase bounced against his legs as he walked.. The smell of refrigerant hung like an incense that lingered in the cooled air. On the far-side of the wall stood an entire bank of old, worn wooden boxes stacked and arranged into drawers. The technician grumbled low to himself as he reached out for the handle of one the drawers and yanked it open. The tearing roar of wood grinding on wood exploded in the still air of the room as Dong Wu's body was pulled from where it rested.

Sun Chu took up a position alongside the other man, a younger lean individual. His dishpan of a face immediately drained of blood as he looked down at the mangled corpse of Dong Wu.

“There's maybe over a half-dozen causes of death on his body.” the technician grumbled, “I didn't really need to take an effort.”

“I can tell.” Sun Chu commented, he himself was feeling a little ghastly looking down at the corpse.

Laying sprawled in the tiny confines of the wooden drawer box Dong Wu lay unexposed, his eyes shut. But it wasn't the simply pale nature of being dead that had sapped either men's vigor looking down at him. But rather the totality of the devastation raked across his body.

Clear burns and lacerations scarred his chest in a massive web-pattern. Deep cuts in the burned flesh tore clear through into the rib-cage where pearly white bone shone through in the dim incandescent lighting. His face was half peeled back by something, revealing the formless remains of the underlying muscle structure and bone. A sunken socket suggested that he had perhaps lost an eye. Further, there was a wide hole in his stomach only exacerbated by the tight skin from where it had been sewn up by the autopsy cuts, the stitching only just barely held it close. An entire leg was almost entirely torn off.

“You listened to the chief's briefing.” the mortician said, “So I'll let you two at him.” he turned and walked out. His deep dry tone held that he wasn't particularly pleased. As he left through the door it left Chu thinking that the man wanted to let the entire thing rest. But as the door shut he let it be.

“You seen anything like this?” Chu asked his partner.

“Only in pictures from the books about U731.” the younger man remarked full of ghastly terror, “I don't think there's been anything nearly this severe in a long time.”

Chu nodded. The young man was Wu Jing-Shen, an academic boy the national command recruited in for forensic duty. A quick peak into his background and nothing more was enough for Chu to surmise that though he performed well academically, he had little actual field experience. This was them breaking him in. Perhaps in the worse way possible.

He looked up at him, he was as pale as paper.

“So let's get a look at him so we have something to write back.” Chu remarked coldly, putting his case over top the casket and cracking it open. He pulled out from the neatly organized papers a clipboard and a stack of notepapers. “Go on.” he ordered, clicking out the tip of his pen.

Jing-Shen shot an apprehensive look up at him. He knew how to approach, but the repulsed sickly look on his face spoke all the words needed. He simply did not want to. Chu glowered at him from over the ready notepad, impatiently waving his hand. “Go on.” he croaked.

Jing-Shen sandwiched his lips together and leaned over the box. Sighing he looked back up in a low voice, “Hold on.” he requested, “I need to get a gurney.”

“That would be a good idea.” chuckled Chu as Jing-Shen went to the gurneys. The wheels of one rattled across the porcelain tiles of the floor as he pulled it aside and swung it into position. And with a pop he pulled the face off the drawer and had the body pulled out onto the table. He moved it over into the light with a disdainful robotic swing.

“Ok...” he sighed, “Our subject is clearly male. Mid to late forties.” he began.

“We know who our subject is.” Chu remarked bitterly, “We can skip those details.”

“Right, right.” Jing-Shen shook, “Well, Dong Wu has suffered considerable burns across seventy-five percent of his body. I am counting...” he paused as he leaned over the corpse and with a pen pulled from his pocket began counting the individual open wounds across his body, “eighty individual and unique penetration wounds. This is consistent I guess to municipal reports and pieces of shrapnel extracted from his body. Many on the right-side.”

“Face?” Chu asked, as he scribbled the last notes down.

“A large avulsion injury covers much of his lower face between cheek and chin on the right-side. Victim has suffered severe trauma to the eye comparable to a bomb blast or bullet-related injury. I can also see indications of burns.”

“The limbs?”

“Hand and arms on the right side are burned. The left leg is mostly severed.” he cringed, looking away.

“How much so?” Chu chided.

“I- uh... Seventy-five percent.”

Chu nodded and he added them to his notes.

“I'd say that these are all consistent to a bomb-related injury.” Jing-Shen concluded, “It's a.. clear cut case of one.” he added uncomfortably, “The burns suggest that the device may have perhaps even been filled with an accelerant or incendiary compound. But the severity of the open wounds would have meant the explosive was not a fire-bomb but that the nature of its explosion did produce a fire-ball.”

Sun Chu nodded. “If possible do you think any of the accelerant's residue remains on his skin?”

“Most likely, why?”

“Because I want a swab off his chest, a skin sample, and a cut of hair. We're going to send these to Beijing to be analyzed and get an idea on what was used in the explosion.”

“Right.” conceded Jing-Shen conceded, looking for anything he could use to take and package the samples, “Can I ask a question though, sir?”

“What is it?” Chu looked up.

“Why is it we're doing this investigation? Is Nanjing's department that bad?” he asked.

“No, hardly. We're just hear because Beijing cares. That's all.” responded Sun Chu, “If Beijing cares then it doesn't blow up in our faces. Pardon the pun.”

Hesitating, Jing-Shen looked down at the corpse on the table, “Should we open him up?” he asked nauseously.

“To confirm their reports, yes. Get the scissors.” Chu ordered.

[h2]Beijing[/h2]

Walls covered in wood paneling, angled and twisted so as to not great a flat surface, then again hung over in rugs and throw-away carpeting it was not the most impressive of radio studios. An office no bigger than a closet with microphones and equipment packed tight. A darkened window on one wall shone the silhouettes of waiting engineers as they hung over the broadcasting controls for China' national radio system. They with the broadcaster sat waiting, and bored out of their skulls. In an ashtray on the table a cigarette lay smoldering with over two dozen of its deflated counterparts. Drumming his fingers, the broadcaster turned his wrist to check his watch. 12:32, Auyi was late.

In the course of campaigns he had interviewed over a dozen of the candidates vying for Hou Sai Tang's office. The good Grand Secretary had already abandoned Beijing, muting his presence from the political talk box of the country. Now what had once been either direct meetings with him or a liaison had turned into a more difficult sprawl of finding people to fill the mid-afternoon time-clock. And with a national campaign under-way the establishment of the NPN was not particularly impressed with interviews with governors and congressmen, even if for ten minutes.

But Auyi was still late, and they need material to be ready at the end of the hour. He Kang was no friend to patience either.

With an otherwise dismissive appearance, Kang looked like something of a younger and heavier imperial Mandarin, down to the untidy beard on his chin. Smoke stained fingers tapped and traced the lines in the wood of the table as he licked his yellowing teeth. And restless from the night before he rung his amber red eyes with a subtle dark bags. He wasn't a face for the camera, ever. But his voice was vanilla-bean radio.

His inattentive waiting was soon however snapped alert when the studio doors opened and in stepped Auyi. Kang quickly threw aside his impatience like a snake and shot to his feet and politely bowed to his visitor. “Comrade Zhang!” he said with a smile, “A pleasure to see you.”

