Taras stood several steps to Ilarion's left, distant enough so the suspect couldn't focus on them both at once.

That was a trick he'd learned. A Ministry trick. It kept people off-balance, having to look back and forth. Missing things in the meantime.

Taras took up the space he occupied with bruising physicality and sheer muscular presence. Owning it, like a fine suit. It had to fit, or else it would be noticeable.

He'd learned about that, too, in Magadan. Some men tried too hard to look tough, but the toughest never had to try.

Taras knew he looked like a leg-breaker and bone-cruncher, and even though he was much more, he was content to be seen that way. Let people underestimate him, particularly this man, who was no normal suspect.

There was something important about him, or else Ilarion wouldn't bother, Taras knew.

The man was nearly lounging on the cold metal chair, in spite of harsh concrete walls, in spite of the fresh bruise on his face. No stranger to violence, then. He wasn't all that young, maybe mid-thirties, but he wore his hair like a young man did, long in a way that supposed to be fashionable, Taras supposed, but made him look more like a pedik than anything.

Taras' expression remained hard.

There was a strength in the man's hands, in the line of his wrist and arm, smoothly sculpted. It hinted at more, at a solid and muscular build. The man had a grace to him that was obvious even as he shifted minutely to look at Ilarion.

There was something significant about that gaze, too.

Taras didn't know what, but he didn't like it.

It was familiarity, he realized, after a moment, though not contempt.

His eyes narrowed at the man. He liked that even less.