Interrogation

[taras_oleksei]

"I don't get it," Taras said.

He was frowning as they walked, using the time to think. He actually lagged behind Isaev a little.

Ilarion never hurried anywhere, though today he strode down the hall, bootheels ringing with a clarity of purpose. Only Taras wasn't clear.

They passed a window. Outside, it was still foggy, a thick white mist that enclosed the MVD building like mountains of snow, insulating and isolating, as if they were in some remote place up north, not in civilized Leningrad. Taras didn't like not being able to see across the street.

He looked away, turning back to Isaev.

"This guy is under suspicion of..."

A secretary approached, clutching a stack of files to her chest. She stepped aside to let them pass, squeezing so close to the wall it seemed like she was afraid they would knock her aside. She murmured something as they walked by.

Taras glanced behind them, to make sure she was out of earshot, though he wasn't sure why.

"...muzhelostvo. And some other political shit."

Their destination loomed. The doors to the interrogation rooms were simple, marked with numbers, but nothing else. Almost benign.

Taras stopped at the first door, then imposed himself physically between it and Ilarion, putting his hand on the frame to block Isaev's entry. Ilarion looked at him as if he had finally noticed Taras was there. His eyes were narrow, slivers of ice. Taras stared back.

"This isn't a violent crime, Isaev. So what gives?"

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[taras-oleksei.livejournal.com]

Taras came hard, shooting off under the desk.

Heat suffused him. He sat there, still perched on the end of the chair, head bent and breathing hard. His pulse raced, and his dick throbbed in his hand.

He swallowed.

Taras had never heard Ilarion make that kind of noise before, savage and primal, the kind of cry that men made in the Zone, under the cover of darkness. It still rang in his ears, even now, as the noises over the speakers faded back to low murmurs and rustling.

Civilized, cultured, coldblooded Lasha howling like a wolf.

Taras lifted his head, and eased away from the desk.

He had marked the floor pretty well, he saw, and to him, the evidence looked damning and obvious. Taras rubbed his face and rose to his feet as he put himself away, wondering what he was going to do to clean things up.

But first things first, he decided. The tape.

Old habits died hard. He took his gloves out of his jacket pocket, and pulled them on, then wiped down everything he had touched with his bare hands.

Taras found the drawer with the tape reels and took out a new one, then stopped the whole mechanism, replacing the tape with difficulty. At first he put it in backward, and had to take it out and switch it around, but he got the end threaded through, and advanced the tape to around the same place as the one he'd pulled.

He slipped the tape into his inner jacket pocket, then threw some papers on the floor, pushing them around with his boot to clean up the mess he'd made, more or less.

That couldn't have been the only time that had happened, Taras thought, vaguely, as he threw the papers away. Fortunately, his pants and jackboots looked presentable enough.

Taras was out and into the hall moments later, with no one the wiser. That was what they called a clean job, at least, technically. Taras decided he would get rid of the evidence later.

He frowned.

Or maybe he would keep it.

It wasn't hard to find a bucket and some water. There was even a cooler full of ice, presumably to be used to make suspects really uncomfortable. He took a bucket, and a few towels, then went back to the interrogation room.

Like Ilarion had, he knocked, then walked in. Casually, as if he expected nothing out of the ordinary.

Taras spotted the dancer's slumped form lying on the ground, but Ilarion looked up as he entered, also casually.

"Brought the water," he said. "It's cold."

Taras let his gaze go to Barshov, deliberately.

"Get anything out of him?"