“Comrade He.” cordially greeted Auyi as he returned the favor. The minister-going-for-grand-secretary wasn't far from his pampered campaign trail appearance. His face glowed with a fatherly health and his black hair combed back and delicately brushed. His cloud-white suit shone in a more bleached white than anything else in the room then.

“I'm afraid we may not have so much time on introductions and formalities.” Kang noted uncomfortably, “So, please: take a seat and we can begin.”

“I wouldn't worry much,” smiled Auyi as he pulled back his chair from the center table, “this isn't my first radio interview appereance.”

“As I'm sure.” Kang He noted, as he gave a thumbs up to the engineers to being. A soft hum and static crackling filled the room, summoning with it the sound of a sudden orchestral sting marking the beginning of Kang He's personal radio dominion.

“Good afternoon comrades!” He cheered into the recording microphone, “Today is July 16th, 1980, and we have for today's slot an interview with popular contender for the office of Grand Secretary Zhang Auyi.”

The recordings being all prerecorded would no doubt be cleaned up later. If He or his engineers felt that he had flubbed or drew an error at any point that it would be no surprise magic if they made a scrubbing fix to the tapes before being passed to editing and final airing. Auyi was acquainted with the process, and he nodded and smiled along as Kang He went through the formalities with the same sort of tacky vigor as a back-street hawker.

“Comrade.” He Kang said, pointing to Auyi and making the signal he was now addressing him, “Throughout your campaign you have made promises and indications to commit to a nationalized reformation of the economic structure to China. Through 'liberalizing the direction and flow of manufacture and growth' you have campaigned on a social principle of opening the doors of the Chinese economy. Your rivals have at many times opposed your sentiments, decrying it as an opposition to the classless society. You of course defend your spot, how come?”

“Well, brother He,” Auyi started, “it's simply that the claims of these individuals is a false and invalid fear. The programs I have called for on the road is not the lowering the barriers to social and economic equality as exist in the present society. Nor will they strip our people of their liberties and freedoms. Verily, it will perhaps give many of our workers the opportunity to be much more. Not only within the nation but the international community as a whole.”

“Fellow minister Mang Xhu has cited your proposals as being opening the gates to the western evils of corporate greed and megalomaniac materialism that will come at the expense of the people's freedom and identity. But clearly you two don't see the same risks?”

“Of course.” Auyi laughed, smiling wide. It would have been a humored and honest beaming grin for the cameras. But there were none of those present in the tiny room. “The conditions that enabled the west to abuse the Chinese people was the weakness of the Qing imperialists. They failed to hold the West accountable for its greed and even itself benefited greatly from western abuses, so were unwilling to act.

“In the modern era, while I would be open to working and coordinating with the wider global economy it will not be throwing the gates so wide they can make off with our homes and our monuments. They will not strip the nation clean for only their benefit. My government will still be tough on western abuses. Those who wish to do business in China should only recruit and use Chinese resources and persons. They will undergo the same principles of the Chinese: taxes, tariffs.

“The foreign cooperative will be that: cooperation. Not favoring western forces and creating an unfair competition as Mang Xhu so fears. We Chinese will still benefit to better the national quality of our independence and equality.”

“What then will be done with the rewards from  the work with the outside world?”

“Namely, we shall use the resources and revenues they will make for China to boost the development and inequities suffered in inland China. While we as a nation have healed over the scars of our war for liberation the sores remain. The treatment of these sores should be attended to.

“As something to physically observe, I promise to electrify inner China. The provinces of the interior are still today mostly without electrical power as enjoyed here in the east. And while we can not blame Hou Sai Tang as being a poor or inadequate uncle to all Chinese, we must admit that we have only had so much resources for ourselves as we exert ourselves to strive for our own prolonged liberation: the equalizing and negating of Japanese oppression, the removal of European influence in Asia. Now these missions are done, we are at a crossroads.

“As I've warned, we can falter in darkness, or step ahead in the light and claim the world torch for the Chinese people. Light the true path through our enlightenment and bounty.”

“With the war in Africa however, some are perhaps questioning this outlook. Saying: if we open up, we could become as the pan-African Empire: invaded and abused by some other greedy nation.”

“Impossible.” Auyi denounced, “While I am adverse to war, the actions of the Spanish are damnable and the international community will make a stern lesson of the Spanish. As we would any invader who attacks us.”

[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Tyumen[/h2]

“Mail call.” Wi Hui declared in that low apathetic tone of voice of his. Tsung was startled from his nap as a brick of bound letters smacked the table ahead of him. The cloth of sleep was pulled aside with the dusty puff of dusty air when the bound stack hit the dusty cafe table. It had been so long since anything happened to them that he was beginning to forget he was supposed to be doing anything. He had almost grown accustomed to the slothful laziness that came with waiting for logistics to deliver anything.

“It looks like you got plenty of fans.” Hui remarked stiffly as he thumbed through the letters in his hands and separated the few for him and the few for Lin. The gunner gave Hui an enamored and humored smile before she started dragging her thumb across the envelope's mouth, tearing it open.

For the best several hours the crew had hold up in a cafe in the center of town, keeping out of the way of the daily Russian life and the military police that patrolled the streets. The windows had been clean, like the rest of the city all the light damage from the battle that had torn the locals' homes upside down were cleaned aside and electricity was restored, if only in brief spurts.

Alongside the door of the establishment several sheets of plywood had been lain up against the wall to patch where a rocket had entered; the remains of its crater still scarred the twisted wooden floors where several two-by-fours had been thrown down to build a bridge over the sharp short gap in the floorboards there. The activity of the street and the work of the masons outside rolled through the cracks and windows and walls with a muffled hum.

At the bar several Chinese Military Policemen and their Siberian counterparts shared counter-space in their off-hours with a handful of local seniors who congregated themselves at the far side. They bided their anxiety through cups of tea and bowls of okroshka. Their military dining counterparts were probably for the most part avoiding tasteless rations with whatever they could get their hands on.

Tsung simply sat and looked down at the letters. From the stack it looked as if there was a significant backlog of material that had failed to reach him. He picked it up and turned the canvas-rope bound lump in his hands and found out way. The entire thing was stamped to have had jumped between areas of operation across the front. Someone got them lost before they figured it out.

“Someone must really miss you back home.” Lin commented as she unfolded a yellowed piece of paper.

“Or someone got them lost.” he corrected stunned. He wondered where to start and just decided to surrender to choosing a side and starting there. He fumbled numbly with the tight knot in the string that bound them together.

“Oh how adorable, my brother's getting married.” cheered Lin as she read over her letter from home, “They're sad I can't be there, wish me well, but it's still the bitch from the other side of town so I don't care.”

“Sounds like an exciting relationship.” Hui commented as he leaned against a wall and held up his own letter.

“Yea, she thought she was better than me because her tits were bigger when we were sixteen. But now I shoot a big gun.”

“Never expected to hear a woman ever say that.” Hui laughed.

“Well you did.”

With a thump Tsung had released the knot and the string shot open, spilling its contents onto the table. A dozen letters fluttered onto the scratch wood surface along with a small wooden box. “A gift!” Lin exclaimed, excitedly.

