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from the Investigations Committee of the Prosecutor-General’s Office. You spotted Boris Yakovski? Are you sure?”
    “I saw the scar, sir, it’s definitely him.”
    “Where are you now?”
    “I’m assigned to the detail tailing Anya Kushchenko.”
    “Yes, yes, I know, but where are you? Where did you spot him?”
     “He got in a cab in front of the Bulgakov Hotel.”
    “Damn, do you know where he went?”
    “No, but—”
    “Did you notice the cab number? We might be able to track him!”
    “No, but—”
    “You didn’t get the number?” Ignatev could tell Dymovsky was angry. Let me get a damned word in!
    “Sir! I’m following him in another cab.”
    A pause.
    “You left your detail?”
    Ignatev gulped. “Y-yes, sir. I assumed since there were three others watching the hotel, it would be better to follow this target.”
    Again silence.
    “Vodka is on me when your shift ends. You call me as soon as he gets to his destination.”
    Ignatev smiled. “Yes, sir!”
     

 
     
     
    Unknown Location
    November 19, 1256 AD
     
    Faisal shyly covered his now raging shame and stepped into the pool of hot water, the steam rising gently into the cooler air above the surface, the scent from the hundreds of rose petals and perfumes filling his nostrils. He breathed a sigh of relief as his waist broke the water’s surface, out of sight under the opaque mixture of soap and creams floating on the surface. He looked around him, his beat red face revealing his shame, unable to mask the lust forming in his eyes as several women undressed each other, each keeping their eyes on him the entire time.
    Faisal was a good Muslim. He had never been with a woman, he had never even seen a woman naked before. His heart pounded in his chest as these beautiful creatures revealed their treasures to him, treasures he alone would get to enjoy for the rest of eternity.
    Allah be praised!
    The one who he had awoken to smiled at him, her entire magnificence now revealed. As she took each step into the pool to join him, her eyes remained on him. It was everything he could do to keep her gaze, his eyes desperate to look upon the rest of her body.
    “Does what you see please you?” she asked as she made the final step into the pool.
    This was his excuse. He slowly lowered his eyes as she pushed through the water toward him. He dropped his eyes down her face, past her full, painted lips, to her tiny chin, past her slim neck and rounded her shoulder, down her outstretched arm as she neared. He finally dared to look, a quick, momentary glance at her breasts. He gasped. She smiled.
    “I guess you do!”
    Several other women giggled as they too stepped into the pool. She inched toward him, rolling her shoulders forward, which to his amazement made her breasts appear even bigger, the dark nipples hard, which he had heard was a good thing. He gulped.
    “My name is Fatima,” she whispered, her voice low, hoarse, seductive. “And I am here to serve Allah’s warrior.” She pressed herself against him. He looked back to find some place to retreat to, but found himself pushed against the side of the pool, her warm, naked flesh pressed against his, her soft breasts squeezed against his chest as she reached and took his head in her hands, then kissed him passionately on the lips. Her left hand slowly traced his face as she drew her finger down the center of his chest, over his navel, and then, with a smirk, reached under the water.
    He moaned and closed his eyes as she gently kissed his neck, slowly working her way down his chest. This is truly paradise! Allah be praised. He looked down as her head slowly went below the water, and a momentary flash of concern over how she would breathe entered his mind.
    Shouting from behind him erupted. He spun his head as a large set of wooden doors burst open and his trainer, Master Hasni, charged through.
    He died too?
     

 
     
     
    Titanik Club, Moscow
    Present Day
     
    It had taken Alexey Dymovsky almost a