Unlike Nikanor, Ilarion had always kept his office locked.
Liadov found it enough to lock his desk and drawers and file cabinets. Lasha did not.
When he found the door ajar that first morning, his immediate impulse had been one of incredulity, followed by a surge of quiet adrenaline as he approached.
A burglary of secrets, an attempted hit, an interdepartmental break-in, a KGB raid- none of these things would have surprised him as much as finding Taras Oleksei sitting in his office in the pre-dawn hours, perusing the previous day's work.
"Did you pick the lock or break the code?" Isaev had asked flatly, and Oleksei had looked up, belatedly, clearly engrossed in his studies.
There had been an expression on his face like a determined schoolboy playing catch-up, allowed to skip ahead in school and struggling to master an advanced lesson.
Taras, a strange sight in his old chair.
Deja vu struck Lasha like a palm to the face, as well as a wholly contradictory sensation that this was not deja vu at all, but utterly alien. For a moment, the sense of both was as overpowering as a whore's perfume- then it faded, and Ilarion simply sat down behind his desk, pulled out an unfinished report and began making notes.
Now it was habitual to find Taras in his office, doing whatever it was the brute did left to his own raw and unexamined devices. Lasha did not ask. He still locked his office, but fully expected to find it open when he arrived just after dawn.
For a long time, 3 AM had been his work arrival time, and 5 AM his official waking hour. He would rise like clockwork- shower, dress and shave in a somnolent trance, never fully leaving the realm of sleep- and walk to the MVD building.
No one was ever there at such an ungodly time, although he occasionally passed the cleaning woman on her way home. Once inside, the stillness and silence was seductive. He would leave his own door locked, and go straight to Liadov's office. Lightly bound in his warm uniform he would lean back into the overstuffed leather embrace of Liadov's chair and close his eyes, pulling his cap over them slightly, dozing along to the clanks of the radiator and the intangible hum of silence.
And that's where Liadov would find him, two hours later, when he came in with the 4:45 morning train.
Now that Nika was in Moscow, he had stopped observing this ritual. There was no reason, either for stopping or continuing, in his rational estimation. And yet continuing would have been ultimately pointless.
Anathema.
He came in at 5:30, sometimes six. It mattered little, after all.
And there was Oleksei, like a new kind of clockwork. Reliable as he had been, though motivated by entirely different factors. Ambition and obsession were only kissing cousins.
And yet, perhaps there were similarities, in that they both served a deeper, unvoiced hunger.
This morning was no different.
"Comrade," he acknowledged, as he strolled in. He paused to take off his greatcoat, hanging it on a hook. "I trust you enjoyed the righteous sleep of the just."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-02-26 10:57 pm (UTC)Liadov found it enough to lock his desk and drawers and file cabinets. Lasha did not.
When he found the door ajar that first morning, his immediate impulse had been one of incredulity, followed by a surge of quiet adrenaline as he approached.
A burglary of secrets, an attempted hit, an interdepartmental break-in, a KGB raid- none of these things would have surprised him as much as finding Taras Oleksei sitting in his office in the pre-dawn hours, perusing the previous day's work.
"Did you pick the lock or break the code?" Isaev had asked flatly, and Oleksei had looked up, belatedly, clearly engrossed in his studies.
There had been an expression on his face like a determined schoolboy playing catch-up, allowed to skip ahead in school and struggling to master an advanced lesson.
Taras, a strange sight in his old chair.
Deja vu struck Lasha like a palm to the face, as well as a wholly contradictory sensation that this was not deja vu at all, but utterly alien. For a moment, the sense of both was as overpowering as a whore's perfume- then it faded, and Ilarion simply sat down behind his desk, pulled out an unfinished report and began making notes.
Now it was habitual to find Taras in his office, doing whatever it was the brute did left to his own raw and unexamined devices. Lasha did not ask. He still locked his office, but fully expected to find it open when he arrived just after dawn.
For a long time, 3 AM had been his work arrival time, and 5 AM his official waking hour. He would rise like clockwork- shower, dress and shave in a somnolent trance, never fully leaving the realm of sleep- and walk to the MVD building.
No one was ever there at such an ungodly time, although he occasionally passed the cleaning woman on her way home. Once inside, the stillness and silence was seductive. He would leave his own door locked, and go straight to Liadov's office. Lightly bound in his warm uniform he would lean back into the overstuffed leather embrace of Liadov's chair and close his eyes, pulling his cap over them slightly, dozing along to the clanks of the radiator and the intangible hum of silence.
And that's where Liadov would find him, two hours later, when he came in with the 4:45 morning train.
Now that Nika was in Moscow, he had stopped observing this ritual. There was no reason, either for stopping or continuing, in his rational estimation. And yet continuing would have been ultimately pointless.
Anathema.
He came in at 5:30, sometimes six. It mattered little, after all.
And there was Oleksei, like a new kind of clockwork. Reliable as he had been, though motivated by entirely different factors. Ambition and obsession were only kissing cousins.
And yet, perhaps there were similarities, in that they both served a deeper, unvoiced hunger.
This morning was no different.
"Comrade," he acknowledged, as he strolled in. He paused to take off his greatcoat, hanging it on a hook. "I trust you enjoyed the righteous sleep of the just."