Somehow it left a part of him disheartened that he didn't have nearly so many letters. But on the other hands he was relieved that he didn't. So it wasn't all garbage. “So what'd you get?” Hui asked.

Tsung looked up at him, confused. “The box, what'd you get?” he repeated.

“I don't know.” replied Tsung.

Hui rolled his eyes. “Well, you got to open it first.” he chided.

“I -uh...” he started. He wondered what it was. But also wondered what it could be. He reached out for the wooden gift box and held it in his hands. What weight there was in it wasn't much, mostly in the rough dry wood. He searched it with his fingers, looking for somewhere to start, but all corners were nailed shut.

But it hardly mattered the moment sirens started screaming outside. All heads turned tensely for the windows. The old men sat up from their stools knowingly and with shaky arms clung to the counter. The cafe owner ran around the counter and started shuffling them to a back room.

“Air raid!” an MP shouted as he pounced from his stool. He ran for the door with half a loaf of flat bread clenched between his teeth and his partners ran out with him. In the distance as the doors opened the sounds of gun fire echoed off of the street. The masons repairing the wall also squeezed in with pale faces passed the police.

“Shit, what's going on?” Hui complained as he went for the door to peak. What there was left in the moment of expectation had burned up as Tsung's companions forgot the gift that had came from the mail and looked out the door. Tsung's weight fell off his body as he numbly scooped up what had come to him and stuffed them into the pockets of his uniform until they bulged awkwardly from his chest. A beating hurrying worry swam in his veins, during blood to cold iodine.

There were shouts. Some confused, some scarred, others obviously angry. The military police that had dashed out into the street were swinging their batons, ushering the few on the streets back inside as they searched the skies. Tsung couldn't see the skies, he didn't know what to expect. It made him anxious. But there was little comfort no doubt in knowing that the men outside had any idea what they were looking for either; because they probably didn't.

So he sat at that cafe table, afraid of the unseen as he looked out the window. The early afternoon light was soft. A deception of what was happening now. He waited, wondering, fearing some great cataclysm. For bombs to drop from the skies and the city leveled to dust.

But they were behind the lines? How could some great bomber wing reach so far beyond where Huei Wen commanded from? Perhaps it was a Russian version of those fabled aircraft that could move at blistering speeds never before felt.

Or perhaps it had just gone unseen.

The asphalt and cement popped skyward as fire from aerial cannons strafed down the street. He watched with sudden frozen emotion as the dust and dirt shot into the air like spikes driven through the earth until they struck one of the Chinese policemen hurrying civilians from the street. Ribbons of blood and bone tore themselves from his body as bullets speared is torso and gut and forced him to the ground. He fell from view in the window, sprawling against the street as the ribbon of gunfire continued to tear downwards.

Tsung could hear it now. The groaning moan of a propeller engine strafing the warm summers air. He shuddered and recoiled back as he heard the distant sound of one coming in on the distance, and froze at the tearing reports of gunfire as men on the ground fired up at the offending airplane. There was a crashing noise, and then an explosion in the street as a plume of fire and smoke burst down the road and punched the yet remaining glass in the cafe inward. Tsung felt the puff of hot expanding air shove itself into him as the dark fiery explosion flowered open. His ears went silent, and he fell to the floor at the force of the explosion. He must have only been half sitting, he wondered as he fell: but he didn't know anymore.

He hit the dusty ground but was not knocked out cold. Instead a shooting pain exploded across his chest as the box he had slid into his uniform coat bumped into his ribs and cracked on impact. He grimaced against the sudden shooting pain on his left breast and recoiled against it. He wondered if it had cut him, he panicked over whether or not he was bleeding. There was a sudden intense fear that a piece of wood had thrust itself between his ribs, and it was as powerful as the light of the sun in his eyes. The worry was ever present.

Hearing returned to his ears, and the greater wider world was reopened to him. There was immediate shouting. The city had gone silent except for that. Orders and cries for status could be heard through the door and broken window.

“TSUNG!?” he heard Lin cry out.

“Dammit, are you alright?” Hui asked, leaning over him. Tsung turned over and saw his two crew mates leaning over him, eyes wide. They were safe for all but a few minor scratches and soot and dirt on their skin.

“I-” he started, but turning over to meet them shot a spike of pain into his side. He cringed against it and said no more.

“Help me get him up.” a concerned Tsung called out, wrapping his arms under his shoulders and hoisting him up. Lin did the same with his legs and carried him out into the street. The smell of burning petrol was strong, and the sky was clear. He lay stunned in their arms staring up into the sky.

“We need an ambulan-” Lin started.

“It's on its way!” one of the policemen responded.

_______________________

The hospital was probably the last place Tsung thought he'd find himself again. Leaning in a metal frame chair he found himself propped against Hui's shoulders as he nursed the side of his body that had landed on the box. It was sore, burning, and all manners of pain all at once. But he wasn't unconscious or in shock at the least. And he counted those stars as he waited for one of the bustling medics of field surgeons to turn to him.

In the wake of the bombing raid the field hospital had exploded and injuries more immediately serious than his were being turned and shuffled around in the lobby of the re-purposed hotel at the edge of the city. Evidently in the course of the brief assault the airplanes that had sought to skirmish with Huei Wen's rear van managed to destroy the logical roads, and by happenstance the ambulance – more a truck – had been routed to the far outskirts with a load of the seriously wounded.

There were others too, from other places. The one had managed to raid on the streets with its machine guns to disrupt and disorient. But the other in dropping its bombs had injured close to a dozen and a house in its crash.

Lin hovered nearby, somewhere in the chaos having been Shanghai'd into helping move things around. Tsung would make fleeting glimpses of her as she ran with a team of medics across the lobby to carry boxes of medical supplies.

As the initial startled hustling died down, and the most severe patients were established in their beds did a doctor approach Tsung. “Comrade.” he greeted with a polite nod, “Sorry for the weight.” he apologized.

Tsung nodded and sat up, flinching at the sharp pain in his side. “I fell on something.” he commented grimly.

“Well you haven't lost a limb so I'm not afraid for you. Just raise your uniform for a moment.” he asked with a dismissive raise of his hand. Stiffly, he pulled his uniform coat from his belt.

The side of his chest was a mess of a bruise. Dark purple splotches mired his pale yellow skin. There was a small cut.

The doctor mumbled to himself as he knelt down in front of Tsung and put his cold hands on his ribs, which flexed reflexively at his icy touch. Gently he pushed around his bruised side and searched the wound. Nodding as he prodded along.

“You probably didn't break anything.” he commented finally, “Are you having problems breathing?”

“Ah... Not really.” mumbled Tsung, lowering his uniform.

“Then for sure you didn't break any ribs. You're not going to win any metals for it but if you're going to be in the field for the next couple days I'd try to keep it bandaged up.” he grunted with a apathetic pass of his hands, “Maybe you cracked a rib, but it shouldn't be a problem unless it starts hurting to breath. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine, my prescription is to take a few shots of vodka at night. That's all for now.” began the doctor as he turned away. Stopping he turned and asked: “What'd you fall on, by the way?”

“His mail.” Hui laughed, pulling the now crumpled wooden package from his own pockets and holding it out, “I guess he slipped it in his jacket when the plane came in.”

