[b]Yekaterinburg, Russia[/b]

The door to the penthouse crashed open. Locks shattered, they hit the carpeted floor with a heavy crack. A pair of coated men stepped through, done away with their barrier.

“We should be quick then, someone's bound to find out.” the shorter man said, Chinese. Shan Jun.

“Agreed.” his burly Russian companion grunted, “Remind me what we're looking for again.”

“Anything that confirms this is the home of the guy we want, and who it is he's working for.” grumbled Jun, not at all amused with his mission partner's inability to retain memory, “Letters, papers, photos. Makulov ordered us to get enough to get a portfolio going, and trusted that bit to Ulanhu when we get back.

“If we find anything that suggests what they're doing - or where Bog is – then better.”

“I see.” the Russian nodded, walking across the floor. His boots falling heavily on the carpet of the penthouse.

Much of it was cordoned off by yellow tape and spent cigarette butts littered the ground and tables. A sure sign the already strained police services of the city had been here to perform their investigation. But with any luck, Jun hoped he'd be out of the city by the time they figured anything out.

“Hey comrade, you want and music?” the Russian called out in a playful tone. Jun looked up and saw him standing alongside a rather large radio set up. Brass adorned the wood paneling along the joints and the face of the shoulder-high device. A chrome antenna rose out of the back of the arced, paneled crown.

“No, leave it off.” Jun barked.

“Suit yourself.” the Russian shrugged, moving from the radio to rummage through end tables and cabinets.

The penthouse living room was large, larger than many of the homes in the village Jun and his partner had found Makulov and his army taking up residence in. Thickly woven Persian rugs lay across shaggy green carpet, and on top of these large bear hides had been laid out.

Leather upholstered lounge chairs and couches rung around a central coffee table. A vodka bottle stood at the corner of the table alongside a dozen cigarette trays all filled. Various magazines – entertainment and pornographic – covered the surface, creating a messy matting all its own. Reaching out with a winter-gloved hand Jun cautiously moved aside the stacked booklets, looking for any hidden letters. But non manifested between the covers of magazines whose covers were richly adorned with the large supple tits of Russian maidens or smiling Spanish celebrities.

“You know comrade,” Jun's partner said from the far-side of the room, “To be this rich at such a time in mighty Russia's history should be condemnable by law.” he proclaimed, “Families starve now and still there are those who will sap what meager resources we got less and bring our lands even more dry!”

“You find anything?” Jun asked in response.

“Shopping lists and an address book.” his partner scoffed. Holding up a fistful of crumpled papers and a large, black notebook.

“Keep the book, we'll look it over when we get back home.”

“Good to see our cozy frozen hamlet is home now!” the Russian laughed loudly. He waved the notebook at his partner with a smile before slipping it into his large flowing coat, “What new will come in this bright new world!”

Jun entreated him with silence as he moved aside and stepped away from the cluster of furniture. His eyes glazed over the wall where a gallery's worth of grainy black and white photographs hung, and framed newspaper clips. From the looks of it, he had a fantastic interest in the public actions of the Mafiya. Splotchy burning crosses and articles of flayed or burnt bodies found in city parks adorned his wall like prizes.

The Russian partner began to grumble incoherently to himself, muddled thick Russian that not even Jun could understand. He turned to find him digging through a large cabinet, throwing out a large sum of junk and baubles on the floor. Figuring he had the room covered, the Chinese spy moved to the next, hitting a door at the base of a short hall way.

Swinging open the door admitted him into a rather larger bedroom. The floor was still treated to the same gaudy deceleration of wealth and power – or what little the man had – with a number of rugs already on a carpeted floor. Large dressers lined a wall where a large desk and vanity mirror occupied the opposite. Between the two, a four poster bed wide enough to accommodate three persons and half a fourth sat between two heavily carpeted windows.

Along the side of the door were a pair or plush velvet recliners, their backs leaned far back as an end table between them sat an elaborate hookah. The spark within long extinguished, though the tobacco and weed inside still waited.

The bedroom had a certain vacant, longing feeling as Jun went through it, pulling open drawers and quickly piling through. Pulling out raged torn notes, then pocketing a few at the slightest suggestion of a name of affiliation. The drawers in the desk were an expected treasure trove of such details, yielding a number of personal letters received, or to be sent; though a quick scan revealed nothing telling and looked to merely be love letters to a number of female interests.

At the bottom of the lower most drawer Jun found a ragged dusty handgun and a box of ammo. Giving it a thought he liberated it from its home, sliding it into a pocket inside his coat and stuffing the bullets into another before pulling it out the rest of the way and checking into the empty cavity.

From the desk he moved to the far-side of the room, pulling open and going through the dressers there. Thick suits, and garish clothes packed the inside space. Suits and dress he found to be hiding a small armory of shotguns and assault rifles. It was nothing he could carry, or nothing that linked him to anyone, and he left them as he went to the side of the bed, peering down underneath.

Dark shadows obscured the clutter that hid underneath. A large number of boxes lay clustered about. But with his cheek pressed to the ground there was no way to tell if it was of use.

With a daring hand Jun reached out, grabbing at the edge of a box and pulling it out. It slid heavily against the carpet.

As it hit the light, Jun's eyes went wide and his breath caught in his mouth. An uncomfortable shocked arousal warped his stomach as the contents came into view. A raising feeling of light-headedness rose into his head as he looked down on his find. Peaking out of the box in a stiff nest of rubber, plastic, and glass was a box full of dildos, of a wide-number of colors and shapes. A feeling of repulsion washed on him as soon as he figured out what it was he was seeing, and in a fit of humiliating resignation threw the box over, spilling the the vast collection of multi-colored toys and strap-ons across the floor.

“Find anything?” the Russian asked as Jun stepped out of the bedroom.

“No.” he grumbled, taking a deep sigh, “What about you?”

“I got a telegram with names I found in his study, I think. Didn't think a man like him could read.”

“What does the letter say?” Jun asked forcefully.

“Brother Peterovisk,” the Russian read, walking in to Jun, “[i]Word on the heavens has come. Declares the child of the devil is in Russia. Demands information on location, and timely execution to purge the satan-child.[/i]

“V. Donotorisk.”

“That's all?” Jun asked, stunned.

“It's all.” his partner returned, folding the small yellow note to put in his pocket, “Any idea on who this devil child is?” he asked.

“None at all. But it's a lead on something.” said Jun, “Now we got to meet his corpse.”

“After you, comrade.”