Friday Evening
Jun. 19th, 2008 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taras_olekseiThe sunset had been particularly spectacular that evening when Taras got home from the office.
Taras had paused outside his flat to watch it for a few moments. The sky had turned purple and orange and red, all streaked and smeared artistically, like someone had taken a brush to the sky. It reminded Taras of those fancy paintings at the Hermitage, and it had put him in a really good mood.
The sun never set like that up north, never with any color other than a dull piss yellow that eventually faded to grey. Little reminders like that made him grateful to be back in a real place, back in civilization, back in Leningrad.
There were some things Taras never wanted to take for granted.
After weights and dinner, he'd showered, then gotten dressed again and gone out, grabbing his black leather case.
Ilarion's flat was a few blocks from Taras', far enough that Taras had to take a cab. The flat overlooked the Fontanka canal, in an older and more elegant government building than the one Taras lived in, but he figured that was the way it should be. Senior Ministry officials and their families had it pretty good.
Taras wore civilian clothes, but he actually looked like he belonged in the neighborhood. Anya had taken him shopping the other day. He'd let her do it, but only after she promised never to tell Ilarion.
She'd picked out a few pairs of slacks and some shirts, and a black cashmere turtleneck he'd really liked. He was wearing the turtleneck now, under a new long woolen coat.
He also wore his nice boots, the ones he'd gotten years ago with the winnings from Ilarion's bratanka Andrusha's boxing match. Andrei had killed the Frenchman, and Taras had made a killing on his bets. The winnings had been enough to get him python-skin boots on the black market, completely illegal, imported from France. He'd liked the irony of that one.
Taras had the driver drop him off on the other side of the canal and waited until it left, then took the bridge across.
The word facade meant what the front of a building looked like, and the facade of Ilarion's building was pretty typical, long and sprawling, with rows of evenly-spaced windows that had fancy embellishments at the top. He didn't know what those were called, but didn't let it bother him.
Apparently, Isaev lived on the top floor. The entire top floor.
Anya had gotten him the address. Taras had never actually been over to Ilarion's place before, only the Isaev residence. He entered streetside and rode the elevator up, then walked down the hall until he found Ilarion's door, which wasn't too hard.
Taras considered breaking in for a few moments, and almost did, but then finally decided against it.
Taras knocked instead. Politely, even.
Taras had paused outside his flat to watch it for a few moments. The sky had turned purple and orange and red, all streaked and smeared artistically, like someone had taken a brush to the sky. It reminded Taras of those fancy paintings at the Hermitage, and it had put him in a really good mood.
The sun never set like that up north, never with any color other than a dull piss yellow that eventually faded to grey. Little reminders like that made him grateful to be back in a real place, back in civilization, back in Leningrad.
There were some things Taras never wanted to take for granted.
After weights and dinner, he'd showered, then gotten dressed again and gone out, grabbing his black leather case.
Ilarion's flat was a few blocks from Taras', far enough that Taras had to take a cab. The flat overlooked the Fontanka canal, in an older and more elegant government building than the one Taras lived in, but he figured that was the way it should be. Senior Ministry officials and their families had it pretty good.
Taras wore civilian clothes, but he actually looked like he belonged in the neighborhood. Anya had taken him shopping the other day. He'd let her do it, but only after she promised never to tell Ilarion.
She'd picked out a few pairs of slacks and some shirts, and a black cashmere turtleneck he'd really liked. He was wearing the turtleneck now, under a new long woolen coat.
He also wore his nice boots, the ones he'd gotten years ago with the winnings from Ilarion's bratanka Andrusha's boxing match. Andrei had killed the Frenchman, and Taras had made a killing on his bets. The winnings had been enough to get him python-skin boots on the black market, completely illegal, imported from France. He'd liked the irony of that one.
Taras had the driver drop him off on the other side of the canal and waited until it left, then took the bridge across.
The word facade meant what the front of a building looked like, and the facade of Ilarion's building was pretty typical, long and sprawling, with rows of evenly-spaced windows that had fancy embellishments at the top. He didn't know what those were called, but didn't let it bother him.
Apparently, Isaev lived on the top floor. The entire top floor.
Anya had gotten him the address. Taras had never actually been over to Ilarion's place before, only the Isaev residence. He entered streetside and rode the elevator up, then walked down the hall until he found Ilarion's door, which wasn't too hard.
Taras considered breaking in for a few moments, and almost did, but then finally decided against it.
Taras knocked instead. Politely, even.
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Date: 2008-07-06 05:32 am (UTC)Taras opened his eyes.
Something itched at the back of his neck. He thought he'd heard something, but maybe it was just the battering of rain against the windows. He sat still for a moment, breathing quietly, straining to hear.
He thought he heard footsteps.
Adrenaline surged. Taras pushed himself up and out of the couch before he thought about what he was going to do. He just knew that there was someone in Ilarion's flat, someone who shouldn't be there, maybe a would-be assassin. It didn't matter. He thought Ilarion said something to him as he passed, but he was already moving into the kitchen, stopping just short of the hall. He glanced out.
The hall was empty, but Taras thought he caught a flicker of motion from one of the doors at the end, as if someone had just quietly pulled it shut.
No one was supposed to be here. Ilarion had said so himself.
For a second, Taras doubted what he'd seen, even as he moved into the hall to make sure. He reached the door and grabbed the latch to throw it open, Ministry-style.