The doctor snorted out a dry laugh, “I've seen soldiers sprain their ankles to get out of patrol, but I don't think anyone's thrown themselves on their mail.” he let slip a flickering bully smile that disappeared as soon as it came in, “Well your box is open now kid, you can head back to quarters.” he laughed, waving Tsung away and off his chair, “Good bye.”

Without a word of additional ceremony, the doctor disappeared into the hotel-turned hospital. The lobby hung in a still silence. By now outside the light had dimmed and shifted into the late evening oranges and golden yellows. “You want your gift back?” Hui asked, handing the cracked box to Tsung.

“Ah- yeah...” Tsung replied uncomfortably, taking the cracked wooden box in his hands.

“I'm going to go and try and find something to eat. Lin will catch up later. You want to join me?” the loader asked.

“N- oh, ah. I'll just catch up with you in a bit.” uncomfortably replied Tsung as he brushed his hand across the package. Tufts of straw and dry grass were sticking out from the cracks and gaps left in the corners of the package. The corners of another letter was sticking out through one.

“Fine by me.” Hui shrugged, turning to the doors, “I'll see you later.”

“Ya... You too.” Tsung said back to him, watching him head out the doors. The barred glass swung closed behind him as he walked off into the street.

Tsung hung back waiting. The lobby was quiet, save for distant murmurs down the hall. Evidently Lin's shanghai'd service was going to last longer than expected. But still he waited, holding that little box in his lap.

When the deadened silence continued and the light darkened, he concluded nothing was going to change. Sitting up he left for the door. The glass doors swung open softly, and slammed with an echo as he stepped out onto the street.

A cool summer's night's air had come to fall over Tyumen as he walked ahead. Flickering lights illuminated the street, whether it be from weakly connected street-lights or a few scattered lanterns lighting still occupied houses. There was too a peaceful silence that held a gentle grip over the city. The only sounds the distant noises of engines and airplanes that leaked through the fingers like water from a slow faucet.

And in his hands the box was still.

It hurt his side to think about it. But it wasn't without reason, the fall onto it had bruised and cut him. Though not seriously. All the same it was a thought that kept a wound open. Yet he couldn't throw it away. Walking down the street the least he could do with it was open it.

In the darkening light of late evening he searched the cracks and broken edges with his fingers, looking for purchase which to dig his fingers into. Upon finding it, he pulled the small wooden panels apart. What didn't break was pried from the brads that held it together until packing straw fell out. With the package pried open enough, he stuck his hand in and produced a small letter, and a small white cotton goat.

He look down at the small pillow doll in his hand. It was no bigger than his palm, and simple in its design. Two pairs of beady black eyes starred out from the sides of its head and two flaps of cut rag became its ears. It warmed him, and he felt he knew it was from. As he walked he opened the folded letter. Holding it close to his face he squinted to make out the dashed, chicken-scratch writing on it.

“Dear, cousin.” it began with shaky almost child-like sweeps of a pen, “None of us have heard much from you since you left from Russia. We worry a lot for you. Things are well at home and I hear your brother is heading to the coast! Something about working at a factory.

“Nothing much has changed. We keep reading the news, looking for where you might be. Maybe you'll turn up in an interview. We keep looking.

“Auntie's worried that you haven't responded. But uncle thinks you just haven't gotten the letters. He says delivery can be messy. Do write back when you get our letters.

“I also made you this goat. It was your favorite: Po.

“Write back,
Ju.”

It lit a candle in his heart. Feeling a little bit of humanity in him he turned his attention back to the goat as he kept moving, cutting through the empty yard of an abandoned house. Holding the soft feathery doll in the palm of his hand brought him back to home. And the devilish goat Po that'd stand at his open window and at times try to eat the curtains.

In Russia he realized he had been afraid. Afraid for so long it had become normal. And with a piece of home in his hand a little bit of that fear had subsided. It had washed away and there was a feeling of comfort. For what it meant by the thoughtfulness, the goat was a symbol of home.

However, past the goat he did not see the open cellar door ahead of him, and everything stopped as he felt the comforting safety of nothing underfoot rush up to him. With a preemptive shout his breath left him before he could hit the stares. Clumsily he reached for the edge but only just barely wrapped his fingers around rough stone that briefly stopped his drop before he dropped the rest of the way. With a loud 'thump' his drop ended with a shot of lightning through his ass as he came to a stop on wooden stairs. The goat doll tumbled down after him, bouncing off of his shoulders and landed softly on the dust floor below.

Cursing and hissing through clenched teeth he rolled off his rump, rubbing the burning sore left on his tail bone. With a groan he leaned up, and reached down for the doll as foot steps approached him.

He froze as they stopped just shy of him, fingers just above the body of the goal doll, and hand gingerly nursing where he had fell. He looked up to see a pair of black boots before his nose and worn over-patched pants. Leaning up he found the holstered weapon and the crossed arms. A ghostly light of a lantern lit the room and threw long shadows across the man's heavy and cavernous face.

“You, I remember you.” he grumbled with a deep Russian voice. His accent rolled thick across his tongue, as heavy as his face was broad.

“I... Ah- I don't remember you.” Tsung replied meekly. The comfort was gone now and there was fear again. To have it back was like being plunged into a cold pond.

The man nodded. Heavy blue eyes checked Tsung up and down, then finally looked down at the goat on the ground. He bent over, and picked it up off the wet stone. “This is yours.” he said with a gruff forceful voice.

Tsung's fear turned into puzzlement. Where had he seen him before? Apprehensively he reached for the gift from home. He tucked it protectively into his uniform pockets. Nervously and fidgeting he turned to the stares, “I'll... Just ah- go...”

“Don't you want a drink?” the man asked.

Tsung froze, bewildered. He stammered. “Ah...”

Gesturing, the man invited him into the house's cellar. Tsung approached reproachfully, feeling utterly naked without any sort of weapon on him. Pushing aside a rough wooden door, the man opened up a room lit warmly by the glow of electrical lanterns, and the familiar smells of booze. He recognized immediately what was going on as he smelled the smells of yeast and malted hops.

“Oh... Omsk...” he quivered. It had been the only time he had ever been in a bar.

“Now do you remember?” the guard spoke. He had been the muscle the German had escort Tsung out when he went on his way. He nodded.

“Friend, we have a guest here!” he called out, in the far corner of the room stacks of wooden crates had created a low lying bar. Behind which stood the overweight bear of a proprietor. He thickly whiskered face looked up from packing bottles of alcohol into wooden milk-crates, cosigning the stock away to be moved.

The German looked annoyed at first, he looked up at the two with thick sausage hands wringing tight over deep green bottles of vodka or gin. But seemed to soften as he saw Tsung. “Ah! A return customer!” her cheered happily. The speed of which his emotions melted from one to another was astounding, and to watch his fat rolling face move from one to another was like beholding a ghost.

“Um, good evening.” he bowed, “I was just walking by...” he started.

“Were you injured?” the German asked, reversing his packing as he started laying bottles out on the make-shift bar counter.

“Excuse me?” Tsung recoiled, a little at a loss for polite words or response.

“I know full well there's a Chinese hospital just two blocks down the street,” the German responded, “So: were you hurt at all?”

“I- no.” he replied nervously, “But I did take a fall...” he admitted.

“Then that is no surprise, it is how you found me the last time!” laughed The German, “It seems Russians can smell me out, and some Chinese just stumble on me. Come, sit down. Don't look like a nervous school boy. You're as much a man as he or my guard.” he invited. “So do you have money commie-boy?”

Tsung gave the man behind the counter a blank stare. “No I do not.” he said in a droning voice, that paycheck was left behind in his quarters. But he had hardly a use for using it.

The barman shrugged indifferently, “We can settle in the future, I am feeling generous.” he smiled, “Can I have a name?”

“A name?”

“For a tab.”

“A tab?” he asked him, lost in communication.

“So I know how much you paid and when, when you find my next time you can clear that tab.” the barman explained, “Do you understand?”

Tsung gave the German a dull, misty eyes expression. He shrugged and nodded like a schoolchild not knowing the answer, but simply wanting to move along. “I do.”

The German nodded patiently, “So, that name?”

Tsung looked at him, pausing to consider. The pull of his conscious tore him. He wondered, would telling him his name be a danger to himself? Anxious uncertainty spun a wary thread across his tongue, holding it down. “Tsung.” he replied finally, in a low croaking voice. The bartender nodded with a polite smile.

“Very well!” he exclaimed, with a wide smile, “So Tsung, what would it be?”

“I don't know... What do you have?” he asked.

“Well it all depends on your tastes. Egor, what sort of fare do you think this man would be good for?” he called out, looking up at the guard who loomed in the distant corner.

Egor turned his head up and looked between he and his boss, “Kitayoza looks like a light-weight. I save kvass!”

The bartender nodded, “A good starting choice,” he replied with a smile. Shuffling in the crates at his feet he pulled out an indistinguishable bottle of a foggy, yellowing brown drink and passed it to Tsung. Hesitantly, he took the drink. The glass was warm in his hands.

“Uh, thank you...” said Tsung, eyeing the bottle with meek skepticsm and wariness. Somehow the bottle with its light cloud of floating debris seemed suspicious. And its heavy piss color didn't hardly help, “What is it?”

“It is kvass, friend. Greatest drink here in Russia!” he laughed, “People talk of vodka, but vodka is too strong for daily drink. So they drink Kvass instead, it's made with bread.

“Go ahead, drink it; but you might find it a little bitter.” he beckoned.

Tsung looked at the bottle with a reproachful sneer, weakly thumbing the cap with his finger nails until with a carbonated pop it snapped off. Nervously, he swilled it around in the bottle, watching the drifting, saturated crumbs slosh around in the foggy, bubbling drink. The German and Egor laughed over the expense of the hesitant and apprehensive Tsung.

Finally, after much delay he resigned to try the drink. It felt at the moment he upended the bottle the warm rush of tangy bitterness. Overwhelmingly there was the sensation of eating soggy bread, summoning a sort of strange mint flavor. Confused or reviled, he choked down his first swig of kvass and starred quizzically at the confusing beverage. Egor and the German roared with laughter.

“I think he likes it!” Egor exclaimed with a enthusiastic chuckle.

“Do you see what makes Russians tick now?” the German crooned, between dry giggles, “Everyone drinks it! And I don't need to worry about under-serving, if there was any reason to fear undeserving.” he cackled.

“What is this?” Tsung grimaced. He felt an almost beet after-taste crawl across his tongue as the remnants of the kvass trickled down his throat.

“Kvass!” the bartender repeated with a jovial roar, “It's maybe one of the things I can make on the road, so long as I got bread and plenty of yeast on hand.

“You see: what you do is you take some stale bread, soak it in water and add yeast. Let it ferment. You can do it in jugs, you can do it in a spare water bottle, you can make it in a barrel, a cask, or a crate! It's the universal bootleg.

“I add the mint for my own flare. I feel straight kvass is too unsophisticated for my tastes.”

“I prefer honey myself.” Egor commented.

“No wonder Russians are insane.” Tsung groaned, as he took another sip on the unlikely off-chance it would wash away the bitter taste.

“It's come to my attention too through rumors that your commander is fond of kvass himself. So he and us have many things in common.” the German crooned.

“'Us'?” Tsung asked, “I thought you were German.”

“Oh, I am!” the bartender laughed, “But I was born in Russia. Old Sarepa, if it matters to you. My father's father and on down the line moved to the Volga valley on the old czar's Catherine's invitation.”

“You don't sound Russian.” Tsung commented, referring to the differently accented Russian of the bartender.

“I also lived in Germany for a time. I learned my trade there.” he explained, “My brother learned to brew, and together we came back to Russia.

“You know, he handles my supply of the harder tonics and liquor. Maybe someday when your army “liberates” Volgagrad you can send him my regards. I may have moved to Moscow then at that time.”

“And interesting profession.” commented Tsung, between dry lappings of the tongue to remove the beverage's strange aftertaste.

“We are all interesting people, Mr. Tsung.” smiled the German, “And there are interesting times ahead. That much is sure. I can smell it in the air. I can hear it in the conversation. And to the end all I dream is to serve them!” he cheered with a wide smile.

“You have respectable dreams.”

[h2]Somewhere north of Moscow[/h2]

It had a snub-nose, it was rusty and brown, and the inside smelled like stale fruit-juice. Packed behind the windshield was a thin line of garbage and notes, but none of them were on interest. Strapped to lay down in the backseat president Belyakov lay with his head still covered by the black hood. There was still fear from him and his deep breaths punctuated the low steady rumble of the engine.

Some miles back Ullanhu and Vasiliy both had thrown out the true owners of the van, the widow mother and her child were left behind at the edge of the road as both men worked on trying to loose themselves in the winding country roads of Russia, passing with tentative caution through isolated villages or by prowling police cruisers. So far none of them had made an alarm. But both of them were beginning to feel they had to change vehicles at some point. Those two would be picked up at some point and would no doubt report them. This van needed to be ditched.

“Do we know where we're going?” Ullanhu asked as they drove through the middle of another idyllic Russian village. The names of these small towns were becoming meaningless as the daylight fell below the horizon and the world was becoming cast in purple and orange lights. It was also the fifth time the question had been asked.

It wasn't so much an establishment of a plan but more the deep seated need for some comfort in knowing what's going on. Even if the answer had not changed.

“East we go.” Vasiliy answered the question. He kept his eyes peeled on the main road as he scanned up and down it.

Under normal circumstances the small restaurants, store-fronts, and second floor apartments would have been comfortable lit up in their gold light of soft orange candle lighting. But for two men who had become high-profile fugitives that was hardly the matter. They had just barely escaped Moscow and neither knew how far the Poles would go to try and get the president back. But there had been no sign of them so far and it could only be assumed that they were still disorganized in the chaos in Moscow and searching for what went wrong.

Maybe they thought they were still in the city?

“We've been doing that for a while.” Ullanhu replied, resting his chin on his hand as he starred out the window, “And when are we going to change out vehicles?”

“When we find one.”

When they find one, that was a promising proposal. There was many along the side of the road but they were either too in the open or there was a real fear that they had been abandoned for some reason. And to refuel one wasn't looking promising as they passed refueling stations advertising the abhorrent price of gas in the region. It was no wonder that in the country they found so many horse-drawn carts. Some enterprising farmers had even figured out how to chop up an old car to hitch it to their horses or mules.

Neither at least needed gasoline.

As quietly as they came the two left the rural town and crawled back through the forest on the highway. Guarded by towering looming spruces that seemed to bough over the road, concealing the incandescent beams of street-lights they had the road to themselves. The filtered lights of the road lights cast broken shadows on the road.

“Hungry you?” Vasiliy asked, turning to Ullanhu.

He looked up and to Vasiliy. Stopping to think about it he felt his stomach turn. “Yea, you didn't happen to hide anything in your coat did you?” he asked.

Vasiliy smiled and shook his head, “No, comrade.” he admitted, “ Money I do have.”

Up ahead through the trees a road-side dinner drifted into view. Warm, white incandescent lighting spilled out across a dirt parking lot from an outside bar. A few dark shadows loitered around outside of it. “I think I found it.” Vasiliy nodded to the stand.

“We won't get caught, will we?” Ullanhu asked.

“Hopefully no...” Vasiliy said, “But we both soldiers, right? We can get way out.”

“I'm hoping you know what you're doing.” Ullanhu moaned as they pulled across the road onto the gravel. There wasn't much space, just more than enough for them to park the van so the rear-bumper was a foot from the road's shoulder. Killing the engine the two men sat looking out at the situation.

A manufactured metal hut stood out by the road, where windows had been cut away to form a bar for travelers to eat outside. Behind it a house built from logs, clumps of moss and mildew grew in thick patches across the bark and exposed wood of the cut and shaved logs that built it. Though a sign hung out front bearing a restaurant's name, none of the lights were on save for the road-side bar.

“We have a new car.” Ullanhu pointed out nervously, nodding to a beat up boxy truck parked not far away, an empty bead carried only a sagging tarp cover.

“Mhmm,” Vasiliy nodded, “But two at bar. If  re-act, you take them da?”

“I was never good at fighting,” said Ullanhu. There were nervous butterflies in his stomach. A heavy wayward caution hung over him. He felt almost defeated already.

“Yet, you be better than these hicks.” Vasiliy said, he was putting him to a promise. It didn't make Ullanhu very comfortable.

“No one knows what we look like, do we?” asked Ullanhu.

“Sooner or later will.” Vasiliy said cautiously, “We may go up, patrons know. We must put them down.”

“I don't know if I like this.”

“It what necessary.” Ullanhu scowled, “Listen if they try be hero hit man next you. Put them on side of fighting hand. Order something with silverware.

“I jump counter and take out barman. You do whatever. Hear?”

The Mongol nodded nervously, “We really need to kill them?”

“Do what must be done. Search for keys to truck. We take it.”

Ullanhu gave him a dry uncomfortable sigh. “If you insist.” he conceded. Both nodded and stepped outside.

The Russian July night was comfortably cool. The fresh cool smell of spruce and waxy pine was heavy on the air. In the distant woods the sounds of crickets played a muted symphony as the birds flocked to safety in the trees. A long purple light was cast down the road as the sun set well below the horizon, giving its last dying light before the moonlight finally put the day to bed.

From the distant dinner a radio played Russian folk. The two patrons looked up at their new guests walking over to them.

There was disconnected silence as Ullanhu and Vasiliy took their seats. The chairs little more than rain-washed and element faded bar-stools made of flaking whitening aluminum and torn upholstery. The air at the window was thick with the smell of onions and frying vegetables.

“We're about ready to close up.” the man behind the counter told them with a bitter frown. He leaned over a sink filled with soapy utensils. The two late patrons looked at the new guests as they sat down next to them. Ullanhu averted his eyes, afraid and suspicious of the scruffy laborers he found himself with. He kept his eyes down on the counter, nervously starring at the tar-stained knuckles of the man next to him, a nearly smoked cigarette smoldered between his fingers.

“Perhaps you can make a exception?” Vasiliy asked in Russia, “We've had a long road trip and we're a little hungry. I didn't plan on stopping for the night so I could use a pick-me up for the long-road.”

The clerk looked at them both through a critical sneer. Perhaps he could see the smudged dirt on them? Can he see and smell the blood and the gunpowder they had tried to wipe off still? He was critical, but did he know.

“Fine, but I'm charging you both double.” he said, “What will it be?”

“Some Shashlyk would be nice.”

The clerk nodded. “And what about your friend?” he asked, nodding to the submissive Ullanhu.

“T-the same thing.” he said in a low voice.

One of the men at the counter laughed, it was a low dry voice that crackled and coughed, “Why do you sound so afraid?” he asked, “Are you wanted for something?”

Ullanhu's heart skipped a nervous beat and he could feel his face run cold. He leaned his head up on his hand and covered his face with his fingers.

“He is nervous,” Vasiliy explained for him, “He's been afraid that we're going to be late for a project. He's been moaning about it for the entire drive!”

The Russian chuckled, “And what is it you two do? You're too well dressed for these parts. And your friend: he's a little strange.”

“We both work for the president I'm afraid.” Vasiliy explained through lying teeth. A cold sweat dripped down Ullanhu's spine as he talked. The mongol wondered how much of it he was making it up as he went, “We were on our way east for important business. But I heard there was a terrible back-up on the main high-way. I thought we could get around it and make up for lost time waiting for it to be cleared!”

Ullanhu restrained his breathing. Each work he felt was making it worse. He was going too far to explain himself. Ullanhu could hear that. He could hear the forced smile in his voice too. He looked up through his fingers and watched the barman work over a griddle as he coaxed it back up to heat. The minced pieces of meat on the grill was beginning to sizzle as the man prepared metal skewers.

“That's interesting, I haven't heard anything about that.” the patron observed, “When did this happen?”

“Earlier this evening.”

“Volya, did you hear anything about a highway back up?”

“I haven't been paying attention.” the patron next to Ullanhu replied.

There was a brief silence. “Perhaps it'll come on the radio?” Vasiliy suggested.

There was more audible silence between the four. “What will you two drink?” their host asked.

“Kvass.” Vasiliy said, “For the two of us.”

“Right, coming up.” said the host.

Again, there was a conversation-less void. Ullanhu waited for the food, listening to it cook on the grill as the sounds of the night chirped away. A car on the highway passed by, dragging along the watery hush of air as it cut by.

With a light tap they were both passed a plate of several skewers of darkened red meat. “There you go.” the hose said, annoyed, “fifty rubles for the both of you.” he added, putting down two glasses of a foggy brown drink.

“Thank you, friend.” Vasiliy smiled.

Ullanhu reached out tentatively for the skewered meat and began tensely nibbling the spiced chunks of beef and vegetables. He looked over at his bar mate who was thumbing idly through a bowl of a half-eaten stew.

“Well, I should be leaving.” Ullanhu's partner said, “The wife will probably wonder where I am. Pyotr, how much do I owe you?”

“I'll put it on your tab.” the man behind the counter replied.

“Thanks.” the older man said, standing up. But he stopped as the radio switched over to a radio story. He froze at the mention of Belyakov.

“... Kidnapping agents are still suspected to be on the run.” a newsreader said through a crackling microphone, “Current police intelligence suggests that the perpetrators for the abduction of president Belykov are a working pair, likely working for communist forces operating from occupied Sankt Petersburg or the Chinese military. Citizens are advised to be on the lookout for two men acting suspiciously, known currently to be driving a stolen van. All individuals are advised to not engage and reports all sightings of these criminals to their local police jurisdictions...”

There was a tense, nervous silence as the radio echoed on. Silverware clinked against a plate. Ullanhu looked up for once. The man who was just getting up to leave stood looking down at him, deeply puzzled. But also deeply worried. Through worn eyes he was clearly measuring up the Chinese agent sitting before him.

“Who did you two say you were working for?” asked Vasiliy's bar-side partner.

“The president.” Vasiliy explained, tense. There was an uncomfortable pause. Ullanhu turned to look over at him and found he was trying to hold it together. Was he trying to talk his way out? But it was failing, in his eyes Ullanhu could tell he was beginning to calculate how to kill the man next to him. His fingers wrapped around the end of his skewer as he lowered it.

“I think these two might be the ones!” the elder man shouted, Volya.

“Comrade, now!” Vasiliy shouted in Chinese. Ullanhu jumped up as Vasiliy sprung to his feet. Swinging the half-eaten skewer in a low arc into his partner's gut. There was a piercing squelch as it pierced his gut and as the man cried out in pain.

Without thinking about it Ullanhu did what he could. He threw himself at Volya as he turned to run. He screamed as the agent wrapped his fingers through the collar of his shirt and tossed him against the side of the outside dinner. His head connected with the aluminum siding with a crashing clang and he fell back into the dirt with a heavy umph. He groaned as he held his hands to his face, blood rushing from a broken nose. His head cracked against the ground as Ullanhu delivered a swift kick to the side of his head and it rolled to the side stunned and still as it snapped to the side.

Ullanhu breathed heavily as his stomach rolled sickly in his belly. A slimy chill enveloped his skin and his shivered as he leaned against the side of the building.

There was wet fearful screams from inside as Vasiliy threw himself on the server. There wasn't much to put to the imagination as Ullanhu shut his eyes at the sound of the repeated falling stabs of Vasiliy's bloodied skewer into the poor man. And as soon as it happened it fell completely silent with only the chorus of the crickets. Vasiliy's breath rose and fell harsh as he leaned over the counter and looked up at Ullanhu.

“Did you find the keys?” he asked, exhausted. The front of his suit was covered in dish-pan size stains of blood and drops had splattered against his face.

Ullanhu felt and looked and felt as if he felt a ghost. He was shocked for words. It occurred to him he hadn't quiet seen something like this since Jun had cut down a station's worth of grungy gangsters. Shaking he shook his head.

Vasiliy nodded, “Go do that, move the president. I'll try to clean up here.”

[h2]Volgagrad[/h2]
[h3]Old Saretpa[/h3]

The brakes wheezed as the van pulled up in-front of a boarded-up store-front. The sign hanging up from read in massive block letters “The Fourth Rome Laundromat”. A tipped over trashcan sat beside the front door. Dust covered the glass of the door. On the corner a small group of sloppily dressed, skinny youths leaned over a dice-game.

“Welcome to the kingdom of The Italian.” Makulov's agent said with a faux prideful smile. Jun looked out at it unimpressed.

“That's all?” he said.

The other agent nodded. “It's garbage, I know. I think we all know. But it still works actually.”

“Impressive, to say the least.” Jun said. He wasn't at all impressed. In all his apathy he could squeeze out only a little sarcasm as he went to open the door.

“Before you step out and we both meet the man there's a few things you should know,” the agent started, placing a hard hand on Jun's shoulder and stopping him, “about The Italian.

“The first and foremost thing you should know and may recognize before you go on is that he's Aurelio Batista.”

“Batista? The old Italian dictator?” Jun was surprised, he lifted his hands from the door.

“The very same. He still like to be recognized as such. So be sure to title him as 'Your Honor' or even 'Prime Minister Sir'. If you don't you'll probably offend him and fuck us both up. I don't know how he's managed it but he's been able to lay low here ever since he was ousted from Italy. The monarchy had interest in finding him to bring him in for justice but they never succeeded.”

“So are they still looking for him?” Jun asked

The Russian nodded, “It's my own little chip. It's in fact a lot of people's chip against him and is what's held him in check among Mafiya regulars. He's too afraid of having the Italians sweep back in and pick him up or assassinate him so he bides by their rules. The Mafiya doesn't trust him because he's foreign, but they don't exclude him. He's become a beneficiary to mid-level bosses so it's how I get my information.

“That's why he's important.” he added with emphasis, “That's why I don't want him killed. And it's why I don't want this fucked up. I'm sharing this very important card with you because I find it necessary. If we're sharing the same city and we're both working for the same man then I want us both on the same page.

“So, why do you need to contact him?”

Jun considered his answer. Was it relevant anymore, he wondered? Fair enough that politics had moved as they did and that perhaps his mission was irrelevant. But he was so far lost and without support. He would need to get what he could to find if he should report home. He looked out at the dilapidated laundromat.

The surrounding neighborhood didn't look much better than it. And out of place in Russia he noticed that there was not only prevalent Russian but prevalent German as well. He took a heavy sigh, “There's a brewer in central Volgograd that needs Batista to lay off him.” he admitted flatly, “His workers are scarred off, and he can't produce anymore alcohol. I think he's afraid he's going to fall apart.”

“That sounds usual in Batista's alley.” Makulov's local agent acknowledged, “He's trying to pass off the image he's some Sicilian crime-boss now or something. He's been harassing business owners across the city for protection money. That and gambling dens, those are his fields. He lacks the resources and capital to do anything else. He can launder money but he can't launder people: so he doesn't do human trafficking, he doesn't have anyone smart enough to do drugs, but the Alan Company does that already and has a monopoly over the area for that.”

“Alan Company?”

“Mafiya affiliates. Someone I would like to infiltrate to get a higher view of the area but never can. But don't worry about them, you'll probably never see them.”

Jun nodded.

“The next thing you should know is that Batista wants his outfit to be called The Cosa Nostra,” the agent moved to explain, “But he has so little respect and so few care that it's become practice to simply call it Cocka Hocktpa. He's resigned himself to it, but he would be flattered if you recognized the actual name. He may not have you killed then.”

“That's good to know.”

“Excellent.” the Russian smiled, banging his hand on the steering wheel. “You can step out now.”

With a twin set of dull pops the two opened the van's doors and stepped out. The air was still and quiet. The gang of youths on the corner stopped their game and glared up at the two men as they entered the laundromat. Before he disappeared inside, Jun shot them a cold look in warning.

Inside, if it weren't for the boarded windows there was a certain semblance of normality in the laundromat, beyond which was shown on the outside. Though the sunlight was non-existent or streamed in through dirty glass the place was at least cleaned. Stacks and rows of bone-white laundry machines created organized aisles, where at this time of day a few of Sarepta's oldest sat reading paperbacks as their laundry was ran through still-working machines.

Walking passed them there was the stale smell of cheap laundry detergent that mingled with chemical floor cleaner. Dull mechanical thumping joined in tandem the grainy sounds of music played in the backroom. Over what sounded to be a gramaphone that sung in better days the distant words of a melodramatic Italian opera sang in a dearth of lively sound.

The Russian agent lead Jun up to the counter at the far end of the laundromat. There a middle-aged man stood leaning over the counter with a book in his hands. Tapping on the counter he summoned the man's attention.

“Ah! Artyom, how are you?” the attendant asked. His face was disheveled, covered in a patchwork beard and mustache that was only half shaved in spots and fully shaved in others. Blue eyes were quickly turning gray, but it hardly mattered as his brow slowly sank closer into his field of view.

“I'm here to see the boss.” Artyom said, “He is available, is he?”

“That he is. But whose the [i]uzkoglazy[/i]?” the man sneered, looking at Jun. His face reflected a certain public bitterness. Jun returned the favor.

“He's a friend of mine.” Artyom explained, “He too needs to speak to the boss.”

The clerk looked between the two of him. Reserved, he asked: “What for?”

“I need work.” Jun spoke up.

“Right,” the clerk sneered, “And I need a wife who'll fuck me. What is it you do?”

“Anything.” said Jun.

The clerk grunted, “Alright, but let me go check with the boss.” He pushed himself away from the counter and headed to the back, shooting a distasteful look at him.

As he left, Jun turned over to Artyom. “Cover name?” he asked in a low voice.

“It is, don't worry about it.” he explained. Jun nodded.

“Anything I should know last minute about this?” he prodded, gesturing off to where the man disappeared.

“I think it's self evident.” Artyom began in a lowered voice, “Your people invade Russia, makes the locals mad. Once more, there's a community of Chinese living in the delta who have kept the Mafiya out of their affairs. Batista included. They're the bastards everyone doesn't like.

“Sort of like the Jews.”

Jun nodded along. Folding up his arms he waited for the man to come back. Seconds soon passed with the two waiting. Seconds turned to minutes. And soon it felt as if they were waiting for the better part of an hour.

Eventually, he returned.

“He'll see you two now.” he invited with a cold voice. He stepped aside as the two walked through the office door, the clerk giving them a distrustful glare as they slipped into the back.

The hallways in the back were sterile and austere. No direction hung from the plaster-white walls and nothing on the slate gray carpet. Several plainly built wooden doors hung from dark, sharply contrasting frames. But the two ignored them, continuing along to the end of the hall where the sound of music was the strongest. Stopping at the door Artyom rose his hand and rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Come in.” a voice beckoned from inside. Artyom swung the door open and stepped in, hands folded in front of him.

The office inside was a far-cry from the sterility just outside its door. And though it was cheap it was as brashly decorated as a cheap criminal overlord with the ego of a world leader could afford. A dark red Persian rug adorned the floor of the office and a wooden desk took the middle of the room, clearly carved without expertise to resemble a much finer piece of furniture; but lost out with the hard straight lines it held in the curves. A golden-yellow lamp stood on the corner, bathing the room in a flickering yellow light that shone from the dented brass horn of a hard-wood gramophone in the corner, placed in a niche formed by flanking empty bookshelves and filing cabinets.

And sitting at the center of the room was the lord dejure. A pale faced man with slacking skin, who may have been fatter in happier days. But though he was still a large man the clothes he wore and the loose jowls of his face spoke a hundred words to the weight he had lost. 

He was as well not a reserved man in his appearance, his hair was well groomed and presidential, combed and oiled back from where it receded from his brow. Even his eyebrows were waxed to the side. Dark green eyes looked up at Artyom with warm welcome, and then to Jun with cold suspicion. He held in sausage fingers a black pen which he tapped against golden rings on the other hand. He wore cuff links still adorned with the flag of his Italian regime.

Looking at him was like looking down at a by-gone ghost. Aurelio Batista was still as much of the classicist looking man as he was in Italy, and he clung to what little style he could find to retain his dissolved position while still grabbing for what respect he could muster.

“When I thought I was going to have a nice afternoon coffee break with my good friend, I did not think I would have to do so in the presence of a chink.” he rused spitefully. He scratched the bulbous end of his round spot-pocked nose, “Do you have an explanation for his presence?” he asked.

“He is a capable man, and he's looking for work.” Artyom explained.

“I'm sure he is, as with everyone in this town.” Batista sneered. He looked up at Jun, scowling, “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

“Piàn Qi.” Jun answered.

Batista snorted, “Mr. Qi, why are you here?” he demanded.

“On a request, actually.” Jun told him, “I want to settle a debt between you and someone who you think needs your service.”

“There are many people who require my services. You're going to need to be specific you slant-eyed prick.”

“A brewer in Volgograd proper, he says you scarred off his workers. I'm here to see they come back and you stop harassing him. You realize that on this strategy he'll never get you anything at this rate, Mr. Batista.”

Batista's eyes widened and he sat up in his chair, “No one calls me by that name!” he snarled, “Do you understand that?” he turned to Artyom, “How did he know!?” he demanded, “None of the trash here in Russia have gotten this.”

“Mr. Batista, I guess he's smart.” he shrugged, “Perhaps he recognized you. I have come to known him in our brief acquaintance as being a very sharp man.”

“Sharp man or not, do you know what I can have my men do to you?” Batista hissed, “I'll have you tossed into the Volga, with a whole cement suit.”

“Do you realize what I can do to your men before they try that.” Jun answered back in a low voice.

“Are you threatening me?” Batista growled.

“I'm not threatening, I'm giving you a promise. I also have an offer.”

“No, I will not leave that cripple alone. Not until he pays me back what he owes to me!”

“Your honor, let me explain,” Jun began. The title reference froze Batista's angry look for a moment that his eyes glossed over with a spark of pride, “I realize the Cosa Nostra here in Russia could use money. But not everyone is willing to offer it.

“But prime-minister, I am willing to deal on it. What could be done that lets you leave him alone?” Jun felt slimy dealing with him. A itchy hand begged him to gun the man down there. But the pressure of Artyom kept him steady. True as it might he could grill the city's underclass, having an informant former dictator was a unique opportunity to hold. For now, he would stay his hand and bite the bullet of working with the enemy.

Even if that enemy was no longer anything.

Batista leaned over the desk as he rose from his chair. Walking around the crudely carved piece of furniture he stepped up to Jun. The former dictator easily stood over him.

He seemed at a crossroads. At a moment he would want him dead. But to properly addressed, his organization recognized for what it was complicated that. “Alright.” he said, “You enter my employ and I will leave the cripple brew master alone.” he offered, “You will not be paid until I feel that his debt has been fully repaid by your work.”

“I can agree to that.” Jun nodded.

“Good.” Batista said with a cold tone, “But I want you to know that outside these doors you will not refer to me by my real name. I am either The Boss, or The Italian. You will never say my name in public. Only between me and Artyom may you say who I am.

“Or I'll fucking feed you to the fishes, understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Batista sighed, “We'll initiate the chink in the next couple days. For now you gook: you can wait outside for Artyom and I to finish. You're dismissed.”